"He rides with General Castro," whispered Benicia Ortega. "He stays with
him. We shall see him at the ball to-night."
As Don Vicente passed Ysabel their eyes met for a moment. His opened
suddenly with a bold eager flash, his arched nostrils twitching. The
colour left her face, and her eyes dropped heavily.
Love needed no kindling in the heart of the Californian.
II
The people of Monterey danced every night of their lives, and went
nowhere so promptly as to the great sala of Dona Modeste Castro, their
leader of fashion, whose gowns were made for her in the city of Mexico.
Ysabel envied her bitterly. Not because the Dona Modeste's skin was
whiter than her own, for it could not be, nor her eyes greener, for they
were not; but because her jewels were richer than Pio Pico's, and
upon all grand occasions a string of wonderful pearls gleamed in her
storm-black hair. But one feminine compensation had Ysabel: she was
taller; Dona Modeste's slight elegant figure lacked Ysabel's graceful
inches, and perhaps she too felt a pang sometimes as the girl undulated
above her like a snake about to strike.
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