At sunrise a brother came running up the stair. "Better go down," he
said, smiling. "I am going to ring for mass, and it will deafen you. You
saw nothing, of course?"
"Nothing."
"We did not expect it, and slept. It takes time to organise."
"Have they any weapons?"
"Their bows and arrows. We have always thought it best to leave them
those in case of assault by savage tribes."
Roldan descended the stair as the bells rang out their peremptory
summons. Although he was tired and sleepy, he determined to remain in
the church during mass, and knelt near the altar by a pillar where he
could command a view of the nave. Almost the first to enter was
Anastacio. He carried himself proudly--like a warrior, thought Roldan--
and advancing to the altar bowed low, then knelt stiffly, his eyes
closed.
The others drifted in slowly: the women kneeling on the right, the men
on the left. Finally all the priests and brothers, except Padre Flores,
who conducted the service, entered and knelt in the aisle. Padre Flores'
garments were as rich as any worn in old Spain, and the candelabra about
him were as massive. The images of the saints were clad in white satin
embroidered with gold and silver thread.
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