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It was about six in the morning. A dazzling sun poured down its transparent rays on the streets of the Presidio of Santa Fe, which were already full of noise and movement at that early hour of the morning. General Ventura was still plunged in a deep sleep, probably lulled by agreeable dreams, judging from the air of beatitude spread over his features. The general, reassured by the speedy arrival of the dragoons promised him, fancied he had nothing more to fear from mutineers who had hitherto inspired him with lively apprehensions. He thought, too, that by the aid of the reinforcements, he could easily get rid of the Comanche, who, on the previous day, had so audaciously bearded him in the very heart of his palace.
He slept, then, that pleasant morning sleep, in which the body, entirely rested from its fatigue, leaves the mind the entire liberty of its faculties. Suddenly the door of the sleeping room in which the worthy governor reposed, was torn violently open, and an officer entered. General Ventura, aroused with a start, sat up in his bed, fixing on the importunate visitor a glance, at first stern, but which at once became uneasy on seeing the alarm depicted on the officer's features.