"Do you reject it?" demanded Manco, with a frown. "I beg my Lord Inca’s gracious leave to decline it." "It is not enough!" exclaimed Manco, with contempt. "Then I will increase it." "I fear my lord doth not get my meaning," replied Cristoval, with an even voice that would have cautioned one acquainted with its significance. "I repeat, the gold is of no use to me." Manco’s frown darkened. "Then what will you, Viracocha?" he cried, impatiently. "Name it! It shall be yours. If this gold is not enough, I will load your beast with all he can bear away. But let me acquit this debt before the sun riseth upon it again." The scorn was now Cristoval’s. It burned in his steady eyes as he replied quietly: "I fear, my lord, that you will compel me to speak plainly, and I would not. If I have been of service, I beg you will believe that I should feel it depreciated by the acceptance of reward. It should be unnecessary for me to say more to a soldier, my Lord Inca." Manco scarcely heeded his words. In his impatience to be done their sense was quite lost. His experience with the sordid and greedy Spaniards made it impossible for him to believe this one less so. He rejoined hotly: "You saved my life, Viracocha! Why?" Cristoval answered with patience. "I was unaware that it was you, my lord. It calleth not even for your thanks." Manco flushed, but went on. "You were about to take part in an undertaking to release me from prison. Again, why? Lord Mocho hath said that you would offer your sword to Tavantinsuyu. Why, Viracocha? Is it without hope of reward, all this? Are you of so different fibre from the plunderers of Cuzco?" He turned away with a gesture of contemptuous disbelief. Cristoval eyed him in silence, struggling to restrain his anger at the imputation of venality. When he spoke the Inca faced him again, and met a look grown intense. "Lord Inca Manco," said the cavalier, "you have questioned my motives. It is not my wont to defend them—with words; nor will I defend them now further than to say that it was my purpose to offer my sword without thought of reward, and less to aid you and your cause, just though it is, than to rescue one whom you hold dear—the Ñusta Rava." At the name the Inca’s face grew livid. "Ah!" he exclaimed, his voice lowered and husky with passion. "One whom I hold dear! One whom I held dear above all on earth until she came to me defiled by your accursed love, broken-hearted, wearing the symbol of your damnable belief!" His rage was not more quick than that of Cristoval, but the latter’s years gave him better self-control. The cavalier, pausing to hold himself, replied: "Defiled, my Lord Inca! ’T is a black and shameful word, applied to the Ñusta Rava, and by the great Heaven, the man with whom I could fight on equal footing should not leave this room alive with the word unswallowed!"