The Cañare repeated his words with better effect,—with immediate and startling effect, for Juan turned with a shout to his companions: "Dost hear, Gonzalo? Do ye hear, Caballeros? The Inca hath fled the city!" He kicked the ribs of his horse and galloped madly to the palace of Viracocha, across the great court and into the hall that served as a guard-room, filling it with the clamor of hoofs, and throwing its occupants into confusion. They seized their arms in a panic. "Ho! The trumpeter!" he roared. "Out, and sound to horse! Out, and sound to horse! _Presteza_! _Salta_! To horse! To horse!" He went out like a whirlwind. Before he had reached his quarters the shrill, quick notes were rising from the square. Again, and again, and again the stirring measure, and the stable was alive with men, tossing saddles, tugging at straps, swearing, and panting in a frenzy. One after another, and by twos and threes, the mailed riders swung into saddle, seized lances from the rack, and clattered out into the plaza. The line formed rapidly, and the plunging, kicking, and head-tossing of the excited steeds had hardly subsided before it was in column and, led by Juan Pizarro, took up a trot behind the Cañare. The gloomy walls of the violated convent were growing gray in the dawn as the cavalcade roared past down the narrow, echoing streets and through the suburbs. It was late afternoon when the troop reëntered Cuzco. It moved at a walk, and hanging on the pommel of the commander’s saddle was the _llautu_ of the Inca Manco. In the foremost rank of the column was a trooper without his helmet, with a bloody bandage across his face below the eyes. A weapon had passed the bars of his visor. Farther back was another, shorn of a pauldron and his right arm useless. In the rear, two Cañares carried a third on an improvised litter, dead. But in the middle of the column, between double files of troopers, marched the Inca and the Lord Mayta, blood-stained, bandaged, their arms bound behind their backs. Horses, riders, and the two prisoners, were splashed with mud. Manco walked with head erect, without a glance at the Cañares who hurried into the street as the cavalcade traversed the suburb Munaycenca. Nor did he more than glance at his grief-stricken subjects who cast themselves moaning upon the pavement. Not a line of his stern young face betrayed his emotion at entering the capital a prisoner, nor his torture of mind at the disaster thus befallen his people on the very eve of the stroke for their deliverance. From Munaycenca the news flew ahead. Cañares gathered, too stolid for manifestation, and knots of Spaniards, whom a sign from Juan Pizarro warned into silence. But throughout the remainder of the march every door was closed, and no native of Cuzco looked out upon the fallen majesty of their Inca.