"Auqui Paullo," cried the general, "there is no moment to lose! Assemble the women and get them to the gate. Hasten!" Mocho in armor was unrecognized. Paullo wrenched himself free and demanded angrily, "Who art thou?" "Oh, Supay!—I am Mocho! Fly, Paullo!—Cristoval; do not tarry. Lead the Ñusta to the gate." Paullo stared for a second, then hurried out to collect the rest of the household. Mocho turned to the wailing women. Cristoval was gently forcing Rava toward the door when Father Valverde, as suspicious of the cavalier as of any other soldier, interposed. Planting himself in front of the two, he commanded sternly:— "Peralta, forbear! Release the maiden. She remaineth here." Cristoval surveyed him in astonishment and anger. "Remaineth here, priest! Art mad? Out of the way!" "Release her!" commanded Valverde, advancing to restrain her. Cristoval interposed his buckler and thrust him roughly back. "Release her!" thundered the bishop. "Pass me on pain of the wrath of the Church, her holy guardian! Rava, beware this man, and remember thy promise! Peralta, this maiden is for no man." The cavalier laughed in his face. "Stand aside!" he cried, savagely. "Thou’rt in peril, Valverde!" Valverde raised his hand in menace. "_Excommunicabo te—_" he began solemnly; and Cristoval blanched, then replied, fiercely:— "Excommunicate and be damned! I defy thee! By what right this interference? Aside! lest I forget thy gown." He strode past. Valverde, white with passion, would have sprung upon him, but Mocho, furious at delay, thrust himself between with his sword at the bishop’s breast, his eyes blazing with vindictiveness. "Back, Viracocha, or by the great Inti, I will lay thee open!" Valverde recoiled, and Cristoval hurried to the door with Rava, followed by the women, whom Mocho drove after them with scant ceremony. They were soon at the gate with all of the household that could be collected. But many of the terrified women had hidden themselves, and there was no time to search. Outside, the conflict was still raging. The Antis were holding the breastwork with desperate valor and determination, Abul Hassan at the front, for the hour a madman, a Moslem fanatic: pity the Spaniard who came within reach of his terrible blade. Ocallo and Markumi, with the other armored Antis, fought beside him, tigers. At the gate the street was a mere madness of warriors struggling to the places of those who fell.