Then Fray Fernando had recourse to his flint and steel. But it was some time before the tiny sparks availed to kindle the tinder. At length, however, the feat was accomplished; and a little oil-lamp shed as much light as in it lay upon the monk’s perplexities. The first thing it revealed startled him considerably. “O José!” he exclaimed in great distress, “why did you not tell me you were wounded?” For the lad’s white tunic was covered with blood. “It is nothing,” said José, in whose code of morality the silent endurance of pain occupied a prominent place. “Only,” he added, his dark face glowing with satisfaction, even with triumph, “the patre knows if I love him now.” “You have saved my life,” Fray Fernando answered. But it was not his fashion to waste time in words when deeds were needful. He bound up José’s severely wounded arm, quickly and carefully, with a piece of linen torn from one of his consecrated vestments. Then he took some wine from the little store reserved for the celebration of mass, and gave it to his patient to drink. Not until all this was done, did he ask an explanation of the events of the night. “I came back to you,” José answered simply, “because you bought me. Finding you asleep, I lay down in my place. By-and-by Pepe crept in, still and silent, as a snake creeps through the grass. I cried aloud to wake you, and sprang at his throat. What else could I do? He had a weapon, I had none. I clung to him like the puma; he struggled and struck me with his knife; but his hands were not free enough to do much harm. I pressed my fingers into his throat for very life—your life and mine. Until at last, in his pain, he lost his _think_, and dropped the knife. Then I knew you were saved.” Fray Fernando stretched out his hand to him. “You are a brave lad,” he said; “God bless you!” “Patre,” said José, “say ‘my son’ as you used to do.” The monk was touched. “God bless thee, my son!” he answered warmly. There was a silence; then José resumed,—“Patre, come with me to my people. No one will hurt you amongst them.” Fray Fernando started at the suggestion. A hasty “No” trembled on his lips; but he began to reflect that his present position was worse than perilous. What would the morning bring? Pepe’s attempted crime could scarcely remain a secret. Should Diego pass it over, he would proclaim his own guilt; should he undertake to punish it, the negro, in his despair, would reveal everything. Clearly neither Diego nor Pepe had now any alternative but to complete their work. While a man might have repeated half a score of Paternosters, Fray Fernando pondered. Then he spoke in a decided, even cheerful tone, “José, I am going to Cuzco. Will you go thither with me?” “To Cuzco!” José cried in rapture. “Will the river go to the Mother Sea?” “Not so loud. We must go at once, and in silence. I must needs speak with our lord, Don Marcio Serra; and he lives at Cuzco.”