“Oh, my friend! Ollantā’s eyes were dry at the terrible death-sentence; but I tell you he wept then! Ollantā never knelt at the Inca’s feet to implore his life; but I tell you, when the Inca forgave him thus, he flung himself in the dust before him, and swore to be his slave for ever! And, at last, the grateful, reverent love that overflowed his heart, found voice in the words I sang just now. ‘O Inca! this is too much For a man who is nothing. Mayest thou live a thousand years. I am as thou makest me; Thou dost give me succour: Crippled, thou makest me stand; Fallen, thou raisest me up; Poor, thou enrichest me; Blind, thou givest me sight; Dead, thou restorest life;— Thou, indeed, teachest me to forget.’”[50] “What, Don José, are you weeping at your own tale?” asked Melchior, wondering at the emotion that filled the eyes and well-nigh choked the voice of José. The Indian dashed the unbidden drops away. “Not often do we weep, we Children of the Sun,” he said. “Yet Ollantā wept at the Inca’s pardon; for his heart grew soft within him, like the heart of a little child. And I too—O Melchior, can you not read the meaning of my tale? Listen, then. I am Ollantā, the rebel. I did not know my King, my Inca. I would not obey Him; I fought against Him; I wanted to be lord and ruler myself, and to do my own will, not His. But He conquered me, and took me, and led me step by step, as it were with bandaged eyes. And now, at last, the bandage is taken away. I have seen Him. First _there_,” indicating with rapid gesture the Book on the table; “then _here_,” laying his hand on his heart. “He has pardoned me—pardoned, blessed, restored; made me His free, happy servant; told me to live and work for Him. ‘O Inca! this is too much For a man who is nothing. I am as thou makest me; Thou dost give me succour: Crippled, thou makest me stand; Fallen, thou raisest me up; Poor, thou enrichest me; Blind, thou givest me sight; Dead, thou restorest life;— Thou, indeed, teachest me to forget.’ Ranti! Ranti! Capac Inca! Huacchacuyac!” There was a long silence, filled with happy thought. Then, at last, Melchior asked gently, “What of Don Ramon de Virves _now_, Don José?” “Have I not said, ‘Thou, indeed, teachest me to forget’?” José answered. Presently he added, with a smile, “It is not told in the Play; but for my part, I have always believed that Ollantā stretched out his hand that day to the general who was his enemy and sought his life, and said to him, ‘Let us be friends for the Inca’s sake.’—But I am sorry for Don Ramon de Virves. He is gone where my pardon cannot reach him. I have told all to the King; and I have asked Him to let me show some of them how He teaches to forget.” “Don José, you ought to tell Fray Fernando what you have just told me. I would die without a shadow on my heart if only he—he too—”