“It does very well.  My—­very—­darling—­first—­if all these people were not about us, I should kiss you.  You look exactly like a flower.”

“Si you did, Senor Impertinencio, you get that for thanks.”

Russell jumped to his feet with a shout, and shook from his neck a little crab with a back like green velvet and legs like carven garnet.

“Did you put that crab on my neck, senorita?”

“Si, senor.”

A sulky silence of ten minutes ensued, during which Benicia sent little stones skipping down into the silvered pools, and Russell, again recumbent, stared at the horizon.

“Si you no can talk,” she said finally, “I wish you go way and let Don Henry Tallant come talk to me.  He look like he want.”

“No doubt he does; but he can stay where he is.  Let me kiss your hand, Benicia, and I will forgive you.”

Benicia hit his mouth lightly with the back of her hand, but he captured it and kissed it several times.

“Your mustache feels like the cat’s,” said she.

He flung the hand from him, but laughed in a moment.  “How sentimental you are!  Making love to you is like dragging a cannon uphill!  Will you not at least sing me a love-song?  And please do not make faces in the tender parts.”

Benicia tossed her spirited head, but took her guitar from its case and called to the other girls to accompany her.  They withdrew from their various flirtations with audible sighs, but it was Benicia’s merienda, and in a moment a dozen white hands were sweeping the long notes from the strings.

Russell moved to a lower rock, and lying at Benicia’s feet looked upward.  The scene was all above him—­the great mass of white rocks, whiter in the moonlight; the rigid cypresses aloft; the beautiful faces, dreamy, passionate, stolid, restless, looking from the lace mantillas; the graceful arms holding the guitars; the sweet rich voices threading through the roar of the ocean like the melody in a grand recitativo; the old men and women crouching like buzzards on the stones, their sharp eyes never closing; enfolding all with an almost palpable touch, the warm voluptuous air.  Now and again a bird sang a few notes, a strange sound in the night, or the soft wind murmured like the ocean’s echo through the pines.

The song finished.  “Benicia, I love you,” whispered Russell.

“We will now eat,” said Benicia.  “Mamma,”—­she raised her voice,—­“shall I tell Raphael to bring down the supper?”

“Yes, nina.”

The girl sprang lightly up the rocks, followed by Russell.  The Indian servants were some distance off, and as the young people ran through a pine grove the bold officer of the United States squadron captured the Californian and kissed her on the mouth.  She boxed his ears and escaped to the light.

Benicia gave her orders, Raphael and the other Indians followed her with the baskets, and spread the supper of tomales and salads, dulces and wine, on a large table-like rock, just above the threatening spray; the girls sang each in turn, whilst the others nibbled the dainties Dona Eustaquia had provided, and the Americans wondered if it were not a vision that would disappear into the fog bearing down upon them.