“Ask him to give me Chasca, the evening star, from the sky! No, nũsta,—no! Not till I shall have done that which may give me right to claim a boon so priceless.” “What is it you want to do?” the dying girl asked wistfully. “Nũsta, you know.” “I am not sure I do, you talk of so many strange things. Yet I can guess. You want to cross the Mother Sea, Viracocha.” “_Arri! arri!_[41] And to come back with an English army, sent by the great King, to restore the Inca. And then, as the deliverer of my people, to kneel and claim Coyllur nũsta.” “Viracocha! Viracocha!” said the dying girl, raising herself upon her couch, and looking with imploring earnestness into his face,—“I know where that will end. And I know, too, how the Spanish steel wounds—not the flesh it falls on—_that_ pang was short, thank God!—but the heart that loves. One of us is enough to bear that, Viracocha; do not lay it upon Coyllur.” “God knows I would not cause her a pang for all that earth contains.” “I see great sorrows, like great clouds, hanging over you,” Sumac went on sadly. “That Spaniard wants to have Coyllur.” “_Aucca!_ I will fight him some day, and with his own weapons. The Spaniards shall see for once how an Inca can use them. The first time I met him, he would fain have struck me with his whip.” (For the young cavalier whom José had encountered the day of his arrival in Cuzco, proved to be no other than Don Francisco Solis de Toledo; a circumstance which intensified their mutual distrust and dislike.) “It was—that, however, does not matter now,” said José, checking himself suddenly as he remembered _what_ had taken place that very day. “But he will not fight you, Viracocha. He knows better He will have you killed. The Spaniards do what they please. They are strong.” “God is stronger, Sumac nũsta.” “He is,” Sumac answered quietly. “But He did not bid you fight Don Francisco; nor go in search of the English.” “That I question. I believe He calls me to seek the great King who will deliver the poor when he crieth.” Here the conversation was brought to a close by the entrance of Coyllur, who had been visiting her aunt, and brought to her sister delicious Spanish sweetmeats flavoured with orange-flower water, the gift of that kind-hearted lady. Never again had Viracocha opportunity for quiet talk with Sumac. From that time she grew rapidly worse. Pain and weakness claimed her for their own. She bore them very patiently, and faced the quickly-approaching end with a calmness more gentle and tender than the usual stoicism of her race. Almost to the last the frail wasted fingers sought the familiar work, and feebly twisted the threads of golden wire. If Coyllur or her attendants remonstrated, she would say, “You know they are for the Lord Christ. They must be ready for Easter.”