Cristoval looked with astonishment at the wealth stacked upon the stone table on which the _veedor_, or inspector, had set his scales. In the middle was the chair of the Inca, a fortune in itself, and heaped around it the royal table service of gold and silver. On one of the plates was a little mound of emeralds, some of them of unusual size and brilliancy, and near by, a disorderly heap of the personal ornaments taken from the slain. On the floor were piled rugs, furs, embroidered tapestries, and fabrics of finest weave and dye. The _veedor_ ceased his work as he arose and walked round the table. He was a fat, puffing, putty-colored individual of fifty years, with a peculiar falsetto voice and a habit of perpetually snuffling. Now his bulging eyes were more bulging than ever in their greedy leer. "Ah, look upon it, gentlemen!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. "Behold it! Satiate your eyes! Let them revel, my friends! Is it not a feast? Delicious! Delicious! Look at these plates!—gold—solid gold! And these goblets—silver! And these precious stones—ah!" He dug his hands into the heap of emeralds and let them sift through his fat fingers, his head on one side, fairly drooling with delight, while he screwed his face into so gross and atrocious a smirk that Cristoval looked away with an oath under his breath. The _veedor_ snuffled and went on: "And see these gewgaws—stripped from the heathen! Oh, my soul and body, what pickings! They are bloody yet, but how they’ll shine when they are clean! They’ll weigh too. Eh, Pizarro?—Treasure, treasure, _compadres_! The reward of our courage! A fitting reward of gallantry! We’ll divide it by-and-by—we’ll all have some! But stay, my friend Cristoval, thou didst not fight! What shall we do about Cristoval’s share, General? We all know he did not fight. Of course, nobody would question his courage—but there are so many brave fellows to provide for, and after all there is not so very much to divide." He turned to Pizarro, puffing out his cheeks and wiping from his forehead the perspiration started by his emotion over the treasure. Cristoval had listened with disgust, hardly able to restrain his hands from gripping the fat throat. The slurring reference to his inactivity in the massacre roused his ire, and the _veedor_ encountered a scowl so black that he started back with a gasp and shuffled precipitately behind the table. "Pizarro! Pizarro!" he cried, his peculiar falsetto rising to a squeak. "That man meditateth violence! He contemplateth doing me an injury! I see it in his eyes! Restrain him, Pizarro! I am an officer of the Crown, and call upon you to protect me with your sword. I have a wife and five small—" "Be done, Rogelio!" commanded Pizarro, who had small liking for the timorous member of his civil staff. "Thou talkest too much. Learn to hold thy tongue. Come! Get back to thy work, and I’ll vouch for thy safety."