"Stay!" said Cristoval, quickly interrupting the movement. "There is one matter whereof I would speak—but what is thy name, lad? Markumi? Good! Well, Markumi, there is, as I say, one thing I would mention—a trifle, but as we may be thrown together for a time, it may concern our peace of mind. It is this: I am not an Inca, Markumi, nor an idol, nor an altar, nor yet a heathen god, nor a saint; and may never be any one of them, though I have a namesake who is the last—San Cristoval, of blessed memory, of whom thou mayst some day learn. But, being neither one nor another, this excessive reverence doth not relish me. I am a plain soldier, and love naught better than to see a man upright on his two legs. Reserve, therefore, thy homage for the ladies, who have full claim and title to it; and thy cramps for the Inca, who may be wonted to it—as I am not. Dost comprehend, Markumi?" "Not clearly, Viracocha," replied Markumi, with embarrassment. "Why, what I mean is this. Keep off thy knees. Bow to me with moderation, temperately, and without extravagance, and I’ll like it better. Is it plain?" "Yes, Viracocha." "That is a good lad. And now, is there a man in thy village who can trim hair? Ah! Then fetch him. And Markumi—" "Yes, Viracocha." "Advise him about the manner of his approach." And he added to himself: "I’ll have no barber coming before me in the attitude of a cow just rising from her bed. I weary of it." Cristoval arose quite himself. He hummed through his bath and was cheerful until he confronted the chair holding the apparel sent by the Palla. Then his face grew sombre. "_Santa Maria!_" he whispered. "Do I face the need of donning this infidel caparison? Must I forswear the guise and earmarks of a Christian? On my soul, ’twill stick sorely in my conscience!" He lifted one piece after another from the pile, surveying them at arm’s length, then turned to his own sadly worn garments. "No help for it, Cristoval," he said, as he overhauled them. "They are rent, torn, ripped, and decrepit, to say naught of the stains of hard travel. Well, may Heaven overlook my heathen masquerade!" He returned to the others and gloomily began to dress. The costume was that of a Peruvian noble: a shirt of white cotton, another of white wool, and a loose, sleeveless tunic, handsomely woven in rich colors and conventional design, to be belted in at the waist, leaving its skirts falling as a kilt almost to the knees. There was a girdle—a broad band, highly ornamental in its woven pattern, heavily fringed with flat braids of cord, each of half the breadth of a hand, and reaching to the bottom of the tunic. Over this was worn a belt, and Cristoval lifted it with an exclamation. It was of soft leather, and mounted with heavily embossed plates of alternate gold and silver. "By the saints!" quoth he. "Should Pizarro rest his eye upon this he’d raise my price."