All was over before the Spaniards' second furious cry had had power to escape their lips. The next instant that elevated plateau was a scene of wild confusion.
Transported beyond himself, Cabrera had shot down the priest of sacrifice, dashed to the ground, insensible, two of the other black-robed ministers of the dismal faith, and then with his sword cut asunder the bonds binding a group of prisoners awaiting their turn on the jasper block.
Montoro had not been idle. At the point of the sword he had driven the remaining priests into the interior of the temple, flung into the fire the instrument of torture, and the instruments of music used to drown the wretched sufferers' cries, and then, with a far-echoing shout—"For the glory of the one true God!" he signed to the rescued captives, brandished his sword aloft, and, followed by the liberated train, the two Spaniards rushed down from the height, thrust a way for themselves and their bewildered companions through the gathering multitudes, with an impetuosity that bore down all obstacles, and with the happy Indian woman once more for guide, regained their own quarters.
The whole band of their comrades was astir, and within an hour of their stealthy departure Montoro de Diego and Cabrera, with the little group of Indians about them, once more stood in the courtyard of the lesser temple, surrounded by their Captain-General and the whole company of his followers.
[CHAPTER XXX.]
TOO USEFUL TO BE KILLED.
"General, I have disobeyed your orders, and I accept my punishment, and acknowledge its justice."
Those words were the first that were distinctly audible above the hubbub and din prevailing in the courtyard of the Spaniards' new encampment. But they were spoken by a singularly penetrating voice, and in cold, calm tones that had an almost incredible power of making themselves heard.
During the last half-hour the moon had dispelled the darkness of night, and was shining in a steel-blue, cloudless sky, with a brilliancy at least equal to the light of many a northern day. In the foreground glittered the waters of the great Gulf of Mexico; to the left the silver thread of a river wound in and out amidst a country luxuriant and fertile as a garden; the narrow streets of the city lay at their feet; above them still gloomed and glowed, like some evil eye, that fire on the summit of the great temple, and over all, away in the distant background, towered the 'everlasting hills' and the snow-crown of Citlaltepelt or Orizaba.