"No better way than by _chasqui_," said the cook, "though there is uncertainty of his reaching Cuzco. It is said there are roving bands of Quitoans—remnants of Atahualpa’s troops—still in the mountains. Since Manco’s coronation they have been hostile. But have you learned, father, where the Ñusta was found?" "Only that the place is called Xilcala, and is some six days’ march from here." "Xilcala," repeated Pedro, and fixed the name in his memory. When he pegged back to his _cantina_ he meditated a purpose. Two days later the cook was admitted to Rava’s presence. She was expecting him, and if he had been disposed to think disparagingly of the grounds on which he was favored in her recollection, his modesty was gently reproved by her evident pleasure. He found her changed. Her pallor was sadly heightened, and the proud fire had gone from the dark eyes. Sorrow seemed indelibly impressed upon the gentle face; but with it a dignity strangely at variance with her youthfulness, and a refinement of beauty almost startling to the good Pedro, who whispered to himself, "Blessed saints! ’t is the face of an angel." As she greeted him her eyes lighted with a faint smile, but he noted with a twinge the quiver of lip and chin and the scarcely controlled tremor in her voice. "Ah, Pedro," she said, after bidding him to sit, and observing the diffidence in his honest eyes, "Father Tendilla hath told me all. I would that I could tell thee my gratitude, but thou knowest. Thou didst come to mine aid at the moment of despair, when I thought that even Heaven had forsaken me." "I have done naught, Ñusta Rava. Father Tendilla and the señora——" "Thou didst send them, Pedro; and it is twice, now, that I have owed thee the means of my rescue. But for thy help at Caxamalca——" She shuddered, then presently went on: "I know how our escape was made possible, my friend. Cristoval—Cristoval told me. Ah, Pedro, he loved thee well!" A choking sob shook her frame, and covering her face with her hands, she turned toward Señora Bolio, who hastened to her side. Poor Pedro dashed his hand across his eyes, and sat bolt upright, his lips compressed. In a moment Rava was able to proceed. "He spoke of thee often, Pedro." Pedro bent forward. "Ñusta Rava, is there no hope that Cristoval still liveth? Do you know that it cannot be?" "Oh, I know not, I know not! Once, on that dreadful night, I thought I heard his voice rising above the clamor. I heard no more." She covered her eyes as if to shut out the memory of the horror. Pedro silently cursed himself for the stupidity of the question, and it was moments before he could say something to divert her. He did so at last, and soon took his leave. Rava said earnestly, "Thou’lt come again, good Pedro?" "I’ll come again, Ñusta Rava; and meanwhile, keep courage." He added to himself as he crossed the court, "I would I might say, hope! _Ay de mi_, Cristoval! if I could but know."