Again a moonlit evening. They had said good-night and parted. Hours had passed; Cristoval was sitting beside his lamp, whose waning light drew his thoughts back to earth; even while he contemplated its struggles it sputtered and died, leaving the room in darkness. He sighed, loath to lay aside his reverie, and stepped to the window. The moon was nearly at the full, and he leaned against the casement, looking across the placid lake to the silvered peaks beyond. He stood long, enjoying the fresh beauty of the night, his eyes among the shadows of the garden where he had crowned his life. While he mused a cloud drifted across the moon, leaving the garden a moment in obscurity. When it passed and the light returned, he was startled out of his dreaming. The details of shade and illumination had come back, but now there was something more. Near the edge of the shrubbery, half a hundred yards below, was a formless shadow not there before. Cristoval leaned forward, studying intently a curious blot on the sward, suggestive of some lurking beast, yet different. It moved, ever so slightly, and the confused outline became suddenly clear. There was the head of a warrior, stretched alertly forward, and wearing the high, conical helm of a Cañare. There was the line of his crouched back. One hand and a knee were on the ground. Now there was a sparkle just above—a javelin head!—and at the same instant an arm was raised in signal. At once other shadows appeared here and there, and they slunk, half running, toward the villa. Cristoval watched no longer. In a second he was groping for his armor. His hands were shaking, but soon corselet was on, and helmet: no time for more. Now, sword and buckler. He threw the empty scabbard on the couch as he rushed to the door. In the anteroom slept Markumi. "Markumi! Markumi!" Cristoval whispered, shaking him. "Yes, Viracocha," said the youth, sleepily. "Up, Markumi! Make no sound. Quick—thy weapons, and follow!" Markumi needed no second word. Electrified by the cavalier’s voice, he was on his feet at a bound. Cristoval had not reached the door leading into the court, which he must cross to gain Rava’s apartment, before the boy was beside him, grunting as he slipped the loop of the bow-string into its notch. Cristoval halted, listening. Without were movement and suppressed voices. As he put hand to the bar to open, the fastenings creaked with the weight of some one trying. Across the court came the crash of blows upon another door. Markumi gasped, "What is it, Viracocha?" "Devilry!" answered Cristoval. "The house is surrounded. Cañares, I think." The words were not uttered before the room reverberated with a rain of strokes upon the panels before them. "Set an arrow!" said Cristoval, in Markumi’s ear. "Stand clear of the door when I throw it open. Do not follow. Keep in the darkness, and shoot low."