Troopers were rounding the turn in the road at the corner of the garden wall.
The neophytes cleared out of the way, some dropping their tools in their haste to give free passage to the men whose contempt and cruelty made them a daily scourge. Padre Mateo kicked his mule with frantic drumming on its ribs, reining it in front of the soldiers who came sweeping down the road like a boisterous wind, their dust heavy behind them.
"Ride! I will stand between!" he shouted to Juan.
Juan turned his horse to face the troopers, as if he had a thought of riding through their line, but no intention of showing them his back in flight ahead of them. The reins lay loose across the saddle-horn; his hands were under the brown gown where the four-barreled pistols hung. Padre Ignacio had started down from the arcade when the soldiers closed around, Captain del Valle within the circle, sabre in his hand. The officer made an imperious gesture which seemed to sweep Juan from his horse.
"Down! you are a prisoner in the king's name!"
"So, this is the trick you play? worse than liar!" Padre Mateo scorned the soldier. "You hide beyond the wall"
"It is enough!" Captain del Valle said. "Down!" he commanded again, lunging with his sword to make his meaning plain, the point of it not an inch from Juan Molinero's breast. A mo-
