Cristoval's eyes blazed, and he stretched out his hand to seize the weapon. Arrested the motion, and drawing back, stood surveying the maddened youth in silence. Fight this prince, already laden with unnumbered cares, the victim of inconceivable wrongs, and on the eve of leading a life-and-death struggle to save his people? Turn a sword upon the brother of Rava?
"Choose!" commanded Manco, passionately. "Doth the Viracocha hesitate?"
Cristoval grasped a sword, and as the Inca stepped back to guard, threw it upon the table. "My lord," he said, "I have no mind to fight."
Manco's surprise gave way to quick access of anger. "What mean you, Viracocha?" he demanded, hotly. "Is this some new form of insult?"
"God forbid!" said Cristoval.
For a moment the monarch glared at him, speechless with rage and uncertainty. "Do I look upon a coward?" he asked, slowly, the scorn deepening in his eyes.
Cristoval knew that the stigma must follow his refusal, yet he started and reddened at the word. "A coward! No, my Lord Inca, not that!" he replied, meeting steadily the look of contempt and enmity. "Not a coward; and I believe you cannot think it." During a fraction of a second he felt the penetrating gaze which might have been Rava's. It passed, and Manco's brow darkened again. He was about to speak, but Cristoval raised his hand. "Lord Inca Manco," he said, gravely, "we have no quarrel. I divined but now the nature of what you hold as grievance. I call upon Heaven to witness that the Ñusta Rava hath had from me naught but honor in mine every thought."
"Honor!" repeated Manco, with renewed scorn. "Honor in a Viracocha?"
"Nay, my lord! You have heard me say that I will not fight," returned the cavalier. Manco colored under the reproof, and Cristoval went on, "There is honor even among Viracochas, and something more than lust of gold, God knoweth!" He paused again. "You spoke of the symbol the Ñusta Rava wore. I tell you, Prince, that if you come not to the faith, it betokeneth you will go upon your bended knees on the hot pavement of hell and give up thanks that your sister hath been spared your fate!" Then, with a gesture: "But I say once more, Lord Inca, we have no quarrel. We have a common enemy."
Again Manco's searching look, but he was silent, studying the man before him. Here, assuredly, was a Viracocha who differed from his kind. He had neither swaggered nor sneered. He spoke with a dignity and candor that forced respect. In his bearing was a calm pride and consciousness of strength which had baffled the unconcealed hate and bitterness with which he had been received. The frank honesty of his eyes had lent support to his words. Manco's youth had not given him a knowledge of men, and least of all could he fathom a Spaniard; but his own ingenuous temperament, shamefully as it had been abused, made him quick in an intuition that he had misjudged. But this was in his thoughts as an under-current. Before him still was a Viracocha. He tossed his sword beside its fellow, and demanded:—