They reach the plain outside the town, pursued with relentless ferocity by the cavalry. The Inca’s troops, already in consternation at the uproar in the village, the shrieks, the cannonade, and the overhanging cloud of smoke, take the panic and scatter as chaff before the wind. In the square the din has lost its volume. Candia has ceased firing, for the smoke impedes his view of the shambles, where friends are endangered by his guns. Around the Inca the unequal struggle goes on under his horror-stricken eyes, and he stands, benumbed and helpless, tottering on his reeling litter. In the anguish of their despair his nobles cast themselves to death with a loyalty of devotion the gods might envy; but the bulwark they interpose before their beloved lord grows steadily less. Several of the Spaniards now are making frenzied efforts to reach him with their weapons, and one has hurled his pike. Pizarro sees the movement and shouts, hoarse with weariness, unheard and unheeded, "Strike not the Inca, on pain of death!" But he is heard by Cristoval, who, with two or three sick men, has been left as a guard for the priests, still at their supplications. Since the first thundering charge he has watched the long tragedy, at first with tense excitement at the onslaught, then with deepening horror and loathing when he saw the defencelessness of the Peruvians, until he has turned away, sick to his very soul, hating his race, his blood, his parentage, himself. He has cast his sword upon the ground. Now he seizes it and bounds toward the scene with a curse at every stride. The enclosing line of Spaniards has drawn near to the Inca. One of his bearers goes down, then another. The sedan plunges wildly and sinks, throwing its royal burden almost upon the weapons of his enemies. He is down. A pike is at his breast, but swept aside by Cristoval’s sword, whose savage thrust the infantryman barely escapes. An axe flashes overheard, and crashes upon Cristoval’s buckler. But Pizarro is beside him. As the general stretches out his hand to raise the Inca, a pike-thrust rips both hand and arm—the only wound, be it known to the everlasting infamy of this band of murderers, received by a Spaniard in the day’s affair! Pizarro’s voice rises above the tumult: "Back, dogs! Back, or, by God, ye shall suffer!" De Soto has dismounted, and dashes through the rabid pack. His buckler touches that of Cristoval, and the two shields ring with a shower of blows aimed at the Inca. It is minutes before the murderous zeal is quelled, and a circle cleared around the captive prince. A stillness has settled over the plaza—alas! not a stillness; for the din has given place to sounds yet more dreadful, in the shrieks and groans of the wounded and dying.