“He is my friend and master, O king.”
Montezuma started. “Holy gods, what madness! My people have sought you far and wide to feed you to the tiger in the tank.”
Hualpa faltered not.
“O king, I know I am charged with the murder of Iztlil’, the Tezcucan. Will it please you to hear my story?”
And taking the assent, he gave the particulars of the combat, not omitting the cause. “I did not murder him,” he concluded. “If he is dead, I slew him in fair fight, shield to shield, as a warrior may, with honor, slay a foeman.”
“And you carried him to Tecuba?”
“Before the judges, if you choose, I will make the account good.”
“Be it so!” the monarch said, emphatically. “Two days hence, in the court, I will accuse you. Have there your witnesses: it is a matter of life and death. Now, what of your master, the ’tzin?”
The question was dangerous, and Hualpa trembled, but resolved to be bold.
“If it be not too presumptuous, most mighty king,—if a slave may seem to judge his master’s judgment by the offer of a word—”