“Ah,” said Don Ernesto, breaking the silence of stupefaction which had enthralled them, “I was right. Now we shall see something. It is their great festival. The fast has come to an end.”
“Look,” said Jack excitedly, “Who is that?”
He pointed to a figure, upright amidst all those kneeling figures, the only dark spot, moreover, amidst those gaily-clad hosts. He wore a robe descending to his feet, so darkly crimson that it appeared to be black.
“That,” said Don Ernesto, “is the Inca.”
But Jack had run back to the table and picked up the field glasses which he had placed there on retiring the night before.
“No. The Inca?” he cried. “Why, it is—No, not Prince Huaca, but he looks so much like him. Yet he is older. And, wait. There is Prince Huaca near him. Look, Father, that man on the left.”
Meantime, a fascinating ceremony was transpiring in the square. From the hands of Vestal Virgins, clothed all in white, the Inca took two great golden goblets filled with wine. Lifting the one in his right hand to the sun, as if drinking a pledge, he set it to his lips. Then, solemnly, he poured the wine from the goblet into a wide-mouthed jar of gold.
“Why is he doing that, I wonder?” cried Frank. “Do you know, Don Ernesto?”
“I don’t know for certain. But I believe the wine is supposed to flow through a golden conduit into the Temple. Thus the Sun may drink the wine pledged to him.”
Next the Inca drank from the goblet in his left hand. Then turning to the nearest of the kneeling figures, those wearing capes of darkest crimson, of which there were eight, including Prince Huaca, he poured out the remainder of the wine into goblets which they held extended.