Broken-hearted Don Miguel bravely clings to his flag. He marches south with Castro and Pico, The long weeks wear along. The arrival of General Kearney, and the occupation of San Diego and Los Angeles, are the prelude to the last effort made for the honor of the Mexican ensign. Months drag away. The early winter finds Don Miguel still missing. Commodore Stockton, now in command of the powerful fleet, reinforces Fremont and Gillespie. The battles of San Gabriel and the Mesa teach the wild Californians what bitter foes their invaders can be. The treaty of Coenga at last ends the unequal strife. The stars and stripes wave over the yet unmeasured boundaries of the golden West. The Dons are in the conquerors' hands. After the fatal day of January 16, 1847, defeated and despairing of the future of his race, war-worn Miguel Peralta, Commandante no longer, with a few followers rides over the Tehachape. He descends the San Joaquin to his imperilled domain. With useless valor he has thrown himself into the fire of the Americans at the battles near Los Angeles, but death will not come to him. He must live to be one of the last Dons. The defeats of Mexico sadden and embitter him. General Scott is fighting up to the old palaces of the Montezumas with his ever victorious army. In these stormy winter days, when the sheeted rain drives down from the pine-clad Sierras, Donna Juanita day by day turns her passive face in mute inquiry to the padre. She has the sense of a new burden to bear. Her narrow nature contracts yet a little with a sense of wounded native pride. In all her wedded years her martial lord has always returned in victory. Fandango and feast, "baile" and rejoicings, have made the woodland echoes ring. The growing Dolores mopes in the lonely mansion. She demands her absent father daily. Before the troopers of Lagunitas return with their humbled chieftain, a squad of mounted American volunteers ride up and take possession. For the first time in its history the foreigner is master here, Though personally unknown to these mixed revolutionists, Maxime Valois is free to go in safety. While he makes acquaintance with his fellow "patriots," the advance riders of Don Miguel announce his home-coming. It is a sad day when the Commandante dismounts at his own door. There is a sentinel there. He lives to be only a sullen, brooding protest in the face of an accidental progress. Standing on his porch he can see the "mozos," under requisition, gathering up his choicest horses by the fifties. They are destined for the necessary remount of the victors. After greeting his patient helpmeet, henceforth to be the partner of his sorrows, he sends for the padre and his major-domo. He takes on himself the only dignity left to his defeated pride, practical self-isolation. He bears in his bosom this rankling thorn--the hated Fremont he rode out to bring in a captive, is now "His Excellency John C. Fremont," the first American governor of California.