“A moment, Señor. Your friend the Inca would seem to have forgotten that he left certain hostages with me in pledge for his return. I did not tell him what would befall them if he broke faith with me, but I will send one or two meaner prisoners that I have in my hands to him at once, to tell him that unless he is back here, alone and unarmed, by sunset to-morrow they shall be taken out at sunrise into the great square, and there, in the presence of the army, they shall be stripped and flogged and then shot to death with arrows. That is their doom, and I will abate no jot of it.” “Then, Señor,” said de Molina, his ruddy face white to the lips, and his whole frame trembling with passion at the atrocious words, “if that is your irrevocable decision you have no need to release any of your prisoners to take the tidings of it to the Inca, for we ourselves will take it, as we have already pledged our Christian faith and knightly honour to do.” “How? What mean you? You will take it?” exclaimed Don Hernando, staring at him in blank astonishment. “Surely, Señores, this is neither time nor place for jesting.” “It is a jest that we are ready to put a point to with our swords, Señor,” replied de Molina, clapping his hand on his sword-hilt. “If it will please you to hear my story I will make few words of it, and my meaning shall be plain enough. “When I met the Inca on the other side of the river he pointed out what was plain enough to see, that our lives were at his mercy. Then he told me of the pledge that he had left behind him in your hands, and he offered us our lives and liberties in exchange for those of his mother and his betrothed, and we, seeing no better way out of the business, accepted the offer.” “How now, Señor?” cried Don Hernando angrily. “Whose authority had you to make such terms?” “The authority of necessity, Señor,” replied de Molina, bowing slightly, “and if you know of a better you may tell us.” “Whether I know of a better or not, I tell you that I will not recognise it!” cried Don Hernando, bringing his fist down on the table. “The lives of the women are forfeit, and they shall die unless Manco returns. I have sworn it.” “And we have sworn, Señor,” exclaimed de Soto, stepping forward again, “that these ladies shall be sent scathless to Yucay, or that we will ourselves return according to our oath. Is that not so, Caballeros?” The others bowed, and de Candia, placing himself between de Soto and de Molina, said in his deep, powerful voice-- “It seems to me, Don Hernando, that unless you think we are standing here lying to you, you are setting the gratification of a needless and cruel revenge against the honour and safety of four Christian knights and gentlemen of Spain. It is yet to be seen whether the Council of the Army will endure that, and if they do, whether the soldiers will. It maybe that they will think there is shame enough on our army already.”