e, the great entrance doors
were swinging back.

"Be ready," Naida whispered, "for almost anything. The doors are being
opened by some of the palace guard. I have little doubt that word was
long ago rushed to the caciques that we are come to them with an
upper-world man!"

Kirby answered with a nod. Then they passed the outer doors, passed
inside, and Kirby blinked at what he saw.

In a long hall decorated bewilderingly with a carven frieze in which
appeared all of the symbols common to early Mexican religions, and many
new ones, stood a row of bright suits of armor of the Sixteenth Century.
From each suit peered the glassy face and shovel beard of a dead
Conquistadore.

So this was what happened to intruders from the upper world! The
Conquistadore who kept his long watch beside the geyser was not the only
one! Kirby felt an involuntary chill prickle up his back. But he was not
given long to think before Naida, ignoring the gruesome array, clasped
his arm.

"Look! Behold!"

And Kirby saw that with almost magical silence the whole wall at the end
of the corridor was sliding back to reveal an enormous amphitheatre in
the center of which stood a vast circular table. Ranged in a semicircle
about that table, stood fifteen incredibly ancient men clad in long,
glistening grey robes. Blanched beards trailed down the front of the
garments until they all but touched the floor.

The caciques!

Kirby, on the threshold of the amphitheatre, squared his shoulders and
held his head high. Then with Naida on his right, his own eyes boring
unyieldingly into the smouldering, narrowed eyes which stared at him, he
advanced.

But in front of him the priests moved suddenly. From Naida burst a
shriek. In the radiant glare of the council room flashed the long, thin,
cruel blade of a sacrificial knife.

The cacique who had whipped it from his robe flew at Kirby with a condor
swoop, talon-hands outstretched, his wrinkled, bearded face contorted
with fury.

CHAPTER V

Before Kirby was more than half set to fight, the priest was clawing at
his throat, and a gnarled old fist was poised to drive the knife in a
death stroke.

Kirby did the only thing he could do quickly--sprang to one side. The
move saved him. The knife whipped past his shoulder, and the cacique
nearly fell. But it had been a close enough squeak for all that.

Nor was it over. After Kirby the priest sprang with unexpected agility,
and before Kirby could snatch at