Again Manco’s searching look, but he was silent, studying the man before him. Here, assuredly, was a Viracocha who differed from his kind. He had neither swaggered nor sneered. He spoke with a dignity and candor that forced respect. In his bearing was a calm pride and consciousness of strength which had baffled the unconcealed hate and bitterness with which he had been received. The frank honesty of his eyes had lent support to his words. Manco’s youth had not given him a knowledge of men, and least of all could he fathom a Spaniard; but his own ingenuous temperament, shamefully as it had been abused, made him quick in an intuition that he had misjudged. But this was in his thoughts as an under-current. Before him still was a Viracocha. He tossed his sword beside its fellow, and demanded:— "Why are you here? Of what concern to you is the rescue of the Ñusta Rava?" Candidly Cristoval faced the rights of a brother. "Of deep concern, my lord. So deep that I overlook the manner of your questions and answer them," he replied, bluntly. "So deep that I have proffered my service, my life, if need be, to Tavantinsuyu in her behalf." Hostility returned to Manco’s eyes. He surveyed the cavalier for a moment before replying coldly, "The Ñusta Rava is the daughter of an Inca, Viracocha." "I am a _caballero_ of Spain, my Lord Inca." In silence contended the pride of two races. On the one hand, an autocrat absolute, master of an empire, ruler of multitudes—but an Indian. On the other, a soldier, an adventurer, but a Caucasian—a Conquistador. Upon the monarch, unseen, unfelt, fell the shadow of Destiny. There was no wavering in the eyes of either. In the stern, self-possessed cavalier the Inca saw and was compelled to acknowledge, an indefinable superiority which eluded him—the genius of a breed of subjugators. Withal, there was no arrogance in this Spaniard’s face; only the grave serenity of a lofty mind, a strength of spirit which rose above the distinction of the temporal rank of the Peruvian and all his might. On his own part, Cristoval beheld a kingliness ingrained: a majesty as natural as the air that Manco breathed. Cristoval broke the pause. "My Lord Inca, I requested, a moment ago, your gracious leave to pass the guards." Manco seemed not to have heard, but stood in gloomy meditation. Cristoval was about to speak again when the Inca replied with abruptness, "It is my will, Viracocha, that you remain within the palace." Cristoval bowed, and again encountered the look of profound scrutiny. Manco inclined his head, and the cavalier withdrew. *CHAPTER XXXII* _*The Storm Breaks*_ Pedro was asleep in his chair, but roused when Cristoval laid a hand upon his shoulder. "Old friend," said the latter, "we are prisoners." Pedro sat up, regarding his companion with incredulity. "Prisoners again, sayst thou, Cristoval?"