Pedro looked troubled. "He knoweth not its worth, Cristoval. Moreover, should Pizarro learn that I have it, I’d not be safe a blessed minute. I should be invaded, overrun with fire and sword; given up to wrack, sack, and devastation; left a waste and ruin more ruinous than thou see’st me now. I’ve suffered losses a-plenty, my friend—not counting legs—without this novel liability. Do thou restore it." "Gods, thou’rt a worried cook!—for a cook with a fortune in hand." "Ah!" sighed Pedro. "_Crescentem sequitur cura pecuniam_—Horace, Cristoval. Meaneth, care followeth upon increasing riches. Stew me—" "Oh, _Madre_! Have done with thy plaints. Now be still whilst I give thee a message to Rava." "God bless her!" said Pedro, and after a pause, "I listen. But make it not over long, and prithee, adapt its terms to the grossness of my texture. No endearments, Cristoval, and no poetry!" Cristoval blushed. "No, no!" he said quickly. "It will be short, and suited to thy decorous taste, count upon it." "Then I’ll compass it. But as well put sugar-lumps and lollipops in a mess of boiled cabbage as to fill me with blandiments for recitation. I’m no troubadour, Cristoval. Bear that in mind." "No fear, thou Spartan cook!" growled Cristoval, with a trace of embarrassment. "I intend it all to be prose." By the time his message ended, Pedro’s _hamaca_ and escort were waiting. In parting the cook said earnestly: "Now, Cristoval, in the name of all the names of all the saints on the calendar, have a care for thyself! Thou’rt as prone to misadventure as an unweaned calf. Remember, thou hast one to be anxious for thee besides myself—and relatives! Dost know how many, since thine adoption?" "Thou meanest—" "Thy foster-brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, and what-not—dost know how many?" "I do not. I had not thought of it, Pedro." "Not thought of it! of course not," returned Pedro, with irritation. "’T is what I have said—always charging into trouble, head down and eyes shut!" He regarded the cavalier with great disapproval. "On my soul, I know not whether ’t is prudent to leave thee, with thy capacities for indiscretion! However—well—with the aid of the Indio who hath attended me, I’ve figured this multitude kin of thine, Cristoval, and Heaven fend thee from ever having them dependent upon thy support! Man, we counted three hundred, and more to tally, and without considering the concubines the Señor Inca is entitled by law to acquire—and all of them royal, by the eternal broiler!" His expression changed to commiseration. "Thou ’rt the worst relative-beridden Christian in my knowledge, _amigo_! and but one among them who is not a pagan! I tell thee, Cristoval, if thou dost rightly by thy family, thou’lt give over soldiering and turn missionary! But farewell, old friend, and God with thee! It grieveth me to leave thee."