"—I've lived on corn-bread and water, Pedro. Continue."
"—As a consequence, I'm ordered to feed thee or be thumbscrewed, and Pizarro more than half believeth the latter would please me as well. He knoweth, therefore, thou'lt have scant sympathy from me, thou'lt not be overfed, and that I'll be carrying no messages from thee to friends outside. He knoweth that I take my life in my hands in coming—I am armed, as thou see'st, Cristoval. It is thy sword, by the way."
Cristoval looked at it with a sigh. "I would rather thou shouldst have it than any other man. It is a good blade, Pedro. Let it keep me in thy memory."
Pedro regarded him intently. After a pause he said in a low voice, "Cristoval, thou'lt find a file in that loaf."
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."