Men spent the afternoon in boisterous revelry, for all preparations to withstand a siege had been made and they awaited the attack, but they grew silent toward evening, pondering over what might occur.
Their nervousness was apparent. Scarcely one inside the plaza but had participated in outbreaks before, and scarcely one that had not sustained wounds. But other revolts had come unexpectedly, as rain from a clear sky, whereas this was anticipated, of much moment, and naught could be done to prevent it.
Dusk came, and a heavy fog rolled up the valley from the distant bay to grow heavier as the hours passed, and shut out moon and stars. Not a light was to be seen in any of the buildings at the mission; not a torch burned on the plaza.
Soldiers were at their stations, whispering to one another, striding back and forth nervously, fumbling at their weapons. Frailes prayed in the church. Trusted neophytes carried water and cold food, and stood by to handle ammunition when the time came.
Scouts had been sent out—a small number, since the defenders of the mission were limited, but experienced men, both white and red, who could be depended upon. A mile from the plaza, on every side, they watched for the approach of the foe, ready to sound the warning and then make their way in to aid in the defence.
Hour after hour passed without event. The comandante and Ensign Sanchez paced the plaza praying for action, knowing their men could not endure the suspense much longer without giving way to their feelings and violating orders as to silence.
In the guest house, Señora Vallejo was upon her knees like a pious woman, and Señorita Anita stood beside a window looking out at the dark night, biting her lower lip, clenching her tiny hands, and thinking of the shame upon the name of Fernandez.
She half regretted that she had not come out openly and told her padre the truth concerning Rojerio Rocha; yet she had not, hoping against hope that something would occur to prevent his perfidy becoming known. Perhaps his Indians would turn upon him and everyone think he had died a loyal man. Perhaps Captain Fly-by-Night would perform the service he had promised, and let the soul of Rojerio Rocha from his body before he actually had engaged in shedding the blood of good and loyal men.
Sergeant Cassara and Gonzales appeared to be the only ones at the mission not bothered by the waiting. They sat against the adobe wall in a corner, speaking in whispers of other uprisings, jesting at times, Gonzales recalling the days of his piracy and Cassara making envious comments.
Midnight came, but no alarm had been given. Not a sound broke the monotonous stillness of the night, yet the quiet was in itself ominous. Frequently the comandante and ensign stopped their pacing to look toward the north, in the direction of San Luis Rey de Francia, wondering what was transpiring there, half fearing to see the glare of flames through the fog, conjecturing as to the whereabouts of the Governor and his force.