"Surely?" said the cavalier. "I thank her again, sincerely, for I had sore need. I will rise at once."
The youth retreated backward to the door, and started to go once more upon his knees.
"Stay!" said Cristoval, quickly interrupting the movement. "There is one matter whereof I would speak—but what is thy name, lad? Markumi? Good! Well, Markumi, there is, as I say, one thing I would mention—a trifle, but as we may be thrown together for a time, it may concern our peace of mind. It is this: I am not an Inca, Markumi, nor an idol, nor an altar, nor yet a heathen god, nor a saint; and may never be any one of them, though I have a namesake who is the last—San Cristoval, of blessed memory, of whom thou mayst some day learn. But, being neither one nor another, this excessive reverence doth not relish me. I am a plain soldier, and love naught better than to see a man upright on his two legs. Reserve, therefore, thy homage for the ladies, who have full claim and title to it; and thy cramps for the Inca, who may be wonted to it—as I am not. Dost comprehend, Markumi?"
"Not clearly, Viracocha," replied Markumi, with embarrassment.
"Why, what I mean is this. Keep off thy knees. Bow to me with moderation, temperately, and without extravagance, and I'll like it better. Is it plain?"
"Yes, Viracocha."
"That is a good lad. And now, is there a man in thy village who can trim hair? Ah! Then fetch him. And Markumi—"
"Yes, Viracocha."
"Advise him about the manner of his approach." And he added to himself: "I'll have no barber coming before me in the attitude of a cow just rising from her bed. I weary of it."
Cristoval arose quite himself. He hummed through his bath and was cheerful until he confronted the chair holding the apparel sent by the Palla. Then his face grew sombre.