Viracocha approached, knelt before her, and kissed her passive hand. Then he rose, and quietly withdrew a few paces. “Coyllur nũsta,” he said, of course in his native tongue, “I know all.—But will you, for the sake of the past, answer me one question this day? That done, I shall trouble you no more.” Coyllur hung her head; and clutched nervously at the graceful bells of a tall fuchsia, near which they were standing. A spray came off in her hand, and she tore it to fragments. Viracocha stood motionless, patiently awaiting her reply. It came at last:—“Ask what you will of me,” she murmured. “Is this thing your own free choice, Coyllur nũsta?” Viracocha asked, with almost as much outward calmness as if merely inquiring what she meant to do with the flowers that lay neglected at her feet. “Why ask that?” she faltered, in a very different tone from his. “Because—if _Yes_—I go home, never more to see your face. If _No_”—his dark eyes kindled, and unconsciously he advanced one step nearer,—“I fling this mantle round you, and thus I bear you safe to the dwellings of my people, let who will bar my way. Coyllur, star of Heaven, trust me—I will save you.” She shrank a little, as if frightened by his vehemence; and José, instantly recollecting himself, recoiled also. “I am afraid for you,” she faltered. “If _he_ should come and find you here, he would kill you.” “Let him try,” said José with a haughty smile. “But fear not. In your presence there shall be no bloodshed. Nũsta, I await your answer.” Coyllur wrung her hands, as one in pain. “O Viracocha, Viracocha!” she cried at last, “why have you come to torture me? Why do you bring the old times back again to me? And yet—and yet—” José took from his bosom Sumac’s little book. Carefully preserved and pressed between its leaves lay the crimson passion-flower. This he gently removed, and placed in the trembling hand of Coyllur. “If you think the heart next which it has lain ever since worth your keeping, keep it,” he said. “But if indeed you have given yours to the Spaniard, then give it back to me, for it will be all that I have left on earth.” Minute after minute passed away, and still the shadows chased each other over the agitated face of the Indian girl, whose heart was torn by contending emotions. But at last the fight was over; the day was won. It was the proud Castilian knight who proved the conqueror;—with his fair face and splendid courtesy, and the masterful ways wherewith he seemed to rule man’s will and woman’s heart as easily as he controlled his noble steed. Pity, esteem, and old familiar kindness Coyllur still felt for the son of her people;—but she loved the Spaniard. Silently, tremblingly, with bowed head and sorrowful heart, she gave the withered flower back again to Viracocha.