"Señors, my friends, may I have your attention?"
No one spoke.
"Señors," his tones serious and resonant, "it is not raining to-day."
His assertion was not disputed. The rays of the sun streamed into the room. It was afternoon and the delicately tinted stained glass of the windows was resplendent in the light.
"It rained not yesterday, nor in the yesterday of many months," looking from one to another of his company, as if in search of opposition.
The señors, in solemn concord, bowed in corroboration of his statement.
"The soft south wind blows not. Overhead is the summer sun. I see no hope of rain to-morrow."
The grave señors acquiesced.
"Indians in thousands, beasts in tens of thousands, are on our lands. Responsibilities, neither few nor doubtful, weigh on our shoulders. If it rains not to-morrow, nor yet till the to-morrows touch late spring, how can we fulfill the duty this province of Alta California lays at our door, that our aborigine wards lack not the sustenance their condition demands?"
His look went from face to face. Suddenly he stood upright.