"Oh, an infamy of infamies!" blurted Pedro, with an oath, and reseated himself. "A devil’s own deed, brought about by a devil’s own device and procedure! An indictment wanting even the merit of ingenuity in its fabrication! A court presided over by Pizarro and Almagro, the Inca’s prime enemies! A trial that began as a farce and ended in a quarrel over the expediency of his death—whether it would further or hinder the business of the conquest and the gathering of plunder. And it was decided on that score, Cristoval. The judgment was determined upon before the trial began. Didst know he was condemned to burn at the stake?" "Oh, God!" gasped Cristoval. "They told me he was garroted!" "And so he was. At the last moment, after the fagots were ablaze, Father Valverde offered him the easier death if he would accept the Faith. He assented. The fire was kicked out, and he received baptism. So he died a good Christian." "So he died a good Christian!" repeated Cristoval, with bitterness. "He was a better man a pagan than the Christians who slew him. Well, God give him rest. But had he no defenders, Pedro? Was there no man less a criminal than Pizarro?" "A few, but, curse me, a sparing few! Among them was José, and he the most vehement. He denounced the affair with an acrimony that stirred the wrath of Father Valverde, who helped to draw the indictment. José knoweth no discretion, Cristoval. But the Inca’s friends were not many, and their protests were futile." "How did he bear himself?" "As a king, if ever I saw one!" returned Pedro, with emphasis. "When the sentence was made known to him he made one appeal for mercy. Pizarro feigned commiseration: turned away his head and wiped an eye—oh, accursed hypocrite!—and now he weareth mourning. Didst observe?" "I saw it." "But this one appeal denied," continued Pedro, "the Inca met his death like a man, begging only that his people be gently dealt with. Rest his soul in peace! He was a man!" Both sat for a time in silence, then Pedro sighed and arose. "Well, God be with thee, Cristoval. I’ll see thee to-morrow, if ’t is permitted. If not, then when De Soto cometh. He will make a way. Good-night." Cristoval pressed his hand, and leaving his lantern, the cook stumped to the door, which, after a moment’s pounding, was cautiously opened from without, and he disappeared. Cristoval meditated long. Then, slowly taking up the lantern, he moved to the table and surveyed the repast left by Pedro. There was a small flask of _chicha_, and after a draught of it he attacked the supper and finished it with interest. It revived his spirits, and for the first time he examined his fetters. There was little encouragement to be found in their massiveness, and he shook his head dubiously at the recollection of Pedro’s few words of reassurance. He returned to his bench, put out his light, and soon was sleeping heavily. *CHAPTER XIV*