Would that King then, he questioned with himself, really come in His glory, take the part of his people, and avenge them upon their enemies, the cruel Spaniards? Might not this, after all, be possible? And if so, what a vengeance His would be! José was neither merciless nor bloodthirsty; he desired no wholesale massacres, no tortures. And yet, as he sat there with the Breviary still open before him, a vivid panorama rose before his eyes. He saw the great square of Cuzco filled with Indians, mounted upon splendid horses, and carrying fire-breathing clubs,—all guarding a grim scaffold draped with black, where a stately Spaniard, with the features of the Viceroy Toledo, was about to bow his haughty head beneath the fatal axe. But a loud knocking at the outer door dispelled his vision into air. He hastened to unbar it, and confronted a sunburnt mariner from the _San Cristofero_. At the same moment he became aware that his lamp was useless,—the day was breaking. “One of the slaves is very ill,” said the mariner. “Will the padre come and see him, for the love of God? Ask him also to bring ‘sa majestad,’ for the man seems to be dying.” “I will waken the patre,” said José. “Tell me the name of the sick man.” “He is called the matador.” Fray Fernando came forth from the inner room. “I have heard all,” he said, looking greatly agitated. “You need not have asked the name. I knew it.” Quickly and silently he made the necessary preparations. No wonder that José, in his ignorance, looked with trembling awe upon the little silver box, which he was taught to believe actually contained his Creator and his God! Upon this occasion, however, the thought flashed through his mind—“Was the King of whom Señor Hualter spoke really there? If so, how could He be ‘gone away into heaven’?” But it soon gave place to a reflection of a more practical kind,—“The patre has had no food since yesterday forenoon. If he goes forth fasting he may take the calenture.—Patre,” he said aloud, “I pray you drink at least some of this chica ere you go.” Fray Fernando shook his head. “I shall communicate with him,” he said. Nothing more was spoken until they were on their way, Fray Fernando bearing the precious viaticum, and José the little silver bell with which he failed not to warn bystanders to show fitting reverence. Then Fray Fernando said, “If it be possible to remove him, we must do it.” “What becomes of galley-slaves when they are ill?” José asked. Fray Fernando sighed. “The only place for them is the hold,” he said. “And that is so dark, and withal so horribly unclean, that, I have heard, many die at the oar rather than enter it.” “Surely the chihuayhua flower, the emblem of pity, does not grow on your side of the Mother Sea,” said José with quiet bitterness. “But sometimes there is leave given to bring them on shore to the prison, or to some hospital,” Fray Fernando resumed.