The interview was prolonged. At times it grew stormy, even threatened the division in the army which the general dreaded more than external foes; but in the end he permitted the cook’s release on De Soto’s responsibility, with the latter’s promise to produce him for trial when called upon. Pedro was removed at once to De Soto’s quarters to be nursed back to himself and guarded against Pizarro until, in the preparations for the march to Cuzco, his suspected offence was overlooked. But the General was fairly satisfied of the cook’s guilt, and only the resolute and avowed interest of Almagro and De Soto prevented summary vengeance. Pizarro raged under the necessity of biding his time. The day following Cristoval’s flight had passed without discovery of his trail, though every soldier not on other duty joined the search, stimulated by the offered reward. It was exhilarating sport, this man-hunt with so much in store for the captor, and the zest was heightened by bets whether he would be taken; if so, whether alive; or whether he would be compelled by hunger or native hostility to surrender. The sole trace of the escape was with the sentinel run through by Cristoval’s sword. Brought in unconscious, he was still too weak to impart such information as he might possess. Rain had obliterated every footprint, and the flight was as clean as if made on wings. The Ñusta Rava’s absence had not been discovered. The report that a woman’s scream had been heard when the sentinel was assaulted received no attention. Early in the evening, however, it was recalled, and the excitement freshened. Pizarro sat with Almagro, Riquelme, and others, receiving officers as they straggled in from the day’s ineffectual hunt. Mendoza, most indefatigable of all and last to give it up, had just been talking. He was leaning against the table, weary, rain-soaked, mud-spattered from head to foot, his corselet streaked with rust, and his face begrimed and surly. He had just finished when the door flung open abruptly, and the _veedor_, blowing as if from a run, his face purple and perspiring, burst into the room. He halted, gasped, strove to speak, and choked, stared wildly about, bolted to a chair, and sat down. Riquelme rose, aghast at his colleague’s grotesque symptoms of distress. "What the devil is the matter with the man?" he cried. "Holy Mother, he hath a fit coming! Bleed him, somebody!" Rogelio rolled his eyes at him and raised his hand, shaking his head in violent negation. Twice he gasped again, then managed to pipe faintly, "Oh—my stars!—the Ñusta!" "The Ñusta!" repeated Riquelme. "Well, what of the Ñusta? Speak, thou puffing symbol of calamities unknown! What of her?" "Flown!" whispered the _veedor_, grasping the arms of his chair in the effort to catch breath.