If he might only find that King, lay the wrongs of his people at His feet, implore His help for them! To accomplish this, peril would be light, difficulty nothing. Gladly would he do what none of his race had done yet of their free will—cross the Mother Sea, and plant his foot on the strange shores of which his fathers had never dreamed. Gladly would he die, slain by the sword or burned to ashes at the stake, like others of his people, if that would bring deliverance to Tahuantin Suyu, and set the rainbow banner of the Incas free once more to wave in the sunshine. Surely the Great King, if once he could but find Him, would be pitiful, for He should judge the poor and needy; and He would be strong to save, for His dominion should be from sea to sea, and from the river to the ends of the earth. Once more he looked down at the foaming Apurimac. But in all its noisy tones there was no voice for him. Well he knew that the dreams of his fathers were but dreams, baseless and unsubstantial, to vanish when the morning light arose. Then he looked up to heaven. Quilla, the silvery spouse of Ynty, could tell him as little as the babbling stream below. But above—far above? There dwelt the Great God, who made Indian and Spaniard alike, who was blessed and praised in that wonderful psalm, and to whom, Fray Fernando told him, men might pray for help in every time of need. He knelt down, and clasping his hands, prayed his first real prayer,—“O God, teach me about the Great King, and help me to find Him.” That was all he said. But as he rose from his knees, and quietly re-entered the tampu, a calmness and a strength, never felt before, came down upon his perplexed, bewildered mind. It had its root in two persuasions, not clear enough to be expressed in words, but real enough to sink deep into his heart—that God would hear his prayer; and that he had now a purpose worth living for, and, if need be, worth dying for. XII. What they did Beyond the Mother Sea. “On my soul there fell A horror of great darkness, which shut out All earth, and heaven, and hope.” HEMANS. All was still within the tampu, and José had been asleep for some time, when Fray Fernando softly called him. He started up quickly. “Is anything wrong, patre?” he asked. “No; if you are not sleeping, I should like to talk with you.” “Chachau!” (willingly and gladly!) said José, good-humouredly, as he threw the remains of his store of dry sticks on the fire, and seated himself beside it. The night was frosty, and his yacollo, or cloak, was beneath Fray Fernando. Except for the dim light thrown out by the smouldering brands, the place was in darkness. Like most of the Peruvian buildings, it had no windows, and the door was closed.