The Crimson Conquest 23

The Crimson Conquest 23

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.

 

Now for the manacles. This was another matter. Twist and strain as he

might, he could not reach the rivets with the file,—could not have done

so had his soul been at stake, as well as liberty and life. He groaned,

sweat, and raged, tried holding the tool between his teeth, and strove

ineffectually until his jaws ached. He sat near to despair. Now he

sought carefully along the wall for a crevice into which to wedge the

butt of the implement, and cursed the skill of the masons. For ages he

searched, until his finger nails were worn to the quick. Useless! He

must wait for Pedro.

 

Another possibility. He groped until he found a chair. Over and over

it travelled his eager fingers, and at last found a crevice into which

the file would go. In his fever he dropped the steel, and it clanged on

the pavement like a tocsin. He caught breath with a sob and knelt long

with straining ears, mouth and eyes wide open. _Gracias á Dios_, it was

unheard! Cautiously, now! The file enters and is forced to solidity by

a few gentle blows from his manacles. Now he works—awkwardly, but in a

delirium of interestedness. "Gods! The Inca had longing for freedom.

Had he such longing as this which hath come with renewed hope? Poor

devil, ’tis even likely. God rest his soul."

 

It seemed but a moment before he noticed with a shock that the two high

windows were staring at him with pallid light, like a pair of accusing

eyes. The morning had come. He ceased and rose from his stiffened

knees. Now to hide the evidence. A few crumbs from the loaf, water

from the jar, soot from the inside of Pedro’s lantern, and the

rivet-heads were counterfeited with the loving care of an artist. Next,

the filings. They were invisible, but he did not rest until they had

been scattered to the four corners of the room. At length he lay down,

weary but sleepless, staring at the beams which already wore the

familiarity of lifelong acquaintance. After an hour the sentinel looked

in, and Cristoval snored. The door closed again.—_Madre de Dios_! Was

that a blunder—to feign sleep? Would not the soldier suspect that he

had been awake all night—working with a file—and now slept from

weariness? He sat up, pale and shaking. No! Impossible! But he would

not venture it again. After a time his breakfast came—corn-bread. Pedro

did not bring it. Was there significance in that? Had the night’s work

been detected and his accessory seized? The soldier had looked at him

with suspicion—at least, with feigned indifference! Holy Mother! What a

torture of multiplied fears, now that hope had come!

 

And so throughout the day. Every sound startled his heart to his mouth,

clamored discovery, the plot revealed. At midday he was sleepy, and

dared not sleep,—or only in snatches, sitting up. Ten thousand times he

examined his counterfeit rivet-heads. Palpably, palpably false! To be

detected at a glance through a crack in the door! He hardly ventured to

move lest the bits of paste fall off. Ah, torment upon torment! It was

easier to be sure of death, as he had been the day before.

 

By nightfall his head was fevered, his hands clammily cold. At the

usual hour the officer of the guard came in. The new one was Zapato.

He was surly and irritable from a debauch of the previous night, and

said loudly as he entered the door:—

 

"Is this our ogre? Bah! For a _maravedi_ I would pull his teeth. Let

us have a look at his fastenings."

 

The other officer spoke a word in a low tone, evidently of warning, and

laid his hand upon his companion’s arm. Zapato shook him off roughly.

"Furies!" he retorted. "Dost think to frighten me? _Loco_ or not, I’ll

see to his irons. Here, guard, the lantern."

 

Cristoval’s nervousness left him in an instant, and he set his teeth.

_Por Dios!_ the man who should discover his work with the file should

never live to announce it. As Zapato approached, holding the lantern

aloft, scowling with swollen eyes, Cristoval rose slowly and stood

watching his advance with still alertness. The unsteady lantern cast a

fitful light over his rugged features, and the officer looked into a

face whose haggardness was intensified by the uncertain shadows,—cheeks

sunken and drawn by confinement and anxiety, and from their dark orbits

a pair of eyes gleaming with menacing steadiness into Zapato’s. The

latter hesitated, peering uncertainly through the gloom, then stepped

back a pace, his hand on his sword. The other officer seized him by the

arm and drew him without much resistance toward the door. Zapato looked

back over his shoulder.

 

"The man _is_ mad for a surety! We’ll let some one else look after his

fetters," and he laughed uneasily and went out. Cristoval smiled grimly

and seated himself to wait for Pedro.

 

Four long hours,—he knew from the change of sentinels outside the door,

which was made twice. At last, the welcome voice. Pedro was apparently

in unusual spirits, for his words were pitched high and he talked

volubly, now rapidly in Spanish, now with dignity in Latin. Would he

never be done? Presently he was singing. Fiends! Will he not hurry?

But listen! His words sound thick, with pauses suspiciously like

hiccoughs. At length the door opens.

 

"Is—is—the (hic)—man mad, sayst thou? Say, rather, ’_Faenum habet in

cornu!_’ Lat—Latin, _compadre_. Meaneth, he hath hay on (hic) his

horns—P—p— (hic) Pliny. M—more stately way of expressing it, my dear

(hic). Let us—see!"

 

Cristoval’s heart sank in black despair as Pedro stumbled into the room,

basket in one hand and lantern in the other, and stood swaying in the

doorway, smiling idiotically at the darkness. The prisoner could have

wept in his sudden revulsion from hope to disappointment and disgust.

The sentinel seemed to hesitate about closing the door, and Pedro

blinked at him a moment, then said to Cristoval in a voice of maudlin

sympathy:—

 

"_Loco!_ (hic) _loco_, Cristoval? My commiseration! Sad state. _Animi

affectionem lumine mentis carentem nominaverunt_ (hic) _amentiam,

eandemque dementiam_. _Amentiam_ or _dementiam_, Cristoval—have thy

choice. Cicer—(hic) Cicero, my friend. Grand old man, Cicero, and safe

authority. But—art mad, Cristoval? Outrage! _Quos Deus perdere vult

prius dementat_. Whom God wisheth to destroy—thou knowest,

Cris(hic)toval. More Latin! Sh—shut the door, guard. I’ll sit down

with Cristoval. _Loco_, Cristoval? S-s-(hic)scandalous!"

 

The guard closed the door with a grin, Pedro regarding him with profound

drunken wisdom. Cristoval’s head was bowed upon his hands. As the

bolts were shot the cook’s manner underwent a transformation. He

listened a moment, then stepped briskly to the table, deposited basket

and lantern, and when the prisoner looked up dejectedly he met

seriousness from which all ebriety had vanished.

 

Cristoval sprang to his feet. "San Miguel, Pedro, I thought thou hadst