“Humph!” said Pizarro, stroking his beard and looking steadily into Filipillo’s eyes. “That is a story which at another time and in another place I should much misdoubt, but here it will be none the worse for the proof. Caballeros,” he went on, turning to the others, “this is a matter which, true or false, brooks but little delay. Buckle on your swords and come with me. We will sift this to the bottom at once. What say you, Hernando?”
“As you say,” replied his brother. “Let us front the accuser with the accused.”
“There is no faith to be found in the heathen,” said Valverde the next moment. “It was but to be expected that, being conquered by arms, the Inca should seek to regain what he had lost by foul treachery and murder.”
“Powers of light and darkness!” growled Carvahal. “Treachery and murder! That was well put. May I have such an advocate as the holy father when my own good and bad deeds come to be assessed! Cuerpo de Cristo! I thought I was somewhat of a liar myself, but until the holy father and that heathen lad shall have settled which of the two is the greater, I will henceforth call myself a speaker of the truth. Well, let us go.”
“There are lies and lies, friend Carvahal,” whispered Riquelme, who was standing close beside him and heard the soliloquy, “and surely thou hast heard by this time of the end that justifies the means.”
“I know but one end and that is my sword-point, and as long as I can swing good steel I will see to it that it well justifies all the means that I may have to employ!” replied Carvahal with a chuckle, as he followed the Captain and the rest out of the room.
They left the house, Filipillo walking between Pizarro and his brother Hernando, and marched across the square to the House of the Serpent. By this time Asterre had given his message, the drum had beat to quarters, and every Spaniard in the city, drunk or sober, was standing to his arms as best he could.
Scarcely fifteen minutes had passed from Filipillo’s flight from the Inca’s sleeping-chamber to his return with Pizarro and his captains. Without any ceremony, and not even being announced, the Spaniards marched with heavy steps straight into the Inca’s presence. They found him seated in his chair, his face buried in his hands, and the Palla standing beside him speaking to him in vehement accents.
“There she is, Master, the priestess, the witch, the poisoner!” cried Filipillo as they entered. “She is even now telling the Inca to dissemble with you until her plot shall be executed.”
Mama-Zula turned as he spoke and faced them, her old eyes blazing again with the angry fires of youth, and her hands suddenly thrown up above her head.