Chapter V: Part 5

"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.

"_Senor 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, Senor. 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, Senor Cristoval: I have always said it.--Armorers, set about it.--Would you believe me, Senor--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 Nusta Rava?"

"Ah, the Nusta Rava!" exclaimed Pedro, his face reddening in the lamplight with indignation. "What thinkst thou, Cristoval?--but thou couldst never guess! The Nusta 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 Nusta."

"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. _Adios, 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 Jose, 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. Jose 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 Nusta 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 Jose'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 Jose'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 Nusta, 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, Senor Cristoval."

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

"_Muy bien--Adios_, Senor 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.

"Jose 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. _Adios_."

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 a 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 a 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 Nusta 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 Jose, 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. _Adios_! _Adios_, 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, Senores--'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 Senorita Nusta 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 Nusta 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 Nusta 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 Nusta 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, Nusta 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, Nusta 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. "Nusta 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 Nusta, turning her head.