I asked if the Indians sang unaccompanied. “There is sometimes a reed-flute accompaniment,” he said, “as simple as the song. The flute is called a _quena_. Then, too, they play upon a pipe-of-Pan, supposed to have persisted since Inca days. But melody suggests to them things far lovelier than they can conceive by words. What they wish to say is made intelligible by the sadness or cheerfulness of the tune.” There is a legend that a priest in early Spanish days loved a beautiful Indian girl who died. In desolation he mourned for years, until he dug up her skeleton and made a flute out of the big leg-bone. Then upon it he played weird, sad tunes and was comforted. This is the origin of the human-bone flute so widely used. “Have you ever heard of the ‘Jug of Mourning?’” he suddenly asked. “Sometimes at evening the Indians play on flutes inserted in a large earthenware jar to make their tragic tones more resonant, and, sitting grouped around it at a little distance, they cry aloud and shed tears for the downfall of the race. The Indians’ misfortune is infinite indeed, but a misfortune terribly uniform; and so is their music. Yes, even their suffering is consistently monotonous.” I asked about the libretto of _Ollanta_. “It is the only one of the great dramas dealing with exploits of kings, acted before the Inca by young nobles, still told by the people. Ollanta was a provincial governor who dared to love a daughter of the Sun and was commanded not to raise his eyes.” “Have you had anything published?” I ventured. “This,” he said, handing me an _Elégie_ bearing a Paris publisher’s mark. “Could I find it?” “Oh, no. It was out of print long ago.... Now I am working at _Atahualpa_, an opera. I consider it by far my greatest work; let me show you,” and he took some loose leaves from a portfolio. He began to play again. His whole body swayed to the spectacular rhythm. There are occasions when rhythm is music, when melody is a refinement hardly necessary. Everything in nature keeps time to such a rhythm. Nothing can be indifferent. It turns a whole landscape theatrical. We were whirled up into the midst of the frenzied feather-dance, and beyond into a lofty sky where condors scarce can breathe. In the distance glittered the ice-cold _puna_ cities. There is nothing I could not do if that thrilling moment could have been indefinitely prolonged! “But you are interested in seeing the boys at work, I feel sure,” he broke in. The composer of _Ollanta_--sub-manager of a school of correction! “The boys are either bad or abandoned by their families at an early age. They are brought here and taught trades. They do all the work of the school. “Here is their swimming pool and their dormitory. In their schoolroom you will see object-lessons upon the walls, pictures of what will befall them if they are bad.