The fire had been replenished, and blazed up fiercely, and there, high up above the houses of the town, on the elevated platform, and illuminated by the ruddy glow, there now stood a group of men. As the Europeans gazed they perceived a stir amongst that group—one appeared to fall; there was a pause, the woman with another shuddering cry dropped her face into her hands. Then a far-off shout fell upon the two friends' ears, and they saw an upraised arm against the glowing background, a hand that held something—
"Is it a head?" muttered Cabrera.
But the woman once more hurried them on.
"But if he is already slain," questioned Montoro sadly, "what can we do more?"
"Perhaps he is not already sacrificed," came the anguished answer in broken Spanish. "There are many to die to-night to please the god; perhaps he still lives, and may be saved."
For that 'perhaps' the devoted champion of the oppressed, and his friend, continued their dangerous route. It might be to meet the fate that, only twenty-four hours before, Escalante had spoken of with such horror. But even if they escaped that, it would but be to receive death at the hands of their own countrymen. Montoro began to be sorely troubled. To save one man he had brought the life of another into jeopardy. After all, it might be that he did deserve Alvarado's accusation. He stood still again.
"Cabrera, I have done wrong."
"Well," was the calm answer. "A thought more wildly, perchance, than might have been looked for from the sensible Don Montoro. Shall we return?"
"You will," was the eager reply. "We have not as yet gone too far for you to find your way back easily."
"Oh—h," ejaculated Cabrera. "And for thyself?"