“It may be.  I think I saw a strange face.”

“He saw yours, Dona Ysabel, and is looking upon you now from the corridor without, although the fog is heavy about him.  Cannot you see him—­that dark shadow by the pillar?”

Ysabel never went through the graceful evolutions of the contradanza as she did that night.  Her supple slender body curved and swayed and glided; her round arms were like lazy snakes uncoiling; her exquisitely poised head moved in perfect concord with her undulating hips.  Her eyes grew brighter, her lips redder.  The young men who stood near gave as loud a vent to their admiration as if she had been dancing El Son alone on the floor.  But the man without made no sign.

After the dance was over, General Castro led her to her duena, and handing her a guitar, begged a song.

She began a light love-ballad, singing with the grace and style of her Spanish blood; a little mocking thing, but with a wild break now and again.  As she sang, she fixed her eyes coquettishly on the adoring face of Guido Cabanares, who stood beside her, but saw every movement of the form beyond the window.  Don Guido kept his ardent eyes riveted upon her but detected no wandering in her glances.  His lips trembled as he listened, and once he brushed the tears from his eyes.  She gave him a little cynical smile, then broke her song in two.  The man on the corridor had vaulted through the window.

Ysabel, clinching her hands the better to control her jumping nerves, turned quickly to Cabanares, who had pressed behind her, and was pouring words into her ear.

“Ysabel!  Ysabel! hast thou no pity?  Dost thou not see that I am fit to set the world on fire for love of thee?  The very water boils as I drink it—­”

She interrupted him with a scornful laugh, the sharper that her voice might not tremble.  “Bring me my pearls.  What is love worth when it will not grant one little desire?”

He groaned.  “I have found a vein of gold on my rancho.  I can pick the little shining pieces out with my fingers.  I will have them beaten into a saddle for thee—­”

But she had turned her back flat upon him, and was making a deep courtesy to the man whom General Castro presented.

“I appreciate the honour of your acquaintance,” she murmured mechanically.

“At your feet, senorita,” said Don Vicente.

The art of making conversation had not been cultivated among the Californians, and Ysabel plied her large fan with slow grace, at a loss for further remark, and wondering if her heart would suffocate her.  But Don Vicente had the gift of words.

“Senorita,” he said, “I have stood in the chilling fog and felt the warmth of your lovely voice at my heart.  The emotions I felt my poor tongue cannot translate.  They swarm in my head like a hive of puzzled bees; but perhaps they look through my eyes,” and he fixed his powerful and penetrating gaze on Ysabel’s green depths.