In his sore dismay and perplexity, he bethought himself of Walter Grey, to whom he was becoming every day more strongly attached, and to whose comfort he ministered in every possible way. Walter would give him the English view of the matter; and that, most probably, would be the true one. So, after Walter’s next visit to Fray Fernando, José returned with him to the beach; and standing before him as he rested for a little in the welcome shade of a rock, he briefly acquainted him with the strange demand that had been made upon him. “If,” he said, “I proposed stabbing the man through the back, or setting fire to the house where he lies wounded, I could understand the King having somewhat to object. Nor, indeed, would the Incas have approved such practices. But to bid me forgive him from my heart! How can it matter what I feel there? Whose business is that, save my own?” “It is God’s business, José;—and the King is God.” “I know it,” said José reverently. “God sees your heart, reads it through and through, claims it for His own.” José lay down on the sand, and turned his face away from Walter. At last he said,— “I almost wish I had never met you, Señor Hualter.” “And why that, Don José?” “You trouble me. Better not to know the King, than to know Him and not to obey Him; and He is hard, _hard_ to obey.” “Oh no!” “But yes. I know now why none of the Spaniards really obey Him, though they pretend to do it,—They cannot. Nor can I; I am afraid of Him.” “You ought not. He loves you, He died for you;—and He only wants you to be like Him.” “Well, if need were, I could die for Him. But” (a tremor shook his whole frame; not violent—none of his movements were that—but telling of intense repugnance) “this thing I cannot do;—I will not. What use to try? I could never forgive that man, unless I were taken to pieces and made over again.” “‘Except a man be born again,’” said Walter Grey, “‘he shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of God.’” “Who says that?” “The King Himself.” “I do not understand.—Stay, I do!” he added, after a thoughtful pause. “I remember the patre said those words to me. He told me they meant my baptism. He said I was born then into the Christian Church.” “You remember your baptism?” asked Walter. “Of course I do; I was ten years old.” “What did you feel? Did you receive a new heart, and begin a new life then?” “In one way, yes. I felt great love for the patre, who, I thought, was claiming me for his own by certain mystic rites and ceremonies; and I gave myself up to him very gladly. But as for thoughts of God or the Church, I had none. Until long afterwards, I worshipped my Father the Sun.”