Though it appeared so, yet it was not bravado that drove the caballero to cross the plaza then. It was necessity; for he had given his horse the water that remained in the jug, and needed more, and remembered that there was a well in the orchard. Swinging the jug by one hand, he started briskly up the slope toward the wall, realising that one of the soldiers was following him at a distance, and that the other remained behind to watch the teepee. An Indian lounging beside the chapel called to another, and the word was passed along. Señor Lopez straightened up and observed the caballero’s advance; Pedro followed him inside, and the door was closed. Indian women called their children into the huts; the men remained standing in groups, but closer together, and as they talked they watched the caballero from beneath shaggy brows. Frailes went about their business as if he did not exist. “It is a pleasant thing,” he mused, “to be treated in this manner by human beings.” He did not betray what he felt, however. Singing under his breath as he walked around the end of the wall, he started diagonally across the plaza, looking neither to right nor left. Neophytes turned their backs upon him, and as he passed within half a dozen feet of a fray, and called a greeting in a cheery tone, the Franciscan did not answer, did not even lift his head. He came to the wall around the orchard and swung upon it--and there stopped, poised, facing the unexpected. Señorita Anita Fernandez, Señora Vallejo and a neophyte were walking toward the well. It was not a time for hesitation, however. He sprang down on the inside and started forward, whistling, knowing they were aware of his approach and that the girl was whispering warnings to her _duenna_. The neophyte had filled a water jug and would have turned back, but the girl instructed him to wait, and remained standing near the well, looking down the valley toward the bay. Her face was flaming, her black eyes snapped. “Pardon, _señorita_,” the caballero said. “Perhaps it may look badly to you, but I give you my word of honour I did not see you enter the orchard and purposely follow you here, even though your _duenna_ is present. I am of a family that observes the conventions, _señorita_, no matter what may be said of me.” “Señora Vallejo, when will you cease mumbling to yourself?” the girl demanded. “I? Mumbling? ’Tis but a frog croaking in the well.” “That comes from sleeping on the wet ground,” the caballero observed. “When last we met my voice resembled the sighing of the gentle wind through the olive trees, if memory serves me right.” Señora Vallejo had turned her back, but the caballero could see that her shoulders were shaking, and not with anger. Señorita Anita was deeply interested in the distant flashing of sun on the water.