A strong arm brushed the curtains aside sufficiently to admit its owner's passage, but the armed warrior stopped short at sighting the Sun Children, his proud head lowering, hands crossing over his broad bosom in token of adoration,—for it surely was more than mere submission to one held his superior.
With a low cry, Victo drew back a bit, weapon lowering as she recognised friend in place of enemy.
“It is you, Aztotl?” she spoke, in mellow tones. “I thought—did you remove the usual guards, this evening?”
“The blame falls to my share, Sun Child,” the Red Heron made answer, with a meekness strange in one of his build and general appearance, that of a king among ordinary warriors.
“Not justly, nor through fault of your own, my good and true friend,” the elder woman made haste to give assurance. “Not even thy lips shall speak slander of Aztotl the True-heart, my brother.”
With a swift advance the Red Heron caught the unarmed hand, to bend over it until his lips barely brushed the soft, perfumed skin. Then he sank to one knee, bowing his head until his brow touched the floor beneath her sandalled feet.
Swiftly, gracefully, these movements were made, and where they would have appeared fulsome or degraded in some, with this warrior the effect was far from disagreeable to see or to experience.
Victo flushed warmly and drew back a little farther, for the memory of those words let fall by Gladys came back with unpleasant distinctness. And was she so certain that Aztotl looked upon her as merely a god-descended priestess?
The Red Heron arose easily, head rising proudly above his shapely shoulders as he met those great blue eyes,—eyes as pure and as fathomless as the cloudless sky in midsummer.
And then, more like one giving a bare statement of facts than one offering a defence for himself, Aztotl spoke of a faithless subordinate, who was guilty of either careless neglect, or worse.