“And I—my harp should prelude woe— I cannot all command the strings; The glory of the sum of things _Will_ flash along the chords, and go.” TENNYSON. Eight or nine months have glided by, all too swiftly, since José Viracocha became an inmate of Yupanqui’s home, and no tidings from Fray Fernando have reached him yet. One afternoon he turned his steps as usual to the cheerful apartment where the princesses, or _nũstas_, were to be found. The maidens were seated near the open door; for the daylight was precious, and not too large a share fell to the lot of the Children of the Sun in dwellings built by themselves. Sumac was diligently at work on some golden flowers. Coyllur’s hand was upon her much-loved tinya—the national Peruvian guitar of seven chords. Both were still dressed in soft, fine robes of gray, the Incas’ mourning, for the head of their royal house; but Coyllur wore ornaments that Sumac had discarded. Bands of gold, interwoven with her beautiful hair, relieved its glossy blackness; which was still further set off by a simple yet tasteful wreath of red and white begonias. Both sisters looked up as José entered; but Sumac immediately resumed her work, without the slightest change of expression in her worn and sorrowful face, while Coyllur’s large dark eyes beamed with redoubled lustre, and a visible blush kindled her features through their soft, dusky hue. José saw no one but her. He approached, and, with tender reverence in his look and manner, laid at her feet a small fowling-piece. But the young lady glanced rather doubtfully at this token of homage. “Are you quite sure, Viracocha,” she asked, “that his mother is not still inside?” She merely meant to inquire whether the gun was not still loaded; the Peruvians styling the spiritual essence which they believed to inhabit most inanimate things their “mama,” or mother; and Coyllur, not unnaturally, supposing the charge the spirit of the gun. “Coyllur nũsta must know that her slave Viracocha would turn the fire-breathing club ten thousand times against his own breast, rather than suffer it to hurt a hair of her head,” was José’s answer. “Viracocha should turn the fire against the enemies of his people.” “Perhaps, one day—if a star shines on his path to guide him.” The star beamed brightly enough upon him at that moment: though Coyllur’s lips were sealed by pride and maidenly reserve, she was too young and artless to silence the mute eloquence of her eyes. “How do you prosper in your attempt to teach your companions the use of that terrible weapon?” she asked presently. “Well, nũsta. The difficult part of the undertaking was to teach myself first. That done, the rest is easy enough.” “I hope the place chosen for your exercise is—_safe_?”