The Inca was a brave man but he hesitated between his desire to call out and his superstitious fear.
“Thou Inca—earth flesh and not from the skies—to the truth that Raymi is merciful and his messenger is even the same thou dost owe thy life. Look!”
As he spoke the last word in a low, sharp voice, Bill drew aside the hangings. Cliff had wedged a colored-fire stick in a crack of the stones of the corridor: at the approach of the agreed signal he struck a match and ignited it: it flared up in a vivid, weird green that lighted up the space brilliantly. Cliff quickly assumed a posture with arms folded, the light behind him picking out his glowing hair and coloring it strangely.
No wonder the Inca cringed: he had built up a cult of belief that now claimed his own mind. He fell back a step.
“Say on, Chasca!” said Bill, (“And make it quick!” he added in English).
Cliff spoke the lines he had practiced all afternoon.
“Inca,” he said in quichua, “twice today you have tried to slay. Raymi does not wish a sacrifice. I am sent to save your corn. Release, then, Caya—or my wrath shall smite!”
Bill saw that the short, green color-fire must go out. He dropped the curtain swiftly just as it did so. Cliff, aware of his part, snatched the wooden butt from its place and retired to the steps, out of sight.
“Chasca——” began the Inca.
“You speak too late!” Bill declared, again snatching away the concealing drapery. The Inca’s eyes bulged. Gone was the light and the bright-haired figure.