one might have expected, and she spoke
with even greater interest than at first.

"My dear father, and alive? Oh, mother, why is he not here to--why
should he send another? And that one--he spoke our dear language,
mother; surely he is not--not as Ixtli?"

"No; he was of our own people, child, and I can hardly conceive how he
came hither, save that Ixtli must have acted as guide."

"And those awful warriors!" shivering as the war-cries followed the
muffled roar of the great drum. "If found, he will be slain! Do you
think there is any hope for him, mother? And he seemed so--so--"

"He is gone with Ixtli, and Ixtli is true to the very core," Victo
hastened to give assurance. "I would rather trust him than many another
of thrice his years and warlike experience. Ixtli is true; ay, as true
and tried as his father, Aztotl!"

"Who loves you, mother, and would win--"

"Hush, child!" just a bit sharply interposed the elder woman, yet at the
same time tightening that loving clasp. "Merely as the daughter of his
Sun God, Quetzalcoatl, and--ha!"

Once again there came the echoes of rapid foot-falls beyond the heavy
draperies, and again this Amazonian mother drew her superb form in front
of her shrinking child, poising the javelin in readiness for stroke or
casting, as might serve best.

A strong arm brushed the curtains aside sufficiently to admit its
owner's passage, but the armed warrior stopped short at sighting the Sun
Children, his proud head lowering, hands crossing over his broad bosom
in token of adoration,--for it surely was more than mere submission to
one held his superior.

With a low cry, Victo drew back a bit, weapon lowering as she recognised
friend in place of enemy.

"It is you, Aztotl?" she spoke, in mellow tones. "I thought--did you
remove the usual guards, this evening?"

"The blame falls to my share, Sun Child," the Red Heron made answer,
with a meekness strange in one of his build and general appearance, that
of a king among ordinary warriors.

"Not justly, nor through fault of your own, my good and true friend,"
the elder woman made haste to give assurance. "Not even thy lips shall
speak slander of Aztotl the True-heart, my brother."

With a swift advance the Red Heron caught the unarmed hand, to bend over
it until his lips barely brushed the soft, perfumed skin. Then he sank
to one knee, bowing his head until his brow touched the floor beneath
her sandalled feet.

Swiftly, gracefully, the