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.”
“He is no Indian, he is an English spy,” cried de Garcia, and once more struggled to get at me.
“Decidedly our friend is mad,” said Cortes, scanning me; “he says that this wretched creature is an Englishman. Come, be off both of you, or somebody else may make the same mistake,” and he waved his sword in token to us to go, deeming that I could not understand his words; then added angrily, as de Garcia, speechless with rage, made a new attempt to get at me:
“No, by heaven! I will not suffer it. We are Christians and come to save victims, not to slay them. Here, comrades, hold this fool who would stain his soul with murder.”
Now the Spaniards clutched de Garcia by the arms, and he cursed and raved at them, for as I have said, his rage was that of a beast rather than of a man. But I stood bewildered, not knowing whither to fly. Fortunate it was for me indeed that one was by who though she understood no Spanish, yet had a quicker wit. For while I stood thus, Otomie clasped my hand, and whispering, “Fly, fly swiftly!” led me away from the stone of sacrifice.
“Whither shall we go?” I said at length. “Were it not better to trust to the mercy of the Spaniards?”
“To the mercy of that man-devil with the sword?” she answered. “Peace, Teule, and follow me.”