Clearly the Inca was impressed. Bill seemed so sincere. Mr. Whitley was smiling. The three chums were standing erect in poses of confidence.
“Within a day your corn will be on the way to security,” Bill said as Mr. Whitley whispered swift words. “Complete your feast and tomorrow you shall see that we speak truth!”
Cliff ran past them all, caught the shrinking, veiled figure and beckoned Caya.
“Go back to our house,” he said. “Caya—take her! We’ve won!”
CHAPTER XVII
FROM BAD TO WORSE
When Cliff returned to his friends he saw that they had been joined by a tall, cold-eyed Indian noble. He and the high priest were exchanging frowning glances: it seemed evident that they disliked each other. Mr. Whitley was whispering hurriedly to Bill. The high priest turned toward Cliff with a sharp word but Bill advanced, held up his hand, and faced the Inca.
“Oh, royal son of the Sun,” he began, loudly enough to be heard by many nobles gathered nearby, “Chasca’s servant brings report. There was no destruction of your corn by insects, as Huamachaco, your high priest, told you. The corn grew sick because the earth it grows in has become tired and must be made fruitful once more.”
“That is not so!” shouted the high priest, forgetting his dignity in his anger.
Bill paid no attention.
“Oh, Inca,” he went on, “here, beside me, is one you trust. Is it not so?”