Forward went Hualpa, now the chief object of attraction to the monster. At last he was directly in front of it.
“Call the guard and fly! It is coming now!”
And through the garden rang the call. Verily, the hunter had become the king!
A moment after the ocelot lowered its head, and leaped. The Tihuancan had barely time to put himself in posture to receive the attack, his left arm serving as shield; upon his knee, he struck with the knife. The blood flew, and there was a howl so loud that the shouts of the monarch were drowned. The mantle was rent to ribbons; and through the feathers, cloth, and flesh, the long fangs craunched to the bone,—but not without return. This time the knife, better directed, was driven to the heart, where it snapped short off, and remained. The clenched jaws relaxed. Rushing suddenly in, Hualpa contrived to push the fainting brute into the tank. He saw it sink, saw the pool subside to its calm, then turned to Montezuma, who, though calling lustily for the guard, had stayed to the end. Kneeling upon the stained shells, he laid the broken knife at the monarch’s feet, and waited for him to speak.
“Arise!” the king said, kindly.
The hunter stood up, splashed with blood, the fragments of his tilmatli clinging in shreds to his arm, his tunic torn, the hair fallen over his face,—a most uncourtierlike figure.
“You are hurt,” said the king, directly. “I was once thought skilful with medicines. Let me see.”
He found the wounds, and untying his own sash, rich with embroidery, wrapped it in many folds around the bleeding arm.
Meantime there was commotion in many quarters.
“Evil take the careless watchers!” he said, sternly, noticing the rising clamor. “Had I trusted them,—but are you not of the guard?”