The priest succeeded in securing smoking embers and then a blaze. He turned and made a sign and as he did so Cliff grew tense.
From a little distance a figure was led, heavily covered with white garments and a long, tissue-like veil.
Cliff caught Challcuchima’s arm and gripped it tightly.
“What—what?” he stammered, and could not finish. He knew.
Challcuchima spoke quietly. They seldom made human sacrifices, to Raymi, but their corn was being destroyed; they hoped by this unusual proof of their religious ardor to placate the angry god.
“Remember,” Cliff’s voice shook and he could hardly recall the dialect he must use, “when we wrestled—you made a promise!”
Challcuchima seemed to guess what was coming. He drew back.
“I claim that promise, now—fulfil your promise,” gasped Cliff.
The high priest heard the raised voice. He paused in the work he did with the fire, and walked quickly to Challcuchima. The Inca, also, turned and frowned at Cliff.
Cliff, his dialect forgotten, spoke in English.