A nervous, anxious _comandante_ paced the plaza, scarcely speaking to his men. Ensign Sanchez, from a position near the end of the wall, had glass to eye, searching El Camino Real for a cloud of dust that would tell of the approach of the Governor and his force, fearing as he looked that it would not be possible for his excellency to arrive until the end of the day. A great deal depended on what had transpired at San Luis Rey de Francia. There was a chance the Governor would have to stop and give aid there and could not continue to San Diego de Alcalá. It was certain the hostiles knew the Governor was coming, and would attempt to gain possession of the mission before his arrival. Sergeant Cassara still sat against the wall of the storehouse, and Gonzales, down on his knees beside him, was holding a wine cup while the sergeant drank. Gonzales had suffered a minor wound, but made little of it. “Together, we have not lost enough blood to dye a lady’s handkerchief,” he said. “’Twas the knock on the head made you faint, sergeant mine.” “Carlos Cassara to be knocked on the head with a club!” the sergeant groaned. “I shall go mad!” “Another man would have had his skull crushed by the blow. How feel you now?” “Excellent well, good pirate, except my neck be so stiff I cannot turn my head.” “Hah! Dost want to look behind you to pick out a way to run?” “Now, by all the saints----” “’Twas but a jest, Carlos, my friend. You are able to fight again?” “Let the dogs but attack and I’ll take my place beside you,” the sergeant boasted. “You have seen no more ghosts?” “’Twas no ghost! ’Twas Captain Fly-by-Night himself, may the imps of evil seize upon him! Laugh, and you like! I saw him, by the light of the firebrand, standing in the plaza, pistol in hand.” “We’ll say no more of it,” Gonzales proposed. “’Tis no thing to cause argument between friends. What is a ghost? Hah!” The door of the guest house was thrown open, and the giant Pedro stalked out, followed by Señorita Anita Fernandez and Señora Vallejo. It was plain to be seen both women had been weeping. The _comandante_ hurried toward them, cap in hand, and spoke with them for a few moments, then conducted them along the wall toward the church. “Displaying the women folk,” Cassara whispered to his friend. “’Twill make the men fight better. What a girl that is!” “’Twere hard to die as this Rojerio Rocha died, knowing death robbed him of such treasure,” Gonzales replied. “He is dead, then?” “It is assumed so. Why would hostiles hold him prisoner when they are running wild to kill other good men?”