“No, you are a patre. You are good.” And he stroked the monk’s hand caressingly. “But,” he resumed, “Chaqui told us more. He told us that our brave Inca Manco was dead. Some Spaniards who had run away from their own people took shelter in his wild forest-home at Vilca-pampa. Being Inca, and Friend of the Poor, he was kind to them, and received them, and gave them food. One of them paid his kindness by slaying him. _Aucca!_ After that, Manco’s son, Sayri Tupac, had the right of wearing the sacred _llautu_. But to him the Spaniards sent messengers of his own kindred, who gave him many soft words and fair promises, until at last he agreed to go to their new city in the vale of Rimac,[13] there to give up to the stranger his claim to the throne of Tahuantin Suyu.” The boy said this with a bowed head, and in a low sad voice, as one who keenly felt the shame of such a surrender. He went on,—“Chaqui told us that when the Inca made the black marks that meant to say he gave up the kingdom, he wept, and taking in his hand the velvet cloth that covered the table, he said, ‘Behold, the whole of this cloth belonged to my fathers, and now they satisfy me with a thread of the silken fringe!’ But when my mother heard that, she was very wroth. She said he was no Child of the Sun, and his tears were worthless. And Chaqui answered her,—‘But what could he do?’ ‘He could die,’ she said. ‘He _is_ dead,’ Chaqui told us then. The Spaniards gave him broad lands, and gold and silver, and they allowed him to live in the beautiful valleys where the homes of his fathers were. But nothing could make him happy; no, not even the fair palace of Yucay, the loved home of my father Viracocha, with the fruits and flowers of its wondrous gardens, some real, some still more beautiful, wrought out of the tears of Ynty; and its cool baths and fountains, where the water flows from the mouths of great silver llamas and dragons. The Inca pined away and died, for his heart was broken.” And José ended his tale, and sat in gloomy silence watching the embers, which were dying too. “Then, I suppose there is no Inca now,” was Fray Fernando’s not very prudent remark. “Oh yes,” said José eagerly. “There is always the Inca. There is still Manco’s youngest son, Tupac Amaru. And he will take from Spanish hands,” José continued, with kindling eyes, “not one thread of the crimson fringe, not one grain of the golden treasures of his fathers. He lives free in the forests of Vilca-pampa. Him we love, and him we will obey.”