THE SACRIFICE
The elaborate preparations made for our “judgment” were certainly
flattering; but we were in no mood to appreciate the mocking attentions
of the San Blas.
The open space of the enclosure in front of the palace was filled with
a crowd of silent Indians, so many being present that we knew they must
have gathered from all parts of the territory.
Our guards led us through the close ranks of these spectators to a
clear place near the center, where King Nalig-Nad sat upon a bench with
a score of his favorite green chiefs ranged just behind him. At the
sides of this interesting group several women, all of whom had green
in their tunics, squatted upon the ground. At the king’s feet were the
same pretty boy and girl I had seen on my first presentation to the
potentate.
But this was not all. In the open space at the right of the king stood
Ilalah between two stout guards. The girl’s hands were bound behind her
back as ours were, but she was no longer blindfolded. Her proud and
beautiful face wore a smile as we were ranged opposite her, and she
called aloud in English in a clear voice:
“Have fortitude, my White Chief. In death as in life Ilalah is your
own.”
A murmur of reproach came from those of the San Blas who understood her
speech. The king looked at his daughter with a dark frown mantling his
expressive features.
“And I belong to Ilalah,” replied Duncan Moit, composedly, as he smiled
back at his sweetheart.
Indeed, I was proud of the courage of all my comrades on this trying
occasion. Bryonia and Nux were dignified and seemingly indifferent,
Uncle Naboth smiling and interested in each phase of the dramatic
scene, and the inventor as cool in appearance as if this gathering
of the nation was intended to do him honor. I do not know how I
myself bore the ordeal, but I remember that my heart beat so fast and
loud that I was greatly annoyed for fear someone would discover its
rebellious action and think me afraid. Perhaps I really was afraid; but
I was greatly excited, too, for it occurred to me that I was facing the
sunshine and breathing the soft southern air for almost the last time
in my life. I was sorry for myself because I was so young and had so
much to live for.
Ilalah, it seemed, was to be judged first because her rank was higher
than that of the strangers.
The king himself accused her, and when he began to speak his voice was
composed and his tones low and argumentative. But as he proceeded his
speech grew passionate and fierce, though he tried to impress upon his
people the idea that it was his duty that obliged him to condemn Ilalah
to punishment. However that plea might impress the Techlas it did not
deceive us in the least. It was father against daughter, but perhaps
the king’s hatred of the whites had turned him against his first born,
or else he preferred that the pretty girl nestling at his feet should
succeed him.
“Lords and chiefs of the Techlas,” he said, speaking in his native
language, “the Princess Ilalah has broken our laws and outraged the
traditions that have been respected in our nation for centuries. We
have always hated the white race, and with justice. We have forbidden
them to enter our dominions and refused to show them mercy if they fell
into our hands. But this girl, whose birth and station are so high that
she is entitled to succeed me as ruler of the Techlas, has violated our
most sacred sentiments. She has favored and protected a band of white
invaders; she has dared to love their chief, who has lied to us and
tricked us; she has even forgotten her maidenly dignity and run away
with him, preferring him to her own people. It is the law that I, her
father, cannot judge or condemn her, although it is my privilege to
condemn all others. Therefore I place her fate in the hands of my noble
chiefs. Tell me, what shall be the fate of the false Techla? What
shall be Ilalah’s punishment?”
The chiefs seemed undecided and half frightened at the responsibility
thus thrust upon them. They turned and consulted one another in
whispers, casting uncertain looks at the princess, who smiled back at
them without a trace of fear upon her sweet face.
Standing close beside Ilalah I now discovered our old friend Tcharn,
the goldsmith and arrow-maker, whose eager face showed his emotion at
the peril of his friend. His dark eyes roved anxiously from the girl
to her judges, and it was plain to see that he was fearful of her
condemnation.
I myself tried to read the decision of the chiefs from their faces, and
decided that while Ilalah was doubtless a great favorite with them all,
they could find no excuse for her conduct. Their conference lasted so
long that the king grew impatient, and his animosity became more and
more apparent as he glowered menacingly upon the girl and then glanced
appealingly at her judges, who tried to avoid his eyes.
Finally, however, the conference came to an end.
A tall, lean chief whose gray hairs and the prominence of the green
stripes in his tunic evidently entitled him to be the spokesman,
stepped forward and bowed low before the king.
“Mighty Ruler of the Techlas,” he said, “we have weighed well the
strange conduct of the Princess Ilalah and desire to ask her a
question.”
“The speech of the accused may not be considered,” said the king,
gruffly.
“It affects not her condemnation, but rather her punishment,” returned
the other.
“Then proceed.”
“Princess,” continued the old man, speaking in a kindly tone as he
addressed the young girl, “if in our mercy we spare your life will you
promise to forsake your white chief and yield him and his followers to
our vengeance?”
“No!” she answered, proudly.
Her questioner sighed and turned to his fellows, who nodded to him
gravely.
“Then,” said he, again turning to the king, “we find that the conduct
of the Princess Ilalah merits punishment, and the punishment is death!”
[Illustration: He drew the bowstring to his chin.]
The king smiled triumphantly and cast a look around the assemblage. Not
a man or woman returned his smile. They stood steadfast as rocks, and
only the little arrow-maker gave way to his grief by bowing his head in
his hands and sobbing most pitifully.
“We also find,” continued the grave chieftain, breaking the painful
pause, “that the law forbids any Techla to lift a hand against one of
the royal blood; and especially is that person immune who is next in
succession to the throne.”
This statement caused a thrill that could not be repressed to pass
through the crowd. The natives looked on one another curiously, but
satisfaction lurked in their dark eyes.
I began to like these people. In themselves they were not especially
disposed to evil, but their fiendish king had dictated their thoughts
and actions for so long that they were virtually the slaves of his
whims.
“Therefore,” said the chief, speaking in a firm voice, “who will
execute our decree of death upon the royal princess?”
“I will!” cried Nalig-Nad, springing to his feet. “The king is bound by
no law save his own will. The girl is condemned to death, and die she
shall!”
With a lightning gesture he caught up his bow and notched an arrow.
I looked toward Ilalah. Her face was pallid and set but she did not
flinch for an instant. One fleeting glance she gave into Duncan’s face
and then turned her eyes steadily upon her fierce and enraged sire.
The king did not hesitate. He drew the bowstring to his chin, took
rapid aim, and loosed the deadly shaft.
A cry burst from the assemblage, and even while it rang in my ears I
saw Tcharn leap into the air before the princess, receive the arrow in
his own breast, and then fall writhing in agony upon the ground.