She found voice with an effort, beginning thrice before she was able to steady it sufficiently to say, somewhat at random, in her perturbation, "They told me you were a prisoner, Viracocha Cristoval." "I was a prisoner an hour ago. I have broken my bonds." He looked up, and she started, scrutinizing his face with anxiety. But she recovered quickly, and he arose. After this no ceremony, and he went on, speaking directly and as rapidly as his knowledge of the Quichua would allow:— "I am a fugitive, Ñusta Rava. My aid may avail you little, but I know your danger. There is a hope to escape it. Once clear of this unhappy town you will be among your own people. Are you ready to flee? Will you trust me? You must say quickly, for seconds are worth hours, and we must lose not one." She made no reply, but stood regarding him intently, her clenched hand pressed to her heart. He saw that she was violently trembling, and said quietly: "Before the dawn we can be well away. It is not yet midnight, but we must hasten." "Oh, Viracocha Cristoval!" she murmured, looking at him piteously, struggling in agony between fear and hope. Should she trust him? Could she trust one of these terrible strangers? Were they not all beasts of prey? Yet this one seemed to have a human heart, and had been her brother’s friend. She sought the depths of his soul through his eyes. Their expression was intensely earnest, but frank and solicitous, and they met her own with un-reserve and quiet steadiness. Still—like the others he was a Viracocha. Cristoval read her thoughts. "Ñusta Rava," he said gently, "I promised to your brother that with the aid of Heaven I would guard you from harm. I am ready to do so at the cost of life. But we are wasting precious moments—" He paused abruptly. The faint, quick notes of a trumpet were sounding in the distance. "What is that?" whispered the Ñusta, turning her head. "The alarm," replied Cristoval, quietly. "My flight is discovered." He strode forward, and taking her by the hand, turned her toward her door. "Go! Robe yourself warmly—and make haste!" He urged her gently forward, but she turned, crying in anguish: "Fly, oh, fly, while there is yet time! You have risked your life in coming hither. Go! Save yourself!" Cristoval turned to Nuyalla with authority: "Quick! Her cloak!" It was brought in a second, and he threw it over Rava’s shoulders. The maids were kneeling about her, weeping, clasping her knees, frantically pressing her hands, their lamentations threatening to rise again to the danger point. She stood like a statue, seeing none of them nor hearing their words. "Come!" said Cristoval. "We have yet time." She cast a glance at his masterful, serious face, extended her hands impulsively to her women, then tore herself from their embraces with a sob, and followed him to the door. The cavalier turned.