Suddenly old Datchapa threw up his arms and toppled backward. He was standing near the edge of the platform, so the people might observe his dignified form as he condemned the prisoners, and the result of his fall was that he began to bound down the steps in an inert heap, slowly at first and then with more rapid bumps and leaps until at last he fairly rose into the air and tumbled full upon the funeral pyre of the defunct Tcheltzada.
A cry of horror went up as priests and populace alike observed this dreadful scene, none able to interfere. If the gods approved the sacrifice it seemed like a queer way of attesting their delight.
There had been no sound of firearms, nothing to indicate from whence came the blow that had felled the royal Datchapa. While the consternation was at its height Chaka cried aloud:
“The gods disapprove! Beware, oh, Priests, the vengeance of the gods!”
For a silent, repressed people, the Itzaex now indulged in as near an approach to pandemonium as they will ever come. Some of the natives sided with the priests and some against them. The priests themselves were frantic with anger not unmixed with fear, and shrewdly realized their prestige was at this moment in sore jeopardy. Moreover, Chaka’s attitude was defiant; he claimed the whites as his friends, and whatever strange thing had happened to Datchapa might logically be attributed to his doing.
In a fit of unreasoning fury one of the triumvirate caught up the knife from the altar and leaping full upon the young atkayma strove to plunge it into his heart. The armor prevented the blade from penetrating, but the impact knocked Chaka from his feet and priest and potentate were now rolling together dangerously near to the steps. Ned caught Chaka’s leg and saved him, and as the priest clung to his victim and again raised the wicked blade to strike I sent a charge from my electrite against him and he quit the struggle then and there.
But it was war, now, and no mistake. With a savage growl the whole posse of priests was upon us, and what we did in the next few seconds startled us almost as much as it did our audience. Every man brought his electrite into full play and we mowed down the red-robed rascals like blades of grass. So effective was the electric current discharged that the victims had no time to even gasp: they simply tumbled down and lay still. Moreover, the charge spread at such close quarters, like small shot from a blunderbus, and one charge sometimes paralyzed three, or even four, at a time. A few fell upon the steps, but none experienced the sensational descent of old Datchapa. Before we realized it the platform was cluttered with motionless bodies and not one enemy remained erect or animate.
Our remarkable victory ought to have won the admiration and applause of the people; but it didn’t. On the contrary the natives burst into a hoarse roar of ferocious rage and with a single impulse started up the pyramid.
From all sides they rushed, vengeful and furious, and we decided not to await their coming.
“Turn on the stop-cocks and let more gas into your jackets,” said Paul. “Be careful not to get too much—just enough to float us comfortably.”