The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California. Gertrude Franklin Horn Atherton

friar raised his arm, and pointed his shaking finger at De la Vega.

      "Kill him!" he said, in a loud hoarse whisper. "He has desecrated the

       Mother of God!"

      Every caballero in the room turned upon De la Vega with furious satisfaction. Ysabel had quickened their blood, and they were willing to cool it in vengeance on the man of whom they still were jealous, and whom they suspected of having brought the wondrous pearls which covered their Favorita to-night.

      "What? What?" they cried eagerly. "Has he done this thing?"

      "He has robbed the Church. He has stripped the Blessed Virgin of her jewels. He—has—murdered—a—priest of the Holy Catholic Church."

      Horror stayed them for a moment, and then they rushed at De la Vega. "He does not deny it!" they cried. "Is it true? Is it true?" and they surged about him hot with menace.

      "It is quite true," said De la Vega, coldly. "I plundered the shrine of

       Loreto and murdered its priest."

      The women panted and gasped; for a moment even the men were stunned, and in that moment an ominous sound mingled with the roar of the surf. Before the respite was over Ysabel had reached his side.

      "He did it for me!" she cried, in her clear triumphant voice. "For me! And although you kill us both, I am the proudest woman in all the Californias, and I love him."

      "Good!" cried Castro, and he placed himself before them. "Stand back, every one of you. What? are you barbarians, Indians, that you would do violence to a guest in your town? What if he has committed a crime? Is he not one of you, then, that you offer him blood instead of protection? Where is your pride of caste? your hospitality? Oh, perfidy! Fall back, and leave the guest of your capital to those who are compelled to judge him."

      The caballeros shrank back, sullen but abashed. He had touched the quick of their pride.

      "Never mind!" cried the friar. "You cannot protect him from that. Listen!"

      Had the bay risen about the Custom-house?

      "What is that?" demanded Castro, sharply.

      "The poor of Monterey; those who love their Cross better than the aristocrats love their caste. They know."

      De la Vega caught Ysabel in his arms and dashed across the room and corridor. His knife cut a long rift in the canvas, and in a moment they stood upon the rocks. The shrieking crowd was on the other side of the Custom-house.

      "Marcos!" he called to his boatman, "Marcos!"

      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.