Cristoval smiled gloomily. "It is I, Pedro! Would it were some other. A prisoner!—and all to no purpose." Pedro drew a long breath, swore a little, and seating himself, placed his lantern upon the floor and stared at it in dejection. "All to no purpose!" he echoed. "The Inca is dead." "And Pizarro liveth!" groaned Cristoval. "Oh, San Miguel! Could I have had but a moment longer with him!" He seized the cook’s arm. "But, Pedro—what of the Ñusta Rava?" "Ah, the Ñusta Rava!" exclaimed Pedro, his face reddening in the lamplight with indignation. "What thinkst thou, Cristoval?—but thou couldst never guess! The Ñusta Rava hath been given by Pizarro to that foul bird, Mendoza, as his share of the plunder of the Inca’s palace." Cristoval sprang up and glared at the cook with an expression which reminded him of the rumor that the cavalier had gone mad. At length Cristoval hoarsely broke the silence:— "Hath he—is she—" Pedro met the burning scrutiny and shook his head. "No! She is safe for the present. The plunder hath not yet been divided." "Where is she?" demanded Cristoval. "In the palace. She is unmolested thus far, save that Mendoza payeth an occasional visit to ogle, gloat on, and leer, whilst he croaketh a few words of Quichua. But she is never alone. Her maids are always present. One of them came to me this morning, weeping, and begged that I devise means to relieve her mistress of the monster’s visits. I’ll do it some fine day, Cristoval, and there will be carrion to lug out of the garden. She knoweth not her fate, poor girl." "Kill him, Pedro!" "I will—if thou dost not." "I, Pedro! How in the fiend’s name could I kill even a rat?" demanded the cavalier, with impatience. "Look at me! Look about thee! Is this a paper house, imbecile? Am I tied with pack-threads? Another day—perhaps two—perhaps three—and I shall share the Inca’s fate. Be sure of it, friend." Pedro shrugged and glanced about. "Keep thy courage, Cristoval. Stone walls do not always make a prison. I’ve learned some tricks in my career besides those of the kitchen. Thou knowest I was not always a cook." "Thou’lt need the tricks of a thaumaturge to take me out of here, old friend," said Cristoval, "and thou canst serve me better than by losing good time in the effort. Promise thou’lt kill Mendoza if need be to save the Ñusta." "I will!" replied Pedro, cheerfully. "But we will talk of it to-morrow—or when I come again. Now I must go. I’ve brought thee a small supper—bribed the sergeant of the guard to let me pass. No appetite at present? Then eat later. _Adiós, amigo mio_." "Wait, Pedro!" said Cristoval, urgently. "Tell me first of the Inca’s death."