Soon he was in the open country, his horse’s hoofs ringing on the pavement of the great highway in a rhythm which he knew would not vary for miles. Shadowy trees swept by, cottages and groves were dimly seen and left behind. The walls of a _chasqui_-post threw back a short chorus of reverberations, and were lost again in the darkness and silence. Presently the streets of a village clamored with the measure, and relapsed into stillness before the startled peasant could open his door. Onward he flew, the night breeze fanning his hot cheeks, the words of Pedro’s message repeating themselves over and over in the cadence of the gallop: "The Inca brought to trial—Return with all speed. The Inca brought to trial—return with all speed!"—while a thousand thoughts mingled with the refrain, chasing one another through his fevered mind, with a deep undertone of purposed vengeance if evil had befallen the captive prince. Mile after mile down the sleeping valley, and at last the gray of dawn. Another half-league brought him to a hamlet. The people were astir, and smoke was rising from their cottages. He halted at one and dismounted, the villagers staring from their doors. His horse drooped his head, nostrils wide. Cristoval surveyed him with anxiety. No help for it, he must rest. A cottager advanced from his door with a friendly morning greeting and offered his hospitality. The cavalier accepted with gratitude, found grain for his horse, and an hour later was once more in the saddle. The rest and refreshment had done much for both steed and rider, but the leagues were covered slowly, for the animal was weary and his flanks in lather. The halt had given a brief respite to Cristoval’s sombre thoughts, but as he looked forward down the valley they returned with full force; and when, late in the day, he descried distant Caxamalca, the fever of his anxiety and rage came back with double strength. At last he was in the suburbs of the town, urging his exhausted horse to fresh speed. He reined up before a sentinel. The halberdier saluted, and Cristoval demanded hoarsely:— "What of the Inca? Am I in time—doth he live?" With exasperating deliberation the infantryman ordered his weapon; raised his hand without a word, clutched his throat, distorted his face into a hideous grimace, and emitting a gurgle, closed his eyes and lopped his head to one side. Then he opened his eyes and resumed his position, surveying the blowing steed with critical interest. Cristoval turned pale. "Speak, fellow!" he shouted. "What of the Inca?" "Dead!" returned the soldier. "Garroted! Gone to join his fathers in the mansions of the Sun, say the Indios; but ’t is more like," he continued, as Cristoval put spurs to his horse and galloped away with an oath, "’t is more like he hath gone to hell—and mayst thou follow him!"