He got upon his feet and stood against the wall for a moment, clutching at his breast as if it still pained him to breathe, and then he tottered toward the storehouse. A jug of water was on the step, and he lifted it and drank, then staggered inside. One soldier had remained there to guard, and was standing at the wide window, musket ready, prepared to fire and give an alarm if the Indians attempted to gain entrance there. He whirled around as the other man stumbled against a counter. “Thank the saints you escaped!” he cried. “It was a close call, Señor Rocha.” “A musket,” the other demanded. “Weapon and ammunition! Am I to stand by idly while others fight?” The soldier got a musket from the corner and handed it over, and turned for powder and ball. The man behind him swung the heavy weapon over his head and crashed it down on the soldier’s skull, and the storehouse guard was stretched on the floor. It did not seem to pain him to breathe now, for he was done with acting. He hurried across to the window and worked frantically to unfasten the bars. For an instant he leaned out and waved a cloth. A group of hostiles beside the orchard wall had been waiting for that signal. Now they ran wildly across the open space--a score of them--some falling on the way, men from other groups of hostiles joining them. Shrieking their battle-cries, they poured through the window the renegade had opened and plunged into the plaza. At the same time hostiles swarmed over the end of the wall, enough of them to make a stand. Beset front and rear, the defenders stood back to back and fought courageously. More men fell. Loyal neophytes had been slain as they loaded weapons; and there was no time for the remaining defenders to load now, nothing to do except use muskets as clubs, hurl pistols in savage faces, and wield swords and poniards. “The women--the church!” the _comandante_ shrieked to a fray. It was the first admission that conditions were serious. The fray bowed his head and joined another, and they hurried across the plaza to the guest house, where Señora Vallejo was praying in a corner and Señorita Anita standing at a window watching the combat, a knife clutched in one hand. “Quick--the church--it is the last stand!” one of the frailes cried. The _señora_ got up and hurried to the door, grasping at a fray’s arm, tears streaming down her cheeks. “_Señorita_,” the fray called. “I remain here,” she said. “The _comandante_ has said you must go to the church.” “I remain here!”