quarters; but in the rancheria there was no motion but the
swaying tops of the willows, and no sound anywhere but the hoot of the
owl and the yap of the coyote.

It was a long and lonely watch. Roldan felt as if he were suspended in
air, cut off from Earth and all its details. Although his military
instinct had been aroused and he burned for fight, his spirit grew
graver in that isolation, and he resolved to do all he could to save
the Mission from attack. It was there for peace and good deeds, and its
preservation was of far more importance than a small pair of spurs for
Master Roldan.

Nevertheless, Roldan was to win his spurs.

Toward morning he saw an Indian, attended by a priest, let himself out
of a gate and steal toward the corral. A few moments later he
reappeared, leading a mustang up the valley in the shadow of the trees.
The priest re-entered the gate, and Roldan knew that the messenger had
gone forth for help.

At sunrise a brother came running up the stair. "Better go down," he
said, smiling. "I am going to ring for mass, and it will deafen you.
You saw nothing, of course?"

"Nothing."

"We did not expect it, and slept. It takes time to organise."

"Have they any weapons?"

"Their bows and arrows. We have always thought it best to leave them
those in case of assault by savage tribes."

Roldan descended the stair as the bells rang out their peremptory
summons. Although he was tired and sleepy, he determined to remain in
the church during mass, and knelt near the altar by a pillar where he
could command a view of the nave. Almost the first to enter was
Anastacio. He carried himself proudly--like a warrior, thought
Roldan--and advancing to the altar bowed low, then knelt stiffly, his
eyes closed.

The others drifted in slowly: the women kneeling on the right, the men
on the left. Finally all the priests and brothers, except Padre Flores,
who conducted the service, entered and knelt in the aisle. Padre
Flores' garments were as rich as any worn in old Spain, and the
candelabra about him were as massive. The images of the saints were
clad in white satin embroidered with gold and silver thread. On the
walls were many high-coloured paintings of saints, softened by the
flood of light from the wax candles.

Roldan watched keenly all the faces within the line of his vision. They
were mostly sleepy. Suddenly, as his glance shifted, it encountered the
eyes of Anastacio. Those powerful crafty orbs were fi