"They are few. Pizarro hath done for that. He promiseth a division of thy share of the plunder, and hath given out that the Inca enriched thee for thy friendship. Not ten men in the army but would see thee roasted with right good-will. A murrain seize them all! Now go! But hold! I had almost forgotten. In the basket thou’lt find a pouch. Sling it over thy shoulder. It containeth provisions. _Adiós_! _Adiós_, Cristoval!" Cristoval embraced him again, and in a second was pounding on the door. His nerves were steady, now, as steel. *CHAPTER XV* _*The Flight*_ There was no response to Cristoval’s blows on the door. He waited a moment, then renewed his knocking. Still no reply but the reverberations within the room. He pounded again and again. Silence. Drawing his sword, he laid on with its hilt, but with no effect upon the guard, and he turned toward Pedro who sat staring in stupefaction. Each felt the other’s dismay. Here was a condition of matters to send hearts into boots. "_Sanctissima Maria!_" gasped the cook. "I’ve been over liberal with the _chicha_. Pound again. That accursed sentinel hath gone dead over the bottle." Cristoval battered with the sword hilt until the room was aroar with the echoes. No sign without. "They will hear it in the guard-room," muttered Pedro, "and then we shall have the whole stew of them about, with Zapato in the middle." "No help for it, Pedro. I must be out at once if out at all," and Cristoval assaulted with redoubled vigor. Pedro’s surmise was right enough, for after another storm of blows a distant voice called:— "Ho there, guard! What is doing? What is that uproar?" The sentinel was silent, and Cristoval pounded again. Presently there were voices and footsteps outside, the wavering light of a lantern shone beneath the door, and some one demanded: "What is wanted within there? Be done, prisoner! Give over thy din, and to bed." "Let me answer," whispered Pedro, and he shouted: "Open up! Open up! Let me out, ye blockheads. D’ ye think I’m playing this door for a kettle-drum to amuse the owls? Unbar before I raise the town." "It is Pedro," said the voice. "Unbolt and let him out." The door was unfastened and swung open, revealing to the group outside the similitude of Pedro, swaying unsteadily in the gloom, sword and basket in hand, with sombrero cocked very drunkenly over one eye. Cristoval hiccoughed once, then lurched suddenly forward, jostling the sergeant and extinguishing his lantern with a blow from the basket; reeled away from him with his point describing erratic curves near the belts of the soldiers, and broke through the circle. By good fortune Zapato was not there. The guard scattered before the uncertain sweep of his sword, and he zigzagged across the court toward the outer doors. The sentinel lowered his halberd at his approach and called to the sergeant:—