Dawn came, a grey dawn that made the world look dismal. He left the semi-protection of the palm, went over the wall, and hurried back to his camp. His horse was standing with back to the tempest, his head hanging low, his tail tucked between his legs. Water was pouring down the slope; the dry grass he had gathered was drenched; the little creek was a roaring torrent rushing down the valley toward the sea. The caballero was cold, hungry, miserable. Across the plaza he could see smoke pouring from the chimneys, and to his nostrils came the odour of food being prepared. The mission bells rang. Neophytes left their huts to hurry toward the chapel. Señor Lopez came from the storehouse and went to the guest house, carrying a huge umbrella made from skins, and there Anita Fernandez and Señora Vallejo joined him and walked across the plaza to the church beneath the protecting parasol. A fray was placing stepping stones in the mud before the chapel door. “I must have a fire!” the caballero remarked, to nobody in particular. He walked some distance up the swollen creek, until he came to a ledge of rock, and there he found some dry grass; but there was no possibility, of course, of using the glass-button again, since the sun was not shining. He collected a quantity of the grass and fired into it with his pistol, but no spark caught. Again and again he fired, without success, finally ceasing in disgust. He went back and stood near the horse, looking up at the heavens. The clouds were black, ominous; there was no decrease in the volume of water that poured from the sky. There was no place near where he could make a dry camp. And it was fire he needed--fire at which to warm himself and dry his clothing and cook another rabbit, if he could kill it. For the remainder of his life he remembered that day and the two following. Such misery he never had known before, nor knew afterward. Now he crept into the wet orchard; now he braved the open on the slope. At times he ran back and forth beside the raging creek, trying to warm his blood by the exertion. Men and women of San Diego de Alcalá went about their business, but none gave him attention. Each hour seemed a day and each day a lifetime. His clothing was soaked, his boots covered with muddy clay. He stood beside the horse and looked at the mission buildings and at the smoke pouring from the chimneys until he could bear to look no longer. Once he heard a child laugh, and the laugh plunged him into the depths of despair. He rattled the coins in his purse. Worthless they were here in San Diego de Alcalá; and he would have traded them all for five minutes of bright sunshine.