When Zapato returned the sergeant reported a man drunk, and the need for a substitute. He promptly received his quota of invective for having a man drunk, and Zapato went to his office to meditate upon the circumstance of having a sergeant who had a man drunk on guard, and on the raking-over which he in turn would receive. He had settled himself to reflect upon the hardships and chagrins in the life of a soldier, when he was assailed by a thought. He threw open the door, and demanded:—
"Sergeant, where was this man when he became drunk?"
Zapato paled, seized a lantern, and rushed across the patio to Cristoval’s door, followed by the sergeant. Two or three of the guard rose and sauntered after. Zapato entered the hastily opened door, raising his lantern and glancing about. He muttered his relief. On the bench lay a form, apparently sleeping. Pedro moved slightly, clinking the manacles, and Zapato was satisfied. He turned to go; was at the door when a fresh doubt seized him, and he went back. Pedro lay quite still, face to the wall; but Zapato espied his pinioned hands. He looked closer, swinging the light upon the face, and raised a howl of rage and consternation.
"Furies! This is not Peralta! It’s Pedro! Look, Sergeant—look, thou idiot! Oh, thou doubly, triply accursed model of witlings! Thou unspeakable effigy of imbecility! It’s Pedro, dost hear? Pedro! Oh, saints and devils, we’re skinned alive already!"
He rolled the cook over while the sergeant stood silently making crosses. Others hurried in and gathered round the cook, who snored, bulky and peaceful. They hauled him off the bench, every man shouting, but Pedro slept calmly on, gurgling gently when some one prodded his ribs, but giving no other sign of consciousness. There was his stump of a leg, its peg gone, vanished, evaporated. But Peralta—alas, no Peralta!
"Ho, the trumpeter!—the alarm!" roared Zapato, collaring the sergeant and running him to the door. The sergeant disappeared, and in a moment the call sounded which Cristoval had heard in the Ñusta’s apartment. Its first notes were ragged and discordant, telling the musician’s disorder of mind. Then it rose clear and stirring, startling many a Spaniard out of dreams. A soldier scurried across the plaza to the redoubt, carrying a lighted gunner’s match, and presently the flash and bang of the falconet split the mist. Now individuals and groups came running to the square, some half-dressed, others buckling and buttoning, all pale, tousled, and breathless.