The day wore on. In the afternoon the monk seemed better; and José, who keenly felt the discomfort, not to say the peril, of remaining longer in their present position, ventured to ask if he might not run at least to the nearest village to obtain food and other necessaries. “I will run like the Inca’s chasquis,” he pleaded; “my foot shall not bend the blades of ychu as I pass.” He did not dream—how could he?—that his patron was struggling, not alone with bodily pain, but with sore anguish and bitterness of soul. In this hour of weakness, Fray Fernando could not face the thought of being left to himself amidst that dreary solitude. In proportion as the world of man seemed far away, the spirit-world seemed near. José could not, at best, return before the shades of evening fell. And Fray Fernando _dared_ not meet the darkness, with its strange “Voices and visions from the sphere of those That have to die no more,” without the comfort and support of a human presence. “Wait till next morning, José,” he said. “Then I shall be better or worse. In either case, I promise to let you go.” José waited, with the patience of his race. Hour after hour he sat by the fire, watching Fray Fernando as he dozed, and trying to put together the disjointed fragments of meaning gathered up from that wonderful psalm. The more he pondered, the more certain he felt that it told of an Inca—a King who should reign in righteousness, and be the Friend of the poor. But who was He? Had He reigned long ago over the Jews? Or, peradventure, was He still to come? José knew well that the Psalms contained many prophecies of future events. He would ask the patre the interpretation of this one. But he would take care so to veil his questions that the patre should never guess their real drift and object. For José, who loved Fray Fernando well enough to die for him, would yet rather have died than have allowed him to suspect certain hopes and dreams that lay hidden in the depths of his heart. Towards evening the monk appeared so much easier that José ventured to propose reading to him. “You may, if you like,” was the answer. And José quietly began,—“_Deus, justicium_.” “You mistake,” Fray Fernando said at once. “You read that before. This is the fifteenth evening of the month.” “Is it, patre?” José asked innocently. “Yes—no; I do not think I read this one. Not in Spanish, at least ‘Give justice, O God.’” Fray Fernando’s nerves were in that miserable condition in which the slightest jarring touch means torture. He felt it intolerable to lie still and listen to José’s blunders. By way of correcting him, he began the familiar words himself,—“‘Give the king thy judgments, O God, and thy righteousness to the king’s son.’” “Ah, that is easy to understand,” said José. “But when I change the words for myself, I lose the first word before I find the second. If the patre would only go on, and recite it all for me!”