“I know who He is,” said a soft, hesitating voice. All turned towards Sumac, with eyes full of curiosity and interest. “Viracocha told us those sacred words one day,” she continued; “and they were sweet in our ears as the song of the tuya and wonderful as the spirit-music of Achapa. So I kept them in my heart, and asked the nuns of Santa Clara what they meant.” Here she paused. “Well, my child, and what said they?” Yupanqui asked. Sumac crossed herself reverently. “Sister Maria told me that the great King is no other than the Lord Christ himself, the Son of God,”—she said. But a chorus of grieved, protesting voices drowned her words. These men, so willing to hear about the Christian religion, so ready to embrace it, had yet learned from their instructors little more than a vague and awful dread of Him who is its centre. They had been told of the pity and tenderness of “Our Lady,” “the Mother of God.” But of His pity they had never heard, save as shown through her intercession; from Him directly they expected none. Every one except José, who remained silent, uttered some exclamation expressive of disbelief or disappointment. “He is the Judge!” “He is the God of the Spaniards, who gave them our land and our people!” “He it is who will cast us into everlasting fire if we neglect to have the sacraments and pay the priests!” “Ay, truly!—If it were St. Christopher or St. James, one might understand. But the Son of God Himself! How terrible!” Much more was said. But it is too painful to record such words. Indeed, they were not words so much as inarticulate cries—the cries of blind men, groping in the dark bewildered, and striking ignorantly against the Hand that would have saved and guided them—if they had but known! “Sumac, my child—my dove! apple of my eye! daughter of my heart! what grieves thee?”—It was old Yupanqui who spoke, in the words of endearment and tenderness so richly supplied by the gentle _lengua del Inca_; for Sumac had slipped down from her seat, and was crouching on the floor, with her mantle thrown over her head, weeping quietly. The girl’s slight frame thrilled to the caressing touch of the old man, and taking his hand, she pressed it to her lips, saying with deep emotion, “Oh, my father! do not let them speak so of Him—of Him—who died for us!” “For the Spaniards!” said Maricancha bitterly. “For us also,” repeated Sumac—her voice increasing in strength, and her eyes beaming softly through her tears;—“yes—for us also, the Children of the Sun, to take away our sins.” “The Children of the Sun do not sin, my darling,” said Yupanqui. “But pay thy devotions as thou wilt to thy favourite God; no one shall speak a word against Him.” “He is the one God, grandfather. There is no other.”