The Flight
There was no response to Cristoval's blows on the door. He waited a moment, then renewed his knocking. Still no reply but the reverberations within the room. He pounded again and again. Silence. Drawing his sword, he laid on with its hilt, but with no effect upon the guard, and he turned toward Pedro who sat staring in stupefaction. Each felt the other's dismay. Here was a condition of matters to send hearts into boots.
"Sanctissima Maria!" gasped the cook. "I've been over liberal with the chicha. Pound again. That accursed sentinel hath gone dead over the bottle."
Cristoval battered with the sword hilt until the room was aroar with the echoes. No sign without.
"They will hear it in the guard-room," muttered Pedro, "and then we shall have the whole stew of them about, with Zapato in the middle."
"No help for it, Pedro. I must be out at once if out at all," and Cristoval assaulted with redoubled vigor. Pedro's surmise was right enough, for after another storm of blows a distant voice called:—
"Ho there, guard! What is doing? What is that uproar?"
The sentinel was silent, and Cristoval pounded again. Presently there were voices and footsteps outside, the wavering light of a lantern shone beneath the door, and some one demanded: "What is wanted within there? Be done, prisoner! Give over thy din, and to bed."
"Let me answer," whispered Pedro, and he shouted: "Open up! Open up! Let me out, ye blockheads. D' ye think I'm playing this door for a kettle-drum to amuse the owls? Unbar before I raise the town."
"It is Pedro," said the voice. "Unbolt and let him out."