“But prove me what it is I would not do.” TENNYSON. Fray Fernando returned to the galpon sorrowful and desolate. All the tenderness that life had left in his blighted heart had been gathered up and poured forth on the head of the Indian youth, who had truly been as a son to him. He never dreamed how much he had given, until he awoke to the consciousness that all was given in vain. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was left him now to care for. He had not a hope remaining; just then he had scarcely a fear. His heart was too weary for conflict; it only ached with a dull and constant pain. Listlessly he went through the prescribed course of his evening devotions, repeating unfelt prayers and praises that found no echo in his heart. If he had ever really prayed, he had prayed for the child he fondly dreamed God had sent to comfort him in his misery. But that was over now; José was gone back to his people and to his gods, and his work and his prayers for him—like all his other work and all his other prayers—were wasted. In this mood he laid himself down to sleep. Of late the slumbers that sealed those eyes had been fitful and broken. But it happened that upon this occasion Nature, usually capricious, saw fit to reassert her power and exact her revenge, and ere long he fell into a sound dreamless sleep. He awoke with a start. A sharp cry rang in his ears. The room seemed full of furious men, struggling for mastery, clinging desperately to each other’s throats. Then some bright thing, a knife or dagger, known by its glitter in the moonlight, fell to the ground at his side. Less than a minute restored his senses fully, and reduced the shadowy host of combatants to two—a gigantic negro and a slender stripling, who seemed about to pay for the frantic tenacity with which he clutched his adversary’s throat, by being crushed to death in his strong grasp. That moment Fray Fernando forgot his peaceful calling, his sacred character, everything but the youth’s danger. Seizing the weapon so opportunely left at his hand, he made third’s-man in the fray to such good purpose, that the negro fled for his life, like an evil spirit of night chased by returning day. With the dagger still in his hand, the monk stood and gazed about him in bewilderment. But he could see scarcely anything, for the moon had retreated behind a cloud. “Much-hani Pacha-camac!” exclaimed a well-known voice. Then in Spanish, “Deos gratias!” “José! Is it you, José? How came you hither? What is it all about?” “It was Pepe!” gasped José. “Villain, traitor, _aucca_! May I see him hurled from the highest rock on Cerro Blanco! Patre, are you hurt?” “No, thank God. But am I dreaming or awake? What has happened?” “He wanted to drink your blood, but God preserved you,” said José.