Soon it appeared as though the little life, watched with such interest for well-nigh a whole year, was ebbing fast away. This did not surprise, though it grieved him. The child had been pining ever since he came to him. The slightest strain would suffice to break the slender thread. And as he sat and watched beside him through the long dark hours of the night (in that equatorial region nearly equal to the day), he thought within himself how much he should miss and mourn him. Truly the orphan had given back sevenfold the benefit received. He had made his days less dreary, less miserable, and his nights far less terrible. Whither now had vanished those visions of horror that were wont to haunt him through the sleepless hours of darkness? José’s presence had dispelled them, as the sun dispels the shadows of the night. Fray Fernando, as yet, did not fully understand from _what_ he had thus been saved; but he felt as though the mists of a dark dread which had overhung his life were gradually clearing away—he hoped for ever. But now it seemed as if he must part with his treasure, and return to his former lonely, desolate state. The fever having run its course, the little patient lay, weak and helpless, with the look of one whose life is fading. Hoping against hope, he administered, continually and in smallest quantities, the strongest stimulant, the sora of the Indians. Anxious hours passed away with little change, yet with no visible decrease of strength. A long, weary night followed, during which Fray Fernando found it hard to tell whether José slept or waked, or lay in stupor, unconscious of all around. At length day appeared. The sun rose suddenly, as it does in those tropical lands. José moved, looked at Fray Fernando, and smiled. He drank the cordial held to his lips, then feebly whispered something. Fray Fernando bent over him to listen. “I want to see my Father’s face,” he repeated more distinctly. Fray Fernando feared the mind was wandering still. “My poor child,” he said, “your father is dead—long since.” “_My_ Father never dies,” the child responded, with a look half of surprise, half of reproach. “Don’t you know him?—Ynty the Glorious!” he added, speaking with more energy than Fray Fernando thought him capable of showing. “When my child is better,” he replied evasively, “he shall go forth and see the sunshine.” But José was not satisfied; and again, after a little pause, he pleaded, “Let me see my Father’s face, good patre.” Fray Fernando, with new and suddenly awakened interest, now ventured to put a question to his child. “Does my little José then claim kindred with the princes of his people—the Incas—the Children of the Sun?” For even the haughty Spanish conquerors could not withhold the tribute of their reverence from the truly royal line they had so cruelly despoiled. “I am Viracocha Yntip Churi, in Spanish talk, Viracocha—Child of the Sun,” the boy replied.