Pedro established his _cantina_ near the square. One afternoon he was leaning idly beside his door, watching the passers-by, with an occasional glance down the thoroughfare toward the north. A _chasqui_ had announced the day before that a small company of Viracochas was approaching, newly arrived from Panama, on the way to join Pizarro. The _cantina_ was prepared, and a roast of llama on Pedrillo’s spit divided the attention which the proprietor paid to the street. The latter was interesting, for the day was a festival of some sort and the town was full of the country people, gayly clad, and notwithstanding recent calamities, in full holiday spirits. As Pedro stood he noted that the crowd was growing. By and by he observed that his establishment was drawing a deal of persistent attention. No one had stopped in front of it, but a number had passed and repassed, and one Indio, conspicuous for his dignity of bearing, had already grown familiar. He was a tall old man, wrapped in a long, colored poncho of unusual elegance, its heavy folds falling to his knees and decorated with a profusion of conventionalized forms of birds and beasts. The object of particular interest to Pedro, however, was his suite. Following close as he stalked past for the sixth or seventh time, was his wife; and in her train a numerous family ranging in age from five to eighteen years or thereabout, the eldest a maiden of comely face and figure who glanced at the cook with shy but unmistakable curiosity. The old man seemed never to see him, apparently disdaining show of interest; but his family were less scrupulous, and favored him with stares undisguised. This group was but one of many, but it was notable to Pedro by the presence of the shy though curious eighteen-year-old of the comeliness mentioned. Pedro was not unsusceptible. Having once or twice caught her eyes, he straightway experienced a responding interest. "Ho!" thought he. "How now? Have thy charms survived thy years, Pedro, my boy? Are there yet lines of grace in thy portliness? That was a wistful, surreptitious, yearning contemplation, or there’s some mistake. It swept thy traits and fair proportions most lingeringly.—Ha! She cometh again! Stew me if she cometh not again! Hold! Guard thine eyes, admired cook. Bank their fires, lest they startle with too much ardour. I’ll look at the sky till she is near. Ah! Fair sky! Ample, roomy, easy-fitting vault of blue! Large, capacious dome! Dome with space enough for stars to knock about in, and space to spare— But she is here! Now look! Oh, hot kettles, Pedro, how comfortable thou art! Was there not warmth in that stolen glance? O, my patron saint!— But who is she—and where abideth? That patrolling image in her lead must be her papa. I’ll inquire."