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!” Dona 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 Dona 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—­”

“Oh, fool!” interrupted Dona Eustaquia.  “Thrice fool!  A hundred years from now, Fernando Altimira, and our names will be forgotten in California.  Fifty years from now and our walls will tumble upon us whilst we cook our beans in the rags that charity—­American charity—­has flung us!  I tell you that the hour the American flag waves above the fort of Monterey is the hour of the Californians’ doom.  We have lived in Arcadia—­ingrates that you are to complain—­they will run over us like ants and sting us to death!”

“That is the prediction of my husband,” said Dona Modeste.  “Liberty, Independence, Decency, Honour, how long will they be his watch-words?”

“Not a day longer!” cried Dona Eustaquia, “for the men of California are cowards.”

“Cowards!  We?  No man should say that to us!” The caballeros were on their feet, their eyes flashing, as if they faced in uniform the navy of the United States, rather than confronted, in lace ruffles and silken smallclothes, an angry scornful woman.

“Cowards!” continued Fernando Altimira.  “Are not men flocking about General Castro at San Juan Bautista, willing to die in a cause already lost?  If our towns were sacked or our women outraged would not the weakest of us fight until we died in our blood?  But what is coming is for the best, Dona Eustaquia, despite your prophecy; and as we cannot help it—­we, a few thousand men against a great nation—­we resign ourselves because we are governed by reason instead of by passion.  No one reverences our General more than Fernando Altimira.  No grander man ever wore a uniform!  But he is fighting in a hopeless cause, and the fewer who uphold him the less blood will flow, the sooner the struggle will finish.”