"Then, caballeros, you will, for the moment at least, possess yourselves
of the house and its poor hospitality," said Don Juan, with time-honored
courtesy, producing the rustic key of the gate of the patio. "It is
at your disposition, caballeros," he repeated, leading the way as his
guests passed into the corridor.

Two hours passed. The hills were darkening on their eastern slopes; the
shadows of the few poplars that sparsedly dotted the dusty highway were
falling in long black lines that looked like ditches on the dead level
of the tawny fields; the shadows of slowly moving cattle were mingling
with their own silhouettes, and becoming more and more grotesque. A keen
wind rising in the hills was already creeping from the canada as from
the mouth of a funnel, and sweeping the plains. Antonio had forgathered
with the servants, had pinched the ears of the maids, had partaken of
aguardiente, had saddled the mules,--Antonio was becoming impatient.

And then a singular commotion disturbed the peaceful monotony of the
patriarchal household of Don Juan Briones. The stagnant courtyard was
suddenly alive with peons and servants, running hither and thither. The
alleys and gardens were filled with retainers. A confusion of questions,
orders, and outcrys rent the air, the plains shook with the galloping of
a dozen horsemen. For the acolyte Francisco, of the Mission San Carmel,
had disappeared and vanished, and from that day the hacienda of Don Juan
Briones knew him no more.




CHAPTER III