Part 11

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?"