Fearing neither God nor man, insensible to tenderness, Philip Hardin looks in vain to refresh his jaded emotions by the every-day diversions of the city by the sea. The daily brawls, the excited vigilance committee of the first winter session of popular justice, and partial burning of the city, leave Hardin unmoved. It is a dismal March night of 1851 when he leaves his residence for a stroll through the resorts of the town. Valois listlessly accompanies him. He does not gamble. To the El Dorado the two slowly saunter. The nightly battle over the heaps of gold is at its height. At the superb marble counter they are served with the choicest beverages and regalias of Vuelta Abajos' best leaf. The human mob is dense. Wailing, passionate music beats upon the air. There is the cry of lost souls in its under-toned pathos. Villany and sentiment go hand in hand at the El Dorado. The songs of old, in voice and symphony, unlock the gates of memory. They leave the lingerers, disarmed, to the tempting allurements of beauty, drink, and gaming. There is an unusual crowd in the headquarters of gilded folly. Maxime, wandering alone for a few minutes, finds a throng around a table of rouge et noir. It is crowded with eager gamesters. Nodding to one and another, he meets many acquaintances--men have no real friends as yet in this egoistic land. The Louisianian moves toward the goal whither all are tending. Jealous glances are cast by women whose deserted tables show their charms are too well known. All swarm toward a new centre of attraction. Cheeks long unused to the blush of shame are reddened with passion, to see the fickle crowd surge around the game presided over by a new-comer to the sandy shores of San Francisco. She is an unknown goddess. "What's all this?" asks Maxime, of a man he knows. He is idling now, with an amused smile. He catches a glimpse of the tall form of Philip Hardin in the front row of players, near the yellow bulwarks of gold. "Why, Valois, you are behind the times!" is the reply. "Don't you know the 'Queen of the El Dorado'?" "I confess I do not," says the Creole. He has been absent for some time from this resort of men with more gold than brains. "Who is she? What is she?" continues Maxime. His friend laughs as he gaily replies, "As to what she is, walk up to the table. Throw away an ounce, and look at her. It's worth it. As to who she is, she calls herself Hortense Duval." "I suppose she has as much right to call herself the daughter of the moon as to use that aristocratic name." "My dear boy, she is, for all that--" "Queen Hortense?" "Queen of the El Dorado." He saunters away, to allow Valois a chance to edge his way into the front row. There the dropping gold is raked in by this fresh siren who draws all men to her.