moonlight vanished ghostlike from one of the windows, a material glow took its place, and a girlish figure, holding a candle, drew the white curtains together.  To Culpepper it was a vestal virgin standing before a hallowed shrine; to the prosaic observer I fear it was only a fair-haired young woman, whose wicked black eyes still shone with unfilial warmth.  Howbeit, when the figure had disappeared he stepped out briskly into the moonlight of the high-road.  Here he took off his distinguishing hat to wipe his forehead, and the moon shone full upon his face.

It was not an unprepossessing one, albeit a trifle too thin and lank and bilious to be altogether pleasant.  The cheek-bones were prominent, and the black eyes sunken in their orbits.  Straight black hair fell slantwise off a high but narrow forehead, and swept part of a hollow cheek.  A long black mustache followed the perpendicular curves of his mouth.  It was on the whole a serious, even Quixotic face, but at times it was relieved by a rare smile of such tender and even pathetic sweetness, that Miss Jo is reported to have said that, if it would only last through the ceremony, she would have married its possessor on the spot.  “I once told him so,” added that shameless young woman; “but the man instantly fell into a settled melancholy, and hasn’t smiled since.”

A half-mile below the Folinsbee Ranch the white road dipped and was crossed by a trail that ran through Madrono hollow.  Perhaps because it was a near cut-off to the settlement, perhaps from some less practical reason, Culpepper took this trail, and in a few moments stood among the rarely beautiful trees that gave their name to the valley.  Even in that uncertain light the weird beauty of these harlequin masqueraders was apparent; their red trunks—­a blush in the moonlight, a deep blood-stain in the shadow—­stood out against the silvery green foliage.  It was as if Nature in some gracious moment had here caught and crystallized the gypsy memories of the transplanted Spaniard, to cheer him in his lonely exile.

As Culpepper entered the grove he heard loud voices.  As he turned toward a clump of trees, a figure so bizarre and characteristic that it might have been a resident Daphne—­a figure over-dressed in crimson silk and lace, with bare brown arms and shoulders, and a wreath of honeysuckle—­stepped out of the shadow.  It was followed by a man.  Culpepper started.  To come to the point briefly, he recognized in the man the features of his respected uncle, Colonel Starbottle; in the female, a lady who may be briefly described as one possessing absolutely no claim to an introduction to the polite reader.  To hurry over equally unpleasant details, both were evidently under the influence of liquor.