"Silence!" Nocobotha murmured; "It must be."
The matchi, insensible to the yells of the victim, selected the spot where he was to strike, looked at the day star with an inspired air, raised his knife, and laid open the pulquero's chest. Then, while the victim writhed in agony, and the priests collected the blood which poured in a stream, the matchi plucked out his heart, and held it up to the sun, like the host in Catholic churches.
At this moment all the Ulmens mounted the scaffold, and seating Nocobotha on the throne, raised him on their shoulders, shouting enthusiastically—
"Long live the new Emperor! Long live the Son of the Sun!"
The priests sprinkled the crowd with the blood of the victim, and the Indians filled the air with deafening shouts.
At length Nocobotha exclaimed, "I have restored the Empire of the Incas, and freed my race!"
"Not yet!" Doña Concha said to him, triumphantly. "Look!"
The gauchos, who had hitherto been impassive spectators of the ceremony, suddenly dashed at a gallop upon the defenceless Indians, while through all the streets poured Argentine troops, who had arrived from Buenos Aires, and all the windows were lined with white men, who fired at the mob. In the centre of the square could be recognized Don Sylvio d'Arenal, Blas Salazar Pedrito and his two brothers, who pitilessly massacred the Indians with shouts of "Exterminate the Pagans!"
"Oh!" Nocobotha exclaimed, brandishing his totem with a trembling hand, "What treachery!" He tried to fly to the help of his people, but he tottered and fell on his knees; his eyes were covered by an ensanguined mist; a devouring fire burnt his entrails. "What is the matter?" he asked himself in despair.
"You are dying, Don Torribio," Doña Concha whispered in his ear, as she seized his arm forcibly.