"Your stanchest ally!" interjaculated Cristoval. "An ally, but one ready to turn most cruelly against us! Hear me, Cristoval! It is not yet with us, with the army, though thou hast seen the meagre fare our braves have had these many days, and hast been in want, thyself. But there is a graver peril. Thou knowest, the season of planting is at hand. The fields are waiting. Every province of the empire hath been denuded of its men, and only women, children, and the feeble, are left to till the soil. The time is short, and if the grain be not sowed, a calamity will follow, blacker in its horror than that of war, which taketh only lives of men. Starvation recketh neither of sex nor age. The siege must end." Manco spoke with calmness. His face had paled, but otherwise his emotion was unbetrayed. Cristoval heard him in silence. The Inca’s words, he knew, were final, Rhadamanthine; once spoken, not to be opposed by human tongue. Manco resumed:— "So it must be, Cristoval. The magazines are exhausted—I learned it finally to-day,—and even the archers are in need of arrows. My warriors will march to their provinces with famine attendant, but—they must go. I am defeated! O, great Inti, why—" His words ended, and he turned abruptly away. Cristoval sank into a chair and bowed his head upon his hands. To disband the army now would mean disaster irremediable. He sprang up with fiery, urgent words, but they were stayed by Manco who faced him again with every trace of agitation gone: "I said, defeated! Forget that the word was spoken. Whilst life is spared me, and I have a warrior left to follow, there shall be no defeat. But now, Cristoval, thou wilt go. By midday to-morrow thou’lt have overtaken a force which marched to-day. At Yucay, all will be in readiness. Word hath gone forward, and as soon as the palace is abandoned it will be stripped of all that yonder vultures crave. Having seen the household safely at Ollantaytambo, thou’lt return. I will remain near Cuzco with some force, for the enemy shall find that peace is not yet. Now go, and Heaven speed thee. Farewell." As Cristoval left the tent he turned. The Inca stood in thought, his dark, handsome face as calm as if his brave heart were untouched by disaster, untorn by myriad cares and sorrows. He waved his hand, and Cristoval left him to the brooding silence of the night—and God alone knows what hours of anguish.