His confident tone reassured them; more still his making known the design he had already conceived, and his ability to execute it. He was acquainted with the old convent and the paths leading to it--every inch of them. It needed not their united appeal to urge him to immediate departure. He was off the instant after, and long before the clock of Talpam had struck the midnight hour, well up the mountain road, with eyes looking to the right, in the direction of the Cerro Ajusco. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. MONKS NO MORE. The surmise which had influenced Zorillo to leaving the convent cell earlier than he intended was a correct one. The goings on in the Refectory were, at the time, of an unusual kind--a grand occasion, as he had worded it. There were some fifty men in it; but not one of them now effecting either the garb or the behaviour of the monk. Soldiers all; or at least in warlike guise; a few wearing regular though undress uniforms, but the majority habited as "guerilleros," in the picturesque costumes of their country. They were booted, and belted, swords by their sides, with pistols in holsters hanging against the walls, and spurs ready for buckling on. Standing in corners were stacks of carbines, and lances freshly pennoned, with their blades bright from being recently sharpened--a panoply which spoke of fighting ere long expected to take place. It may be asked where were their horses, since all the arms and accoutrements seen around were those of cavalry? But horses they had, though not there. Each knew where to lay hands on his own, far or near, stalled in the stable of some sequestered _rancho_, or, it might be, mountain cavern. They were not yet assembled to hearken to the call of "Boot and Saddle." That they would hear at a later hour, and in a different place. The occasion of their being in such guise and together was because it was to be the last night of their sojourn in the monastery. And they were making it a merry one; the Refectory table was being loaded with the best that was left to them in meals and drinks. Upon it were what bottles remained of those famous wines from the bins of the rich _haciendado_--his forced contribution--and they were fast getting emptied. From the way the _convives_ were quaffing, it was not likely that any of the Burgundy, Madeira, or Pedro Ximenes would be left behind--not even a "heel-tap." It had got to be midnight, and they were still in the midst of the revelry, when Rivas, who headed the table, rose to his feet, in that formal manner which tells of speech to be made or toast proclaimed.