“True, patre,—too true. As I journeyed to the mine, I met a sorrowful company of women, some leading children by the hand. They said they were going to their husbands, at work in the obregas, else they would never see them again. When I said, ‘I am going to the mine,’ they answered me, ‘Tell the miners to thank Ynty for their lot.’ This I thought strange, for the women of Yea had talked to me of the miseries of the miners till my heart was sore. But these said, ‘Better is it with those who dig the silver from the depths of the earth, than with those who weave the llama’s fleece in the obregas.’ Worked far beyond their strength, fed with food we would not offer to a beast, beaten cruelly, or else—patre, I could not tell you all. But God has mercy on them, and they die. They die soon; but others must be found to fill their places—ay, though they have to be hunted with blood-hounds. Now they take little children, six or seven years old. I saw myself—” But here José stopped, and covered his face with his hands. Soon large tears fell slowly through them. “No words!” he cried passionately; “no words. Only tears. Would they were tears of blood! And this is Tahuantin Suyu, that my fathers made so happy!”[21] Fray Fernando was moved to compassion for the gentle unoffending race, the unresisting victims of such cruel wrongs. “A poor and harmless people, created of God, and that might have been won to his knowledge,” as Sir Walter Raleigh says pathetically. He answered in a softened tone, “You could say with the prophet, ‘O that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people.’” “The daughter of my people!” José repeated, with eyes that turned his tears to sparks of fire. “O patre, I have not told half—I cannot! They have broken into the houses of the Virgins of the Sun. They have taken them away by violence. I know now—too well!—why my mother died rather than be captive to the Spaniard. They have left us nothing sacred, nothing holy—not even the grave. They have dug open the tombs of our fathers to search for hid treasures. They have torn the ornaments from our temples; they have turned them into stables for their horses. They have robbed our store-houses, where the Incas laid up maize, quinoa, wool, cotton, to supply the people in years of scarcity. They have slaughtered by thousands the gentle, useful llamas, that bore our burdens and clothed us with their fleeces—only that they may feast upon their brains!—Are these the favourites and messengers of Pacha-camac, sent to teach us his will? No; they are the children of Supay—the devil. I will never believe God loves them, or commands us to obey them. I will never become as one of them, to learn their ways, to wear their dress, to serve their gods—”