The old Inca conducted his guest into one of these chambers, which was spacious, and adorned with richly-coloured hangings of llama’s wool. There were also niches in the walls, containing a few ornaments of gold and silver—not many, for Spanish cupidity must not be tempted: the less men had, or were thought to have, the better for them in those days. On the ground were seated a group of women of all ages, weeping and wailing, and making sore lamentation for the Inca. On a raised seat in the midst were two young girls dressed in robes of pure white, bordered with yellow, woven of vicuña wool, soft and fine as silk. Their black and glossy hair hung over their shoulders in long plaits, while the symmetry of their slight, graceful forms, and the dark beauty of their delicate features, fully justified the admiration of the high-born cavaliers of Spain for these daughters of the Sun. A delicious sensation stole over the heart of José: it was as though he heard the spirit-music of the desert of Achapa, which surprises the weary traveller at sunset, coming he knows not whence, and passing he knows not whither. He stood apart, a silent spectator. The conversation between the old Indian, his grandchildren, and their attendants, gradually revealed to him much of their history. He came to understand that one of these girls had been destined to occupy the high position of Coya (empress, or chief wife) to the murdered Inca. But some time elapsed before he could tell which, since the grief of both seemed equal. When the younger, still almost a child, clasped her small hands, and raising her dark, tearful eyes to heaven, prayed God to avenge their prince, José said within himself, “Surely this was the Inca’s choice. No marvel,—she is surpassingly lovely.” But he was mistaken. Soon afterwards, turning to her sister, who sat silent, her face for the most part hidden in her robe, she said, “Sumac,[33] my sister, above all things I pity you that you cannot die with him, as they used to do in the old days—the good ones.” Then Sumac raised her head, and in a low, quiet voice made answer:—“Indeed, Coyllur,[33] that would be very sweet to me now. But—I am afraid.” “Afraid!” Coyllur repeated in evident surprise; for never had the Children of the Sun been known to fear death for, or with, those they loved. “Afraid!—Of what?” “Of the Lord Christ—that if I come to the gate when He has not called, He will not let me in.” “Then they also are Christians,” thought José.