"Good-by, Silvia." He opened the door and hesitated at the threshold. "Señora, once more, is it final?" The color faded from her face. Her features set in emotionless expression. "Yes, Alfredo--yes." * * * * * Over the sea strong wind flowed. Bank after bank of fog, rocked under powerful propulsion, was lifted into the air, and disappeared. Finally, from Point Pinos to Santa Cruz the waters laughed and sparkled in the late-coming sun. Eleven men-of-war were disclosed in the outer harbor, their wilderness of spars clustering beneath the Union Jack. Within the inner harbor two smaller vessels were at anchor, the springs in their cables allowing them to swing end to end in the shifting tides. On their decks grim-visaged men stood at the guns. Their masts were tipped with the Stars and Stripes. The frigate United States and the sloop-of-war Cyane had warped off the bar of Half Moon Bay. Under cover of night, and undeterred by danger, they had slipped past the English fleet which was nodding lazily in the smooth sea, awaiting the coming of dawn and the clearing of the fog. Into the harbor, up to the very eyes of the castle, they came. With the sun's unveiling American marines rushed into boats, hurried ashore and took possession of the city. The Red, White and Blue snapped saucily over plaza and fort. Signals fluttered on Admiral Fairbanks's flagship, whipping the air in persistent command. In reluctant obedience the warships, for the second time, wheeled slowly back to the ocean, the Vanguard in the rear, like a stern parent driving his half-rebellious brood before him. In the upper room of the castle Silvia Valentino was cognizant of none of these things. In the moment of Captain Morando's departure she had thrown herself, face downward, on the floor, and lay weeping out her heart. CHAPTER XXVIII A DAUGHTER OF THE DE LA MENDOZA "Pepita, Pepita, be thou watchful of those threads. Red follows yellow in the pattern, else your weaving is hit-or-miss. Santa Maria! What careless fingers! See, the blanket is streaked in color, like a pinto horse. Thy knuckles, careless one, should be made to ache, by rapping them smartly." "Thou wilt rap no knuckles of mine, Marta. Padre Osuna forbids the matrona to strike any neophyte girl, as thou well knowest. It's hard enough to sit at a loom day after day and weave blankets, when one isn't mending them, or making baskets, or grinding maize, without being beaten, if the fingers play tricks when the thought happens elsewhere." Marta was a matrona of the department of neophytes in the single women's quarter of the Mission San José. Her specialty was weaving blankets. The Mission sheep provided wool in plenty, and hand-made looms prepared it for use, after it had been dyed the many colors dear to the Indian taste.