oomed. To his whirling horror-struck brain this descent certainly
seemed very long. It was almost as if he were sauntering. Nor was he
tumbling over and over. He had shut his eyes tight when the rope
snapped. He opened them, gave a shuddering glance downward, then
laughed almost hysterically: his cassock, ample even for a man, had
caught the breeze and spread out on all sides like a parachute.

And although the descent occupied but a moment longer, he comprehended
the situation, with his abnormally sharpened senses, as clearly as
though he stood on high with a spy glass.

All the inhabitants of the Mission proper--the priests, brothers,
soldiers, and house servants--were standing before the north gate,
firearms in hand. Beyond were some twenty-five Indians battering and
yelling, making noise enough to induce the belief that they numbered
ten times as many more. The rest were not to be seen, but it was not
difficult for Roldan to suspect their purpose.

He lighted on the stone steps of the church, tore off his heavy
garment, and ran toward the north gate. As he did so the east gate fell
with a crash, and five hundred Indians rushed into the plaza.

They uttered no sound. The guard at the upper end of the square was not
aware of their advent until Roldan reached them. He was out of breath,
but he caught the arm of the man nearest him and pointed. In a second
the word had passed, and the handful of defendants stared helplessly at
the advancing hordes. But only for a moment. Padre Flores shouted to
fall into line, then ordered them not to fire in the same breath.
Anastacio, somewhat ahead of his followers, was approaching with a
white rag in his hand.

When within a yard of the missionaries he paused and saluted
respectfully.

"A word, my fathers," he commanded, and in excellent Spanish.

"Go on," said Padre Flores, sternly.

"We have not come to kill," said Anastacio, slowly and with great
distinctness: the noise beyond the north gate had ceased. "You know
that we never kill the priests, nor do we care for blood. We have come
for the stores of the Mission--all your great winter supply, except a
small quantity which we will leave you that you may not suffer until
you can get more. We are tired of this life. We belong to the
mountains. We cannot see that we are any better for your teachings, and
we certainly are not as strong. Now let us do our work in peace, and
all will be well. But if you fire, we let our arrows