_*Pedro to the Rescue*_ When Cristoval awoke, stiffened and unrefreshed, the room was gray with feeble light. He stared at the heavy rafters, not yet fully roused to his dismal circumstances. "’T is early," he thought sleepily, "or a dull morning. What hath the day? Let us see—where am I? Guamachucho? No. What pent up air is this?" He turned his head and blinked at the windows, then raised his manacled wrists. The history of the day before flashed over him. He looked a moment at his irons, then closed his eyes and set his lips. Presently he sat up, painfully, and bent his head upon his hands. "I thought I had dreamed. _Ay de mi_! No dream, Cristoval. To-morrow a court, a shrift, the garrote. Ah, _Madre_, it hath been a life not well spent! But it seemeth short—too short." He sighed heavily, once, twice, arose abruptly, and shook himself. "Enough, Peralta! Thou’lt be groaning in self-pity. No more of it! Let us look about." He hobbled to the table. There was a jar of water and a loaf of coarse corn-bread. "Some one hath been here—not Pedro, I’ll stake my head. I wonder what the hour may be. It must be late. _Bien_! The day will be the shorter. And now we’ll eat, if but to kill time. Would that hope were as faithful in our extremity as appetite! We’d ne’er despair. Two good comrades, hope and appetite, and sad to lose. Pedro would say that—though belike in Latin. Good old cook! When will he come? But he’ll come, God bless him! What did he mean?—he hath ’learned a trick or two besides those of the kitchen.’ Can he hope to free me? Chance slight as air! Would that De Soto were here, though I see not how he can help. But he could save the Ñusta Rava, and that he will do, I know. Poor girl! Her fate may be worse than mine. Now, we’ll have another look at these fetters.—Strong enough, by the Faith, and strength to spare! But one of José’s files on the rivet-heads—as well wish for the Arabian lamp!" The day dragged slowly and wearily. He spent it in waiting, vaguely, he knew not for what, and in listening for the few slight sounds that broke upon the stillness. The steps of the sentinel, the murmur of voices when the reliefs came, the faint echo of the trumpet-calls on the plaza, were noted with painful attention. Now he sat straining his ears; now he limped haltingly round and round the apartment, filling it with the clank and scrape of his shackles, until his ankles were worn to the raw and he could walk no more. Seated on the bench, he dozed at last, and when he awoke the light was failing. This day Pedro did not come. Thrice Cristoval thought some one fumbled the bolt of the door, but it was unopened until night was on, when the new officer of the guard came in with the old. They entered in silence. A soldier held a lantern aloft while the new commander surveyed the room and the prisoner, briefly returning his nod as all went out without a word.