had pierced the breast of the priest. He had saved me who, had he known,
would as soon have turned his steel against his own heart as on that of
my destroyer.

I gazed at him, wondering if I dreamed, then my lips spoke, without my
will as it were:

'DE GARCIA!'

He staggered back at the sound of my voice, like a man struck by a shot,
then stared at me, rubbed his eyes with his hand, and stared again. Now
at length he knew me through my paint.

'Mother of God!' he gasped, 'it is that knave Thomas Wingfield, AND I
HAVE SAVED HIS LIFE!'

By this time my senses had come back to me, and knowing all my folly, I
turned seeking escape. But de Garcia had no mind to suffer this. Lifting
his sword, he sprang at me with a beastlike scream of rage and hate.
Swiftly as thought I slipped round the stone of sacrifice and after me
came the uplifted sword of my enemy. It would have overtaken me soon
enough, for I was weak with fear and fasting, and my limbs were cramped
with bonds, but at that moment a cavalier whom by his dress and port
I guessed to be none other than Cortes himself, struck up de Garcia's
sword, saying:

'How now, Sarceda? Are you mad with the lust of blood that you would
take to sacrificing victims like an Indian priest? Let the poor devil
go.'