The cloistered court, with its marble basin and a jet of water in the centre, remained empty for a moment after the negro had run across; a growing clamour penetrated into it. In the midst of it I heard O’Brien’s voice saying, “Why don’t they shut the gate?” Immediately afterwards a woman in the gallery cried out in surprise, and I saw the _Lugareños_ pour into the _patio_. For a time that motley group of bandits stood in the light, as if intimidated by the great dignity of the house, by the mysterious prestige of the Casa whose interior, probably, none of them had ever seen before. They gazed about silently, as if surprised to find themselves there. It looked as if they would have retired if they had not caught sight of me. A murmur of “the _Inglez_” arose at once. By that time the household negroes had occupied the staircase with what weapons they could find upstairs. Father Antonio pushed past O’Brien out of the room, and shook his arms over the balustrade. “Impious men,” he cried, “begone from this house of death.” His eyes flashed at the ruffians, who stared stupidly from below. “Give us the _Inglez_,” they growled. Seraphina, from within, cried, “Juan.” I was then near the door, but not within the room. “The _Inglez!_ The heretic! The traitor!” came in sullen, subdued mutter. A hoarse, reckless voice shouted, “Give him to us, and we shall go!” “You are putting in danger all the lives in this house!” O’Brien hissed at me. “Señorita, pray do not.” He stood in the way of Seraphina, who wished to come out. “It is you!” she cried. “It is you! It is your voice, it is your hand, it is your iniquity!” He was confounded by her vehemence. “Who brought him here?” he stammered. “Am I to find one of that accursed brood forever in my way? I take him to witness that for your sake------” A formidable roar, “Throw us down the _Inglez!_” filled the _patio_. They were gaining assurance down there; and the ferocious clamouring of the mob outside came faintly upon our ears. O’Brien barred the way. Don Balthasar leaned on his daughter’s arm--she very straight, with tears still on her face and indignation in her eye, he bowed, and with his immovable fine features set in the calmness of age. Behind that group there were two priests, one with a scared, white face, another, black-browed, with an exalted and fanatical aspect. The light of the candles from the improvised altar fell on the bishop’s small, bald head, emerging with a patient droop from the wide spread of his cope, as though he had been inclosed in a portable gold shrine. He was ready to go. Don Balthasar, who seemed to have heard nothing, as if suddenly waking up to his duty, left his daughter, and muttering to O’Brien, “Let me precede the bishop,” came out, bare-headed, into the gallery. Father Antonio had turned away, and his heavy hand fell on O’Brien’s shoulder.