"—As a consequence, I’m ordered to feed thee or be thumbscrewed, and Pizarro more than half believeth the latter would please me as well. He knoweth, therefore, thou’lt have scant sympathy from me, thou’lt not be overfed, and that I’ll be carrying no messages from thee to friends outside. He knoweth that I take my life in my hands in coming—I am armed, as thou see’st, Cristoval. It is thy sword, by the way." Cristoval looked at it with a sigh. "I would rather thou shouldst have it than any other man. It is a good blade, Pedro. Let it keep me in thy memory." Pedro regarded him intently. After a pause he said in a low voice, "Cristoval, thou’lt find a file in that loaf." Cristoval started, and his face slowly flushed. "José sent it thee," whispered Pedro, "encased thus in the loaf lest I be searched by the guard. A wise precaution, for they did search me. And now," Pedro hitched his stool nearer, "dost think thou canst free thyself by to-morrow night? Good! Then listen: File the rivet-heads nearly off—not quite—so that a moment’s work will finish it. Mould a bit of the bread in shape to simulate the bolt-heads in case thy fetters should be inspected. Be ready to-morrow night." Cristoval seized the cook’s hand and pressed it without a word. "Be ready," repeated Pedro. "I’ll tell thee a plan when I come again. Now, good-night." "Hold, Pedro!—will it endanger thee? If so, I’ll none of it, by—" "It will not. I swear it. _Adiós_." Pedro pounded on the door, which was opened presently by the sentinel. He went through with a snort and an oath, and looking back, addressed the prisoner with well affected wrath:— "Burnt, is it? Underdone, is it? Too salt, is it? Not warm enough, isn’t it? Thou croaking, leather-cropped kennel-forager! Thy feed will be served hot enough presently, and not underdone, I’ll take my oath on’t! Thou’lt have the devil for a cook, and he’ll do things to a turn. Bear him the compliments of Pedro with the hope that his draughts are good, and firewood and sulphur plentiful. Underdone! Thou’lt be done brown, my head on ’t, thou—" The door slammed, and Cristoval could hear him grumbling and swearing to the sentinel. He smiled, sat listening for a time, then cautiously drew out the loaf and broke it. The point of a file protruded, and in a second it was hidden in his bosom. Shortly he extinguished the light, sought the bench, and waiting for a period with ears alert, took out the precious bit of steel and set to work in the darkness, first on his shackles. But despite his utmost care his manacles rattled at every stroke, and he spent half an hour wrapping the links with his torn-up kerchief. At last he could work in comparative silence, though the grating of the file seemed to cry aloud to heaven, and he paused momentarily, breathless, to listen for an alarm. But the tool bit gratefully, and before midnight he judged from the feeling that little work remained.