Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Antonio called, then gave incisive commands in the Indian tongue. The feet scurried away. He continued the energetic rubbing, praying the while.
Excited voices were heard approaching. The door was flung open, and instantly the room was filled with Indians. A woman brought a kettle of hot water; another, a stone vessel. A man brought a decanter of aguardiente. Whispering, praying Indians ran up and down the corridor.
As the women saw the padre's face, white and still, they thought life had gone out. Grief filled their hearts, welled into their eyes and found vent by their tongue. The loud wail of the death-bedside arose, quavered, fell, in the old adobe house.
Juan Antonio endeavored to silence them.
"Quick, with the hot cloths for the feet, Luisa! Make ready the heated brandy, you, Crispinilla! Quick, women, the padre's need is urgent!"
A sigh came from the priest. Then all was still. He seemed to sink lower into his couch.
Even Juan Antonio thought that now life was gone. Instincts of forgotten generations stirred the old man's heart. He began to intone the death praises of the friar, as, for untold years, had his forbears done for the great ones of their tribe.
"The mighty heart is still. The strong hand bends not the bow. The ready feet run not. The king elk walks boldly in the open. The timid deer fears not the arrow, because the chief man of his people hunts no more."
The refrain of the death-wail overflowed the houses of the Mission, ran along olive orchard and vineyard, reached the sentinels watching on the hills. The church bell, in sorrowing tone, sounded its toll of death. One and thirty did it strike, the total of the years the friar had lived.
At the last stroke the padre's eyelids flickered gently. The pallor of his cheeks decreased. Breathing, almost imperceptible, began. Finally, he opened his eyes, and saw the weeping, gesticulating men and women.