One of the severest tests of the courage of Pizarro came when he led his little band out of the last defile of the mountains and saw, from the eminence on which they stood, the beautiful valley of Cajamarca spread before his gaze, radiant in the flush of summer time, with broad fields showing the fruits of industrious husbandry, a prosperous little city nestling just below, and farther away, at the other side of the valley, on the sloping hillsides, the encampment of the Inca, apparently sheltering a mighty host. A member of that bold little company naïvely relates: “With a courageous countenance, after having thoroughly surveyed the scene, we descended to the valley, and entered Cajamarca.” One can easily imagine that behind the “courageous countenance” there was much sinking of the heart, as the invaders made their way down the mountain side! While they were descending, the sky became overcast, and the sunlit valley took on a gloomy aspect. Ominous clouds obscured the surrounding summits, which a few hours before had glistened like steel-armored sentinels under the rays of the sun. It was as if the breath of an unholy ambition had already poisoned the air and the approaching spectre of crime had thrown its awful shadow across the place of tragedy. Pizarro and his band entered Cajamarca on the afternoon of November 15, 1532. They found themselves in a city of considerable size, apparently the home of about ten thousand people, though, as the Spaniards rode through its streets, no one came out to welcome them, and they discovered that it had been entirely deserted by the inhabitants, “in order to give better accommodation to the distinguished visitors of the Inca,” as his messengers explained.