“Oh, go, Señor Padre, go! save my husband and children!” cried the terrified wife.
“Save us! save us!” cried the guests, now fully aware of the horrible danger that threatened them.
Thus urged, Padre Diogo prepared, with many misgivings, to go forth and appeal to the people. He looked round with a sad countenance on those he had lately seen so full of life and gaiety.
“May Heaven and the saints protect you, my children,” he said solemnly.
Then taking in his hand a crucifix which hung in a little oratory near the hall, he opened the front door of the house and stepped out among the crowd. He held the sacred symbol of his faith aloft in his hand. It served as his safeguard. No one attempted to injure him; but before he could utter a word, he was surrounded and hurried away from the house. No one would listen to his prayers and entreaties.
“Mercy, mercy, for the unfortunates in yonder mansion!” he cried.
“Mercy, mercy, Señor Padre! did they ever show mercy to us?” exclaimed a voice from the crowd.
He looked back; the Indians were pouring into the house. Loud agonised shrieks of women and children reached his ears. A few shots were heard, followed by the triumphant shouts of the Indians. Flames were seen bursting forth from the house. They burned up bright and clear in the night air. By their light he observed a man dragged along among a crowd of Indians. They stopped and appeared to be busily at work. In a short time a gibbet was erected near the burning building.
“You are required to shrive a dying man, Señor Padre,” said an Indian who approached him.
He was led towards the engine of death. There, beneath it, he found, pale with terror, and trembling in every limb, the corregidor, his patron.