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