"_Señor Teniente_ Peralta, we have an unpleasant duty—" He hesitated, and Cristoval waited in silence. "The armorers here," continued the sergeant, "have a few trinkets which it is ordered you are to wear—temporarily." He paused again, and Cristoval wondered vaguely why such a trifle should embarrass his speech. Fetters—what were they in the presence of the thought of death! The sergeant resumed: "I trust you will give us no trouble, Señor. It is near supper-time, and you know what that meaneth to a man already twenty hours on guard. I had hoped this might be deferred until the new guard cometh on, but the general seemeth burdened with an anxiety to know you are secure—so here we are. Now, what say you?—shall it be done quietly, or must I have a squad of pikemen?" For answer, Cristoval turned up his sleeves and offered his wrists. "Ah! _Bueno!_" said the sergeant, with relief. "That is what I like to see. When a man must take his physic, why not do so gracefully? I have observed that it marketh the distinction between a _caballero_ and a yokel. You are a good soldier, Señor Cristoval: I have always said it.—Armorers, set about it.—Would you believe me, Señor—the last man I saw ironed took four to hold him! But he was a creature of base instincts. Now, men, be expeditious!" In half an hour the irons were securely riveted to Cristoval’s wrists and ankles, and the sergeant was expressing his appreciation of the prisoner’s forbearance, when he broke off abruptly, clapped his hand to his forehead, and stared at a rent in Cristoval’s doublet. "Ah, _Cielo_!" he cried. "Why was I equipped with mud in the place of brains!—And you, too, ye numskulls—-where are your wits? Do ye see what we’ve done?—left him in his mail!—and now there’s no way to have it off but to undo his wristlets. Now what do you think of that?" he appealed to Cristoval. Cristoval shrugged, but made no comment. The others stood helplessly about while the sergeant berated them until his feelings were relieved, when he exclaimed, with regained philosophy: "Well, let it stay! ’T will keep. The prisoner will be none the better for it, nor the worse; and if it worrieth the next sergeant of the guard, let him worry, or take it off. ’T is time to eat." He led his men out without further ado, and once more the place was quiet. For an hour Cristoval sat in a half stupor; at last, overcome by weariness, he hobbled to the bench beside the wall. He stretched himself upon it, and his torpid mind passed insensibly into slumber. Late in the evening he was awakened by the light of a lantern in his face, and found himself confronting Pedro. The two regarded one another silently, Pedro with elevated light and profound concern in his rubicund countenance. "’T is thou, good Pedro!" said Cristoval, at length. "Ah!" assented Pedro. "And is it thou, Cristoval? Thou, _amigo_?—thus ignominiously pickled and shorn of liberty, hoppled like a wayward barb. I scarce know thee."