Pedro shook his head and stumped on without reply. Passing between two of the battalions, they reached the margin of the plain, and skirting it, drew near the battlements. Three fires were burning brightly, and the two Spaniards caught the pungent, resinous odor of boiling pitch rising from kettles suspended over the flames. Between these and the parapet was a group of officers, and a few paces in their front stood a cloaked figure, motionless and alone. The firelight flashed on the golden eagle of the helmet, and Cristoval recognized the Inca. Halting at a short distance from the fires, the cavalier looked over the scene in mystification. Again he demanded:—
"What is to do, Pedro? Canst guess? They are heating pitch! Madre! Is there to be torture?"
"God knoweth!" said Pedro. "Wait!"
With the exception of a small party of soldiers around the kettles, no man was moving. No word was spoken, unless by these, and their tense, suppressed tones added to the pervading air of mystery. Two were feeding the fires, while the rest were kneeling or bending over some task whose nature Cristoval could not discern. Presently he saw three or four rise to string their bows. Aside from their whispers and muttering and the crackling of the fires, the only sound was the sighing of the rising wind; and now, from the shadowy city far below, the sweet, distant wail of a Spanish bugle blowing an evening call. Out in the dark valley, beyond the dim reticulation of black streets and pale roofs, was the great cincture of watch-fires, glimmering and twinkling as cheerfully as if their omen were as peaceful as the stars. But the night, even in its placidity, seemed portentous, and Cristoval felt a sense of dread as he glanced from the kettles with their wizard-like attendants to the silent, muffled figure of the Inca.
"God's mercy, Pedro!" he whispered, with a sign of the cross, "what is doing? What hell's broth do they brew? Not—"
Pedro gripped his arm as a soldier stepped to a kettle, holding an arrow swathed in cotton, and turned toward the Inca. The monarch made a sign, and thrusting the missile into the boiling pitch, the archer drew it forth and held it to the flames. It burst into instant blaze, and he strode hastily to the parapet, set it to his bowstring, and drew until the flame licked his hand. He shot, and with a fluttering hiss the burning arrow soared high into the darkness, leaving a trail of falling sparks, paused for an instant against the firmament, and fell with ever-increasing swiftness into the city.
Cristoval had uttered an exclamation of horror as the meaning burst upon him, and had taken a stride forward, to be jerked forcibly back by Pedro with a hand over his mouth.
"Silence!" muttered the cook. "Dost think to hinder?"
"They are firing the city!" gasped the cavalier.
"Canst prevent it? Beware!"