"Ugh-oo-oo! the water's cold."
The old don laughed. "Cold water drives the sands of sleep from the eyelids, child."
He walked along the corridor to his sitting room. The large time-piece showed four o'clock and three minutes. Five minutes later his daughter joined him, clad in tanned-skin blouse and skirt, with a straw sombrero on her head.
"Here I am, papacito. Is breakfast ready?"
"Breakfast waits, but the coming of the morning waits not."
The peons served them by candlelight.
Soon they were ready for the start.
Before the courtyard gate were the doña's carreta, the señor's horse, and a squad of mounted fighting peons. Servants placed soft tule grass in the carreta, lambwool comforters, for greater ease in riding.
In double file marched the mounted peon soldiers, the carreta between, while the lord of the hacienda rode by his daughter's side. Thus they reached the plaza of the village near the Mission San José.
The place was alive with carretas bearing mothers, dueñas, and daughters, with caballeros, with bustling peons and early-risen Indian children.