"Why are you here? Of what concern to you is the rescue of the Ñusta Rava?"
Candidly Cristoval faced the rights of a brother. "Of deep concern, my lord. So deep that I overlook the manner of your questions and answer them," he replied, bluntly. "So deep that I have proffered my service, my life, if need be, to Tavantinsuyu in her behalf."
Hostility returned to Manco's eyes. He surveyed the cavalier for a moment before replying coldly, "The Ñusta Rava is the daughter of an Inca, Viracocha."
"I am a caballero of Spain, my Lord Inca."
In silence contended the pride of two races. On the one hand, an autocrat absolute, master of an empire, ruler of multitudes—but an Indian. On the other, a soldier, an adventurer, but a Caucasian—a Conquistador. Upon the monarch, unseen, unfelt, fell the shadow of Destiny.
There was no wavering in the eyes of either. In the stern, self-possessed cavalier the Inca saw and was compelled to acknowledge, an indefinable superiority which eluded him—the genius of a breed of subjugators. Withal, there was no arrogance in this Spaniard's face; only the grave serenity of a lofty mind, a strength of spirit which rose above the distinction of the temporal rank of the Peruvian and all his might. On his own part, Cristoval beheld a kingliness ingrained: a majesty as natural as the air that Manco breathed.
Cristoval broke the pause. "My Lord Inca, I requested, a moment ago, your gracious leave to pass the guards."
Manco seemed not to have heard, but stood in gloomy meditation. Cristoval was about to speak again when the Inca replied with abruptness, "It is my will, Viracocha, that you remain within the palace."
Cristoval bowed, and again encountered the look of profound scrutiny. Manco inclined his head, and the cavalier withdrew.
CHAPTER XXXII