“Where is he? Where is he?” howled Carvahal as he rolled over the parapet. “Whom seekest thou, fire-eater?” laughed de Soto, leaning on his sword during a brief pause in the fight. “That heathen knave in Christian clothing! That iron clad son of Belial who gave me that crack over the pate and made me see more stars than the good God ever created!” he growled, looking about him in the dim light for his foe. “If I mistake not he is none other than Ruminavi the General, old Stony-face as they rightly call him. Carrajo! I will see whether his head too be made of stone when I get near enough to whet my blade upon it.” “It will not be stone but good Spanish steel that thou wilt whet thy blade on,” said Juan Pizarro, “for that, as thou hast said, was old Ruminavi, and thou mayest thank the Saints that it was not the Inca himself, for, judging what he did in the Battle of the Valley, thick and all as thy skull may be, he would have smashed it like an egg-shell. But come, Señores,” he went on, addressing the others, “minutes are worth much now, and we have yet another wall to scale and after that the citadel to storm, and, see, the heathens are gathering to the fight again! So far we have done well, yet I would give something to hear Hernando’s guns from the gap of the road yonder.” “And I would give more to see your head covered by a good steel morion, Señor Juan,” said de Soto. “There are two or three down yonder who have done with theirs for ever. Why not take one of them? It might mean the difference between life and death for you to-night, and the worst part of the battle has to come yet, for these gallant heathens, if I mistake not, will fight while one of them can strike a blow.” “I have a good buckler, de Soto, and that must suffice,” he replied, speaking with some little difficulty, “for with this wounded jaw of mine I could not bear the chin-piece, and if I have to die I may as well do it comfortably as any other way.” “And yet this is not a matter in which one may take too many chances,” growled Carvahal, rubbing his head. “Carramba! if it had not been for this steel cap of mine methinks I should by this time have been looking for the coolest spot in Purgatory. Cuerpo de Cristo! where is the scoundrel who gave me this headache?” “By Allah and all the Saints!” shouted ben-Alcazar, “thou wilt not have long to wait, Carvahal. See, here he comes and at the head of a goodly array too! On guard, Señores, on guard!” He had scarcely spoken when they turned and saw coming along the terrace a solid phalanx of men with long spears levelled at the charge, swinging on at a steady, measured run, led by Ruminavi whirling his huge mace and shouting the old battle-cry of the Incas.