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."