The Indian reverently made the sign of the cross. The padre went on: "Antonio, you speak of the Novena. How many days have we been back?" "Eight days." "It has seemed longer, much longer." "That was a hard ride for you from the river country, Señor Padre." "Yes, it was." "Swinging over mountain and scaling precipice, as did we, is doubly difficult for one scarcely able to sit in the saddle." "And what found I here? Men, and women too, whom our fathers redeemed from savagery, dancing in pagan worship around fires which, doubtless, shortly would have become fires of sacrifice." "I know, holy padre; and I remember too that they followed us to the church, consumed by that strange fury; yet you drove the blood demon from their hearts, so that they killed not, nor destroyed, but obeyed your commands; yes, even till now." The Indian again made the sign of the cross. "It is well to forget--well to forget," mused the friar. "The children, after all, are good children." The padre was endeavoring to hold himself against some tremendous inward tension. He clenched his hands and shut tight his teeth. Nature could not sustain him and his teeth began to chatter, while his hands wrapped the closer the lambskin coverlet about his form. The Indian major-domo closed the door. Hastening to the window he drew the sash into place; then began chafing the padre's wrists and palms. "Courage, good padre, courage! A little time and the blood is warm again, the strength revives. If only Pedro Carrasca were here with the Jesuit bark! but he comes not before nightfall, I fear." The friar's eyes closed listlessly. His hands grew colder, despite the vigorous treatment given by the Indian. His breath was short and weak. "Dios y Maria!" exclaimed Juan Antonio. He took the friar's robe hanging from a peg on the wall, and carefully spread it over the fainting man. "Comes now the chill and the heart weakens," muttered the faithful major-domo. "That hurried ride from the San Joaquin, the worry over the Mission, the drought----" Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Antonio called, then gave incisive commands in the Indian tongue. The feet scurried away. He continued the energetic rubbing, praying the while. Excited voices were heard approaching. The door was flung open, and instantly the room was filled with Indians. A woman brought a kettle of hot water; another, a stone vessel. A man brought a decanter of aguardiente. Whispering, praying Indians ran up and down the corridor. As the women saw the padre's face, white and still, they thought life had gone out. Grief filled their hearts, welled into their eyes and found vent by their tongue. The loud wail of the death-bedside arose, quavered, fell, in the old adobe house. Juan Antonio endeavored to silence them. "Quick, with the hot cloths for the feet, Luisa! Make ready the heated brandy, you, Crispinilla! Quick, women, the padre's need is urgent!"