They said little more, but clung together as if the morrow's parting would be final. Minutes passed, when Cristoval felt her shudder as she raised her head in a sudden recollection. "Cristoval, oh, Cristoval!" she faltered, "Father Valverde threatened thee!"
"Ah!" muttered the cavalier, gloomily. "Thou didst guess his meaning? I hoped it had escaped thee. The words were Latin."
"I know. I have had time to learn much since Xilcala. But, oh, my heart, dost think he will excommunicate thee?"
Cristoval hesitated. "If he should," he said, with courage, "thou'lt pray for me, child. I'll have no fear that the Virgin will not hear thee."
"It is dreadful, dreadful!" she murmured, sobbing.
"Nay: think not of it. It were more dreadful, far, to have obeyed his command to leave thee." And in Cristoval's mind an eternity in hell was naught in comparison. The certainty itself would not have forced him to relinquish her.
It seemed but a moment before her trusted maid came to whisper that the sky was growing light. A sweet, bitter instant of parting, and Cristoval was alone.
Before the sun had touched his tent the cavalier heard preparations for departure,—hastening steps, the rattle of camp gear, and soon, the marching of the escort and the commands of its officers as it formed on the parade in front of the Inca's quarters.
Accompanied by Paullo, Rava went first to Pedro's tent to say farewell.
"God bless thy sweet life!" said Pedro, weakly, as he pressed her hand. "I shall miss thy visits sorely—and another will miss them more. But thy going is sudden—doth Cristoval know?"