In her brain was beating the sentence the caballero had spoken--that she was to remain in the guest house, no matter what transpired. She was not certain the words had not been a boast. She could not imagine how a rescue could be made, though she had reason to know he was clever at rescue work, unless he led the hostiles and intended to save her after the mission had been taken. But she remembered, too, how he had declared he was no traitor, and believed in her heart he had spoken truth. “This is madness!” one of the frailes cried. “Go! I remain here!” she answered. “We must make haste. I’ll return for you, _señorita_!” The frailes hurried outside with the _señora_ and ran across to the church. The defenders were retreating across the plaza now, fighting every foot of the way, backing sullenly but hopelessly and attempting to carry their wounded with them. Looking out of the window, Señorita Anita Fernandez knew in her heart that the frailes would never be able to return across the plaza for her--that hostiles would be in front of the guest house before they had placed Señora Vallejo inside the church. She drew back from the window, still clutching the poniard. She could not feel much faith in the caballero; saw naught but death before her. Death self-inflicted if hostiles invaded the guest house and started to take her prisoner! Death if the caballero appeared with mask thrown aside and as leader of the hostiles after all! Death if he did not appear and the traitorous Rojerio Rocha did, and attempted to claim her as bride! Death--naught but death! She rushed to the window again and saw that the defenders had been driven back to the door of the church. The plaza was filled with shrieking hostiles. Muskets crashed, steel rang. Dead men and wounded men were scattered over the ground. The storehouse was being looted even now. Again she crept back near the fireplace in the wall, and her lips moved in prayer. The door was thrown open, and she made the poniard ready, for it was an Indian who stood framed in it for an instant. Then she gave a glad cry--the Indian was Pedro, the faithful servant. But the cry died in her throat as she remembered that there was a possibility that even Pedro had turned hostile now that men of his race were victors. She gazed wide-eyed as he half closed the door and faced her. “I have come for you, _señorita_,” he said. “I noticed you did not go to the church with the _señora_ and others. But we cannot cross the plaza now, for it is full of hostiles. We must remain here--and I can die beside you, _señorita_!” He turned to close the door and lift the heavy bar across it, but it was hurled wide open against him, sending him recoiling against the wall, and another entered. “You?” Señorita Anita gasped. “You--Rojerio Rocha!” He made no answer, scarcely looked at her. Whirling upon the neophyte he pointed toward the open door. “Out!” he commanded.