"_Bastante_!" growled the soldier. "Thou hast legs enough, and tongue enough, God wot!" "Good! Then I’ll enter. Who is the officer?" "Lieutenant Cristoval de Peralta." "I’ve heard of him," said Pedro, and stumped into the room. Cristoval looked up, to behold a man ten years his senior, slightly corpulent, with a full round face, now reddened by the heat and exertion of riding, which he mopped vigorously as he advanced with sombrero under his arm. Smooth-shaven, somewhat bald, and with gray hair closely cropped, there was a suggestion of the priest or monk in his countenance, further aided by the genial benignancy of his expression. A frock would, indeed, have made him the most jovial-looking of ecclesiastics, and his well-fed and comfortable appearance would have helped the disguise. A large mouth, a nose formidable but well shaped, and eyes with ever a lurking twinkle, made up a face to be warmed to at first glimpse. The precision of his salute left no doubt in Cristoval’s mind that the missing leg had been lost on the battle-field, and he surveyed the man with interest. "Let me not interrupt, _Señor Teniente_," said Pedro. "I am in no hurry." "I have finished," replied Cristoval. "How can I serve thee?" "Thou’rt recruiting for Pizarro?" Cristoval nodded, thinking of the rabble already enrolled that day, and wondering whether this one-legged veteran purposed offering himself. "_Bien!_" said Pedro. "I would join the expedition." "But thou’rt maimed, _compadre!_" "_Como asi_! Just so!" replied the other, with a wave of the hand. "I’m not all here, as the cannoneer observed when his pieces were scattered over a thousand yards by the explosion of his gun. But there is enough of me for the purpose, señor, for I am a cook,—a _cantinero_. I seek not to enlist, but the privilege of filling a moderate space aboard thy brigantine with myself, my helper, called Pedrillo, and such stores and gear as will fit a canteen." "Draw up a chair," said Cristoval, pleased with the cook’s manner. "We will consider it. Thy name?" "Pedro." "So I heard thee called by the halberdier." "Ah!—the rest of my name? H’m! Why, I’ll tell thee, señor, I have not always been a cook—and—pardon me—" "I see," said Cristoval, with delicacy. "_No importa_. We’ll let it go. Thou’rt Pedro." Pedro bowed. After some conversation the arrangement was made. "Now," said Cristoval, "there are three or four of us from the ship quartered together, and we need a cook. There is Ruiz, the pilot; José, the principal armorer; and I look for De Soto from Nombre de Dios. He is to command when we sail. Couldst take charge of the _rancho_ whilst we remain in Panama? Couldst begin at once? Good! Then ’tis agreed. I’ve taken the inn kept by Señora Bolio for quarters for the company, but her cooks are all Indios and worthless, and—What aileth thee, man?"