"_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."
"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!"