"Why, talk, to be sure! ’T is what I’ve waited for,—to hear thee talk. What the devil dost think? that I’ve been standing here this while to see thee contort and strangle? I had liefer watch a pig in the colic. Proceed, _Veedor_, and talk. It may ease thy mind. _Sensa animi tui libere profare_—Latin, Señor, and it meaneth, speak freely. Prithee, begin. I listen." The _veedor_ had collapsed into a chair, choking with rage. He sprang up, shaking both fists at the cook, and started toward the door; turned back, and waving his arms for silence, howled: "Accursed—rattle-teeth!—hear me!—I seek a servant!" "Thou seekest a servant!" responded Pedro, with composure. "Well, by heaven, I could guess it! And thou needest, not one, but a dozen, I should say; and a strait-jacket withal. But, _infierno_! is the quest of a servant so delirious a pursuit?—Now, do be calm, Señor! Hold a minute, and I’ll bleed thee. No? But ’t would be wise, my friend, for if thou ’rt not on the edge of the staggers, then I never gave physic to a horse.—And now thou’rt swearing again! Fie, _Veedor_! Here! Let me get thee a wet rag." Pedro hurried away. When he returned the _veedor_ had regained his utterance, and waving aside the proffered application, he shouted:— "Keep off, thou babbling moon-calf! Wilt hear me? I need a servant—at once! A servant—dost hear? A servant—and may the fiend claw thy vitals! Canst get me one—to-night? I’ll pay thee well." "Well, stew me! if the need of a servant wrought me to such a state of mind, I’d——" Pedro seated himself. "But ’t is late, _Veedor_. Thy guest hath come, sayst thou?" "Yes, yes! She is sick from weariness, and needeth a woman. Wilt find me one?" Pedro became serious at once. "Sick! Then ’t is pressing. Let me think. There is Señora Bolio, for a possibility. She might consent to go, but she knoweth no Quichua. That, however, might be an advantage, not so? Less apt to connive at escape." Pedro eyed the _veedor_ watchfully. "Yes! _Diablo_, yes!" said Rogelio, eagerly. "Canst persuade her?" "I’ll try," said Pedro, rising. He threw off his apron and started toward the door; halted, and came back, determined to test his suspicion. "Señor," he said, abruptly, "how did they get her away from Peralta? Did they kill him? If not, then I swear to thee, _Veedor_, thou ’rt as good as dead!" and Pedro slowly shook his head in direst portent. The _veedor_ was unguarded. He started violently, and his face went ashy. "Oh, my soul and body! I—I forgot to ask them." He scanned the cook with quick suspicion. "How in the devil’s name dost know?" he demanded. Pedro placed a finger beside his nose, wagged his head with deep significance, and went out. Now it was his turn to be agitated. He pegged straight to the señora’s lodging, and pounded upon the door until it opened. "Quick!" he cried. "The Viracocha woman! There is sickness."