"Hear me," she called. "Listen!"
She waited a moment, then began: "Amigos, Stanislaus and his men have come in from their fastnesses, and have taken away from the Mission many girls. These girls are daughters of our friends, and we desire to see them married to men of this valley, the honest men who tend herds and till the soil, and who will provide food in plenty for their families. The chief will take the peonas off to the mountains of San Jacinto or San Bernardino, as I overheard. Friends mine, men of this, our beloved valley, you must skim over the mountains like hawks, overtake these ravishers, and bring back the girls to their peaceful home in the neophyte house, that our valley and Mission sleep Hot desolate to-night."
There was no response. The strong hearts had followed Mendoza away at sunrise. There remained but the hewers of wood and the drawers of water.
Finally one said: "These stolen muchachas are no relatives of ours. Forgive me, Lady Carmelita, if I say, it is the business of their fathers and brothers to undertake rescue."
The farm hand who thus spoke knew of Stanislaus as a human bloodhound, as well as a tried and dauntless warrior. He would as lief interfere with the lion and his bride as attempt to balk the chief.
"Will you see your peon brethren of the Mission sleep in tears this night? Do not the padres teach us that the sorrow of one must be the grief of all?"
No one answered. Motionless as well as voiceless were the men and women.
"An hour's delay, and the renegades may be beyond reach," she went on.
Still no response.
A cry sounded from the Mission patio, quivering with anguish. It came from some man's throat.