They sallied forth on their desperate, almost hopeless errand, searching for a few brief, fevered seconds, then prone to wait for the deadly flurry. Thus they proceeded slowly, far up the street. The interval between the shots had grown—near five minutes, was the cavalier’s rough guess—and they covered the ground more rapidly. At last the firing ceased. The searchers were in front of the Acllahuasi, and turned back. They must hasten, for dawn was at hand, and through the powder-smoke the mangled forms on the pavement were indistinctly visible, a grievous sight to Mocho. Should the veil lift, the hunt would end abruptly. Now, however, it went on without interruption. Somewhere near the cross-street a suppressed exclamation from the cavalier drew Mocho to his side. He was bending over a prostrate form in armor, and the general, as he neared, heard a sound very like a sob. Pedro lay face downward and quite still, but as Cristoval gently rolled him over he groaned slightly, and they knew him to be alive. Silently they raised him and started on their return. In the last few minutes the light had grown appreciably, and the street was almost clear of smoke. In the direction of the square they heard voices: a Spanish search-party, looking for their own wounded. Cristoval glanced back, and they pressed on. The barricade was but a few yards away when there was a shout near the Acllahuasi. They had been observed. Another shout, and the report of an arquebus.—Poor marksmanship, thought Cristoval. A second shot, and a ball struck the pavement close by, and with a vicious sing and spat hit the barricade. A third, and Cristoval stumbled to his knees with a quick catch of breath. He staggered up at once, his face white. "It is naught," he replied hurriedly to Mocho’s startled question, and glanced anxiously at Pedro, from whom the jolt had started a groan. They passed the barricade, laid their burden on the ground, and kneeling beside him, Cristoval rapidly removed the armor. There was a ragged hole through Pedro’s corselet beneath his right arm, one more ragged and terrible in his side where a projectile had torn its way, but a hasty examination showed that it had passed entirely through. Cristoval worked quickly, cutting away the clothing, and while water and bandages were being sought, laid aside his own helmet, conscious that a numbness in his shoulder had given place to pain. But he finished with Pedro’s wound, and rose, somewhat giddy, to ask assistance in disarming. Matopo was beside him. Cristoval grasped his arm. "She is safe, Matopo—the Ñusta Rava?" demanded the cavalier. "Speak! Thou hast seen her in safety?" "She is safe, Viracocha Cristoval," answered an even voice behind him, and turning, he beheld the Inca. Paullo was at his side, and near by, a group of nobles. Manco extended his hand and continued: "She is safe—I thank the great Inti, and thee!"