They worked as if every second were of the utmost value, as indeed it was. The curtain was spread on the ground, and handfuls of gems tossed in, while Tamba had already tied some of the largest into a corner. Then Roger threw a few of the finest gold cups and bowls into the heap, while the priest added the disc. "Let the picture which holds the secret go too," he said bitterly. "Who knows? In years to come it may be the only sample of our writing which remains. It may outlive this fallen nation." "Pick up the curtain," cried Roger, and in a moment Tamba had it on his back, and was climbing through the opening. Then came the priest with the shirt of the unfortunate Alvarez, while Roger followed with his own jerkin well laden. They had as much now as they could well carry, and the addition of another load, which was fetched by one of the natives, completed their burden. "To the stage," said Roger, shortly. "And, priest, can we trust these men?" "They will die rather than break their promise to me, or harm you," was the answer. "You have the Spaniards alone to fear. Forward, and let us get out of this awful city. The ruins strike grief into my mind. I would that I had been killed at the commencement rather than live to see this fair place levelled in ruins. Forward to the stage." They staggered down the stairs, out through the garden, and then by a little-known corridor through the palace. Then they had to traverse a few streets before reaching the landing-stage. Thousands of natives were about, but these took no notice of the party, seeing their comrades with it. Soon the stage was in sight, and Roger gave vent to a cry of dismay. "The Spaniards are there already," he said with a groan. "They will cut us off. Look, they are bearing down with their swords and their pikes." "Roger! Roger de Luce!" A tall man, dressed in the native costume, but obviously one of the Englishmen, stood on the very edge of the stage shouting for our hero. Beside him lay one of the double canoes with a crew of rowers, while farther off in the water street others lay on their oars, containing the king and other nobles. But none would leave till the white cacique had come. Philip stood there, port-fire in hand, shouting his name, while he eyed the two cannon which had been captured early in the siege. Little ammunition remained, and that had been carefully husbanded for the very last occasion. Philip had trained the guns on that part by which the Spaniards would approach, and he stood there, watching them as they ran, prepared to fire at them, and so give his friend a few seconds more in which to reach the boats. "He is killed!" he shouted in despairing tones. "He must be dead, or he would have come before. But I will not stir yet. Blow the horn again. Sound another note, and let us see if that will not bring him." "He is here already. See! He and his party come, and they have the treasure."