The lamps were being lighted before Manco was in a mood to greet the Ñusta Rava. He sent a page to advise her of his coming, requesting that she be alone. After the youth had gone, he stood at his table with eyes bent moodily upon the floor; then with quick impulse lifted the _llautu_ from his head, laid it aside, and quitted the apartment. The evening was quiet and warm, but at that hour the several courts were almost deserted, and he walked slowly, encountering few but the frequent sentinels posted since the coming of the Spaniards. Through intermediate patios, he gained the establishment devoted to the suite of Rava and her younger sisters, the Ñustas Ocllo and Alcaya, halting near a door through which came the notes of a _tinya_ and of some fair one singing. The song was a sad one, and he walked on, thinking of the days when these gloomy courts were enlivened with music and laughter from hearts untouched by care. Would those days come again to the brooding old Amarucancha?—to stricken Cuzco? The question was like the thrust of a dagger, self-administered. Was not this air of sadness, this pervading gloom, directly due to his own supineness? Was not its source in his weak, nay, criminal, submission to the Viracochas. Ah, why was he lingering, inactive, under the goading of every crying hour? Why did he rest an instant while there remained an enemy in Cuzco, or in all Tavantinsuyu? He came to Rava’s door, and passed it; returned and passed it again and again, the sweat starting under the flagellation of his conscience. How could he face the noble girl within? What would she say of the Cuzco she had left so fair: now so shorn of its glories? Would she not reproach him, and justly? And could she do otherwise than attribute to his neglect the suffering and dangers from which she had just escaped? He must explain—without another second of delay, he must explain! He recrossed the court impetuously, and pushing open the door without ceremony, entered the room. Rava arose, startled, and hurried forward with a cry of joy, alarmed again when she saw his pallor and the drawn lines of his countenance. But there was no reproach in her tone or bearing, only affection and gladness, and he embraced her with nervous fervor. Rava’s arms were about his neck. "Oh, my brother! Oh, my brother! Do I really see thee again? Manco! Manco! How many, many times in these long months have I feared—but fears are gone. How thou hast changed, my dear! Thou ’rt troubled! Ah, me—" she stopped, regarding him with surprised concern. "Where is thy _llautu_, Manco? Why dost not wear it?" He reddened painfully as he kissed her forehead again. "I—I have laid it aside to-night," he said quickly, seating himself beside her. "To-night, I am Manco—not the Inca, my dearest."