"Oh, my honey-jar, my lady bird!" cried the overjoyed señora in Spanish. "God bless thy dear heart, what a happiness to see thee! But I’m covering thy pretty robes with dust! Oh, thou sweet baby! ’T is thou—and handsome as a rose! Dainty as a fairy! ’T is good for one’s eyes to behold thee—now, is it not, Father? Come, let him see thee, love. Is she not an angel?" The señora stopped suddenly and glanced sternly about the court. "Ho! They’ve lugged off my mule and my cleaver—" "Thou’lt have no need for them, my daughter," said Father Tendilla, quickly, and gave Rava his blessing. The señora forgot mule and cleaver in a fresh outburst of delight, and Rava presently led to her apartments. Here the effervescent lady was struck by the thought of Pedro, of whose wounds she had learned at Ollantaytambo, and demanded to be conducted to him forthwith. Rava sent one of her maids as guide. The damsel endeavored to give warning of the injured man’s condition; but the señora’s understanding of Quichua was limited, and her eagerness, moreover, made her deaf, so the words created slight impression. Pedro heard the firm, rapid step, invoked a saint, and waited with beads gathering upon his brow. As the lady swept—nay, swooped—across the room with a cry of mingled joy and pity, the cook saw that his precautions were ineffectual. He could have sworn that in another second he should have been embraced; but with rare presence of mind he raised a warning hand, fetched a dismal groan, rolled his eyes, and gritted his teeth in so unearthly a fashion that the lady was brought up with a shriek. "God’s mercy, Pedro! What—" "Sit down!" commanded Pedro, in a voice supernormally strong for one, as he seemed to be, _in articulo extremo mortis_. "Sit down!—No!—Farther away!—On the floor—anywhere—but sit, woman, or I perish!" He continued his ghastly symptoms until he saw the señora seated, completely unnerved but foiled! Then he recovered quickly, sought his kerchief, wiped a clamminess from his forehead, and observing her pallor, said gently: "It is past, Señora. Be not alarmed. But hold! Stay where thou art, or it will come again. Move not a finger!" "_Santa Maria_! Pedro, dear," she said, tearfully, "I thought thee dying. Thou ’rt dreadfully hurt, my love?" "I am a very sieve, Señora!" replied Pedro, in a hollow voice. "So full of holes that I cannot cast a decent shadow! So weighted with copper slugs, leaden balls, and scraps of iron from Candia’s guns that I could be molten up and cast into a fair culverin of bronze." "Ah, pity of Heaven!" sobbed the lady, rocking herself. "I fear thou liest to some extent, Pedro, but I knew harm was to come of it when I left thee with that bandit, Cristoval. But may I not come nearer, _chiquito_?"