He was looking away when he concluded, and failed to see the tremor of her fingers as she resumed her task. He was silent for a moment, then continued, with a ring of sadness, "No, Ñusta Rava, I could not weary of this. But it cannot last forever. When I see thee in safety, then I must go. I have thought of a friend whom I may trust to take me back to Panama—whence we sailed for thy shores. Once there," he went on, talking rather to himself than to her, "I can make my way to Spain—for I swear never again to draw sword against the people of this western world. There is no glory in it, and there are wars enough at home where honor may be won as becometh a Christian." Rava was very still, her head bent over her work, her face colorless and dull. Alas! she thought with sudden heaviness of heart, he is but a Viracocha, and can be naught else. No thought of love but for his sword, no passion but for war. He is like his kind—less men than gods of destruction; gifted with power and wisdom, but cursed with heartlessness. But no! Surely he was not without a heart, for had he not guarded her with a tenderness unvarying and almost womanly? Assuredly not heartless in that sense at least! And there was affection of some nature in every look and intonation. She was conscious of that, for he had never striven to conceal it, and could not have done so from her had he so striven. But, ah me! it must be that his was not a human heart like hers. He was of another world, as her people said—inscrutable, unknowable. She looked up once more, searching his eyes this time with strange inquiry, and quite unconscious of her intentness. The kindliness of Cristoval’s face faded into surprise. "Why, Heaven bless thee, child!" he exclaimed. "What is in thy thoughts? Hast a question thou wouldst ask?" She looked away, saying with a sigh, "Thou art a Viracocha, Cristoval!" and left him pondering a riddle as insoluble to him as he was to her. Soon afterward she arose to go. He escorted her to the head of the avenue, and turned slowly back. "I am a Viracocha!" he repeated to himself a dozen times, revolving it in perplexity. "A Viracocha! Now, in the name of a saint, what meaneth she by that? Of course I’m a Viracocha—to her unlettered people; but none, in saying it, ever looked me through and through with eyes as big as if I were a genie out of a bottle in some tale of Araby! A Viracocha, quoth she! Who was this Viracocha? Ha! a heathen god, I’ve heard; which is to say, a devil! _Madre_! Meaneth she that I am a devil? No, bless her heart, that is far from it, I’ll stake my head! H’m! I’ll ask Markumi. No, I’ll not! He may give this Viracocha deity a reputation that will make me repent the asking. These pagan gods are oft unsavory, the best of them. ’T is better to be in doubt. But, _ay de mi_, Cristoval, thou ’rt beyond thy depth in this business with women. It hath more of unexpectedness than a bee-stung colt."