As if to give emphasis to the fears but just expressed from everywhere there came the peculiar semitone that only moccasined feet can make. A thousand footfalls centered their way to the old adobe church. The Indians poured through the open doors into the auditorium until it overflowed. Like restless ants those who could not get within ran around the building, filling every approach, surging in resistless multitude, as did the thirst-driven cattle around the water source. "They have gone entirely mad! First they will destroy the church, then fall on our families and on us," came somewhere from the elders. "Let us fly to our hacienda houses, barricade our gates, and fight to the end." "Let us wait," suggested Mendoza, "and see further." With sudden impulse the aborigines began to move from side to side in singular unison. At first they uttered no sound, then came a crooning of strange medleys in lifeless, indistinct tones. "They commence thus their war dance!" Señor Mendoza shrugged. A tall Indian mounted the church steps. He turned. His face was wrinkled, his long hair, white, yet straight and sturdy he stood before the undulating throng. "'Tis old Juan Antonio, major-domo of the Mission there. When did he come from the region of the San Joaquin? He and the padre drove thither their cattle even before we sent away ours." The man waved his hand over the people. The tumult was lessened. From the church came the soft chords of the organ. A powerful voice intoned. "My soul hath magnified the Lord and my spirit hath rejoiced in God, my Saviour." The organ swelled in thunder notes, as the faithful within the church took up the antistrophe: "For behold he hath regarded the humility of his handmaid, and from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed." Thus was sung the Magnificat.