Cristoval watched no longer. In a second he was groping for his armor. His hands were shaking, but soon corselet was on, and helmet: no time for more. Now, sword and buckler. He threw the empty scabbard on the couch as he rushed to the door. In the anteroom slept Markumi.
"Markumi! Markumi!" Cristoval whispered, shaking him.
"Yes, Viracocha," said the youth, sleepily.
"Up, Markumi! Make no sound. Quick—thy weapons, and follow!"
Markumi needed no second word. Electrified by the cavalier's voice, he was on his feet at a bound. Cristoval had not reached the door leading into the court, which he must cross to gain Rava's apartment, before the boy was beside him, grunting as he slipped the loop of the bow-string into its notch. Cristoval halted, listening. Without were movement and suppressed voices. As he put hand to the bar to open, the fastenings creaked with the weight of some one trying. Across the court came the crash of blows upon another door.
Markumi gasped, "What is it, Viracocha?"
"Devilry!" answered Cristoval. "The house is surrounded. Cañares, I think." The words were not uttered before the room reverberated with a rain of strokes upon the panels before them.
"Set an arrow!" said Cristoval, in Markumi's ear. "Stand clear of the door when I throw it open. Do not follow. Keep in the darkness, and shoot low."
Markumi hurriedly set his arrow, grateful that the darkness hid his shaking legs. The cavalier released the bar and sprang back. The door flew wide, letting in a sudden flare of torches, and two half-naked forms plunged in headlong. The first ran full upon Cristoval's point. The second was shot through by Markumi. With a shout a throng filled the doorway. A javelin whizzed past Cristoval's ear; another, and another. Markumi's bow twanged, a Cañare fell, and the cavalier dashed forward, his buckler ringing with the quick thrusts of spears, his sword playing swift and deadly. A gasp or moan followed every lunge at the unarmored bodies. Shielding his head he pressed close upon the group, cut through, and was in the open. A pause of half a second, and he found himself the centre of a confused surging of warriors, their limbs and dark, ferocious faces illumined by the dancing light of torches. The court seemed full, resounding with the uproar from savage throats. Now a fiercer yell, and they closed. So dense the mass none dared hurl his javelin, but they pressed from all sides, and for an instant Cristoval staggered under the impact of their weapons upon his shield and mail. As they rushed, shriek upon shriek, half smothered by the walls of the opposite wing of the villa, cut to his heart with a sudden deadly chill—Rava!
The chill was followed by a flame more quick, and Cristoval became a demon. He charged into the thickest, thrusting from beneath his upraised buckler, the thin, glimmering steel finding flesh at every stroke. It flashed low, reaching its mark under lifted arms: a dull ray of light, with the velocity of light itself; a chameleon's tongue, its gleam barely seen for its fatal quickness. For a moment he seemed to struggle hopelessly. Hedged about, he labored heavily, impeded by mere weight of numbers, lacerated from elbow to shoulder by their spears, the grip of his weapon slippery with his own blood. Hands clutched to wrench his buckler from his grasp. Once it was swept aside, and he looked into the eyes of a Cañare in the head-gear of a chieftain: saw the glitter of a falling axe. It fell, glanced from his helmet, and struck with stunning force upon his shoulder—by the grace of Heaven, not upon his right! The chief went down, his naked body run through, and the circle widened. A javelin glanced from the shield, and impaled a Cañare beyond. Another, thrown with terrific force, shivered against his breastplate.