The women about the tubs still bitterly protested against the downfall of California, still took an absorbing interest in all matters, domestic, social, and political.  For those old women with grizzled locks escaping from a cotton handkerchief wound bandwise about their heads, their ample forms untrammelled by the flowing garment of calico, those girls in bright skirts and white short-sleeved smock and young hair braided, knew all the news of the country, past and to come, many hours in advance of the dons and donas whose linen they washed in the great stone tubs:  the Indians, domestic and roving, were their faithful friends.

“Sainted Mary, but thou art more slow than a gentleman that walks!” cried Mariquita, an impatient-looking girl.  “Read us the letter.  La Tulita is the prettiest girl in Monterey now that the Senorita Ysabel Herrera lies beneath the rocks, and Benicia Ortega has died of her childing.  But she is a flirt—­that Tulita!  Four of the Gringos are under her little slipper this year, and she turn over the face and roll in the dirt.  But Don Ramon, so handsome, so rich—­surely she will marry him.”

Faquita shook her head slowly and wisely.  “There—­come —­yesterday—­from—­the—&
shy;South—­a—­young—­lieutenant—­of—­America.”  She paused a moment, then proceeded leisurely, though less provokingly.  “He come over the great American deserts with General Kearney last year and help our men to eat the dust in San Diego.  He come only yesterday to Monterey, and La Tulita is like a little wild-cat ever since.  She box my ears this morning when I tell her that the Americans are bandoleros, and say she never marry a Californian.  And never Don Ramon Garcia, ay, yi!”

By this time the fine linen was floating at will upon the water, or lying in great heaps at the bottom of the clear pools.  The suffering child scampered up through the pines with whoops of delight.  The washing-women were pressed close about Faquita, who stood with thumbs on her broad hips, the fingers contracting and snapping as she spoke, wisps of hair bobbing back and forth about her shrewd black eyes and scolding mouth.

“Who is he?  Where she meet him?” cried the audience.  “Oh, thou old carreta!  Why canst thou not talk faster?”

“If thou hast not more respect, Senorita Mariquita, thou wilt hear nothing.  But it is this.  There is a ball last night at Dona Maria Ampudia’s house for La Tulita.  She look handsome, that witch!  Holy Mary!  When she walk it was like the tule in the river.  You know.  Why she have that name?  She wear white, of course, but that frock—­it is like the cobweb, the cloud.  She has not the braids like the other girls, but the hair, soft like black feathers, fall down to the feet.  And the eyes like blue stars!  You know the eyes of La Tulita.  The lashes so long, and black like the hair.  And the sparkle!  No eyes ever sparkle like those.  The eyes of Ysabel Herrera look like they want the world and never can get it.  Benicia’s, pobrecita, just dance like the child’s.  But La Tulita’s!  They sparkle like the devil sit behind and strike fire out red-hot iron—­”