The caciques and braves who were present stared at each other in consternation.  In their exultation and excitement over my capture the fugitives had been forgotten.

“Mules!  Idiots!  Old women!  Follow them and bring them back.  They shall be burned in the same fire.  As for you, senor, because you cured me of my sickness and were to have been my husband I will let you choose the method of your death.  You may either be roasted before a slow fire, hacked to pieces with machetes, or fastened on the back of the man-killer and sent to perish in the desert.  Choose.”

“Just one word of explanation, Mamcuna.  I would fain—­”

“Silence! or I will have your tongue torn out by the roots.  Choose!”

“I choose the man-killer.”

“You think it will be an easier death than being hacked to pieces.  You are wrong.  The vultures will peck out your eyes, and you will die of hunger and thirst.  But as you have said so let it be.  Tie him to the back of the man-killer, men, and chase it into the desert.  If you let him escape you die in his place.  But treat him with respect; he was nearly my husband.”

And then Mamcuna, sinking back into her chinchura, covered her face with her hands; but she showed no sign of relenting, and I was bound with ropes and hurried from the room.

The man-killer was a nandu[1] belonging to the queen, and had gained his name by killing one man and maiming several others who unwisely approached him when he was in an evil temper.  Save for an occasional outburst of homicidal mania and his abnormal size and strength, the man-killer did not materially differ from the other nandus of Mamcuna’s flock.  His keeper controlled the bird without difficulty, and I had several times seen him mount and ride it round an inclosure.

    [1] The American ostrich.

The desert, as I have already mentioned, lies between the Cordillera and the Pacific Ocean, stretching almost the entire length of the Peruvian coast, with here and there an oasis watered by one or other of the few streams which do not lose themselves in the sand before they reach the sea.  It is a rainless, hideous region of naked rocks and whirling sands, destitute of fresh water and animal life, a region into which, except for a short distance, the boldest traveller cares not to venture.

After leaving the queen’s house I was placed in charge of a party of braves commanded by a cacique, and we set out for the place where my expiation was to begin.  The nandu, led by his keeper and another man, of course went with us.  My conductors, albeit they made no secret of their joy over my downfall, did their mistress’s bidding, and treated me with respect.  They loosed my bonds, taking care, however, so to guard me as to render escape impossible, and, when we halted, gave me to eat and drink.  But their talk was not encouraging.  In their opinion, nothing could save me from a horrible death, probably of thirst.  The best that I could hope for was being smothered in a sandstorm.  The man-killer would probably go on till he dropped from exhaustion, and then, whether I was alive or dead, birds of prey would pick out my eyes and tear the flesh from my bones.