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After the entertainment was over, Russell strolled about the town. The new moon was on the sky, the stars thick and bright; but dark corners were everywhere, and he kept his hand on his pistol. He found himself before the long low house of Doña Eustaquia Ortega. Not a light glimmered; the shutters were of solid wood. He walked up and down, trying to guess which was Benicia’s room. “I am growing as romantic as a Californian,” he thought; “but this wonderful country pours its colour all through one’s nature. If I could find her window, I believe I should serenade her in true Spanish fashion. By Jove, I remember now, she said something about looking through her window at the pines on the hill. It must be at the back of the house, and how am I going to get over that great adobe wall? That gate is probably fastened with an iron bar—ah!” He had walked to the corner of the wall surrounding the large yard behind and at both sides of Doña Eustaquia’s house, and he saw, ascending a ladder, a tall figure, draped in a serape, its face concealed by the shadow of a sombrero. He drew his pistol, then laughed at himself, although not without annoyance. “A rival; and he has got ahead of me. He is going to serenade her.” The caballero seated himself uncomfortably on the tiles that roofed the wall, removed his sombrero, and Russell recognized Fernando Altimira. A moment later the sweet thin chords of the guitar quivered in the quiet air, and a tenor, so fine that even Russell stood entranced, sang to Benicia one of the old songs of Monterey:— EL SUSPIRO Una mirada un suspiro, Por esa lagrima cara Te acuerdas de aquella noche Although Russell was at the base of the high wall he saw that a light flashed. The light was followed by the clapping of little hands. “Jove!” he thought, “am I really jealous? But damn that Californian!” Altimira sang two more songs and was rewarded by the same demonstrations. As he descended the ladder and reached the open street he met Russell face to face. The two men regarded each other for a moment. The Californian’s handsome face was distorted by a passionate scowl; Russell was calmer, but his brows were lowered. Altimira flung the ladder to the ground, but fire-blooded as he was, the politeness of his race did not desert him, and his struggle with English flung oil upon his passion. “Señor,” he said, “I no know what you do it by the house of the Señorita Benicia so late in the night. I suppose you have the right to walk in the town si it please yourself.” “Have I not the same right as you—to serenade the Señorita Benicia? If I had known her room, I should have been on the wall before you.” Altimira’s face flushed with triumph. “I think the Señorita Benicia no care for the English song, señor. She love the sweet words of her country: she no care for words of ice.” Russell smiled. “Our language may not be as elastic as yours, Don Fernando, but it is a good deal more sincere. And it can express as much and perhaps—” “You love Benicia?” interrupted Altimira, fiercely. “I admire the Señorita Ortega tremendously. But I have seen her twice only, and although we may love longer, we take more time to get there, perhaps, than you do.” “Ay! Dios de mi vida! You have the heart of rock! You chip it off in little pieces, one to-day, another to-morrow, and give to the woman. I, señor, I love Benicia, and I marry her. You understand? Si you take her, I cut the heart from your body. You understand?” “I understand. We understand each other.” Russell lifted his cap. The Californian took his sombrero from his head and made a long sweeping bow; and the two men parted.
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