The devils!” Dick wrenched ont his revolver, but the old man gripped his wrist.

“Quiet, you fool! We can’t save the child now, and if you make a sign we shan’t save her either. If you can’t stand it, get out!”

The young engineer controlled himself.

“It’s too horrible! Poor little Christobal! My God, why can’t they kill us all and have done with it!”

“You should be ashamed of yourself, talking like that,” said the madman. “When a man has nerves like a woman he shouldn’t come to the Temple of Death.”

After that one terrible cry, all was silence again. Nobles, virgins, young men and curacas continued their slow progress round the Temple. Behind them entered the amautas, sages who teach the children of the Incas; the Red Ponchos, who surrounded the altar like a sacred guard. None of them carried visible arms. The high dignitaries of the court followed, wearing the blanchana, a flowing tunic of light bark, painted in vivid colors. Each man carried a barbaric emblem with wide-open jaws, designed to frighten away all evil spirits.

Dick thought that Maria-Teresa was entering, but then saw that the litter borne on the shoulders of nobles was occupied by a figure which he did not at first recognize. His robe and sandals seemed of solid gold, and his ears were weighted down with enormous ear-rings, reaching almost to the shoulders. About his head was the royal llantu, a multi-colored turban of delicate tissue, and his forehead was further adorned by the kingly borla, the heavy scarlet and gold fringe of which partly hid his eyes. Two coraquenque plumes towered above the crown.

As he descended from his litter, aided by two pages, and slowly mounted the steps of the golden pyramid, the assembly bent to its knees. At the summit of the pyramid, he paused gravely, took his seat on the golden throne, and gave the Aimara greeting:—“Dios anki tiourata.”

Then all rose to their feet, while he sat motionless, like a graven image.

“The bank-clerk!” exclaimed Dick, as he faced toward the hidden watchers.

They had before them Huayna Gapac Runtu, King of the Incas.

“The god is seated in all his light!” chanted the assembly in unison, repeating the words three times. Then the wail of the quenias filled the air, and the religious cortÈge entered the temple, led by the four Guards of the Sacrifice, their heads erect now, for the sacred bonnets hid no secret. Behind them walked another Red Poncho, bearing in his hands a mass of knotted cords. Dick recognized the Preacher of Cajamarca, head of the quipucamyas, or Keepers of the Historic Word. Then came Huascar, in the saffron-colored vestments of the high-priest, preceded by lesser dignitaries of the church, while four curacas held over him a canopy of brilliant-hued plumes. All bowed before Huascar; the Inca alone was above him.

From the high-priest’s stern face and somber eyes, Dick looked to his hands, to see if they were red with the blood of sacrifice. He felt a wild desire to shoot him down there, to kill him like a mad dog among his priests and servitors.

The mammaconas advanced, chanting. He could not at first see Maria-Teresa, hidden from view by black veils, rhythmically waved about her. The movement ceased and the women parted, leaving the way clear for the two among them who were to die and who advanced with uncovered faces, smiling like happy children.

The quenias ceased their song, and the second litter was brought forward in solemn silence. Dick shivered. Was Maria-Teresa dead or alive? He hoped vainly that her litter might pass close to him, as had Huascar’s canopy. From where he was, she seemed as inert and lifeless as the mummy monarch beside her, and little Christobal was no longer in her arms. That part of her face left uncovered by the golden robe and head-dress was tomb-like in its pallor, and her eyes were closed.

The double throne was set down between the altar and the pyres; Huascar took his seat on the right of the altar, and the chief of the qui-pucamyas on the left; the mammaconas stood on the altar-steps. The two who were to die, their black veils discarded for dainty holiday attire, with flowers in their tresses, knelt at Maria-Teresa’s feet. The nobles and the curacas were ranged round the temple with the virgins and young men. The three Guardians of the Temple closed the doors. No others might enter, for the common people, forbidden the sight of these mysteries, waited far away, in the Corridors of Night, until the priests should return to lead them back through the labyrinth to the light of day.

Huascar rose, and his sonorous voice opened the ceremony.

“At the beginning was Pacahuamac, the Pure Spirit, who reigned in the darkness; then came his son, the Sun, and his daughter, the Moon; and Paeahuamac gave them armies, which are the Stars.

“Unto the Sun and Moon were born children. First were the Pirhuas, king-pontiffs; then the Amautas, pontiff-kings; and then the Incas, kings of kings, sent on earth to rule mankind.”

The assembly repeated Huascar’s words like a litany. When it was ended, young men brought a llama to the altar, and the Guardians of the Temple offered up the sacrifice. Huascar bent over the entrails.

“The gods are propitious,” he announced to the King.

At a sign from the throne, the chief of the quipucamyas rose to his feet, and in a few verses recalled the chief terrestrial episodes of the history of the Incas, the assembly chanting other verses in reply in the same monotonous rhythm, while the priest slipped the knots of the quipus through his fingers like a monk telling his beads.

When he reached the verse recounting Atahualpa’s martyrdom, a great shout went up in the temple. The King, from his throne, raised a sceptered hand, and spoke. The end of the bondage placed upon his people by the gods was near; he, Huayna Gapac Runtu, had been chosen by the Sun to drive out the strangers; and as a gage of his reconciliation with the faithful, the god had permitted them to offer him in sacrifice the noblest and most beautiful virgin of the hated race, a descendant of one of those who had murdered Atahualpa.

At the King’s words, all eyes were carried to Maria-Teresa, and a roar of “Muera la Coya!” beat round her. Was she not already dead, then? The savage cries did not even make her eyelids quiver. If she was still alive, she must be unconscious. Dick, falling to his knees, thanked heaven for that.

Again the King’s voice rose, telling the people that the day of deliverance was near; that their empire would be re-born in all its splendor. The altars of their god, served for centuries in the darkness, would soon smoke anew in his light. Once again would they be the Free Children of the Sun.

“Let the Children of the Sun advance!”

The young men approached the royal throne. For thirty days they had gone through the tests of yore; they had fasted, fought, displayed their skill in wrestling and with arms; they had worn coarse clothing, walked barefoot, and slept on the hard floor. Now they advanced in their white robes, the cross on their breasts, like young knights of the Middle Ages in the Gothic cathedrals of another faith and land.

They surrounded the golden pyramid and

Huascar, taking evergreen branches from a golden vase held by two virgins, bound them in their hair as a sign that the virtues they had acquired must last for all time. Then, one by one, he called their names to the King, who, as each young man knelt before him, pierced his ears with a golden awl. They descended, their white robes smeared with blood, while Huascar, from another vase, took heavy ear-rings, with which he adorned them. Nothing in the young faces betrayed their suffering. Then all raised their hands and took the oath of bravery and of fealty to the Inca.

“That is well,” said the King. “Let them now put on their sandals.”

This part of the ceremony was performed by the quipucamyas, the most venerable among them strapping on the young men’s feet the sandals of the Order of the Incas.

“That is well,” repeated the King. “Let them be given their girdles.” Again the old men passed down the ranks, buckling on the heavy war-belts.

“That is well,” said the King for the third time. “And I say unto you before the dead King and the Goya who is to die, that they may repeat it to your ancestors, that our race is still the first of all living races, for you are the pure Children of the Sun, without earthly leaven, the brother having always drunk the blood of the sister!”

The virgins advanced, taking the places of the young men on the steps of the throne, while fathers and brothers intoned the AÏmara Song of Triumph.

“The savages! The savages!” raged Dick, thinking only of vengeance now that he thought Maria-Teresa was dead. He balanced the revolver in his palm, hesitating. There were at all events Huascar and the King he could bring down; that would be some satisfaction. But suppose Maria-Teresa was not dead after all? He might still save her. For a moment he thought she had moved. He questioned Orellana in a whisper. “My daughter is very tired, and must be sleeping,” replied the madman.

Meanwhile the cap-skulled Guardian of the Temple had made a little incision on the throat of each virgin, gathering their blood in a gold ewer. When the cup was full, he touched it with his lips and handed it to the young men, among whom it passed from hand to hand, while the girls, proud of their light wounds, cried, “Glory to the Children of the Sun!”

“The cup is empty,” announced Huascar.

At his words the King rose, and holding up both arms to the heavens, implored the Sun to give the signal for the sacrifice.

Clouds of pungent incense rose from the burners, and gradually hid from view the azure disc overhead. The mammaconas who were to die, obeying the ritual, ran forward to the King’s feet.

“We implore you, O King, to stop all the smokes of the earth. They hide his face, and the Sun cannot give the signal for the sacrifice.”

At a sign from the figure on the golden pyramid, the burners were extinguished, and the spot of blue gradually reappeared. The Guardians of the Temple, by the pyres, held in their hands metal mirrors, drawing the sun to a little heap of cotton in the center of each resinous pile. Thus did the god, of his own will, give the signal for the sacrifice! There were no stakes on the pyres, no chains; the victims must die willingly.

While the throng about them chanted prayers, the two mammaconas watched the pyres. They feared that the god might reject them; then they would live, shunned by all, until they disappeared. Their eyes, large with hope in the mercy of the divinity, anxiously awaited the first flicker of flame.

If the pyre destined to the thousand-year-old Coya did not take fire, it did not mean that the new one was distasteful to the god. It meant merely that the old one had not known how to please him, that she was not worthy of the sepulcher of fire, and that her body must be thrown to the black vultures in the mountains.

On this day, the first pyre to blaze up was that of the long-dead Coya. She was waiting. Songs rang out in her honor, and a purple veil which Dick had not yet noticed fell to the ground. A black gap showed in the wall, and in it could be seen the shadowy figure of the thousand-year-old queen, stiff in her scented wrappings.