No answer came but the waves tugging at the rocks not two feet below them. He could see nothing. The fog was thick as night. "He is not here, Ysabel. We must swim. Anything but to be torn to pieces by those wild-cats. Are you afraid?" "No," she said. He folded her closely with one arm, and felt with his foot for the edge of the rocks. A wild roar came from behind. A dozen pistols were fired into the air. De la Vega reeled suddenly. "I am shot, Ysabel," he said, his knees bending. "Not in this world, my love!" She wound her arms about him, and dragging him to the brow of the rocks, hurled herself outward, carrying him with her. The waves tossed them on high, flung them against the rocks and ground them there, playing with them like a lion with its victim, then buried them. THE EARS OF TWENTY AMERICANS I "God of my soul! Do not speak of hope to me. Hope? For what are those three frigates, swarming with a horde of foreign bandits, creeping about our bay? For what have the persons of General Vallejo and Judge Leese been seized and imprisoned? Why does a strip of cotton, painted with a gaping bear, flaunt itself above Sonoma? Oh, abomination! Oh, execrable profanation! Mother of God, open thine ocean and suck them down! Smite them with pestilence if they put foot in our capital! Shrivel their fingers to the bone if they dethrone our Aztec Eagle and flourish their stars and stripes above our fort! O California! That thy sons and thy daughters should live to see thee plucked like a rose by the usurper! And why? Why? Not because these piratical Americans have the right to one league of our land; but because, Holy Evangelists! they want it! Our lands are rich, our harbours are fine, gold veins our valleys, therefore we must be plucked. The United States of America are mightier than Mexico, therefore they sweep down upon us with mouths wide open. Holy God! That I could choke but one with my own strong fingers. Oh!" Doña Eustaquia paused abruptly and smote her hands together,--"O that I were a man! That the women of California were men!" On this pregnant morning of July seventh, eighteen hundred and forty-six, all aristocratic Monterey was gathered in the sala of Doña Modeste Castro. The hostess smiled sadly. "That is the wish of my husband," she said, "for the men of our country want the Americans." "And why?" asked one of the young men, flicking a particle of dust from his silken riding jacket. "We shall then have freedom from the constant war of opposing factions. If General Castro and Governor Pico are not calling Juntas in which to denounce each other, a Carillo is pitting his ambition against an Alvarado. The Gringos will rule us lightly and bring us peace. They will not disturb our grants, and will give us rich prices for our lands--"