"Old man, what art thou and thy wronging to me?" replied Pizarro. "But yesterday I was thy subaltern--now, I am a chief. The soul of a conqueror is swelling in my bosom, and thou and such as thou have no power to do me wrong. I have no time to waste. Set on, I say! Another hour has struck in the mighty destiny of the world!" A few moments afterwards, the watchers on the beach heard the last note of Pizarro's trumpet dying away in the depths of the Peruvian forest. * * * * * "A very fair chapter," said I, folding up the MS. "Strong, terse, spirited, and a good deal in the Waverley style. It is a pity I could not manage to foist in the Doctor, but this other sort of character will do remarkably well. Not a word about the Inca as yet. Well--that's the hidalgo's look-out. I wonder what kind of work he will make of the next chapter!" CHAPTER III. THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN. "Oneiza!" "My love--my lord!" "Look upon me with thy lustrous eyes till I see my image dancing in them. O my beautiful, my beloved! Tell me, Oneiza! when the song of the nightingale warbles across the lake, what dost thou think of then?" "Of thee--of thee, my adored one!" "And when the stars are glittering in heaven like sapphires in thine ebon hair--what then, Oneiza?" "Of thee--still of thee!" "When the humming-bird is stooping o'er the chalice of the flower,--when the sweet azalea blossom bursts brightly from the bower,--when the very breeze is loaded with odour and perfume, and the murmur of the hidden brook comes singing through the gloom,--when the fire-flies light the thicket like spangles struck from gold,--when all the buds that love the morn their tiny cups unfold,--when the dew is falling warmest on blade, and leaf, and tree--where is thy soul, Oneiza?" "With thee, my love! with thee!"