The sentry’s cry was answered. A corporal came running across the enclosure, an Indian at his heels. They stopped short when they saw the caballero; the Indian looked frightened, the corporal grinned.
“Well?” he demanded.
“I want to see your commanding officer,” the caballero said. “I have had enough rain without waiting here for you to make up your mind.”
“Dismount and follow me,” the corporal said.
The Indian went forward and took the horse by the bit. A muddy and bedraggled caballero got stiffly out of the wet saddle and paced through the sticky clay to the door of the barracks-room. The officer was still standing there; he had scarcely moved.
“I want food, wine, a chance to dry my clothing and get warm,” the caballero said. “There seems to be a superabundance of rain just now at San Diego de Alcalá.”
“Did you ask hospitality at the mission?” the lieutenant wanted to know.
The caballero’s face flushed as he met the other’s eyes.
“Your manner,” he replied, “tells me you know of my reception at the mission. I did not look for the same sort of reception here. I have a pass from his excellency that should command respect.”
The caballero handed over the pass, which was wet, and the officer glanced over it.