Ignoring the salutes of the two sentinels of the royal guard, Mendoza lounged into the audience room and stood leaning against the wall near the door. It was a spacious apartment, resplendent with the usual profusion and wealth of mural decoration thus far left undisturbed by Pizarro’s rapacious followers. At the farther end of the hall an assemblage of natives stood at some distance from the throne, on which was seated the young Inca Manco. Behind him stood a group of nobles, and at his side, on a lower seat, was Almagro, commandant of the city in the absence of Pizarro, then on an expedition to the coast. On the left of the throne, in the front line of nobles, were Juan and Gonzalo Pizarro, recently superseded in command by Almagro, and now alcaldes of Cuzco. These three officials, with eight Spanish regidores, constituted the municipal government established by Pizarro. To the Inca had been left the insignia of sovereignty, and little more. He had the privilege of his councils and the conduct of his realm so far as these did not conflict with Spanish interests; but, as now, the Conquistadors were at his elbow in humiliating censorship. The Inca Manco was a youth of twenty years, though his serious and resolute expression made him look more mature. He resembled his half-brother Atahualpa, but his countenance, of a finer type, was lacking in the other’s fierceness, and in its delicate modelling was more like that of the Ñusta Rava. As he sat listening to the _curaca_ of a distant town who had brought a case for adjudication, he wore an air of thoughtful gloom. The lines of care about his mouth and eyes vanished when he spoke, announcing his judgment in brisk, quiet tones, full of decision and confidence. The decree was favorable to the speaker, and as the latter uttered his gratitude the Inca spoke again briefly and in lowered voice, his face alight with a trace of pleasure. The _curaca_ retired, and the next, an aged man, advanced with hesitation, and having knelt with head bowed to the floor, seemed unable to finish his obeisance, but remained prostrate. The Inca said kindly, the customary address strangely inconsistent with their disparity of age, "Rise, my son, rise! We are waiting." The old man rose painfully, and in a voice unsteady with age and emotion, told of outrage that brought hot blood to his sovereign’s cheek. The night before—he had been waiting all day to make his complaint—his house had been broken into by a Viracocha soldier, and his granddaughter carried away. His voice rose as he finished, and he tottered forward to the dais, extending his trembling old hands in appeal. "In the name of the God who shineth in mercy upon us both, Sapa Inca, I pray to you for vengeance! She is but a child—a mere child—and the light of mine old life. Grant that your just wrath shall fall upon the head accursed of the son of that wholly accursed race."