Clad in robes of filmy material which glimmered white beside the gray robes of his underlings, the Duca wore about his waist the living flame of a girdle composed of alternate cut diamonds and blood red rubies each larger than a golf ball. And Kirby, searching for comparisons, realized that the Duca's face, upheld to others, would be as remarkable as his jewels must be when compared to ordinary gems. It was a chiseled face, seamed by a thousand wrinkles, which a god might have carved from ivory before endowing it with the flush and glow of life. A mane of snow white hair cascaded back from a tremendous forehead to fall about thin but square shoulders and mingle with the downward sweep of pure white beard. The eyes, black as polished jet, flamed now with the glare of baleful fires. 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?" Kirby nodded. His apprehension increased. "Ah," said the Duca softly. And then, amazingly, a smile deepened every wrinkle of his parchment face. "But do you not remember that I said I had _not_ come here because you summoned me?" "Yes," Kirby said solidly. "I remember very well." "The thing which brought me here was the failure of my followers to accomplish an assignment which I had given them--namely, that of ending your life." "Hum." Kirby scratched behind his ear. "You are _not_ interested in arranging terms of peace, then." "I am here,"--suddenly the Duca's voice filled the room--"to do that which my priests were unable to do. And the moment has come when the Gods will no longer trifle with you. You dog! You thieving intruder! You--" Swiftly the Duca plunged one withered but still powerful hand into the folds of his robe above the flaming girdle. Then his hand flashed out, and in it he held-- * * * * *