She drew herself up to her full height and pointed at us a slender finger.
“Go!” she said imperiously.
Never had we seen the girl in this mood before. Her eyes were cold and hard as rocks, her lips set with firm determination, her poise queenly and aggressive.
We turned slowly and left the august presence, realizing that Ama, however beautiful and bewitching she might be in repose, was a veritable tigress when aroused to defend the faith in which she had been reared.
Even the sky had grown dark during our interview, and the sun had withdrawn his face as if in shame that any benighted race should sacrifice human lives in his honor. The purple-gray mask of the sky was so unusual at this season of the year—perhaps at all seasons, so far as we knew—that it was little wonder the superstitious Tcha interpreted the sign as one of anger from their outraged deity, whose altar had been the scene of strife.
Returning to our friends we were loth to tell them of the fate in store for our honest blacks. Indeed, it was but a preface to the fate that awaited them all unless we could find a way to resist the all powerful Tcha. Finally, as the day drew on, Chaka had an idea and beckoned to Paul and me to follow him. We were permitted to go wherever we pleased, whereas the others were forbidden to leave their room.
“The High Priest is gentle,” whispered the atkayma, when we were outside. “Let us plead with him.”
We knew that the old dotard dwelt in the most splendid suite in the building, so we made our way toward it. A guard informed us that his Highness was ill, and could not be disturbed. We tried to argue the point, but the man would not relent. No one but Ama might intrude upon his master.
Saddened by this rebuff we wended our way back to our wing, only to confront another disappointment. Orders had been received from the High Priestess to forbid our mingling with the sacrificial devotees. We were to be allowed the privileges of every citizen of the valley, but the laws forbade a citizen from associating with those condemned to the sacrifice.
And here was our old acquaintance the Waba Pagatka guarding the passage with a file of his soldiers, all fully armed. Protest was useless, and so helpless did we feel that our eyes, as we gazed at one another, were filled with black despair.