He started back with resolution. As he approached the hemicycle his steps slowed, and he halted in front of the seat where Rava had worked. There lay a forgotten skein of thread. He picked it up, contemplating it with an interest disproportionate to its importance or value. Useless to try to follow his thoughts. It was intrinsically feminine, that trifle, and the soldier succumbed to its femininity. He drew a small pouch from his bosom and placed the skein beside the half-dozen other precious trinkets it contained. He closed the pouch; reopened it hastily, removed the thread, and replaced it upon the seat where he had found it; then sprang to his feet and walked rapidly away. A half-hour later he was galloping along the lane toward the canyon by which they had approached Xilcala weeks ago. Now the valley, stirred for a moment by the _chasqui’s_ tidings, sank again into its repose. The mourning for the defeat at Vilcaconga was mitigated by confidence in ultimate victory. What enemy of Tavantinsuyu had ever triumphed? Soon a call to arms would come, and the nation would respond with overwhelming potency. All in good time. At the villa of Maytalca the days went as before. But—were they days of growing happiness, or of more rapidly growing pain? Cristoval could not have said, nor could Rava. He had learned to interpret the evanescent light in the brown eyes that so often sought his own, but the joy it gave him was for the instant, and followed at once by a deeper pang. He turned away from the gentle face whose beauty, waxing daily more alluring under the tender burning of the soul within, would have shaken the knees of the resolution of one thrice more saintly than Cristoval. But though he told himself that the parting must be only a question of weeks, though he rode hard and invoked the good San Antonio, Cristoval found little peace. *CHAPTER XX* _*Hearts Revealed and Sundered*_