"Had no part in it!" repeated the princess, with incredulous scorn. "But he is here, an invader! His part began when he set foot upon our soil, sword in hand. Say not that he had no part in it! Doth he hold himself guiltless?—Can you hold yourself guiltless of that blood, Viracocha?" She turned upon Cristoval, her dark eyes burning, her form quivering from head to foot with the bitter intensity of her resentment. "Are you absolved of the foul treachery by which my people were led hither to their death? Of the perfidy that lured my brother into the snare, unarmed and unsuspecting? You have had no part in all this?—Oh, Toparca, canst thou call one of these dreadful beings thy friend whilst Tavantinsuyu still mourns her dead? He had been more worthy the name had he not preserved thee to witness the infinite misfortunes his people have brought upon our unhappy country! He had been merciful had he permitted thee to perish in ignorance of the slavery of our brothers and the dishonor of our sisters. Thy friend, my brother? Tell me sooner thou hast friends among the vultures! They, at least, prey not upon the living. Farewell, Toparca!" The princess drew her cloak about her, and passing Cristoval with a brief glance in which was concentrated all the infuriate enmity that a woman, raging at injury and helpless to avenge it, can feel for the oppressor, she left the apartment, followed by her frightened maids. Cristoval had heard her in silence. No doubt his uppermost feeling was compassion, for he felt the heartbreak beneath her denunciation. He knew better than she how well her indignation was justified, and was thankful that she could not know the sordid greed back of the invasion. Many of her words he had been unable to catch, but he did not fail to get her meaning clearly enough, for that was expressed in every tone and gesture. His freedom from the stains of the massacre had made him proof against much of her reproach, but he could not be indifferent to her hate and scorn. Through all he felt her beauty, somewhat ferine and stormy now, he thought, but still of a transcendent, queenly kind. Altogether, he had listened with sympathy quite without resentment; so that when she met his look in passing, instead of the rage and cruelty she expected, she read a grave pity of which she thought afterward; and in place of the stern, perhaps brutal rejoinder she looked for, a bow of profound respect and deference. Cristoval expressed his keen regret for the inopportune entry which had sent her away so abruptly, but Toparca was even more disturbed, uncertain of the effect of her anger upon the Viracocha. "I hope you will not think of her words, Viracocha Cristoval," he said, anxiously. "The princess is young, and hath already known much grief. She will learn that there are generous and humane hearts——"