“Whose shield is that, my lords?”
All eyes rested upon the plain gage, but no one replied.
“Who is he that thus mocks the holy cause of Quetzal’? Go, Maxtla, and bring him to me!”
Then outspake Iztlil’.
“The shield is Guatamozin’s. Last night he challenged me to this combat, and he is not here. O king, the owl may be looking for the eagle.”
A moment the sadly serene countenance of the monarch knit and flushed as from a passing pain; a moment he regarded the Tezcucan. Then he turned to the shields of the Othmies and Tlascalans.
“They are a sturdy foe, and I warrant will fight hard,” he said, quietly. “But such victims are the delight of the gods. Fail me not, O children!”
When the Tihuancan and his chaperone climbed half-way to the upper row of seats, in the quarter assigned to the people, the former was amazed. He looked down on a circular arena, strewn with white sand from the lake, and large enough for manœuvring half a thousand men. It was bounded by a rope, outside of which was a broad margin crowded with rank on rank of common soldiery, whose shields were arranged before them like a wall impervious to a glancing arrow. Back from the arena extended the staging, rising gradually seat above seat, platform above platform, until the whole area of the tianguez was occupied.
“Is the king a magician, that he can do this thing in a single night?” asked Hualpa.
Xoli laughed. “He has done many things much greater. The timbers you see were wrought long ago, and have been lying in the temples; the tamanes had only to bring them out and put them together.”