“’Tis our famous sergeant from Santa Barbara!” the comandante cried. “He rides like that because the matter is urgent, you may be sure.”
The foam-flecked horse stopped at the end of the wall with forefeet in the air as the sergeant swung himself backward in the saddle and sprang to the ground. Even as his feet struck the turf his hand snapped to his cap in salute. He was breathing heavily, but he was a soldier of experience, and did not shout his news aloud like a frightened child.
“Something of moment to report, comandante,” he said.
The comandante drew himself up and returned the salute—he was a soldier of experience, too.
“Regarding hostiles?” he asked, while the frailes hung on his words.
“Regarding hostiles, señor.”
“Follow me to the guest house, sergeant; you can give me your report there. Have one of the men attend to your horse. Is it of a military nature only, or should the frailes hear?”
“They can hear it, comandante.”
They crossed the plaza, the lieutenant leading the way. There was no haste in their manner. If there were disloyal neophytes about, they would learn nothing from the way in which these soldiers conducted themselves. Behind the lieutenant and sergeant walked four frailes, their heads hanging, sensing what they were to hear. Another fray remained in the plaza, and every neophyte there knew he was being watched.
The lieutenant threw open the door of the guest house, and they entered, and the door was closed again. The frailes stood against the wall in a row awaiting the blow they expected. The comandante threw back his shoulders and took a deep breath, and snapped out his order: