The light grows stronger. Forms appear upon the roofs and move along the terraces. They are human forms enveloped in hanging garments, robe-like and striped. We recognise the Navajo blanket, with its alternate bands of black and white. With the glass we can see these forms more distinctly; we can tell their sex. Their hair hangs loosely upon their shoulders, and far down their backs. Most of them are females, girls and women. There are many children, too. There are men, white-haired and old. A few other men appear, but they are not warriors. The warriors are absent. They come down the ladders, descending from terrace to terrace. They go out upon the plain, and rekindle the fires. Some carry earthen vessels, ollas, upon their heads, and pass down to the river. They go in for water. These are nearly naked. We can see their brown bodies and uncovered breasts. They are slaves. See! the old men are climbing to the top of the temple. They are followed by women and children, some in white, others in bright-coloured costumes. These are girls and young lads, the children of the chiefs. Over a hundred have climbed up. They have reached the highest root. There is an altar near the staff. A smoke rolls up--a blaze: they have kindled a fire upon the altar. Listen! the chant of voices, and the beat of an Indian drum! The sounds cease, and they all stand motionless and apparently silent, facing to the east. "What does it mean?" "They are waiting for the sun to appear. These people worship him." The hunters, interested and curious, strain their eyes, watching the ceremony. The topmost pinnacle of the quartz mountain is on fire. It is the first flash of the sun! The peak is yellowing downward. Other points catch the brilliant beams. They have struck the faces of the devotees. See! there are white faces! One--two--many white faces, both of women and girls. "Oh, God! grant that it may be!" cries Seguin, hurriedly putting up the glass, and raising the bugle to his lips. A few wild notes peal over the valley. The horsemen hear the signal. They debouche from the woods and the defiles of the mountains. They gallop over the plain, deploying as they go. In a few minutes we have formed the arc of a circle, concave to the town. Our horses' heads are turned inwards, and we ride forward, closing upon the walls. We have left the atajo in the defile; the captive chief, too, guarded by a few of the men. The notes of the bugle have summoned the attention of the inhabitants. They stand for a while in amazement, and without motion. They behold the deploying of the line. They see the horsemen ride inward. Could it be a mock surprise of some friendly tribe? No. That strange voice, the bugle, is new to Indian ears; yet some of them have heard it before. They know it to be the war-trumpet of the pale-faces!