Roger was sitting in the evening, conversing with Maclutha and Amenche on the probabilities of the battle that was expected to take place on that day, when Cuitcatl suddenly entered.

His robe of bright feather work was gone.

The panache of floating plumes was shorn from his head.

His white garment was stained with blood.

He was overcome by exhaustion and grief.
No words were needed to explain what had taken place.