"Oh, these heathens!" panted the señora.
"I've known Christians who were worse," said Pedro. "But, art sound and whole?"
"If I could but have reached one of them! But, blessed name! how comest thou here, Pedro?"
"Prisoner of war—like thyself. Art uninjured?"
"Like myself!" snorted the lady. "Who hath made me a prisoner of war? Prisoner of fiddle-de-dee! Drum-sticks!" She glared vindictively at the wondering soldiery. "Let one of them bite his tongue at me!"
"Bueno! There are only five thousand," remarked Pedro. "But tell me, what dost thou here?"
"Oh, Pedro, I am going to Cuzco to see that angel of a girl! The father took it in mind to go, so I came with him—but such a time! He hath been as much care as a baby."
"Calm yourself, my dear Señora."
The señora sniffed scornfully. "Is that Peralta? I scarce knew him without his beard. He seemeth friendly enough with these fripperied Indians. He might be in better company—and so mightst thou, Pedro. 'T is little credit to you both."
"We are prisoners, Señora."