THE CRIMSON CONQUEST (continued 3)

Giving a twirl to his mustachios and a touch to the sallow ruff around his neck, Mendoza stepped into the avenue, and made a well-feigned start of surprise when his eyes rested upon the approaching princess. Off came Mendoza's sombrero, and he bowed until its plume lay on the ground.

"Your gracious Highness," he murmured in Spanish, with his hand on his heart, "I am your slave. The devil take me if I know how to make you understand it, but 't is so, my lady bird, my chickadee, and I would swear it, could I but formulate an oath which you could grasp in your benightedness."

The princess, happily unconscious of the disrespect in the words, but indignant at his intrusion, responded with a barely perceptible inclination of her head, and passed on. But Mendoza was not to be easily rebuffed. Striding after her, he gained her side.

"But stay, my haughty pagan lady!" he exclaimed, his forced smile only half concealing the wickedness in his eyes. "Not so fast, pretty one! Let us talk;—or if we cannot talk, let us make signs. Caramba! Let us be acquainted!" and he placed his hand upon her arm.

The princess shrank as if from a reptile, turning with a look of indignant scorn that daunted even the case-hardened Mendoza, while a scream from the maid brought him fully to his senses. He halted, and Rava went her way with burning cheeks, leaving the Spaniard staring after her discomfited.

"Jesu!" he exclaimed, beneath his breath. He replaced his sombrero over one ear and spread his legs wide apart, one hand upon his hip, the other depressing the hilt of his rapier until its point rose to the level of his shoulder.

"Cara! There is a sudden chilliness hereabouts. Did I feel a cool breeze from the mountains, or was it a freezing glance? No matter, Señorita Ñusta Rava, my dark beauty—no matter! We'll score that in the account against this Cristoval. And, withal, proud loveliness is much to my taste. There's a zest in subjugating.—Hola! Who the devil is this?"

Pedro, crossing the lower end of the court, had met the princess, and noticing her indignation and the trepidation of her maid, suspected that some drunken soldier had been trespassing. He stepped quickly through the shrubbery and came upon Mendoza, still in his jaunty pose. Pedro divined the situation in the instant. Halting, he tilted his toque over his ear, placed his hand upon his hip, spread his good leg wide from its fellow, and stood surveying Mendoza with concentrated insolence, in a grotesque caricature of the latter's attitude. Mendoza, in turn, regarded the cook in surprise, then colored with anger as he realized the tableau in which he was taking part. He adjusted himself hastily and opened his lips to deliver an imprecation upon the cook's head. He thought better of it, remembering Pizarro's stern order against intrusion upon the privacy of the garden, and an injunction, yet more stern, against affronting the women of the court. He swallowed the curse for discretion's sake, and in the effort produced a grimace which he hoped Pedro might accept for a smile.

"Thou 'rt a droll fellow, Pedro," he said with forced lightness, and stalked away. Pedro followed him with his eyes, his attitude unchanged.

"Ah!" he growled. "A droll fellow, am I not, thou scurvy picaroon! Had I my blade thou shouldst find me twice more droll, my dastardly rough-handler of women, for I would tickle thy ribs most humorously before thou shouldst leave this garden. Slink off, caught-dog! I'll have an eye on thee.—A droll fellow! By the faith, it must be so, for naught but drollery could wrench a smile so misbegotten, crump, and bandy as that of thine! Thou didst grin like a kicked hat. An old boot could smile more mirthfully. Pedro must be droll, to give thee such a toad's smirk, Mendoza!" He straightened his toque and stumped back to his quarters.

Meanwhile De Soto's troop, with armor glinting, guidon and pennons fluttering, and trumpets sounding a spirited quickstep, marched out of the square on its way to Guamachucho. At the end of the second day the Spaniards entered the town. They found it a small place, unfortified, and without a sign of the reported rising of the people.

A thorough reconnaissance of the country about occupied the next two days, for De Soto was determined that no doubt concerning its quiet should remain. At midnight of the second day he was seated with Cristoval in the latter's quarters, discussing the expedition and planning for the morrow, to be spent in reconnoitring the country farther south,—then a day of rest, and the return march to Caxamalca. Cristoval rose to make his rounds when they heard a hurried step in the patio, and a soldier entered, followed by a chasqui. The youth was breathing heavily, and as he entered the lamplight his body glistened with perspiration.

"The Viracocha Cristoval?" panted the chasqui, looking from one to the other and drawing a paper from his pouch.

"Here!" said Cristoval. Taking the paper, he hastily broke the seal, reading the contents with alarm and rage. He finished and thrust it toward De Soto, who was anxiously watching his expression.

"Read that, Soto!" he shouted, "and learn the black treachery we have left behind!"

De Soto seized the paper. It was from Pedro.

"CRISTOVAL: The Inca hath been brought to trial. Return with all speed. It is said that his conviction is determined, and that he is to be burned at the stake.

"PEDRO."

De Soto looked up at his friend, their faces reflecting consternation and anger.

"'T is for this Pizarro ordered us away—curse his perfidious heart!" cried De Soto.

"A thousand times curse him!" exclaimed Cristoval. "By Heaven, if 'tis true, I'll kill him! Soto, I go to Caxamalca! Juan, have my horse saddled! Pronto!—quick!" he commanded, and hurried to his room. De Soto reread the message, muttered an oath, and followed him out. He met Cristoval buckling on his rapier.

"Hold, Peralta!" he exclaimed; "thou 'rt not going thus, without thy harness! Wear thy corselet, at least."

"No! I'll ride light," returned Cristoval.

"Wait! come to my room," said De Soto. Hurriedly opening his portmanteau, he drew out a package wrapped in oiled silk. He cut its fastenings with his dagger and unrolled a shirt of chain-mail. "Here! Off with thy doublet and on with this. It is Moorish, and of the best. It may serve thee, as it hath many times served me."

It was on in a moment, and Cristoval quickly resumed his doublet. His horse was already at the door, surrounded by three or four troopers, tightening buckles and rubbing his legs, for he had been under saddle since morning.

"Adiós, Peralta!" said the captain, grasping his lieutenant's hand. "Be not rash, and guard thyself until I come. I will follow at dawn."

Cristoval made no reply to the warning. "Farewell, Soto," he said, and swung into the saddle.

Soon he was in the open country, his horse's hoofs ringing on the pavement of the great highway in a rhythm which he knew would not vary for miles. Shadowy trees swept by, cottages and groves were dimly seen and left behind. The walls of a chasqui-post threw back a short chorus of reverberations, and were lost again in the darkness and silence. Presently the streets of a village clamored with the measure, and relapsed into stillness before the startled peasant could open his door. Onward he flew, the night breeze fanning his hot cheeks, the words of Pedro's message repeating themselves over and over in the cadence of the gallop: "The Inca brought to trial—Return with all speed. The Inca brought to trial—return with all speed!"—while a thousand thoughts mingled with the refrain, chasing one another through his fevered mind, with a deep undertone of purposed vengeance if evil had befallen the captive prince.

Mile after mile down the sleeping valley, and at last the gray of dawn. Another half-league brought him to a hamlet. The people were astir, and smoke was rising from their cottages. He halted at one and dismounted, the villagers staring from their doors. His horse drooped his head, nostrils wide. Cristoval surveyed him with anxiety. No help for it, he must rest. A cottager advanced from his door with a friendly morning greeting and offered his hospitality. The cavalier accepted with gratitude, found grain for his horse, and an hour later was once more in the saddle. The rest and refreshment had done much for both steed and rider, but the leagues were covered slowly, for the animal was weary and his flanks in lather. The halt had given a brief respite to Cristoval's sombre thoughts, but as he looked forward down the valley they returned with full force; and when, late in the day, he descried distant Caxamalca, the fever of his anxiety and rage came back with double strength. At last he was in the suburbs of the town, urging his exhausted horse to fresh speed. He reined up before a sentinel. The halberdier saluted, and Cristoval demanded hoarsely:—

"What of the Inca? Am I in time—doth he live?"

With exasperating deliberation the infantryman ordered his weapon; raised his hand without a word, clutched his throat, distorted his face into a hideous grimace, and emitting a gurgle, closed his eyes and lopped his head to one side. Then he opened his eyes and resumed his position, surveying the blowing steed with critical interest. Cristoval turned pale.

"Speak, fellow!" he shouted. "What of the Inca?"

"Dead!" returned the soldier. "Garroted! Gone to join his fathers in the mansions of the Sun, say the Indios; but 't is more like," he continued, as Cristoval put spurs to his horse and galloped away with an oath, "'t is more like he hath gone to hell—and mayst thou follow him!"

With jaws set, lips compressed, and oblivious of the pedestrians, Spaniards and Indios, who barely escaped being run down, Cristoval careered madly up the narrow street and across the plaza to the palace. Reining up so sharply that his horse went back upon his haunches, he threw himself from the saddle, and ordering a soldier to look after the animal, strode into the building.

He had an indistinct impression of passing Mendoza, of an expression of surprise on the soldiers of the guard in the great hall, of a hurried salute from the sentinel in front of Pizarro's office as he crossed the anteroom, and he jerked open the door and stood before the commander. Pizarro in half-armor was seated at his table, facing the entrance. At the end of the table on his left was his sergeant-major, Dominguez. Both looked up in astonishment at Cristoval's precipitate intrusion, the surprise on Pizarro's face followed quickly by a scowl of displeasure. Surveying Cristoval coldly for a moment, he asked:—

"Well, what dost thou here, Peralta? I thought thee at Guamachucho. Where is thy troop?"

Ignoring the question, Cristoval advanced to the table and leaned forward.

"Is this report true that I have heard?" he demanded in a tense voice. "Hast slain the Inca?"

Pizarro's scowl deepened at the bluntness, but after a moment, in which he seemed to hesitate whether or not to resent it, he answered shortly, "The Inca hath expiated his crimes."

Cristoval was fully prepared for the reply, but it came, nevertheless, with a shock. His face paled, then flushed hotly. Unconsciously he hitched the hilt of his sword a trifle forward. The motion was not unnoted by Pizarro, who now watched him with the vigilance of a hawk. Cristoval's voice shook as he returned, with suppressed vehemence:—

"Hath expiated his crimes! Then it is true!—and thou hast put upon the arms of Spain a blot which a hundred years will not efface. Great God! Was not the atrocity of the plaza enough to glut thee? I tell thee, Pizarro, thou hast done foul murder!—Hath expiated his crimes, sayst thou!—Hath received the penalty of trusting a thing so scant and beggarly as thine honor, which, by Saint Michael, did underfit thee, thou perjured and lying miscreant, when thou wast a swineherd!"

Pizarro had risen. He was silent, but the deathly pallor of his countenance and the sudden cat-like contraction of the pupils of his eyes, burning with animosity in the shadow of his scowl, spoke his rage more plainly than an outburst. And they were more dangerously significant. A scar across his forehead, which Cristoval had never noted before, now showed itself in a thin line and blue, the color of his lips. The sparse black beard seemed more than ever straggling against the sickly yellow-white of his cheeks, and the muscles about his mouth twitched in a ferocious semblance of a grin, as if to bare his teeth. But he spoke no word. He grasped for his sword. It was not at his side, and with a curse he leaped toward his chamber where it lay. Dominguez sprang to his feet with sword half drawn. Pizarro shouted to him in a voice of fury:—

"Call the guard! Kill him, Dominguez! Kill him!"

Dominguez dashed to the door and threw it open, calling: "Ho, the guard! The guard!" and turned upon Cristoval with his sword. The latter sprang forward to meet him, and engaged his blade before he had made a step. There was a second's sharp play, and Dominguez went down with a groan, senseless from a cut which laid open his head. The sentinel rushed in, and stood for an instant transfixed.

"Kill him! Kill him, dolt! Why standest thou?" bellowed Pizarro, charging from his door sword in hand. The soldier stepped back and swung his halberd. The weapon swished viciously, narrowly avoided by a sidestep, and before he could recover for another stroke Cristoval closed upon him and ran him through. Then, throwing his weight against the heavy door, he closed it with a bang and shot the bolt. Pizarro was upon him, and he sprang back barely in time to avoid a lunge. So impetuous was the commander's onslaught that Cristoval was forced several paces to the rear, put to his best to ward the rapid cuts and thrusts which followed. Pizarro, unaware of the mail beneath his adversary's doublet, and emboldened by the security in his own armor, threw caution to the winds. He crowded with dire impatience to avenge the recent insult. He attacked like a demon, pressing forward in so fierce and disorderly assault that Cristoval's defence was for a time disorganized and wild. He strove desperately to gather himself, and to feel and hold Pizarro's blade with his own, or to check his impetuosity by riposte; but for the last there was no time, and the savage lunges came in so swift succession that he avoided them only by giving ground, until he was driven back almost to the wall. At last Pizarro, feinting a cut at his head, reached him with the point full in the breast, so heavily that the blade, catching in the links of the mail, bent nearly double, and Cristoval was hurled by the impact bodily against the wall. At the unlooked-for resistance encountered by his sword and its revelation of the unsuspected armor, the commander uttered a grunt of surprise, suddenly aware of the rashness of his attack. He paused for the briefest instant. It was Cristoval's opportunity, and in a second he had assumed the offensive with a vigor that caused a sudden deepening of the lines around his opponent's mouth.

Pizarro was a good swordsman, but of a school which, in Europe, was already passing. His guard was high, with point depressed, most suitable for his favorite attack, the cut. Now Cristoval, abruptly becoming the aggressor, brought into play a later skill acquired from the French. He assaulted on a lower line, with arm partly extended, hand at the height of his breast, and point on a level with the eyes. Instantly the advantage became his own, and he pressed his attack with such fierceness that Pizarro found no opportunity to regain the offensive. Compelled to lower his guard to engage Cristoval's blade, he was hampered by the unwonted position. The weight of his rapier counted against him, and he was unprepared for the lightning movements of Cristoval's more slender and swifter sword, which played before his eyes like a thin lambent tongue of pale flame.

Cristoval in his mail, and Pizarro defended by his corselet, the only vulnerable points offered were their throats and heads. Here, again, the commander was at a disadvantage. With that keen, swift point menacing and perilously near, he dared not disengage for a cut. Repeatedly he essayed a thrust, but each time a riposte came like a flash, barely guarded. Cristoval directed his attack wholly at his adversary's throat, and time after time Pizarro escaped a fatal thrust only by a hair's breadth. But at length he felt a quick sensation of burning as he was grazed, then presently another. Goaded to desperation, he cut heavily at Cristoval's head. Vainly, and again the burning sting, this time deeper, and he felt the hot blood trickling slowly to his breast. Savagely exultant, Cristoval pressed him more closely, eager to end it before his own strength gave out, for now he began to feel the effect of the long night in the saddle.

So intent was he that he failed to note the sounds of an effort to open the door, but they did not escape Pizarro. Cristoval redoubled the energy of his assaults, not free from concern regarding Dominguez, who was but slightly wounded and now showed signs of returning animation.

Pizarro had been forced back upon a corner of his table, when the door rattled again, and after a few seconds resounded with a crashing blow. There were shouts outside, and the blow was repeated. Again, and this time it was accompanied by a rending, splitting sound, and Cristoval knew that it was being battered in. He saw Pizarro's face brighten, then both redoubled the vigor of their blood-seeking work. Cristoval was desperate at the thought of interruption. The commander was now intent only upon defence until the promised rescue should reach him. Both combatants were breathing heavily and reeking with sweat. Blow followed blow upon the door, and now a burst of splinters succeeded every impact.

The meaning of this. Mendoza was leaving the palace when Cristoval rushed in. He looked after the cavalier in astonishment, surmising at first that he had returned with important news, perhaps confirmation of the rumors of an uprising. But Mendoza passed out, intending to return as soon as practicable. As he crossed the square, however, he recalled Cristoval's expression, which was one of hot passion recently aroused, as was evident from his flushed face and blazing eyes. Half-way across the plaza he halted, considered a moment, then returned to the palace. Crossing the great hall, he hurried direct to Pizarro's anteroom and looked in. The sentinel was not at his post. He hesitated briefly, traversed the apartment, and quietly tried the door. It was fast. He listened and heard rapidly shuffling feet, no voices, and the clash of steel. He tried the door again, then rushed to the guard-room.

"Hola, soldiers!" he shouted. "Follow! There is trouble in the general's room!" and he dashed back, followed by the guard. At the door they halted.

"Listen!" commanded Mendoza. "Do ye hear it?—There is fighting within!" He threw himself against the heavy door. "Furies of hell! Lay on here, men! we must break through!"

Again and again they hurled themselves against the resisting wood without avail, wild now with excitement. Pikes and halberds were brought to bear, thrust into the cracks to prize it open, Mendoza urging and swearing. In vain! That door had been built by Pizarro's direction, to guard the treasure lying in the room beyond his office.

"Fetch a timber!" shouted Mendoza. "A beam—anything heavy! Go! Jump about it!" He sprang at the soldiers, waving his arms, and they went out with a rush. There were no timbers but the beams of the ceilings. They were inaccessible. Finally Mendoza cried, "A bench-top from the garden! Veloz! Veloz!"

It was brought by as many as could lay hands upon it. They hurried into the anteroom and charged the door, Candia had rushed in, stared for a second, and thinking a mutiny had arisen, drew his sword and collared a soldier.

"Here!" he shouted, jerking the man around, "what's to do?"

The soldier wrenched himself free, shouting back excitedly, "Hell is to do! Peralta is loco, and is murdering the general!"

"Santa Maria!" ejaculated Candia.

Now the door was tottering, and another blow brought it down. The crowd surged through, led by Mendoza, Candia following close. Pizarro's drawn, anxious face and labored breathing showed that he was desperately hard pressed. Cristoval with merciless, silent determination upon his death, was pushing him closely, but weariness clogged his movements, and the fatal thrust was undelivered. Neither of the combatants seemed to see the inrush of the soldiers. Cristoval's back was toward them, and Mendoza drove at him without a word, putting all his strength and hate into a lunge with which he meant to settle all scores. His point caught in the links of the mail, the blade bent and snapped close at the hilt. The lunge whirled Cristoval half around and sent him full length upon the floor. Pizarro sank back against the wall in exhaustion, while Mendoza drew his dagger and with an oath sprang upon his prostrate enemy. Before he could use it Candia had seized him, hurled him back, and stood over Cristoval, facing the circle of soldiers.

Pizarro, half inarticulate with weariness and rage, found breath enough to gasp: "Kill him! Kill him!—In God's name!—will none of you put an end to that accursed mutineer?"

The circle closed a bit nearer, but Candia poised his sword, and they hesitated. Cristoval had regained his feet and placed himself back to the wall, panting, but undismayed. At this juncture Almagro hurried in and breaking through the crowd, demanded:—

"What is this? Our swords turned against one another? What meaneth it?" He was answered by an excited and unintelligible chorus. Pizarro started forward, his face distorted with frenzy.

"Kill him, I say, ye damned gawping sheep!" he bellowed again. "What!—will ye disobey? Fall upon him, or I'll flay you to the last man!"

"Nay!" interposed Almagro. "Stand back! All in good time and order. Peralta, thou 'rt a prisoner. Take him away, Candia."

"Out of the way, Almagro!" thundered Pizarro, struggling to pass him. "I'll have his life! Strike him down, ye dogs!"

"Away with him, Candia!" commanded Almagro, sturdily opposing the general and thrusting him back. "Fall in about him, men, and make him secure."

"Come!" said Candia, in a low voice, and seizing Cristoval by the arm, hurried him out, surrounded by a dozen pikes, leaving Almagro to quiet the infuriated Pizarro. In the hall outside Cristoval surrendered his sword.

Word of the affair spread rapidly over the town, and as prisoner and escort left the palace they encountered a throng already gathered at the door, held back by the crossed halberds of the sentinels, whom they besieged with questions. As Cristoval stepped out, still breathing heavily and disordered from the struggle, their clamor ceased, and they stared at him in silence, hardly able to believe they beheld the stanch Cristoval in arrest for having turned his sword against his general.

"Insano—gone mad!" muttered an old arquebusier, and his neighbors agreed to it as the only explanation. Cristoval saw them only vaguely, and scarcely heeded the groups passed on his march across the square. At the doors of the building at its lower end which had been put into service as a prison he halted mechanically, marched again at the command when the doors had been swung open, and only awoke to himself when, having traversed the patio, he was led into one of the rooms opening upon it and felt the oppression of its sudden chill and gloom. The old sergeant of the guard eyed him gravely for a few seconds, then shook his head and retired. The door swung heavily shut, and Cristoval was alone.

CHAPTER XIII

Cristoval a Prisoner

Cristoval stood near the door. His eyes grew accustomed to the obscurity and travelled over the room and its furnishing; but his mind, occupied by a tumultuous review of the incidents just past, received little impression. In the middle of the room stood a table, and near it two or three stools. Along the wall at the rear was a stone bench, and in a corner a small heap of straw, the bed of some former prisoner. The fragments of a water jar littered the table, with bits of mouldering corn-bread. The low, heavily timbered ceiling, with the great thickness of the walls and the little air from the two small windows, made the atmosphere chill, stifling, and oppressive as that of a cellar.

He walked to the table and stood leaning against it, the disorder of his thoughts gradually yielding to grief for the ill-fated prince whose long durance he had lightened with his companionship. He realized now that his friendship for Atahualpa had grown stronger than he had been aware, and he felt an unexpected sense of loss. Slowly his sorrow was succeeded by a storm of bitter resentment at Pizarro's perfidy, and he raged at his failure to avenge it. Every detail of the encounter presented itself to his mind—the moments when the commander's life had been almost in his hand, the interruption which had foiled him at the instant of vengeance; and he stamped fiercely, impatiently, heaping curses upon those who had baffled him, and grinding his teeth at his present helplessness. More bitter still was the memory of the sacred obligation imposed upon him by the monarch at their final interview, and his inability, now, to acquit it. The peril to Rava foreseen by Atahualpa was upon her. She was without a defender, and at the mercy of her brother's murderers. Her fate seemed certain. Cristoval sank upon a chair: sprang to his feet again, and looked about him, this time noting every feature of his surroundings, the walls of granite, the flagged floor, the small windows, high up and recently barred by Pizarro's order, and the massive door, guarded without, as he knew, by a sentinel whose life depended upon his vigilance. He made a tour of the room with rapid steps, minutely scrutinizing every detail, driven not by the sense of his own danger, but by that of the unhappy girl entrusted to his guarding. There was not a crack between the blocks of stone into which he could have forced the point of a poniard. There was no escape.

The other phase of the situation came upon him. Not only was he a prisoner, but a prisoner under sentence of death. He knew Pizarro well enough to be sure of that. He must die. Not even De Soto's power could save him. He had sought the life of his commander. He was a mutineer.

For an instant he was seized of a sudden weakness, and sank again upon a chair with a shuddering glare at vacancy. Doomed! He sat long, motionless, his faculties numbed. The air oppressed his breathing. Darkness closed about him and bore down upon his soul as if tangible. His strength was gone, and though he sat bolt upright he had the sensation of tottering. His mind ceased to act, absorbed and fascinated by the terror called death.

He was roused, long afterward, it seemed, though but minutes had flown, by the sound of footsteps and the opening door. Two halberdiers entered, followed by the sergeant and two armorer's assistants bearing manacles and fetters, a portable forge, and an anvil. The door closed, and the group surveyed the prisoner as if he were a captured lion. Cristoval rose slowly and stood regarding them with apathy. The sergeant spoke.

"Señor Teniente Peralta, we have an unpleasant duty—" He hesitated, and Cristoval waited in silence.

"The armorers here," continued the sergeant, "have a few trinkets which it is ordered you are to wear—temporarily." He paused again, and Cristoval wondered vaguely why such a trifle should embarrass his speech. Fetters—what were they in the presence of the thought of death!

The sergeant resumed: "I trust you will give us no trouble, Señor. It is near supper-time, and you know what that meaneth to a man already twenty hours on guard. I had hoped this might be deferred until the new guard cometh on, but the general seemeth burdened with an anxiety to know you are secure—so here we are. Now, what say you?—shall it be done quietly, or must I have a squad of pikemen?"

For answer, Cristoval turned up his sleeves and offered his wrists.

"Ah! Bueno!" said the sergeant, with relief. "That is what I like to see. When a man must take his physic, why not do so gracefully? I have observed that it marketh the distinction between a caballero and a yokel. You are a good soldier, Señor Cristoval: I have always said it.—Armorers, set about it.—Would you believe me, Señor—the last man I saw ironed took four to hold him! But he was a creature of base instincts. Now, men, be expeditious!"

In half an hour the irons were securely riveted to Cristoval's wrists and ankles, and the sergeant was expressing his appreciation of the prisoner's forbearance, when he broke off abruptly, clapped his hand to his forehead, and stared at a rent in Cristoval's doublet.

"Ah, Cielo!" he cried. "Why was I equipped with mud in the place of brains!—And you, too, ye numskulls—-where are your wits? Do ye see what we've done?—left him in his mail!—and now there's no way to have it off but to undo his wristlets. Now what do you think of that?" he appealed to Cristoval.

Cristoval shrugged, but made no comment. The others stood helplessly about while the sergeant berated them until his feelings were relieved, when he exclaimed, with regained philosophy: "Well, let it stay! 'T will keep. The prisoner will be none the better for it, nor the worse; and if it worrieth the next sergeant of the guard, let him worry, or take it off. 'T is time to eat."

He led his men out without further ado, and once more the place was quiet.

For an hour Cristoval sat in a half stupor; at last, overcome by weariness, he hobbled to the bench beside the wall. He stretched himself upon it, and his torpid mind passed insensibly into slumber. Late in the evening he was awakened by the light of a lantern in his face, and found himself confronting Pedro. The two regarded one another silently, Pedro with elevated light and profound concern in his rubicund countenance.

"'T is thou, good Pedro!" said Cristoval, at length.

"Ah!" assented Pedro. "And is it thou, Cristoval? Thou, amigo?—thus ignominiously pickled and shorn of liberty, hoppled like a wayward barb. I scarce know thee."

Cristoval smiled gloomily. "It is I, Pedro! Would it were some other. A prisoner!—and all to no purpose."

Pedro drew a long breath, swore a little, and seating himself, placed his lantern upon the floor and stared at it in dejection. "All to no purpose!" he echoed. "The Inca is dead."

"And Pizarro liveth!" groaned Cristoval. "Oh, San Miguel! Could I have had but a moment longer with him!" He seized the cook's arm. "But, Pedro—what of the Ñusta Rava?"

"Ah, the Ñusta Rava!" exclaimed Pedro, his face reddening in the lamplight with indignation. "What thinkst thou, Cristoval?—but thou couldst never guess! The Ñusta Rava hath been given by Pizarro to that foul bird, Mendoza, as his share of the plunder of the Inca's palace."

Cristoval sprang up and glared at the cook with an expression which reminded him of the rumor that the cavalier had gone mad. At length Cristoval hoarsely broke the silence:—

"Hath he—is she—"

Pedro met the burning scrutiny and shook his head. "No! She is safe for the present. The plunder hath not yet been divided."

"Where is she?" demanded Cristoval.

"In the palace. She is unmolested thus far, save that Mendoza payeth an occasional visit to ogle, gloat on, and leer, whilst he croaketh a few words of Quichua. But she is never alone. Her maids are always present. One of them came to me this morning, weeping, and begged that I devise means to relieve her mistress of the monster's visits. I'll do it some fine day, Cristoval, and there will be carrion to lug out of the garden. She knoweth not her fate, poor girl."

"Kill him, Pedro!"

"I will—if thou dost not."

"I, Pedro! How in the fiend's name could I kill even a rat?" demanded the cavalier, with impatience. "Look at me! Look about thee! Is this a paper house, imbecile? Am I tied with pack-threads? Another day—perhaps two—perhaps three—and I shall share the Inca's fate. Be sure of it, friend."

Pedro shrugged and glanced about. "Keep thy courage, Cristoval. Stone walls do not always make a prison. I've learned some tricks in my career besides those of the kitchen. Thou knowest I was not always a cook."

"Thou'lt need the tricks of a thaumaturge to take me out of here, old friend," said Cristoval, "and thou canst serve me better than by losing good time in the effort. Promise thou'lt kill Mendoza if need be to save the Ñusta."

"I will!" replied Pedro, cheerfully. "But we will talk of it to-morrow—or when I come again. Now I must go. I've brought thee a small supper—bribed the sergeant of the guard to let me pass. No appetite at present? Then eat later. Adiós, amigo mio."

"Wait, Pedro!" said Cristoval, urgently. "Tell me first of the Inca's death."

"Oh, an infamy of infamies!" blurted Pedro, with an oath, and reseated himself. "A devil's own deed, brought about by a devil's own device and procedure! An indictment wanting even the merit of ingenuity in its fabrication! A court presided over by Pizarro and Almagro, the Inca's prime enemies! A trial that began as a farce and ended in a quarrel over the expediency of his death—whether it would further or hinder the business of the conquest and the gathering of plunder. And it was decided on that score, Cristoval. The judgment was determined upon before the trial began. Didst know he was condemned to burn at the stake?"

"Oh, God!" gasped Cristoval. "They told me he was garroted!"

"And so he was. At the last moment, after the fagots were ablaze, Father Valverde offered him the easier death if he would accept the Faith. He assented. The fire was kicked out, and he received baptism. So he died a good Christian."

"So he died a good Christian!" repeated Cristoval, with bitterness. "He was a better man a pagan than the Christians who slew him. Well, God give him rest. But had he no defenders, Pedro? Was there no man less a criminal than Pizarro?"

"A few, but, curse me, a sparing few! Among them was José, and he the most vehement. He denounced the affair with an acrimony that stirred the wrath of Father Valverde, who helped to draw the indictment. José knoweth no discretion, Cristoval. But the Inca's friends were not many, and their protests were futile."

"How did he bear himself?"

"As a king, if ever I saw one!" returned Pedro, with emphasis. "When the sentence was made known to him he made one appeal for mercy. Pizarro feigned commiseration: turned away his head and wiped an eye—oh, accursed hypocrite!—and now he weareth mourning. Didst observe?"

"I saw it."

"But this one appeal denied," continued Pedro, "the Inca met his death like a man, begging only that his people be gently dealt with. Rest his soul in peace! He was a man!"

Both sat for a time in silence, then Pedro sighed and arose. "Well, God be with thee, Cristoval. I'll see thee to-morrow, if 't is permitted. If not, then when De Soto cometh. He will make a way. Good-night."

Cristoval pressed his hand, and leaving his lantern, the cook stumped to the door, which, after a moment's pounding, was cautiously opened from without, and he disappeared. Cristoval meditated long. Then, slowly taking up the lantern, he moved to the table and surveyed the repast left by Pedro. There was a small flask of chicha, and after a draught of it he attacked the supper and finished it with interest. It revived his spirits, and for the first time he examined his fetters. There was little encouragement to be found in their massiveness, and he shook his head dubiously at the recollection of Pedro's few words of reassurance. He returned to his bench, put out his light, and soon was sleeping heavily.

CHAPTER XIV

Pedro to the Rescue

When Cristoval awoke, stiffened and unrefreshed, the room was gray with feeble light. He stared at the heavy rafters, not yet fully roused to his dismal circumstances.

"'T is early," he thought sleepily, "or a dull morning. What hath the day? Let us see—where am I? Guamachucho? No. What pent up air is this?" He turned his head and blinked at the windows, then raised his manacled wrists. The history of the day before flashed over him. He looked a moment at his irons, then closed his eyes and set his lips. Presently he sat up, painfully, and bent his head upon his hands. "I thought I had dreamed. Ay de mi! No dream, Cristoval. To-morrow a court, a shrift, the garrote. Ah, Madre, it hath been a life not well spent! But it seemeth short—too short." He sighed heavily, once, twice, arose abruptly, and shook himself. "Enough, Peralta! Thou'lt be groaning in self-pity. No more of it! Let us look about."

He hobbled to the table. There was a jar of water and a loaf of coarse corn-bread. "Some one hath been here—not Pedro, I'll stake my head. I wonder what the hour may be. It must be late. Bien! The day will be the shorter. And now we'll eat, if but to kill time. Would that hope were as faithful in our extremity as appetite! We'd ne'er despair. Two good comrades, hope and appetite, and sad to lose. Pedro would say that—though belike in Latin. Good old cook! When will he come? But he'll come, God bless him! What did he mean?—he hath 'learned a trick or two besides those of the kitchen.' Can he hope to free me? Chance slight as air! Would that De Soto were here, though I see not how he can help. But he could save the Ñusta Rava, and that he will do, I know. Poor girl! Her fate may be worse than mine. Now, we'll have another look at these fetters.—Strong enough, by the Faith, and strength to spare! But one of José's files on the rivet-heads—as well wish for the Arabian lamp!"

The day dragged slowly and wearily. He spent it in waiting, vaguely, he knew not for what, and in listening for the few slight sounds that broke upon the stillness. The steps of the sentinel, the murmur of voices when the reliefs came, the faint echo of the trumpet-calls on the plaza, were noted with painful attention. Now he sat straining his ears; now he limped haltingly round and round the apartment, filling it with the clank and scrape of his shackles, until his ankles were worn to the raw and he could walk no more. Seated on the bench, he dozed at last, and when he awoke the light was failing. This day Pedro did not come. Thrice Cristoval thought some one fumbled the bolt of the door, but it was unopened until night was on, when the new officer of the guard came in with the old. They entered in silence. A soldier held a lantern aloft while the new commander surveyed the room and the prisoner, briefly returning his nod as all went out without a word.

The night was a year, but toward dawn he slept, rousing when his food was brought. The soldier eyed him indifferently, and departed without salutation. Soon after, two of José's artificers came in with a pikeman of the guard, inspected the windows, and strengthened the fastenings of the door. Cristoval spoke to one of them, but the guard gruffly forbade a reply, and the prisoner said no more.

The day was maddening in its length, monotony, and stillness. Why did not Pedro come? Where was De Soto? Had all friends failed? He must communicate with De Soto concerning the Ñusta, and time might be short. When should he have his trial? These questions came again and again to his tortured mind, but all remained unanswered. They troubled him more now than the thought of death, for with the loss of hope had come the blessed resignation with which the All-wise softens the approach of the inevitable hour, and he was surprised at his own indifference. His one anxiety about it was the question when it would be. He would have interrogated the soldier who brought his food, but the man did not even answer his greeting.

Another restless night, and Cristoval rose haggard and savage. Solitude had preyed upon him, and the silence even more. The taciturnity of his guards was infuriating. When the soldier entered with his breakfast he sprang up from the bench with a suddenness that caused the man to drop his burden with a crash of broken stoneware, and draw his dirk as he dashed to the door calling for help. The sentinel burst in and stood with lowered pike while Cristoval glared upon them like a madman.

"Loco!" whispered the attendant, with a gasp. "Jesu Cristo! let me out!"

"Out, then, thou knave!" bellowed Cristoval. "Who holdeth thee? And hearken! When thou comest again, speak!—say something, or by Saint Michael, thou'lt die unshriven! Is this a tomb, that ye varlets must come and go, tiptoeing and mum like undertakers' help? Pass the time of day, ask me how I like my fare, mention the weather, or blow thy nose; but break this accursed silence if thou wouldst have thy neck unbroken!"

The soldier edged toward the door. "We are forbidden to have words with you, Señor Cristoval."

"Good! Then say that! Say it over and again! Say it backward; but ware being silent. Dost hear?"

"Muy bien—Adiós, Señor Cristoval," and the two squeezed themselves out.

"Bring more water!" shouted Cristoval, and sat down relieved.

The day wore along. When the officers of the guard came at nightfall Cristoval was asleep. Later he was aroused and sat up. A lantern blinded him, but in a moment he recognized Pedro with a shout. He rose and clanked across the room, extending both hands.

"Pedro, thou blessed saint! Pedro at last! My life! I thought never to see thy good face again. Where hast thou been these years? Welcome, welcome as the sun! Would these bracelets permit, I'd embrace thee, old friend." His joy was unaffected and pathetic. Pedro was for a moment overwhelmed by its demonstration. Freeing himself of a burden whose savory odors told its nature, he grasped Cristoval's hands, then dropped one to dash his own hastily across his eyes.

"God ha' mercy, Cristoval! I—I—Spit, roast, and baste my carcass!—I'm glad to see thee. Wait!"

He turned hurriedly to the basket which he had deposited upon the table, fished out a loaf, and thrust it upon the prisoner. "Here!" he whispered, with great impressiveness, looking carefully toward the door, "Chew it up fine! Chew it fine—dost hear?"

Cristoval took the loaf mechanically, surveying him with astonishment. "What thinkst thou, man—that I would swallow it whole? I am hungered, but no cormorant. I'll wait, by thy leave."

"Yes, yes! Wait till I'm gone. Hide it. Eat it when alone."

Cristoval scanned his round face, now serious, and tucked the loaf into his doublet.

"Ah!" quoth Pedro, with a nod of approval. "Now I will lay out thy supper, and whilst thou dost eat I will talk. I must not tarry over long—to-night. To-morrow night I will tarry longer. Ha, ha! Stew my tripes and giblets!" and he patted Cristoval on the back, mystifying the cavalier with his uncalled-for levity. He continued rapidly: "Sit, amigo, and I'll tell thee a history of late events, and briefly. I have talked with De Soto."

"Then he hath returned!" said Cristoval.

"Hath returned, and would be sharing thine imprisonment could Pizarro do his inclinations. But De Soto was more discreet than thou, Cristoval. On his arrival he paid his respects to the general in full armor, whilst his troop stood to horse in the plaza in front of the palace. 'T was a bluff and blustering parley, I've been told. The captain forced Pizarro to lame defence of his execution of the Inca, and to swallow more of his own choler than he will be through with tasting for a fortnight. But he had naught else to do, for De Soto would have killed him at a word. In the end the commander threw blame upon Riquelme, Almagro, and others—a burden unloved by any of them, it would seem, for they fell upon him in full cry and rammed the accusation down his throat. The lie was bandied among them like a shuttlecock. This one appeached that, that one the other, then all of them each one in turn. Their chorus reached to the plaza. A bag of cats were not more earnest and vociferous. Swords were out, and but for Candia and Gonzalo Pizarro's blood had been spilt. Stew me! I would they had gotten well at it. What sayst thou to 't?—a rare batch of back-clawing freebooters, not so, Cristoval? Aha! De Soto stirred them well.—But what wouldst guess was the outcome of the wrangle? Scorch me if Pizarro did not shift the blame upon that scamp, Felipillo, whom he accuseth of having falsified to incriminate the Inca!"

Cristoval's comment was a laugh of disgust. Pedro added an imprecation, and resumed.

"And now to thine own business, amigo. De Soto spoke for thee, but with ill success. Thine offence was flagrant, dost see?—black, grave, and most flagitious! For the sake of discipline thou must come to trial. The most Pizarro would grant is a delay until the day after the morrow. But for De Soto it would have been yesterday. The moment was unfavorable for intercession."

Cristoval had ceased eating and sat gloomily regarding the cook. "Useless to intercede," he said at last, "then, or at any time. My campaign is ended, Pedro. But I must see De Soto. Thou and he must save that unhappy girl."

"We will do so, Cristoval. But now hear me. I have talked with De Soto. To-day he went to the general and insisted thou must have Christian fare, and that I be allowed admittance. Pizarro demurred, but when De Soto came away I went to the general, saying that I had been told I should have to be thy commissary—to lug offal to the bear, as Rogelio hath put it—and I swore a great protest that I'd not do it. Vowed that if I was forced to it I'd put poison in thy food."

"Ho!" exclaimed Cristoval.

"I declared thou 'rt mad, as 't is said by the men, and that I feared for my life."

"San Miguel!" growled Cristoval. "Is not my case bad enough without thy slander?"

Pedro shrugged. "I painted thee well, amigo, and the general knoweth my fears. As a consequence—"

"—I've lived on corn-bread and water, Pedro. Continue."

"—As a consequence, I'm ordered to feed thee or be thumbscrewed, and Pizarro more than half believeth the latter would please me as well. He knoweth, therefore, thou'lt have scant sympathy from me, thou'lt not be overfed, and that I'll be carrying no messages from thee to friends outside. He knoweth that I take my life in my hands in coming—I am armed, as thou see'st, Cristoval. It is thy sword, by the way."

Cristoval looked at it with a sigh. "I would rather thou shouldst have it than any other man. It is a good blade, Pedro. Let it keep me in thy memory."

Pedro regarded him intently. After a pause he said in a low voice, "Cristoval, thou'lt find a file in that loaf."

Cristoval started, and his face slowly flushed.

"José sent it thee," whispered Pedro, "encased thus in the loaf lest I be searched by the guard. A wise precaution, for they did search me. And now," Pedro hitched his stool nearer, "dost think thou canst free thyself by to-morrow night? Good! Then listen: File the rivet-heads nearly off—not quite—so that a moment's work will finish it. Mould a bit of the bread in shape to simulate the bolt-heads in case thy fetters should be inspected. Be ready to-morrow night."

Cristoval seized the cook's hand and pressed it without a word.

"Be ready," repeated Pedro. "I'll tell thee a plan when I come again. Now, good-night."

"Hold, Pedro!—will it endanger thee? If so, I'll none of it, by—"

"It will not. I swear it. Adiós."

Pedro pounded on the door, which was opened presently by the sentinel. He went through with a snort and an oath, and looking back, addressed the prisoner with well affected wrath:—

"Burnt, is it? Underdone, is it? Too salt, is it? Not warm enough, isn't it? Thou croaking, leather-cropped kennel-forager! Thy feed will be served hot enough presently, and not underdone, I'll take my oath on't! Thou'lt have the devil for a cook, and he'll do things to a turn. Bear him the compliments of Pedro with the hope that his draughts are good, and firewood and sulphur plentiful. Underdone! Thou'lt be done brown, my head on 't, thou—"

The door slammed, and Cristoval could hear him grumbling and swearing to the sentinel. He smiled, sat listening for a time, then cautiously drew out the loaf and broke it. The point of a file protruded, and in a second it was hidden in his bosom. Shortly he extinguished the light, sought the bench, and waiting for a period with ears alert, took out the precious bit of steel and set to work in the darkness, first on his shackles. But despite his utmost care his manacles rattled at every stroke, and he spent half an hour wrapping the links with his torn-up kerchief. At last he could work in comparative silence, though the grating of the file seemed to cry aloud to heaven, and he paused momentarily, breathless, to listen for an alarm. But the tool bit gratefully, and before midnight he judged from the feeling that little work remained.

Now for the manacles. This was another matter. Twist and strain as he might, he could not reach the rivets with the file,—could not have done so had his soul been at stake, as well as liberty and life. He groaned, sweat, and raged, tried holding the tool between his teeth, and strove ineffectually until his jaws ached. He sat near to despair. Now he sought carefully along the wall for a crevice into which to wedge the butt of the implement, and cursed the skill of the masons. For ages he searched, until his finger nails were worn to the quick. Useless! He must wait for Pedro.

Another possibility. He groped until he found a chair. Over and over it travelled his eager fingers, and at last found a crevice into which the file would go. In his fever he dropped the steel, and it clanged on the pavement like a tocsin. He caught breath with a sob and knelt long with straining ears, mouth and eyes wide open. Gracias á Dios, it was unheard! Cautiously, now! The file enters and is forced to solidity by a few gentle blows from his manacles. Now he works—awkwardly, but in a delirium of interestedness. "Gods! The Inca had longing for freedom. Had he such longing as this which hath come with renewed hope? Poor devil, 'tis even likely. God rest his soul."

It seemed but a moment before he noticed with a shock that the two high windows were staring at him with pallid light, like a pair of accusing eyes. The morning had come. He ceased and rose from his stiffened knees. Now to hide the evidence. A few crumbs from the loaf, water from the jar, soot from the inside of Pedro's lantern, and the rivet-heads were counterfeited with the loving care of an artist. Next, the filings. They were invisible, but he did not rest until they had been scattered to the four corners of the room. At length he lay down, weary but sleepless, staring at the beams which already wore the familiarity of lifelong acquaintance. After an hour the sentinel looked in, and Cristoval snored. The door closed again.—Madre de Dios! Was that a blunder—to feign sleep? Would not the soldier suspect that he had been awake all night—working with a file—and now slept from weariness? He sat up, pale and shaking. No! Impossible! But he would not venture it again. After a time his breakfast came—corn-bread. Pedro did not bring it. Was there significance in that? Had the night's work been detected and his accessory seized? The soldier had looked at him with suspicion—at least, with feigned indifference! Holy Mother! What a torture of multiplied fears, now that hope had come!

And so throughout the day. Every sound startled his heart to his mouth, clamored discovery, the plot revealed. At midday he was sleepy, and dared not sleep,—or only in snatches, sitting up. Ten thousand times he examined his counterfeit rivet-heads. Palpably, palpably false! To be detected at a glance through a crack in the door! He hardly ventured to move lest the bits of paste fall off. Ah, torment upon torment! It was easier to be sure of death, as he had been the day before.

By nightfall his head was fevered, his hands clammily cold. At the usual hour the officer of the guard came in. The new one was Zapato. He was surly and irritable from a debauch of the previous night, and said loudly as he entered the door:—

"Is this our ogre? Bah! For a maravedi I would pull his teeth. Let us have a look at his fastenings."

The other officer spoke a word in a low tone, evidently of warning, and laid his hand upon his companion's arm. Zapato shook him off roughly. "Furies!" he retorted. "Dost think to frighten me? Loco or not, I'll see to his irons. Here, guard, the lantern."

Cristoval's nervousness left him in an instant, and he set his teeth. Por Dios! the man who should discover his work with the file should never live to announce it. As Zapato approached, holding the lantern aloft, scowling with swollen eyes, Cristoval rose slowly and stood watching his advance with still alertness. The unsteady lantern cast a fitful light over his rugged features, and the officer looked into a face whose haggardness was intensified by the uncertain shadows,—cheeks sunken and drawn by confinement and anxiety, and from their dark orbits a pair of eyes gleaming with menacing steadiness into Zapato's. The latter hesitated, peering uncertainly through the gloom, then stepped back a pace, his hand on his sword. The other officer seized him by the arm and drew him without much resistance toward the door. Zapato looked back over his shoulder.

"The man is mad for a surety! We'll let some one else look after his fetters," and he laughed uneasily and went out. Cristoval smiled grimly and seated himself to wait for Pedro.

Four long hours,—he knew from the change of sentinels outside the door, which was made twice. At last, the welcome voice. Pedro was apparently in unusual spirits, for his words were pitched high and he talked volubly, now rapidly in Spanish, now with dignity in Latin. Would he never be done? Presently he was singing. Fiends! Will he not hurry? But listen! His words sound thick, with pauses suspiciously like hiccoughs. At length the door opens.

"Is—is—the (hic)—man mad, sayst thou? Say, rather, 'Faenum habet in cornu!' Lat—Latin, compadre. Meaneth, he hath hay on (hic) his horns—P—p— (hic) Pliny. M—more stately way of expressing it, my dear (hic). Let us—see!"

Cristoval's heart sank in black despair as Pedro stumbled into the room, basket in one hand and lantern in the other, and stood swaying in the doorway, smiling idiotically at the darkness. The prisoner could have wept in his sudden revulsion from hope to disappointment and disgust. The sentinel seemed to hesitate about closing the door, and Pedro blinked at him a moment, then said to Cristoval in a voice of maudlin sympathy:—

"Loco! (hic) loco, Cristoval? My commiseration! Sad state. Animi affectionem lumine mentis carentem nominaverunt (hic) amentiam, eandemque dementiam. Amentiam or dementiam, Cristoval—have thy choice. Cicer—(hic) Cicero, my friend. Grand old man, Cicero, and safe authority. But—art mad, Cristoval? Outrage! Quos Deus perdere vult prius dementat. Whom God wisheth to destroy—thou knowest, Cris(hic)toval. More Latin! Sh—shut the door, guard. I'll sit down with Cristoval. Loco, Cristoval? S-s-(hic)scandalous!"

The guard closed the door with a grin, Pedro regarding him with profound drunken wisdom. Cristoval's head was bowed upon his hands. As the bolts were shot the cook's manner underwent a transformation. He listened a moment, then stepped briskly to the table, deposited basket and lantern, and when the prisoner looked up dejectedly he met seriousness from which all ebriety had vanished.

Cristoval sprang to his feet. "San Miguel, Pedro, I thought thou hadst failed me! Thou'rt really sober?" He studied the cook's genial face earnestly. "Gracias á Dios! But 'twas well played! What news? Am I to go?"

"Seguramente! Now, quickly, for we have scant time for words. That little play was a part of our affair and will aid us later. What of thine irons? Hast used the file? Ah, good! Now attend. This is the plot. Pedro cometh to thee in his cups. He bringeth a bottle—here it is. We drink. Presently Pedro sleepeth. What more simple, then, than to bind his arms, unstrap his poor wooden leg, strap it to one of thy good ones,—first cutting away the back of the leather socket to admit thy bent knee,—don his cloak, sombrero, and sword, and sally forth when the door is opened to thy knocking? The cloak hitched up by thy rapier will conceal thy bent leg. Thine intoxication will account for thine awkward gait on the unaccustomed peg, will excuse thy tilted sombrero to hide thy face, and thy silence if addressed. The sentinel at the door will be drunk shortly, for I've left him a bottle. With the one at the entrance thou must take thy chances, but if accosted, hiccough and tender this flask. It will be eloquent enough. Then—make the best of thy way to the mountains, and Dominas vobiscum! Now, first, we must take off that beard. Here are scissors. Sit, whilst I play the barber. No time for words. Do as I say!"

He was at the beard in a moment. Cristoval raised his hand.

"Well, what now?" demanded Pedro, pausing.

"The Ñusta Rava," said Cristoval.

"Thou must leave her to me."

"She goeth with me, Pedro. I have sworn to the Inca—"

"Oh, Murder of the Innocents! Man, 't is impossible! Thy life may pay for it. Save thy neck if thou canst. It is thy one chance. Thy trial is for the morrow. Encumbered with her—"

"She goeth with me, Pedro, or I go not at all."

Pedro swore vigorously, but Cristoval was obdurate. They wrangled hotly in fierce undertone. Pedro yielded.

"Be it as thou sayst, Cristoval. Holy Mother! Why must a good man sometimes be a fool? Well, stew me, thou 'rt not the first to be undone by a petticoat, nor wilt be the last. As thou sayst. Tilt thy head back."

"Good Pedro, I have given my sacred word. Should I break it, and she come to harm,—it were dastardly, my friend, as thou knowest. By to-morrow I can have her in the hands of her people."

Pedro clipped rapidly. "Well, I pray Heaven the effort may not cost too dear. But—damn my kettles, Cristoval!—thou'rt a man in a million. Now, I'll tell thee how to find her. Thou knowest the little gate in the wall just back of the left wing of the palace. Thou'lt find it unfastened. Go in when the sentinel is not too near. Thou canst find the women's court? Enter it and knock at the third door on the right. Her maids sleep there. They will know thee. Ask for Nuyalla. She will lead thee to the Princess, who will go with thee, I doubt not, for she knoweth now the fate in store for her. Heaven be with thee, Cristoval! Now thou'rt done."

As he arose Cristoval demanded once more, searching the countenance of the cook, "Pedro, dost swear this will not endanger thee?"

"On my oath, it will not. De Soto is party to it. If it is needed, I'll have his protection."

Cristoval was satisfied. The remaining preparations were quickly made. A few minutes' work removed the fetters. Pedro's peg was unstrapped and fitted to Cristoval's bent leg. Then the cavalier bound his friend securely with strips torn from his doublet. He buckled on his rapier, threw the cloak over his shoulders, pulled the sombrero well down over his eyes, and was ready to depart.

"Now walk across the room that I may see thy gait," said Pedro. "Ah! Good! But stagger widely when thou 'rt outside. Tilt not thy rapier too much, lest it disclose thy leg. The peg would spoil thy swordsmanship, but once inside the palace walls thou canst take it off. Thou'lt answer. Now go!"

"Farewell, Pedro, my good friend," said Cristoval, embracing him warmly. "Heaven grant that we may meet again!"

"Farewell, Cristoval. God preserve thee!" returned Pedro, his voice unsteady. "Curse it, I'll miss thee sorely! Take the basket—and remember, thou 'rt drunk. Do not spare thy sword if any one hindereth; only—avoid killing José, Candia, or De Soto. They're friends—almost the only ones thou hast now, save Pedro."

"Is it so?" asked Cristoval, with surprise. "I thought there were others."

"They are few. Pizarro hath done for that. He promiseth a division of thy share of the plunder, and hath given out that the Inca enriched thee for thy friendship. Not ten men in the army but would see thee roasted with right good-will. A murrain seize them all! Now go! But hold! I had almost forgotten. In the basket thou'lt find a pouch. Sling it over thy shoulder. It containeth provisions. Adiós! Adiós, Cristoval!"

Cristoval embraced him again, and in a second was pounding on the door. His nerves were steady, now, as steel.

CHAPTER XV

The Flight

There was no response to Cristoval's blows on the door. He waited a moment, then renewed his knocking. Still no reply but the reverberations within the room. He pounded again and again. Silence. Drawing his sword, he laid on with its hilt, but with no effect upon the guard, and he turned toward Pedro who sat staring in stupefaction. Each felt the other's dismay. Here was a condition of matters to send hearts into boots.

"Sanctissima Maria!" gasped the cook. "I've been over liberal with the chicha. Pound again. That accursed sentinel hath gone dead over the bottle."

Cristoval battered with the sword hilt until the room was aroar with the echoes. No sign without.

"They will hear it in the guard-room," muttered Pedro, "and then we shall have the whole stew of them about, with Zapato in the middle."

"No help for it, Pedro. I must be out at once if out at all," and Cristoval assaulted with redoubled vigor. Pedro's surmise was right enough, for after another storm of blows a distant voice called:—

"Ho there, guard! What is doing? What is that uproar?"

The sentinel was silent, and Cristoval pounded again. Presently there were voices and footsteps outside, the wavering light of a lantern shone beneath the door, and some one demanded: "What is wanted within there? Be done, prisoner! Give over thy din, and to bed."

"Let me answer," whispered Pedro, and he shouted: "Open up! Open up! Let me out, ye blockheads. D' ye think I'm playing this door for a kettle-drum to amuse the owls? Unbar before I raise the town."

"It is Pedro," said the voice. "Unbolt and let him out."

The door was unfastened and swung open, revealing to the group outside the similitude of Pedro, swaying unsteadily in the gloom, sword and basket in hand, with sombrero cocked very drunkenly over one eye. Cristoval hiccoughed once, then lurched suddenly forward, jostling the sergeant and extinguishing his lantern with a blow from the basket; reeled away from him with his point describing erratic curves near the belts of the soldiers, and broke through the circle. By good fortune Zapato was not there. The guard scattered before the uncertain sweep of his sword, and he zigzagged across the court toward the outer doors. The sentinel lowered his halberd at his approach and called to the sergeant:—

"Hola, Sargento! shall I stop him?"

"No! Pass him out. He's drunk. If hindered he'll have the general, staff, and clergy about us with his uproar. Let him go, and the fiend take him!"

The sentinel threw open the door, and Cristoval pegged a wavering trail out into the plaza, muttering fervent thanks to the Virgin for the smell of the blessed air of heaven. Now he noticed a chill, driving rain, but the coolness was grateful, and he filled his lungs, tingling to his marrow with the sudden joy of freedom. Across the square the dark walls of the buildings loomed through the mist, and to the right, the dim mass of the palace with a solitary lantern glimmering faintly, its rays reflected on the wet pavement. The hour was late, and the place deserted. But notwithstanding its vacancy the square was uncomfortably open, and he at once sought the nearest street leading from it. At the second crossing from the plaza he turned to the right. This would bring him close to the postern in the garden wall. He had but three blocks to go, but they were long and seemed interminable.

He had gone half the length of the first when a door opened a few yards in his front. A broad ray of light shot across the way, and he ceased to breathe as half-a-dozen soldiers came out, laughing, and shouting good-night to those within. They stood in the street after the door closed, and Cristoval slunk hastily into a doorway. They were so near that he recognized their voices. All were of the cavalry but one, and he an officer of the foot. They had been gaming, and one was recounting the story of his success. He finished at last and seemed about to leave the group, starting in the direction of the prison-breaker, who now heartily regretted the impulse which had led him to take shelter. Had he gone forward he might have staggered past unnoticed, but discovered lurking in a doorway he was sure to be questioned, and his first words would reveal the masquerade, for Pedro's voice was too well known to admit the possibility of his own passing for it without detection. Should this man accost him he would have to be killed, and that, perhaps, before the others were out of ear-shot. In that event they would all be back, and handicapped by the wooden leg Cristoval's thoughts were broken upon by the words of one of the cavaliers.

"A moment, Pablo! Hast heard of the game between Mendoza and Rogelio? No? Then 'tis worth thy standing in the rain to listen to the story. It is like a romance out of Italy. They played last night until the first call this morning, Mendoza losing steadily. That greasy, whimpering veedor hath a dexterity acquired only of the foul fiend himself—thou knowest it, I surmise, Pablo. Ha, ha! Well, Mendoza staked and lost his last duro, then his horse, then his share in the division of the goods of our hot-brained friend, Peralta, and was about to quit a bankrupt. But, would Rogelio take his note of promise? Saith Rogelio, 'Impossible, my dear comrade! He, he!'—ye know his laugh, Señores—'I've a family at home, Mendoza. 'T is impossible!'

"'Then go to the devil!' saith Mendoza; 'thou and thy family, thy family's family, thy posterity, and theirs!'

"'He, he!' squeaketh the veedor. 'Be not hasty, my dear brother-in-arms. Wait a moment. Thou hast—he, he!—thou hast thy honeysuckle, the Princess—or shalt have her soon. What sayst to a thousand ducats against her? Eh, Mendoza? A thousand ducats! They are thine if thou dost win: she is mine if thou dost lose.'

"'Done!' saith Mendoza, and they play again."

"Santo Sacramento!" exclaimed one of the group. "How did it end?"

"Mendoza lost," replied the cavalier. "The Señorita Ñusta is a chattel of Rogelio, and with her goeth wealth untold, for she is as rich as a sultana. But Mendoza sweareth to win her back, or kill the veedor. He hath been out all day, borrowing money to play again."

The tale was greeted with a shout of laughter, and after a few more words the party separated. The infantryman drew his cloak about his face against the rain and hurried toward Cristoval, the others going in the direction of the palace. The fugitive set down the basket and gripped his sword.

But fate and the rain were with him, for the man passed with bowed head. In a moment Cristoval would have breathed freely but for the choking rage stirred by the story to which he had just been listening. But now the way was clear, and spurred to mad impatience, he pressed on. The peg hindered his speed, and he was of half a mind to risk its removal, but thought more wisely of it and stumbled along. At last he was at the end of the street, and the gate was nearly opposite. He listened for the footfalls of the sentinel and presently heard them approaching. The soldier paced leisurely and in a moment had passed, going in the direction of the square, which Cristoval guessed would be the end of his post. Now for it; and he crossed the street toward the wall, moving quietly as possible. In a moment he was in the garden and had closed the gate.

"God bless thee, good Pedro!" he whispered, hurriedly unstrapping the peg. He laid it down gently, picked up his sword, and hastened along the path to the palace.

The low buildings were quite dark save for a light in the guard-room, but he knew the way and was soon groping along the passage which led to the women's court. Its fountain plashed quietly, and he paused for a drink, then counted the doors and stopped at the third. He returned his sword, rapped gently twice or thrice, and presently heard a movement within with the voices of the women, evidently in trepidation. Then one asked:—

"Who is there?"

Cristoval put his mouth to the crack of the door. "It is I—the Viracocha Cristoval. I would say a word to Nuyalla. Be quick! It is important."

"Stars of heaven!" he heard her exclaim. "The Viracocha Cristoval! Nuyalla, Nuyalla! He would speak with thee."

A moment, then the door was unfastened and opened a finger's breadth. "I am Nuyalla," said a low voice, trembling. "What would you, Viracocha Cristoval?"

"Lead me to the Ñusta Rava. Quickly! Quickly! Hear'st thou?"

"But, Viracocha—I will ask her."

"Then haste, Nuyalla! There is danger."

The door was closed, and he heard it barred. It seemed hours before it was reopened, and he chafed and swore to himself in the darkness. At last Nuyalla peered out with a lamp above her head. Cristoval had forgotten the removal of his beard, and stepped forward that he might be recognized. At the first glimpse the girl recoiled, and Cristoval saw that she did not know him. She made a frantic effort to close the door, calling to the others to assist.

"Oh, Madre!" groaned Cristoval, in desperation as he remembered his disguise. He threw his weight against the door, forced it open, and stepped inside, closing it behind him. The movement was greeted by a scream from the frightened maids.

"Silence!" he commanded, sternly. "I am Cristoval, I tell you. Lead me to your mistress. There is danger, and no moment to lose. Where is the Ñusta Rava?"

His only answer was a chorus of shrieks from the women, who had stampeded into a corner. Nuyalla had dropped her lamp, leaving the room in complete darkness, and adding to the panic. Their cries would inevitably bring the guard, as Cristoval knew. He was stupefied as he realized the danger of the situation and felt his own impotence to cope with it; but at the crisis a door was suddenly flung open, and he beheld, to his unspeakable relief, the Princess, a lamp in hand, and pallid to her lips.

Cristoval sank upon his knee, removing his sombrero and speaking with bowed head in the hope that his voice might be recognized before she should behold his altered appearance.

"Will the Ñusta Rava forgive a rough intrusion—and in the name of Heaven, still these women before the guard is roused?"

She raised her hand for silence to the maids who had already crowded about her, then turned to him with imperious dark eyes demanding explanation.

"I have come to offer my aid, Ñusta Rava," said the cavalier.

She found voice with an effort, beginning thrice before she was able to steady it sufficiently to say, somewhat at random, in her perturbation, "They told me you were a prisoner, Viracocha Cristoval."

"I was a prisoner an hour ago. I have broken my bonds."

He looked up, and she started, scrutinizing his face with anxiety. But she recovered quickly, and he arose. After this no ceremony, and he went on, speaking directly and as rapidly as his knowledge of the Quichua would allow:—

"I am a fugitive, Ñusta Rava. My aid may avail you little, but I know your danger. There is a hope to escape it. Once clear of this unhappy town you will be among your own people. Are you ready to flee? Will you trust me? You must say quickly, for seconds are worth hours, and we must lose not one."

She made no reply, but stood regarding him intently, her clenched hand pressed to her heart. He saw that she was violently trembling, and said quietly: "Before the dawn we can be well away. It is not yet midnight, but we must hasten."

"Oh, Viracocha Cristoval!" she murmured, looking at him piteously, struggling in agony between fear and hope. Should she trust him? Could she trust one of these terrible strangers? Were they not all beasts of prey? Yet this one seemed to have a human heart, and had been her brother's friend. She sought the depths of his soul through his eyes. Their expression was intensely earnest, but frank and solicitous, and they met her own with un-reserve and quiet steadiness. Still—like the others he was a Viracocha.

Cristoval read her thoughts. "Ñusta Rava," he said gently, "I promised to your brother that with the aid of Heaven I would guard you from harm. I am ready to do so at the cost of life. But we are wasting precious moments—"

He paused abruptly. The faint, quick notes of a trumpet were sounding in the distance.

"What is that?" whispered the Ñusta, turning her head.

"The alarm," replied Cristoval, quietly. "My flight is discovered." He strode forward, and taking her by the hand, turned her toward her door. "Go! Robe yourself warmly—and make haste!"

He urged her gently forward, but she turned, crying in anguish: "Fly, oh, fly, while there is yet time! You have risked your life in coming hither. Go! Save yourself!"

Cristoval turned to Nuyalla with authority: "Quick! Her cloak!"

It was brought in a second, and he threw it over Rava's shoulders. The maids were kneeling about her, weeping, clasping her knees, frantically pressing her hands, their lamentations threatening to rise again to the danger point. She stood like a statue, seeing none of them nor hearing their words.

"Come!" said Cristoval. "We have yet time."

She cast a glance at his masterful, serious face, extended her hands impulsively to her women, then tore herself from their embraces with a sob, and followed him to the door. The cavalier turned.

"If you value the life of your Princess, see that you be silent. Make fast behind us, and open to no one before the morning." He stepped out into the darkness, followed by his ward.

He led rapidly across the patio, sword in hand. They felt their way through the blackness of the corridor, and halted at its entrance upon the outer court while Cristoval listened. There was a confusion of men's voices in the guard-room, but the great court was vacant, and save for the drip and patter of the rain, was silent.

Cristoval took her hand, and they hurried toward the garden. Here he drew her from the walk into the shrubbery, picking his way under the low branches of the trees, which showered them with icy drops at every step. They were a few paces from the postern when the heavy report of one of the falconets on the redoubt stopped them with a shock, and startled a faint scream from the girl. The alarm gun! Rava pressed the folds of her cloak over her lips, and Cristoval shook her hand warningly, then hastened on in silence.

They reached the postern, and with the utmost caution he set it ajar and looked out. From the direction of the square came the tread of the sentinel, moving away. Cristoval turned to Rava. "Now, we go. Courage!" he whispered, and led her faltering into the street.

Sounds came from the square; lights were flitting, horsemen galloping. They hurried across to the nearest corner, turned into the side-street, then again to the right in the direction of the suburbs.

"Can you run?" he whispered. "Then we must do so." At every corner he halted, listening. The town was up. Several parties passed on nearby streets, hurrying toward the outskirts. "They will guard the ways," muttered Cristoval. "Bien! We shall see!" A door opened—but behind them—and a belated soldier hastened toward the square, buckling as he ran, while the two stood against a wall until he was well away. They pressed on.

At a corner they almost ran upon a squad of soldiers just entering the street they were following. But the party was going toward the suburbs, and the fugitives shrank back into the shadow unobserved, starting on again warily when the footfalls had died away. Soon the houses grew meaner, with vacant spaces between, fences of rough wicker enclosing gardens, and here and there a quinuar tree. They were in the purlieus of the town, and presently turned into a lane which wound among the scattered cottages and led off somewhat to the right, less directly toward the fields. Here they left the pavement and travelled with greater difficulty, splashing into puddles and occasionally stumbling into a fence or wall at a turn in the way, but evidently getting into a more and more thinly peopled quarter. It was an obscure thoroughfare, and as Cristoval surmised, not so likely to be guarded, so they went with less caution. Suddenly his feet struck a pavement, and he knew they were on another street.

"Halt!"

The command burst fiercely through the gloom, from what direction the startled cavalier could not tell, and he dashed forward, dragging the Ñusta, vainly hoping to evade the challenger.

"Halt!" was shouted again, more sharply, this time almost in his face, and he staggered back from a terrific thrust of a pike full in the chest. Rava's shriek answered the rough summons, and Cristoval lost her hand. The soldier sprang forward, thrust again, and missed. Down the street toward the town was a shout, the quick, confused uproar of the hoofs of horses suddenly spurred, then the rhythm of the gallop. The soldier lunged wildly in the darkness, and now Cristoval's blade engaged his pike. It was over in a second. The fellow thrust a few times with ferocity, instantly aware of dangerous skill in front of him, ceased abruptly, and went down with a choking cry. Cristoval whirled away from him.

"Rava!" he shouted.

An answer came faintly from the roadside, and striding in the direction of her voice, Cristoval found her leaning, half swooning, against the wall. "Quick!" he cried, seizing her hand. "We must run. For your life, run!"

The fierce energy of his tone gave her vigor. Behind was the clamor of horsemen, and fear winged her feet. Cristoval's strength seemed to lift her from the ground, and as she sped beside him, seeing nothing, barely touching the earth, and blindly confident of his guidance, there were a few brief minutes of exhilaration.

They ran until Cristoval heard the horses reined up at the wounded soldier, then he turned to the right of the road. Here was a low wall, surmounted in a moment, and the cavalry roared past outside.

They found themselves surrounded by shrubbery and trees which rendered the night more inky black than it had been in the streets. A few paces, however, brought them to an open of some extent, and beyond rose another shadowy mass of foliage. They were in the garden of one of the numerous villas by which the town was surrounded, and they crossed the sward at a run. A few yards farther, and they came to the villa, quite deserted and dark. They passed it close and saw the doors were down. Cristoval remembered that it had been plundered months ago by the soldiery. The place served to give him his bearings, and he knew they were not far from the fields. As they stumbled through the garden in the rear they heard shouts and the gallop of the horsemen returning. They had lost the scent.

A few hundred yards brought them to the rear wall of the garden. They were as quickly over as at the other, and in the open. Now they paused a moment to listen, but save for the wind and rain the night was silent. There was no sign of pursuit, though once they heard a shout and answer, far in the rear, probably on the road where they had encountered the sentinel.

They pushed on. Vacant, sodden fields were all about, very low and level, as if the land had once been the bed of an ancient lake. This was the ground swept by the enclosing lines of the Inca's army on the day of the massacre.

CHAPTER XVI

Pedro in the Thumbscrews

Cristoval's escape was promptly uncovered in this wise. After he had staggered away, the guard found the sentinel in a corner, comfortably asleep with Pedro's bottle. Half an hour's work and several bucketfuls of water brought him on his feet and aware of his transgression, impressed upon him by the sergeant by a vigorous train of invective. He was taken to the guard-room and put in irons.

When Zapato returned the sergeant reported a man drunk, and the need for a substitute. He promptly received his quota of invective for having a man drunk, and Zapato went to his office to meditate upon the circumstance of having a sergeant who had a man drunk on guard, and on the raking-over which he in turn would receive. He had settled himself to reflect upon the hardships and chagrins in the life of a soldier, when he was assailed by a thought. He threw open the door, and demanded:—

"Sergeant, where was this man when he became drunk?"

"On his post, Señor Teniente."

"What post?"

"In front of Peralta's door."

Zapato paled, seized a lantern, and rushed across the patio to Cristoval's door, followed by the sergeant. Two or three of the guard rose and sauntered after. Zapato entered the hastily opened door, raising his lantern and glancing about. He muttered his relief. On the bench lay a form, apparently sleeping. Pedro moved slightly, clinking the manacles, and Zapato was satisfied. He turned to go; was at the door when a fresh doubt seized him, and he went back. Pedro lay quite still, face to the wall; but Zapato espied his pinioned hands. He looked closer, swinging the light upon the face, and raised a howl of rage and consternation.

"Furies! This is not Peralta! It's Pedro! Look, Sergeant—look, thou idiot! Oh, thou doubly, triply accursed model of witlings! Thou unspeakable effigy of imbecility! It's Pedro, dost hear? Pedro! Oh, saints and devils, we're skinned alive already!"

He rolled the cook over while the sergeant stood silently making crosses. Others hurried in and gathered round the cook, who snored, bulky and peaceful. They hauled him off the bench, every man shouting, but Pedro slept calmly on, gurgling gently when some one prodded his ribs, but giving no other sign of consciousness. There was his stump of a leg, its peg gone, vanished, evaporated. But Peralta—alas, no Peralta!

"Ho, the trumpeter!—the alarm!" roared Zapato, collaring the sergeant and running him to the door. The sergeant disappeared, and in a moment the call sounded which Cristoval had heard in the Ñusta's apartment. Its first notes were ragged and discordant, telling the musician's disorder of mind. Then it rose clear and stirring, startling many a Spaniard out of dreams. A soldier scurried across the plaza to the redoubt, carrying a lighted gunner's match, and presently the flash and bang of the falconet split the mist. Now individuals and groups came running to the square, some half-dressed, others buckling and buttoning, all pale, tousled, and breathless.

Pizarro was one of the first out of doors. A messenger stammered the news, and withered in the general's blast of fury. Commands followed quickly. Guards to every exit from the town. Patrols for every street. Cavalry for the suburbs and roads. A thousand castellanos reward for the recapture. Squads formed and went flying down dark streets, halting every moving man and woman. Soon, horsemen in twos, fours, and half-dozens left the square at the gallop in all directions. Groups of natives gathered, silent and wondering, their impassive faces dimly seen in the light of passing lanterns. Caxamalca had no more sleep—unless Pedro's. He apparently slept on, untroubled, under the eyes of one of the guard who swore ever afterward that he had seen him disembodied on that gusty Peruvian night.

Toward the eighth hour of the morning Pizarro, accompanied by his secretary, with Almagro, Riquelme, Rogelio, and Father Valverde, entered the prison. Pedro heard the clatter of thumbscrews as they were set upon the floor by the squad of halberdiers who followed. The cook was sitting with bowed head, absorbed in misery. He glanced up as the party came in, saw that De Soto was not with it, and his heart sank. The captain had been ordered out with the rest in search of the fugitive. He had gone willingly enough, and had succeeded in tactfully reducing the chances of discovery by leading his men in what he guessed was the wrong direction. But at that moment he would have been a welcome sight to Pedro. The cook, however, gave no sign, but invoked the aid of the Virgin in consuming time until De Soto might return.

The court—for it was a court, duly organized and sworn, albeit summarily—first examined the apartment with minuteness and deliberation. The secretary recorded its findings. The fetters were inspected, and the conclusion was arrived at, agreed to, and set down, that they had been undone by a file or similar instrument. Thereupon the tribunal proceeded to interrogate those suspected of complicity. First came Pedro. After him would come the sentinel found drunk on post, the two artificers who had been at work on the fastenings of the door, and others. Thus far the process had been carried on with dignity and order. Now Rogelio, who, with Riquelme, was to conduct the examination, prepared to begin, swelling himself pompously, pursing his lips, puffing his cheeks, and rolling his eyes from one to another of the court, until Riquelme exclaimed impatiently: "Infierno! Commence, Veedor, before the morning is spent!"

Rogelio opened his mouth at him, then turned to Pedro. "Prisoner," he piped. Pedro made no sign of hearing him.

"Prisoner!" he repeated, and Pedro looked up, scowling.

"Ho! Art addressing me, Veedor? Then change my title. I am a cook. A cook, look thou! A cook bereft, plundered, despoiled, and ravished of a leg! Pray, hast seen it—my missing member?"

Rogelio hesitated, snuffled, and with dignity began again.

"Prisoner—"

"Cook, I tell thee!" Pedro interrupted, explosively. "Thy prisoner hath flown—flown with three legs, one a stolen, and that one mine—not my best, in truth, only my second best; but nevertheless most grievously wanted. Hast seen it, Veedor?"

Rogelio's mind was not alert. It could pursue a single line of thought with a sort of porcine tenacity, but the intrusion of a second idea produced derangement requiring time to readjust. His attention, now drawn to Pedro's lost peg and his uncanny-looking stump, was not readily disengaged. He stood surveying the cook's maimed member with fascination until in the slow revolution of his thoughts they should come back to their former connection. This achieved, he began again.

"Prisoner—"

"Cook!" shouted Pedro, jerking himself erect and glaring at the veedor. The latter stopped, and Pizarro interfered.

"Be done, Pedro!" he commanded, angrily. "Cease interruptions and allow the veedor to proceed. Continue, Veedor."

"Prisoner!" squeaked the veedor.

"Cook!" roared Pedro, savagely.

"Oh, in the devil's name, let him have his way!" Almagro broke in. "Call him cook—anything—but begin, Rogelio!"

"Well—cook," said Rogelio, wiping his forehead, "thou art charged with having guilty knowledge of the means whereby the late prisoner, Cristoval de Peralta, hath effected his escape."

Pedro nodded gloomily. "So I have!" he assented. "'T is, alas, true! Unhappily I have such knowledge, Veedor. I know that he effected his escape on three legs, as I have said. May the third help him into hell! It was mine, I tell thee, and I want it back. What! Am I a centipede, thinkest thou, to go sloughing legs here and yon, all my days on earth? I've lost three, already—one of them mine inheritance of flesh and bone, the other twain hewn from good oak of Aragon. All gone! Stew me, I sicken of losing legs!"

The response produced a new tangle in Rogelio's thread, and before he had it straightened Riquelme growled and took up the questioning.

"Here, Pedro," he said sternly, "Peralta had a file wherewith he filed his fetters. Thou wast the only man save the guard and the artificers who had access to him. How came he by it?"

"Ah, a file had he!" returned Pedro, with irritation. "Well, curse it! let him have his file—or files, or rasps, or grindstones! May he chew them! But he filed not my leg off, I tell thee that, Señor Treasurer! He took it all—peg, socket, straps, and buckles. May it stick in his gullet! But look at me, thou who hast two good legs! Am I in a condition of mind or legs to sing to thee of files? Am I a newsmonger of files? A murrain on all files and filers! I want my leg!"

Riquelme grew red, and Almagro grinned maliciously; but Pizarro was angry. "Answer the question, thou eternal babbler!" he commanded. "How came Peralta by that file? Thou knowest, and we'll have it out of thee. Answer!"

Pedro turned from him. "Oh, a curse upon Peralta and his file! What care I who gave him his file? Have I not mine own peculiar grief? And is it not grief enough but that I must be assailed with scare-devil bellowings by madmen who have lost a file? A surceasance of it! Ye have talked enough to grow me another leg. Ye rasp my nerves with your bully-ragging about a file. I've lost a leg!"

Pizarro stamped with fury and ordered the screws. Almagro protested, and was ignored. The instrument was brought forward, and the general demanded: "Once more, cook, and finally—wilt give information?"

Pedro had braced himself for what he had known was inevitable, though he had hoped that delay might bring De Soto. No word escaped him. He took the torture, a hero, with hardly a groan. Thrice he fainted, and at the end of an atrocious hour, Almagro interfered.

"Faugh, Pizarro! Enough! Enough! For the sake of Heaven, give over! It groweth sickening. Pass him and take another. Curse me! he is entitled to be let go for his fortitude, whether he knoweth aught or naught! Put it to the drunken sentinel. He is the man to be squeezed, if any—and the two artificers. If thou canst narrow the matter down to this crackle-pated cook, then come back to him and rack him, or hang him if 't is worth thy while. But now, have done. Off with those screws, men! I'm a thief if I'll see more of it! Off with them!"

Pedro had fainted for the third time. The soldiers looked to Pizarro. He glanced surlily at his partner, whose single eye met his own with an expression which he had seen it wear before. It promised a quarrel. Father Valverde joined Almagro's protest. The veedor alone yelped an objection, and it decided the question in Pedro's favor. Pizarro hesitated and said coldly:—

"Bien! So be it! Release him, soldiers. We can come to him again; and by the Eternal, do we find him guilty I'll draw-and-quarter him in the square! Take off the screws."

Within the hour the sentinel was haled before the court, followed by the two artificers and several of the guard. All swore willingly against Pedro,—too willingly, said Almagro, with vehemence; but for the cook the affair looked grave.

He was left in prison, horribly sick from the ordeal, but determined not to betray the man who had sent the file,—the rack, fire itself, could not have forced it from him.

De Soto returned late in the afternoon. José sought him while he was disarming, and shocked him with the news that Pedro had been tortured, and was in danger of worse. The captain had taken off his helmet, but he replaced it, buckled on his sword, and started toward the door. The old Morisco halted him with a hand upon his arm.

"Hold, Soto!" he said. "What dost intend?"

"To have Pedro released. I promised to protect him, and by my soul, I will do so! Pizarro hath gotten ahead of me, but he shall go no farther, or I'll—"

"Wait!" urged José, detaining him. "Be not rash, young man, or thou'lt draw suspicion upon thyself. Hear me! I will claim the blame if need be, and flee into the mountains. But first, do thou see Almagro. He did not favor the torture, and together you may be able to prevent by persuasion what thou canst easily precipitate by heat and defiance. If you fail, then accuse me, who sent the file."