"'T is early," he thought sleepily, "or a dull morning. What hath the day? Let us see—where am I? Guamachucho? No. What pent up air is this?" He turned his head and blinked at the windows, then raised his manacled wrists. The history of the day before flashed over him. He looked a moment at his irons, then closed his eyes and set his lips. Presently he sat up, painfully, and bent his head upon his hands. "I thought I had dreamed. Ay de mi! No dream, Cristoval. To-morrow a court, a shrift, the garrote. Ah, Madre, it hath been a life not well spent! But it seemeth short—too short." He sighed heavily, once, twice, arose abruptly, and shook himself. "Enough, Peralta! Thou'lt be groaning in self-pity. No more of it! Let us look about."
He hobbled to the table. There was a jar of water and a loaf of coarse corn-bread. "Some one hath been here—not Pedro, I'll stake my head. I wonder what the hour may be. It must be late. Bien! The day will be the shorter. And now we'll eat, if but to kill time. Would that hope were as faithful in our extremity as appetite! We'd ne'er despair. Two good comrades, hope and appetite, and sad to lose. Pedro would say that—though belike in Latin. Good old cook! When will he come? But he'll come, God bless him! What did he mean?—he hath 'learned a trick or two besides those of the kitchen.' Can he hope to free me? Chance slight as air! Would that De Soto were here, though I see not how he can help. But he could save the Ñusta Rava, and that he will do, I know. Poor girl! Her fate may be worse than mine. Now, we'll have another look at these fetters.—Strong enough, by the Faith, and strength to spare! But one of José's files on the rivet-heads—as well wish for the Arabian lamp!"
The day dragged slowly and wearily. He spent it in waiting, vaguely, he knew not for what, and in listening for the few slight sounds that broke upon the stillness. The steps of the sentinel, the murmur of voices when the reliefs came, the faint echo of the trumpet-calls on the plaza, were noted with painful attention. Now he sat straining his ears; now he limped haltingly round and round the apartment, filling it with the clank and scrape of his shackles, until his ankles were worn to the raw and he could walk no more. Seated on the bench, he dozed at last, and when he awoke the light was failing. This day Pedro did not come. Thrice Cristoval thought some one fumbled the bolt of the door, but it was unopened until night was on, when the new officer of the guard came in with the old. They entered in silence. A soldier held a lantern aloft while the new commander surveyed the room and the prisoner, briefly returning his nod as all went out without a word.
The night was a year, but toward dawn he slept, rousing when his food was brought. The soldier eyed him indifferently, and departed without salutation. Soon after, two of José's artificers came in with a pikeman of the guard, inspected the windows, and strengthened the fastenings of the door. Cristoval spoke to one of them, but the guard gruffly forbade a reply, and the prisoner said no more.
The day was maddening in its length, monotony, and stillness. Why did not Pedro come? Where was De Soto? Had all friends failed? He must communicate with De Soto concerning the Ñusta, and time might be short. When should he have his trial? These questions came again and again to his tortured mind, but all remained unanswered. They troubled him more now than the thought of death, for with the loss of hope had come the blessed resignation with which the All-wise softens the approach of the inevitable hour, and he was surprised at his own indifference. His one anxiety about it was the question when it would be. He would have interrogated the soldier who brought his food, but the man did not even answer his greeting.
Another restless night, and Cristoval rose haggard and savage. Solitude had preyed upon him, and the silence even more. The taciturnity of his guards was infuriating. When the soldier entered with his breakfast he sprang up from the bench with a suddenness that caused the man to drop his burden with a crash of broken stoneware, and draw his dirk as he dashed to the door calling for help. The sentinel burst in and stood with lowered pike while Cristoval glared upon them like a madman.
"Loco!" whispered the attendant, with a gasp. "Jesu Cristo! let me out!"
"Out, then, thou knave!" bellowed Cristoval. "Who holdeth thee? And hearken! When thou comest again, speak!—say something, or by Saint Michael, thou'lt die unshriven! Is this a tomb, that ye varlets must come and go, tiptoeing and mum like undertakers' help? Pass the time of day, ask me how I like my fare, mention the weather, or blow thy nose; but break this accursed silence if thou wouldst have thy neck unbroken!"
The soldier edged toward the door. "We are forbidden to have words with you, Señor Cristoval."
"Good! Then say that! Say it over and again! Say it backward; but ware being silent. Dost hear?"