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 á 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!"