“I am the great king’s slave,—his poorest slave, but not of his guard.”
Montezuma regarded him attentively.
“It cannot be; an assassin would not have interfered with the ocelot. Take up the knife, and follow me.”
Hualpa obeyed. On the way they met a number of the guard running in great perplexity; but without a word to them, the monarch walked on, and into the palace. In a room where there were tables and seats, books and writing materials, maps on the walls and piles of them on the floor, he stopped, and seated himself.
“You know what truth is, and how the gods punish falsehood,” he began; then, abruptly, “How came you in the garden?”
Hualpa fell on his knees, laid his palm on the floor, and answered without looking up, for such he knew to be a courtly custom.
“Who may deceive the wise king Montezuma? I will answer as to the gods: the gardens are famous in song and story, and I was tempted to see them, and climbed the wall. When you came to the fountain, I was close by; and while waiting a chance to escape, I saw the ocelot creeping upon you; and—and—the great king is too generous to deny his slave the pardon he risked his life for.”
“Who are you?”
“I am from the province of Tihuanco. My name is Hualpa.”
“Hualpa, Hualpa,” repeated the king, slowly. “You serve Guatamozin.”