"_Cielo!_" he gasped. "He had slipped my mind." He crawled to the trooper, found his dagger, and tossed it out of reach. De Valera moved again, but Cristoval rose unsteadily and seated himself upon his adversary’s chest. "Water, _carita_!" he whispered, and bowed his reeling head upon his hands. Rava brought her hands full and dashed it into his face. "Ah! _Bueno_!" he muttered, and looked down upon De Valera. The visor of the helmet was thrown back, and the prostrate soldier was staring up at him. Cristoval glowered, rubbing an aching head, and the two Spaniards regarded one another for a time in silence, neither in full possession of his faculties. At last De Valera moaned faintly, "Mercy, Cristoval!" Cristoval made no reply, scowling blackly at the pallid face and wiping away the blood which still trickled into his own eyes from the gash in his forehead. "Mercy, Cristoval! Give me time for a prayer." The words brought Cristoval more fully to consciousness, and he replied, angrily: "Time for a prayer! Time for a prayer! What dost think?—that I will murder thee, lying on thy back and hands down? If thou hast the thought, dismiss it, or I’ll have it out of thee roughly." The soldier faltered weakly: "What! Thou wilt spare me, good Cristoval? Oh, blessed Virgin!" and tears of gratitude filled his eyes. "But I might have known it of thee, Cristoval." "Ah!" replied Cristoval, scornfully. "But see thou liest still, lest I lose the whim." He rubbed his head again, struggling to order his thoughts. De Valera lay motionless, and at length Cristoval said sternly:— "Now attend, thou unfortunate—I am going to plunder thee. I’ve need of thy horse, which is up yonder—and of thy harness. Thou’lt be wise to make no hindrance. Dost comprehend? _Bien_! Then sit up whilst I unhelm thee. Ware, now!—no sudden movement!" Cristoval rose to his feet, still giddy, and set to work, De Valera submitting quietly, while Rava looked on in wonder. "_Alli!_" quoth Cristoval, as he tossed the last piece upon the heap of armor. "Now, Ñusta Rava, thy girdle, I pray thee, to bind him. No groaning, Señor! It doth misbecome thee. Now, thy hands behind thy back. So! Now for thy feet.—Good! Hast a kerchief? Then we’ll have a choke-pear.—Silence! Dost think I’ll have thee waking mournful echoes through the night? Thou hast shouted more than is good for thee already. And next, whilst I make the choke-pear I’ll question thee—and see thou makest cheerful response, or— First, hast cherished against me any peculiar animosity? I mean before this solemn afternoon." "No, good Cristoval," replied De Valera, with candor. "Then why partaking this hunting holiday?" demanded Cristoval, eying him severely. "The reward, _amigo_. A thousand _castellanos_ to a poor man—"