However, they did not have it. His words were not uttered before a confused gleam and the sinister ring of steel went round the table, as every weapon was bared. In a flash Cristoval was on his feet, sword in hand. Moreno and Juarez vaulted over the table. The others came round its end, pell-mell, stumbling over one another in blood-thirsty eagerness. The soldier nearest was too close to use his blade, and before he could step back Cristoval felled him with the heavy hilt of his own; but felt the steel of the man behind as it grazed his side. He sprang back of the overturned bench and placed himself in the angle of the wall, his right partly protected by another table. They were upon him in the instant, but the confusion of their combined attack was in his favor. There was a lightning play of steel about him, but each of the assailants impeded the others. Aided in defence by a poniard in his left hand, Cristoval warded cut and thrust, and after a short moment of rapid clash and glitter his opponents fell back, one with a cheek laid open, another coughing from a thrust in the chest. "Damn your zeal, learn a lesson of caution!" muttered Cristoval, and they were upon him again. This time the assault was circumspect. Moreno, by far the most formidable, had been hampered in the first attack by the crowding, but now he assured himself of ample room. Cristoval found himself hard pressed, and thrice he felt the burning of their points. Meanwhile Pedro, who had gone out before the conflict began, reëntered and stood for a moment transfixed. The confusion was so great that he was unable to distinguish the sides opposed; but when he saw the danger of Cristoval he broke into a stream of oaths, dancing about, frantic at his own unarmed helplessness. His boy stood petrified, a fork in hand, gazing at the battle. Pedro sprang at him. "Fetch Pizarro!" he shouted. "Call the guard! Quick! Jump, thou imp, or I’ll spit thee!" The boy dashed out, and Pedro jerked a kettle of boiling soup from the fire, seized a ladle, and threw himself into the fight. A flood of the scalding liquor descended upon a pikeman, and he whirled upon the cook with a howl of rage, to be promptly knocked down by a blow from the heavy ladle. Shower after shower fell upon the group in front of Cristoval, carrying scalds, dismay, and demoralization. Blinded and smarting, they fell away from the attack, and Moreno, recognizing the source of the hot counter assault, lowered his head and charged the cook with his rapier. Pedro’s ammunition was exhausted. He hurled his kettle, missed, fell backward over a bench, and rolled under a table, where Moreno was thrusting at him ineffectually when a heavy hand jerked him back, and Pizarro stood before him, black with anger. The guard had followed him in, and was already making the other combatants secure.