“That is well,” said the King for the third time. “And I say unto you before the dead King and the Goya who is to die, that they may repeat it to your ancestors, that our race is still the first of all living races, for you are the pure Children of the Sun, without earthly leaven, the brother having always drunk the blood of the sister!”
The virgins advanced, taking the places of the young men on the steps of the throne, while fathers and brothers intoned the Aïmara Song of Triumph.
“The savages! The savages!” raged Dick, thinking only of vengeance now that he thought Maria-Teresa was dead. He balanced the revolver in his palm, hesitating. There were at all events Huascar and the King he could bring down; that would be some satisfaction. But suppose Maria-Teresa was not dead after all? He might still save her. For a moment he thought she had moved. He questioned Orellana in a whisper. “My daughter is very tired, and must be sleeping,” replied the madman.
Meanwhile the cap-skulled Guardian of the Temple had made a little incision on the throat of each virgin, gathering their blood in a gold ewer. When the cup was full, he touched it with his lips and handed it to the young men, among whom it passed from hand to hand, while the girls, proud of their light wounds, cried, “Glory to the Children of the Sun!”
“The cup is empty,” announced Huascar.
At his words the King rose, and holding up both arms to the heavens, implored the Sun to give the signal for the sacrifice.
Clouds of pungent incense rose from the burners, and gradually hid from view the azure disc overhead. The mammaconas who were to die, obeying the ritual, ran forward to the King’s feet.
“We implore you, O King, to stop all the smokes of the earth. They hide his face, and the Sun cannot give the signal for the sacrifice.”
At a sign from the figure on the golden pyramid, the burners were extinguished, and the spot of blue gradually reappeared. The Guardians of the Temple, by the pyres, held in their hands metal mirrors, drawing the sun to a little heap of cotton in the center of each resinous pile. Thus did the god, of his own will, give the signal for the sacrifice! There were no stakes on the pyres, no chains; the victims must die willingly.
While the throng about them chanted prayers, the two mammaconas watched the pyres. They feared that the god might reject them; then they would live, shunned by all, until they disappeared. Their eyes, large with hope in the mercy of the divinity, anxiously awaited the first flicker of flame.