Isolated from the family of nations, the wars which shook the world concerned them not so much as the last earthquake; the struggle that emancipated their sister colonies on the other side of the continent to them had no suggestiveness.

In short, it was that glorious Indian summer of California history around which so much poetical haze still lingers--that bland, indolent autumn of Spanish rule, so soon to be followed by the wintry storms of Mexican independence and the reviving spring of American conquest.
The Commander turned from the window and walked toward the fire that burned brightly on the deep ovenlike hearth.

A pile of copybooks, the work of the Presidio school, lay on the table.

As he turned over the leaves with a paternal interest, and surveyed the fair round Scripture text--the first pious pothooks of the pupils of San Carlos--an audible commentary fell from his lips: "'Abimelech took her from Abraham'-- ah, little one, excellent!--'Jacob sent to see his brother'-- body of Christ! that upstroke of thine, Paquita, is marvelous; the Governor shall see it!" A film of honest pride dimmed the Commander's left eye--the right, alas! twenty years before had been sealed by an Indian arrow.

He rubbed it softly with the sleeve of his leather jacket, and continued: "'The Ishmaelites having arrived--'" He stopped, for there was a step in the courtyard, a foot upon the threshold, and a stranger entered.