The Valiant Runaways [16]
In the great court there were rifts of light at irregular intervals; the
heavy wooden shutters of every window were ajar. Roldan felt the nervous
tension of those minds below, and with it a sense of companionship, very
different from the oppressive loneliness of his previous watch.
The clock of the Mission had just struck eleven when Roldan stood
suddenly erect and hooped his hands about his eyes. Something was moving
in the willows beside the river. The moon shone full on the rancheria,
and when the outer edge of the latter appeared to broaden and project
itself the effect was noticeable at once.
Roldan watched breathlessly. In a moment there could no longer be any
doubt: a broad compact something was moving down the valley toward the
Mission. And an army of cats could not have made less sound.
He laid his hand on the bell rope. The Indians came swiftly, but their
course was not yet defined. When within a hundred yards of the Mission
they deflected suddenly to the right. Their destination was not the
south gate.
Roldan closed his eyes for a half moment to relieve them of the strain,
then opened them and held his breath. Only the outer fringe of the
little army could now be seen; it was crawling close to the western
wall. In a few moments they were beneath Roldan; he could hear the
slight impact with the air. Then once more he strained his eyes until he
thought they would fly from his head, and his lungs seemed bursting.
They were approaching the west gate.
They passed it. There could be no doubt now that they purposed to attack
the north gate; but Roldan dared not ring until they were well away from
the west side, lest they change their plans and his signal mislead.
As they reached the corner of the wall they suddenly accelerated their
pace as if impatience mastered them. When the tail of the procession had
whisked about and Roldan saw a compact mass move like a black cloud
before the wind toward the north gate, he caught the rope in both hands
and jangled with all his might.
The great clapper hurled itself against the mighty sides of the bell
with a violence which split the nerves and made the ear-drums creak. The
blood surged to Roldan's head, carrying chaos with it. He had a confused
sense of a flood of light in the plaza below, but could hear no other
sound except the deafening uproar in his ears. Suddenly something gave
way beneath his feet. He had an awful feeling of disintegration, of
solid parting from solid in empty space. He kicked out wildly. His feet
touched nothing. Then his head suddenly cleared, although the deep tones
of the bell still seemed echoing there, and he became aware that his
descent had stopped, and that his hands, torn and aching, were still
clutching the rope. He knew what had happened. He had stepped too far
and gone through one of the arches.
There was no time for fright. He began to pull himself up by the rope,
hand over hand. At the same time he was acutely conscious of many
things. The Indians were yelling like demoniacs and battering at the
gate. In the garden on the other side, the old priest was shouting Ave
Marias in a high quavering voice. A breeze had sprung up and Roldan felt
the chill in it. And he felt the weight of the cassock. The heavy
woollen garment fatigued his arms and impeded his progress. Were it not
for that he could scramble up like a monkey.
He was within two feet of the top. Suddenly he felt a slackening of the
rope, accompanied by a faint sickening sound. The rope was old, it was
giving way.
Roldan made a wild lurch for the projecting floor of the belfry. The
rope broke. He went down.
He had heard that a drop, however swift, might seem to occupy hours to
the doomed. To his whirling horror-struck brain this descent certainly
seemed very long. It was almost as if he were sauntering. Nor was he
tumbling over and over. He had shut his eyes tight when the rope
snapped. He opened them, gave a shuddering glance downward, then laughed
almost hysterically: his cassock, ample even for a man,