As Naida, stealing close to Kirby, trembled, and even the abased caciques trembled, Kirby himself felt as if icy water was trickling over him.
He fought the sensation off. For suddenly he knew that in spite of first impressions which made the man seem a living god, the old Duca was human. And what was more, he was in the wrong. All of which being true, the thing to do was keep a level head and fight.
All at once Kirby spoke across the silence in the great room.
“I have sent for you,” he said, weighing words carefully.
“And I,”—the Duca’s voice was mellow and deep—“have come. But I am not here because you summoned me.”
“Oh!” Kirby let sarcasm edge his words. “Well, I won’t quibble about your motives for coming. Did my messenger tell you why we are here and demand your presence?”
“Your messenger,” the old man said calmly, “told me.”
“Very well. Do you consent to listen to Naida’s and my terms? If you will listen—”
“But wait a moment,” the Duca interrupted, still calmly, but with a look in his eyes which Kirby did not like. “Are you asking me, to my face, whether I will listen to terms which you offer as self-styled victor of a battle with my caciques?”