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.