“I know the story of the conquest of Peru,” Walter threw in, thinking to spare him a painful recital. “Peru!” José repeated with a smile. “What is Peru? That barbarous word was not known amongst us until the Spaniards came. Yet it is meet they should call the land by a new name. Tahuantin Suyu, the empire of my fathers, they have never known,—and never shall they know! But again I tell you, Señor Englishman, Tahuantin Suyu is not dead. No! though they have laid waste her fair fields and terraced hills, and destroyed her roads and water-courses—No! though they have steeped the land in blood, from the Mother Sea to the White Mountains, and again from the White Mountains to the pathless forest—No! though they have taken the true heir of Manco Capac, and dragged him to Cuzco, and though I have seen—I myself—his head fall beneath the Spanish axe. No!—_The Inca will reign again._” José’s hope was buried, but it was still there. Like the treasures of Yupanqui, of which the secret hiding-place had been revealed to him by Maricancha, who had himself helped to inter them, he knew where to find it, and could produce it when he chose. The firm conviction and the intense earnestness that breathed in his every look and tone, impressed Walter Grey. He asked, as Fray Fernando long ago had asked, “How know you that?” José took up a curious, many-tinted shell which lay on the table. “There, put that to your ear, Señor Hualter” (the nearest approach he could make to the pronunciation of “Walter”). “Do you hear nothing?” “I hear a murmur, like that of the ocean.” “What does that murmur say?” Walter smiled as he answered, “I scarcely know. Perhaps—that it has come from the ocean, its home.” “True,” said José. “And thus I too have put my ear to the beating heart of my people. I hear a murmur there, never ceasing, never changing. That murmur says, ‘The Inca shall reign again!’” There was a pause. Walter looked at him, wondering, interested, yet bewildered. “Shall I tell you something else which is murmured in the heart of my people?” José resumed. “There are dim prophecies floating here and there amongst us, of strangers, great and brave—fair-haired, bearded, children of light—yet to come from beyond the Mother Sea, who shall avenge our wrongs, and help to restore our ancient dominion.” Walter’s eyes kindled, but he did not speak. “Señor Englishman, I read in your face that you understand me.” “Yes—oh yes! Would that we could help you!” “You _can_ help. All is not yet told. I have learned, by long silent thought and study, that the Spaniards too have prophecies—strange prophecies—telling of a king to come, and from you.” “From us? From our nation? Do you mean an Englishman?” “Yes. An Englishman—a Jew. A son of David, your king.” Walter looked blank astonishment. “You are under some strange delusion,” he said. “We are not Jews; nor was David our king.” “You are heretics, are you not? And heretics are Jews.”