"Stand on your haughty pride," Francis instructed him. "Decline the drink. Show them the inside of your helmet."
"I will not drink!" Torres cried, half in a panic as the priest turned to him.
"You shall drink. If you are Da Vasco, the divine capitan from the sun, we will then know it and we will fall down and worship you."
Torres looked appeal at Francis, which the priest's narrow eyes did not fail to catch.
"Looks as though you'll have to drink it," Francis said dryly. "Anyway, do it for the lady's sake and die like a hero."
With a sudden violent strain at the cords that bound him, Torres jerked one hand free, pulled off his helmet, and held it so that the priest could gaze inside.
"Behold what is graven therein," Torres commanded.
Such was the priest's startlement at sight of the inscription, DA VASCO, that the pitcher fell from his hand. The molten gold, spilling forth, set the dry debris on the ground afire-, while one of the spearmen, spattered on the foot, danced away with wild yells of pain. But the Sun Priest quickly recovered himself. Seizing the fire pot, he was about to set fire to the faggots heaped about his three victims, when the little maid intervened.
"The Sun God would not let the great captain drink the drink," she said. "The Sun God spilled it from your hand."
And when all the Lost Souls began to murmur that there was more in the matter than appeared to their priest, the latter was compelled to hold his hand. Nevertheless was he resolved on the destruction of the three intruders. So, craftily, he addressed his people.