"A moment, Pablo! Hast heard of the game between Mendoza and Rogelio? No? Then ’tis worth thy standing in the rain to listen to the story. It is like a romance out of Italy. They played last night until the first call this morning, Mendoza losing steadily. That greasy, whimpering _veedor_ hath a dexterity acquired only of the foul fiend himself—thou knowest it, I surmise, Pablo. Ha, ha! Well, Mendoza staked and lost his last duro, then his horse, then his share in the division of the goods of our hot-brained friend, Peralta, and was about to quit a bankrupt. But, would Rogelio take his note of promise? Saith Rogelio, ’Impossible, my dear comrade! He, he!’—ye know his laugh, Señores—’I’ve a family at home, Mendoza. ’T is impossible!’ "’Then go to the devil!’ saith Mendoza; ’thou and thy family, thy family’s family, thy posterity, and theirs!’ "’He, he!’ squeaketh the _veedor_. ’Be not hasty, my dear brother-in-arms. Wait a moment. Thou hast—he, he!—thou hast thy honeysuckle, the Princess—or shalt have her soon. What sayst to a thousand ducats against her? Eh, Mendoza? A thousand ducats! They are thine if thou dost win: she is mine if thou dost lose.’ "’Done!’ saith Mendoza, and they play again." "_Santo Sacramento!_" exclaimed one of the group. "How did it end?" "Mendoza lost," replied the cavalier. "The Señorita Ñusta is a chattel of Rogelio, and with her goeth wealth untold, for she is as rich as a sultana. But Mendoza sweareth to win her back, or kill the _veedor_. He hath been out all day, borrowing money to play again." The tale was greeted with a shout of laughter, and after a few more words the party separated. The infantryman drew his cloak about his face against the rain and hurried toward Cristoval, the others going in the direction of the palace. The fugitive set down the basket and gripped his sword. But fate and the rain were with him, for the man passed with bowed head. In a moment Cristoval would have breathed freely but for the choking rage stirred by the story to which he had just been listening. But now the way was clear, and spurred to mad impatience, he pressed on. The peg hindered his speed, and he was of half a mind to risk its removal, but thought more wisely of it and stumbled along. At last he was at the end of the street, and the gate was nearly opposite. He listened for the footfalls of the sentinel and presently heard them approaching. The soldier paced leisurely and in a moment had passed, going in the direction of the square, which Cristoval guessed would be the end of his post. Now for it; and he crossed the street toward the wall, moving quietly as possible. In a moment he was in the garden and had closed the gate. "God bless thee, good Pedro!" he whispered, hurriedly unstrapping the peg. He laid it down gently, picked up his sword, and hastened along the path to the palace.