His companions were Bushrod and Stephen Landray. They were men in the prime of life, and much alike in appearance. They were tall and lean and strong, with dark animated eyes, and fine expressive faces. There was something Roman and patrician in their bearing; and when they spoke it was with a perceptibly Southern drawl; for the Landrays were from Virginia, and of good cavalier stock. The fifth of their name in the Royal Colony, a Stephen Mason Landray, had afterward risen to a high rank in the Continental Army. His son, another Stephen Mason Landray, had been the third settler at Benson, and the great man of the community in pioneer days. His fame still survived; he had served with distinction against the Indians and English, when war was abroad in the land, and he had lived in times of peace, with much simple dignity and kindliness, among the ruder and poorer folk of the frontier who were his neighbours. “Yes sir,” Gibbs was saying as the three men entered the room. “If what we hear is true, it offers the grandest opportunity for youth and energy; of new field for capital; a—” “Hold on, Gibbs,” interrupted Stephen Landray. “This will never do; in common with the rest of the Whigs you were opposed to the annexation of Texas, the war with Mexico, and the seizure of California. If your memory fails you on this point, you have only to read some of your own editorials.” “But this, my dear fellow, puts a new complexion on the whole matter.” “Oh! no, it don't, Gibbs; you must be consistent,” urged Bushrod. “Consistency be damned,” retorted Gibbs, as he turned to the innkeeper who had retired behind the bar. “The case bottle, if you please, Tucker. Thanks—She will be admitted to the Union inside of ten years; I wish to go on record as saying so. Gentlemen, metaphorically speaking, we will now proceed to moisten the soil of California.” Then, as the three men raised their glasses, Truman Rogers rose from his chair; he was all alive now to what was passing before him. “What's wrong with California, Cap?” inquired Mr. Tucker, with amiable interest. “What's she been a doing anyhow?” “The Eastern papers say that gold has been discovered there,” replied Gibbs. Truman Rodgers strode to his side, and took him almost fiercely by the arm. “Is that so?” he demanded, his voice hoarse with emotion. The four men looked at him in mute surprise. “Is that so?” he repeated. “Do they say where it was found?” he released his hold on the captain's arm, and rested limply against the bar. “At Sutter's Fort, on the American River,” said Stephen Landray, slowly. The effect on the Californian was electrical. He threw out his arms despairingly in a single gesture of tragic renunciation. “I'm too late again, my luck every time—damn them! Damn them! Why couldn't they keep still! the fools!” “And why should they keep still?” demanded Gibbs toying with his empty glass.