"Shall we ride forward, my Lord Matopo?" asked Cristoval. "It would be well," replied the general, "else the Viracochas may lose their lives in resisting." The two Spaniards were off at a gallop. The soldiers scattered before them, and they drew rein at the square. At the sight of the two Viracochas Pedro raised a shout:— "The señora, by the infernal cook of cooks!—and Father Tendilla!" The square was full of excited soldiers, leaving a swaying ring in the middle, occupied by the lady and the priest mounted on mules. The father had the reins of her steed, which was facing his own, plunging, rearing, and kicking incredibly at the surrounding line of Conibos who repelled it with their javelins. Its rider, clinging frantically to her pommel with one hand, half-blinded by her sombrero which had been jolted over her eyes, fitfully whirled her battle-axe with the other in fruitless efforts to reach the helmeted heads. She was red-faced, shaken, and storming. The poor priest, hatless and nearly unseated by every plunge of his companion’s mule, tugged desperately at the reins, while half-a-dozen officers circled about, dodging the heels of the frenzied animal, and entirely helpless before a situation transcending their wildest dreams. "_Brava_, Bolio! _Brava_, Bolio!" roared Pedro, pushing forward. "Strike for Spain! _Cristo y San Miguel_! Strike for Spain! _Bravamente_!" At the familiar voice the axe ceased to whirl, and between plunges the señora tilted back her sombrero. "Pedro!" she shouted wildly, then gave attention to retaining her seat, while the mule delivered another succession of kicks. Cristoval motioned the soldiers back as he spurred into the ring. Pedro rode up, slipped his hand along the reins of her steed, seized them close to the bit, and stopped the plunging. Cristoval assisted the flustered lady to the ground, too breathless to speak. He quieted the blowing mule while Pedro and Father Tendilla dismounted. The former hastened to the agitated señora, and at last she was able to gasp:— "Pedro—on my soul!—hast dropped from heaven?" "Heaven forbid!" said Pedro, surveying her with concern. "I’m crippled enough as ’t is. But thou ’rt unhurt?" "Oh, these heathens!" panted the señora. "I’ve known Christians who were worse," said Pedro. "But, art sound and whole?" "If I could but have reached one of them! But, blessed name! how comest thou here, Pedro?" "Prisoner of war—like thyself. Art uninjured?" "Like myself!" snorted the lady. "Who hath made me a prisoner of war? Prisoner of fiddle-de-dee! Drum-sticks!" She glared vindictively at the wondering soldiery. "Let one of them bite his tongue at me!" "Bueno! There are only five thousand," remarked Pedro. "But tell me, what dost thou here?" "Oh, Pedro, I am going to Cuzco to see that angel of a girl! The father took it in mind to go, so I came with him—but such a time! He hath been as much care as a baby." "Calm yourself, my dear Señora."