Bret Harte, in his inimitable style, has put into exquisite verse, the story of the waiting of this true-hearted Spanish maiden[4]: [4] From Poems by Bret Harte.

By permission of the publishers, The Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, Mass.
"He with grave provincial magnates long had held serene debate On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state; He from grave provincial magnates oft had turned to talk apart With the Comandante's daughter on the questions of the heart, Until points of gravest import yielded slowly one by one, And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun; Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar; Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothed bade adieu, And from sallyport and gateway north the Russian eagles flew.
Long beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of the Czar.
Day by day ...
Week by week ...
So each year the seasons shifted,--wet and warm and drear and dry; Half a year of clouds and flowers, half a year of dust and sky.
Still it brought no ship nor message,--brought no tidings, ill or meet, For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair and sweet.
Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears beside: 'He will come,' the flowers whispered; 'Come no more,' the dry hills sighed.
Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon are, Comforted the maid with proverbs, wisdom gathered from afar; * * * * * So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in doubt, Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and went out.
* * * * * Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle breeze Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas; Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure decay, And St.George's cross was lifted in the port of Monterey; And the Citadel was lighted, and the hall was gaily drest, All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveler and guest.
* * * * * The formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and wine, Some one spoke of Concha's lover,--heedless of the warning sign.
Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson: 'Speak no ill of him, I pray! He is dead.

He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day .-- 'Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a fractious horse.
Left a sweetheart, too, they tell me.

Married, I suppose, of course! 'Lives she yet ?' A deathlike silence fell on banquet, guests, and hall, And a trembling figure rising fixed the awestruck gaze of all.
Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed beneath the nun's white hood; Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where it stood.
'Lives she yet ?' Sir George repeated.

All were hushed as Concha drew Closer yet her nun's attire.