Now Cristoval’s good heart was warmed by later news of Rava. He rode with Father Tendilla, listening with eagerness to the tale of her sojourn at Xauxa, given with detail and sympathy by the kindly old priest, who was glowing in his eulogies of the gentle proselyte. The cavalier’s hundred repeated questions were patiently answered over and over, and before an hour Cristoval had unbosomed himself, candidly revealing his hope of escape with her from the country. The priest listened to the plan, and said:— "Well, my son, it will be for the child a hazardous undertaking. However, it will be in the guidance of Heaven. I had thought the maiden might find refuge from her sorrows in a life of holiness, for which her spirit seemeth well adapted. If it be otherwise ordained, it would not beseem me to oppose, and I will do all in my power to further thy happiness and hers." "I thank you, father," said Cristoval. "But do you know whether Rava is aware that I am living?" "I know not. I have written to Father Valverde since I learned it from the youth whom thou didst send from Xilcala, but have had no reply. Cañares have been abroad, and communication uncertain. The messenger may not have passed them. I have come myself, therefore, thinking to bear the news, but it hath ended—thus,"—and he cast a look over the battalions. "Doubtless we can send her word," said Cristoval. "Matopo saith she is likely to be at Yucay, where the Incas have a castle. I think we may reach her, good father." "I pray it may be so, surely," replied Tendilla. That night the command encamped on the elevated plain of Curahuasi, awaiting the morrow to cross the Apurimac. Before daylight it was moving again, and shortly the head of the column was threading its way down the wall of the chasm whence rose the faint murmur of the torrent, thousands of feet below. The trail seemed to Cristoval a mere scratch on the cliff. At his elbow rose the rock-mass, so steep that scarcely a shrub found clinging-place, while almost beneath his stirrup the precipice dropped away to an abyss. The descent, at first moderate, became so rapid as it zig-zagged from point to point that every step threatened to plunge horse and rider headlong. Generations of wayfarers had worn the rock treacherously smooth, and he presently dismounted to lead his horse. The others followed his example, and he heard the señora whimpering to Pedro. Gingerly now he went, hugging closely to points which so crowded the path that his saddlebow was scraped by the overhanging wall. In places the descent was by steps hewn into the granite, down which his horse blundered perilously, menaced at every slip by a hideous fall into vacancy. Cristoval’s eyes were drawn to the brink in resistless fascination, and he crept along with shrinking soul. He heard Pedro muttering: "Martyred saints—and spirits damned! This is what cometh—of being a cook!"