The Doomswoman | Page 5

among the redwoods. I live in a house made of

big ugly logs, unpainted. There are no cavalcades in the cold depths of
those redwood forests, and the ocean beats against ragged cliffs. Only
at Fort Ross, in her log palace, does the beautiful Russian, Princess
Hélène Rotscheff, strive occasionally to make herself and others forget
that the forest is not the Bois of her beloved Paris, that in it the grizzly
and the panther hunger for her, and that an Indian Prince, mad with
love for the only fair-haired woman he has ever seen, is determined to
carry her off----"
"Tell me! tell me!" cried Chonita, eagerly, forgetting her rôle and her
enemy. "What is that? I do not know the princess, although she has sent
me word many times to visit her--Did an Indian try to carry her off?"
"It happened only the other day. Prince Solano, perhaps you have heard,
is chief of all the tribes of Sonoma, Valley of the Moon. He is a
handsome animal, with a strong will and remarkable organizing
abilities. One day I was entertaining the Rotscheffs at dinner when
Solano suddenly flung the door open and strode into the room: we are
old friends, and my servants do not stand on ceremony with him. As he
caught sight of the princess he halted abruptly, stared at her for a
moment, much as the first man may have stared at the first woman,
then turned and left the house, sprang on his mustang and galloped
away. The princess, you must know, is as blonde as only a Russian can
be, and an extremely pretty woman, small and dainty. No wonder the
mighty prince of darkness took fire. She was much amused. So was
Rotscheff, and he joked her the rest of the evening. Before he left,
however, I had a word with him alone, and warned him not to let the
princess stray beyond the walls of the fortress. That same night I sent a
courier to General Vallejo--who, fortunately, was at Sonoma--bidding
him watch Solano. And, sure enough--the day I left for Monterey the
Princess Hélène was in hysterics, Rotscheff was swearing like a
madman, and a soldier was at every carronade: word had just come
from General Vallejo that he had that morning intercepted Solano in his
triumphant march, at the head of six tribes, upon Fort Ross, and sent
him flying back to his mountain-top in disorder and bitterness of spirit."
"That is very interesting!" cried Chonita. "I like that. What an

experience those Russians have had! That terrible tragedy!--Ah, I
remember, it was you who were to have aided Natalie Ivanhoff in her
escape--"
"Hush!" said Estenega. "Do not speak of that. Here we are. At your
service, señorita." He sprang to the whaleboned pavement in front of
the little church facing the blue bay and surrounded by the gray ruins of
the old Presidio, and lifted her down.
Chonita recalled, and angry with herself for having been beguiled by
her enemy, took the infant from the nurse's arms and carried it fearfully
up the aisle. Estenega, walking beside her, regarded her meditatively.
"What is she?" he thought, "this Californian woman with her hair of
gold and her unmistakable intellect, her marble face crossed now and
again by the animation of the clever American woman? What an
anomaly to find on the shores of the Pacific! All I had heard of The
Doomswoman, The Golden Señorita, gave me no idea of this. What a
pity that our houses are at war! She is not maternal, at all events; I
never saw a baby held so awkwardly. What a poise of head! She looks
better fitted for tragedy than for this little comedy of life in the
Californias. A sovereignty would suit her,--were it not for her eyes.
They are not quite so calm and just and inexorable as the rest of her
face. She would not even make a good household tyrant, like Doña
Jacoba Duncan. Unquestionably she is religious, and swaddled in all
the traditions of her race; but her eyes,--they are at odds with all the rest
of her. They are not lovely eyes; they lack softness and languor and
tractability; their expression changes too often, and they mirror too
much intelligence for loveliness, but they never will be old eyes, and
they never will cease to look. And they are the eyes best worth looking
into that I have ever seen. No, a sovereignty would not suit her at all; a
salon might. But, like a few of us, she is some years ahead of her
sphere. Glory be to the Californias--of the future, when we are dirt, and
our children have found the gold!"
The baby was nearly baptized by the time he had finished his