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."