Carmelita came to the courtyard gate. The uncanny movements of the frantic men and women were dizzying, but she steadied herself. "Hear me," she called. "Listen!" She waited a moment, then began: "Amigos, Stanislaus and his men have come in from their fastnesses, and have taken away from the Mission many girls. These girls are daughters of our friends, and we desire to see them married to men of this valley, the honest men who tend herds and till the soil, and who will provide food in plenty for their families. The chief will take the peonas off to the mountains of San Jacinto or San Bernardino, as I overheard. Friends mine, men of this, our beloved valley, you must skim over the mountains like hawks, overtake these ravishers, and bring back the girls to their peaceful home in the neophyte house, that our valley and Mission sleep Hot desolate to-night." There was no response. The strong hearts had followed Mendoza away at sunrise. There remained but the hewers of wood and the drawers of water. Finally one said: "These stolen muchachas are no relatives of ours. Forgive me, Lady Carmelita, if I say, it is the business of their fathers and brothers to undertake rescue." The farm hand who thus spoke knew of Stanislaus as a human bloodhound, as well as a tried and dauntless warrior. He would as lief interfere with the lion and his bride as attempt to balk the chief. "Will you see your peon brethren of the Mission sleep in tears this night? Do not the padres teach us that the sorrow of one must be the grief of all?" No one answered. Motionless as well as voiceless were the men and women. "An hour's delay, and the renegades may be beyond reach," she went on. Still no response. A cry sounded from the Mission patio, quivering with anguish. It came from some man's throat. "Amigos," again from the girl, "listen to what you hear. Some father is stricken down in body by the renegades, but his soul is calling aloud in bitterness for his child. Who will rush after the renegades and hang to their flank, as the wolf stays the flight of the elk? Who will go, I ask?" The Indians shifted from foot to foot. Some of the peonas looked inquiringly at their husbands. No one spoke. "_I_ will go," suddenly from Carmelita, her form straightening, her face paling. "Who will go with me?" she challenged. "I am only a woman, yet will I handle a rifle in such a cause as this. Who will go with me?" A grizzled Indian stepped haltingly up to the girl. "I am only old Enrico," he said. "I used to be one of the fighting men of the señor, your father, but a bullet from Yoscolo's band smashed my hip years ago and left me fit only to hoe potatoes. Señorita doña, I will go with you and harry Stanislaus with what strength I have. I can never die in a better cause." The señorita waited. There were no other volunteers.