Cristoval was coughing and breathing stertorously, sweating in his mail. Nothing was visible now but the hot, white shroud through which the nearest shrubs showed like dim skeletons. Strangely, at times they were all in motion, going round and round; vanishing for moments, to reappear slowly and resume their wavering reel. He wondered at it very little, occupied mostly with the effort to breathe, the pain of it, and the torture of the heat. He had ceased to think, connectedly, of anything; but a series of rapidly moving pictures traversed his brain, chiefly of Rava and Xilcala, with others interspersed, of no relevancy. His head was aching, and singing wildly—or, was it the whistling of wind through a ship’s rigging? It was that, for he felt the roll and plunge. _Madre_!—dreaming! He saw Pedro, then Father Tendilla, then Rogelio. Something was burrowing beneath his chest, squeaking pitifully, and roused him. A _coy_—guinea pig! Another scurried past, and languidly he wondered whither. Toward the fountain! _Jesu_! At once his mind cleared. Why had he not thought of it before? He began crawling toward the water, reanimated by hope which, but now, had gone. Slowly, for his way was strewn with fire, and his steel of crushing weight. Miles away, the pool; hardly to be attained, but reached at last, and he rolled in at full length. The shock revived him, but before he could struggle to his knees he thought he must drown. Once upright, he found the air cooler and far less stifling. As he knelt, the water came to his breast, and now he was safe at least from being burned to death, if not from asphyxiation. It was minutes before his thoughts became connected, and then he saw the _coys_ cowering on the steps in front of him. Beyond the rim of the pool nothing could be seen for the smoke. On every side was the roar of the burning and the muffled crash of falling beams. The air was full of dropping brands, spitting and hissing as they touched the water, or starting frenzied squeaks when they fell upon the rodents. Moved by their common suffering with himself, he dashed water over them with his hands, only half sensible of the mercy of the impulse. The smoke thickened from minute to minute, and the heat, even in the pool, grew maddening; but by frequent immersions of his head and face he retained his senses, wondering in a stupid, dreamy way, how long he could endure. At last, daylight was waning. The thatch had burned out by this, and the smoke become less dense, permitting occasional glimpses of the flames still tossing about him. He was growing chilled and stiffened by long immersion, and rose to his feet from time to time, first dropping his visor to protect his face. Through the obscurity he could see the dull red of the doorways, and the walls with their topping of fire, but as evening came on the heat grew less intense, and he found that he could stand, dipping at intervals to cool his armor.