Pedro stared at him in silence, with parted lips, and in abstraction. He seemed not to have heard the question, nor to see his questioner, in the absorption of contemplating the tacit revelation of a moment before, with the possible complexities to follow. Señora Bolio’s avowal was unspoken, but how long would the silence be preserved? And with the ardor of that impetuous nature turned to tender passion, with her boundless powers of utterance directed against him as its object!—ah, _Dios!_ what would become of him? Again Cristoval demanded, more than half alarmed: "What is it, Pedro? Name of a saint! Why dost stare in that ghastly way? Come! Speak, man! Hast lost thy tongue?" Pedro, still speechless, gathered up his apron and wiped his forehead; placed a fist upon either knee, and glowered at the floor. Cristoval leaned back in astonishment. Never before had Pedro’s language failed. Once more the cook passed his apron across his brow, glanced again at Cristoval, arose abruptly, and went as far as the door. Here he paused, hesitated, then turning back, whispered hoarsely, "Señor Cristoval, by the gods of heathens, I’ve—I’ve overdone it!" "Overdone it! Overdone what, thou mysterious cook?" But Pedro had gone. He regained his kitchen by stealth, moving by short dashes, with many a halt to reconnoitre. His boy-helper, Pedrillo, was there, and approaching, Pedro clutched him by the arm. "Pedrillo," he said solemnly: "Pedrillo, have I been good to thee?" Pedrillo looked up with wide-open eyes. "Why—bodkins!—of a surety, Master! Who saith not?" "No one hath said. But hear me, Pedrillo!—as thou hopest some day to be a cook, stay by me! Stay by me! Dost understand? Until we are safe aboard ship, leave me not for a minute!—not a minute!" "_Cielo!_" exclaimed the astonished boy. "What is wrong, señor? Do—do you have fits?" "It will be worse than fits, Pedrillo," replied Pedro, seriously, "if thou failest me an instant. Promise!" Pedrillo promised, swore to it, and for the rest of the day watched his patron in mystification. Thereafter the cook slept with his heavy furniture piled against the door. Pedrillo kept his word as far as possible; but vigilance cannot be eternal, and sometimes Pedro was alone. On one of these occasions the worst befell. The señora entered. That she came with fell purpose Pedro divined at a glance. He saw flashes of soft lightning in her eyes, more dreaded now than the blaze of her ire. Instinctively he placed himself with the table between. The lady looked quickly about, and approaching, said in a tone he had not heard her use before, "Pedro, I have a word for thee." "Oh, the fiend, señora!" he interrupted, paling slightly and looking for Pedrillo. "Say it to some one else—now do! There’s a good woman! I—stew me!—I am a busy man. I have a roast on the point of burning, I swear it! Come, now, I—"