It is not true that romance dies quickly, blighted by the frosts of cold reality. On the contrary, no part of our being is more tenacious of life. It partakes of the nature of perfume,—spiritual, intangible, apparently evanescent, yet lingering strangely and mysteriously in the withered leaf or blossom long after the bright colours have faded, and the very garden where they bloomed has become a desolate waste. The Indian’s quaint, high-sounding name had in it a perfume of old romance that brought back the thoughts of Walter Grey to the familiar room where he had first read the story of Pizarro’s daring and his guilt, and where his young heart had first kindled over those wild, splendid dreams of the lake of Parima, and of the golden city of Manoa. He had a hundred questions to ask the Indian, who soon afforded him an opportunity of putting them, by passing along the benches to distribute the contents of his fruit basket, and stopping, as he always did, near Walter. José briefly satisfied his curiosity. Yes, he was really a Child of the Sun. Was he proud of his origin? An expressive smile was the answer. Did he worship the sun? No, assuredly; he was a Christian. “But,” leaning over Walter and whispering, “I have hopes of obtaining from the señor commandante permission for you to come on shore. Then I will tell you of my people; and you, in return, will tell me of yours.” “Don José Viracocha Inca, what has moved you to show me such singular kindness?” José lowered his voice still further. “You are an Englishman, therefore the Inca’s friend,” he murmured. Walter looked up wondering. “If in any way I could reward you—,” he began. “That you can. When you regain your freedom and go home, tell your King what I have just said.” He was gone ere Walter could answer that he was never likely to go home. “Matador,” he said that night to his companion, “I am troubled about our Indian friend. What can I do to recompense him? I shall never see my home again—how, then, can I tell king or queen of his strange kindness and friendship?” “Tell it to the great King,” said the old galley-slave in reply. XXVIII. The King of the East. “He who trod, Very man and very God, This earth in weakness, shame, and pain, Dying the death, whose signs remain, Up yonder on the accursed tree, Shall come again, no more to be Of captivity the thrall, But the one God, all in all, King of kings and Lord of lords, As his servant John received the words, ‘I died, and live for evermore.’” R. BROWNING.