Suddenly a gruff voice commanded in Spanish, "Halt!" Cristoval sprang forward. Again the summons, "Halt!" and a burly form loomed in the darkness with a mace raised to strike. "Halt! I command you in the name of the Holy Church!" "Father Valverde!" cried the cavalier. "Hold, man! I am—" The mace descended with sturdy force, dexterously caught on Cristoval’s buckler. In an instant the priest’s heels were kicked from under him, and Cristoval strode past, while Pedro seated himself upon the prostrate ecclesiastic. Without hesitation Cristoval tried the door Valverde had been guarding. It was fast, and he hurled his weight against it. At the second assault it yielded, burst open at the next, and the cavalier found himself in a dimly-lighted room, facing a group of shrieking women clinging about one who confronted him with unwavering, courageous eyes, but with no sign of recognition. He stepped forward and halted, strove to speak, and failed, and stood overcome, while the women, made hysterical by the tumult beyond the convent walls, wailed at his dread appearance. He had forgotten his lowered visor, his bared sword, and the seeming menace of his attitude, and could only murmur hoarsely as he advanced: "Rava! Rava! Dost not know me—Cristoval?" She cowered away, glaring in terror and anger, but with no word. He halted again, and lost his voice, standing before her helpless in a sudden fear. "Rava!" he cried in desperation. "Rava! in God’s name, child, hast forgotten me?"—Then thought of his visor and raised it. Her expression changed slowly to one of wonder and unbelief, and she raised her hand to her heart, growing suddenly more pallid. In the semi-darkness of the room she was uncertain until he spoke her name again. Then she stretched forth her hands, took a step forward, and sank with a sob into the arms of the Ñusta Ocllo. In a second Cristoval had her in his own, pressing his lips to hers, to her forehead, and to her eyes until she opened them; but quite too choked himself to speak—this stalwart cavalier!—and half blinded by something he feared she would see. "Oh—is it thou, my Cristoval?" she murmured, raising her hand to touch his swarthy cheek, only half-convinced by her eyes. "Ah, my love, I thought thee forever lost!" and in a passion of weeping she put her arms about the steel-covered neck, pressing her cheek upon his breastplate, insensible to its cold and hardness, conscious only of a joy beyond belief. They were oblivious of those around them, of the din of battle coming through the open door; forgetful of all but one another, and might have remained fatally so, had not the Auqui Paullo rushed in, followed at once by Pedro and Father Valverde. The bishop had been disarmed, and was flaming with rage. The youth, wild-eyed, and pale with the excitement of the night, halted at the astounding spectacle of his sister embracing a Viracocha. Before he had recovered, Mocho dashed in and seized his arm.