"The Spaniards are there already," he said with a groan. "They will cut us off. Look, they are bearing down with their swords and their pikes."
"Roger! Roger de Luce!"
A tall man, dressed in the native costume, but obviously one of the Englishmen, stood on the very edge of the stage shouting for our hero. Beside him lay one of the double canoes with a crew of rowers, while farther off in the water street others lay on their oars, containing the king and other nobles. But none would leave till the white cacique had come. Philip stood there, port-fire in hand, shouting his name, while he eyed the two cannon which had been captured early in the siege. Little ammunition remained, and that had been carefully husbanded for the very last occasion. Philip had trained the guns on that part by which the Spaniards would approach, and he stood there, watching them as they ran, prepared to fire at them, and so give his friend a few seconds more in which to reach the boats.
"He is killed!" he shouted in despairing tones. "He must be dead, or he would have come before. But I will not stir yet. Blow the horn again. Sound another note, and let us see if that will not bring him."
"He is here already. See! He and his party come, and they have the treasure."
It was Teotlili who caught him by the sleeve and drew his attention to the approaching party. Then together they shouted to Roger and his bearers to hasten. A minute later all but Philip were safely aboard the canoe.
"The king?" gasped Roger, touching Teotlili's arm.
"He is there. All who are alive are aboard," was the answer. "Listen to the last shot of the siege."
He pointed to Philip, and Roger raised his head, watching his friend as he trained the weapons on the advancing Spaniards. He glanced along the sights, blew at his port-fire, and then waited till a musket bullet sped past his cheek. Then he touched the vents and leaped into the canoe.
"Row!" shouted Teotlili. "Row out into the lake!"