Pedro nodded gloomily. "So I have!" he assented. "’T is, alas, true! Unhappily I have such knowledge, _Veedor_. I know that he effected his escape on three legs, as I have said. May the third help him into hell! It was mine, I tell thee, and I want it back. What! Am I a centipede, thinkest thou, to go sloughing legs here and yon, all my days on earth? I’ve lost three, already—one of them mine inheritance of flesh and bone, the other twain hewn from good oak of Aragon. All gone! Stew me, I sicken of losing legs!" The response produced a new tangle in Rogelio’s thread, and before he had it straightened Riquelme growled and took up the questioning. "Here, Pedro," he said sternly, "Peralta had a file wherewith he filed his fetters. Thou wast the only man save the guard and the artificers who had access to him. How came he by it?" "Ah, a file had he!" returned Pedro, with irritation. "Well, curse it! let him have his file—or files, or rasps, or grindstones! May he chew them! But he filed not my leg off, I tell thee that, Señor Treasurer! He took it all—peg, socket, straps, and buckles. May it stick in his gullet! But look at me, thou who hast two good legs! Am I in a condition of mind or legs to sing to thee of files? Am I a newsmonger of files? A murrain on all files and filers! I want my leg!" Riquelme grew red, and Almagro grinned maliciously; but Pizarro was angry. "Answer the question, thou eternal babbler!" he commanded. "How came Peralta by that file? Thou knowest, and we’ll have it out of thee. Answer!" Pedro turned from him. "Oh, a curse upon Peralta and his file! What care I who gave him his file? Have I not mine own peculiar grief? And is it not grief enough but that I must be assailed with scare-devil bellowings by madmen who have lost a file? A surceasance of it! Ye have talked enough to grow me another leg. Ye rasp my nerves with your bully-ragging about a file. I’ve lost a leg!" Pizarro stamped with fury and ordered the screws. Almagro protested, and was ignored. The instrument was brought forward, and the general demanded: "Once more, cook, and finally—wilt give information?" Pedro had braced himself for what he had known was inevitable, though he had hoped that delay might bring De Soto. No word escaped him. He took the torture, a hero, with hardly a groan. Thrice he fainted, and at the end of an atrocious hour, Almagro interfered. "Faugh, Pizarro! Enough! Enough! For the sake of Heaven, give over! It groweth sickening. Pass him and take another. Curse me! he is entitled to be let go for his fortitude, whether he knoweth aught or naught! Put it to the drunken sentinel. He is the man to be squeezed, if any—and the two artificers. If thou canst narrow the matter down to this crackle-pated cook, then come back to him and rack him, or hang him if ’t is worth thy while. But now, have done. Off with those screws, men! I’m a thief if I’ll see more of it! Off with them!"