"A few miles, not more than that. The fog grew thicker, until we were blinded by it, and the way was dangerous. I could not make the men go on." Fra Rafael closed his eyes wearily. "They talked of old Inca gods and devils--Manco Capac and Oello Huaco, the Children of the Sun. They are very much afraid, _Senor_ White. They huddle together like sheep and believe that an ancient god has returned and is taking them away one by one. And--one by one they _are_ taken." "Only young girls," I mused. "And no coercion is used, apparently. What's up toward Huascan?" "Nothing but wild llamas and the condors. And snow, cold, desolation. These are the Andes, my friend." "Okay," I said. "It sounds interesting. As an anthropologist I owe it to the Foundation to investigate. Besides, I'm curious. Superficially, there is nothing very strange about the affair. Seven girls have disappeared in the unusually heavy fogs we've had ever since the earthquake. Nothing more." I smiled at him. "However, I think I'll take a look around and see what's so attractive about Huascan." "I shall pray for you," he said. "Perhaps--well, _Senor_, for all the loss of my legs, I am not a weak man. I can stand much hardship. I can ride a burro." "I don't doubt your willingness, Fra Rafael," I said. "But it's necessary to be practical. It's dangerous and it's cold up there. Your presence would only handicap me. Alone, I can go faster--remember, I don't know how far I'll have to travel." The priest sighed. "I suppose you are right. When--" "Now. My burro's packed." "Your porters?" "They won't go," I said wryly. "They've been talking to your villagers. It doesn't matter. I'll go it alone." I put out my hand, and Fra Rafael gripped it strongly. "_Vaya con Dios_," he said. I went out into the bright Peruvian sunlight. The Indios were standing in straggling knots, pretending not to watch me. My porters were nowhere in evidence. I grinned, yelled a sardonic goodbye, and started to lead the burro toward the Pass. The fog vanished as the sun rose, but it still lay in the mountain canyons toward the west. A condor circled against the sky. In the thin, sharp air the sound of a distant rock-fall was distinctly audible. White Huascan towered far away. A shadow fell on me as I entered the Pass. The burro plodded on, patient and obedient. I felt a little chill; the fog began to thicken. Yes, the Indios had talked to me. I knew their language, their old religion. Bastard descendants of the Incas, they still preserved a deep-rooted belief in the ancient gods of their ancient race, who had fallen with Huayna Capac, the Great Inca, a year before Pizarro came raging into Peru. I knew the Quichua--the old tongue of the mother race--and so I learned more than I might have otherwise.