"Who calls?" Padre Ignacio demanded again, bristling with a cold thrill at the wild note of that shrill voice.
"The Angelenos—they are placing a blast of powder in the dam!"
Padre Ignacio heard the swift scuttle of soft-shod feet across the pavement of the court as the messenger who had shouted this disturbing news into his peaceful window ran in the direction of the blacksmith shop. The thickness of the wall at his window sill, the bars outside it, prevented Padre Ignacio seeing who this person was. The earnestness of the shouted warning, the tremulous eagerness of its wild note, seemed to echo yet in the great empty room. Padre Mateo was aroused; he was making a noise at his window.
"Who is bellowing there?" Padre Ignacio heard him demand, the huskiness of sleep in his throat.
"I will hasten to the dam," Padre Ignacio said, putting his head a moment in at Padre Mateo's door as he passed.
"I will be at your heels," Padre Mateo returned, his head already in his gown.
Padre Ignacio did not wait. He ran toward the church, bristling with indignation against this sneaking trespass by the Angelenos, not doubting for a breath that the warning had been an honest one. The high, tremulous, anxious voice still sounded in his ears, like the pain of a thorn in the hand.
"I seemed to know that voice," he muttered as
