As the Inca drew near she would have knelt, but he stayed her quickly, and taking her hand, reverently carried it to his lips.
"May the sun shine brightly upon thee this day, my sister," said he. "Thou 'rt abroad early. I thought to find the garden deserted."
"I have been walking, my lord," she replied, with eyes still lowered, and drew almost imperceptibly away. "I was about to return."
"Nay: let me walk with thee. Perhaps I can tell thee something to lighten thy heart. Come."
"Ah, my lord," she sighed, raising her eyes to his with a swift glance, and turning them away filled with tears.
"I know—I know! Thou grievest for our unfortunate brother Huascar," he said kindly. "It was partly on his account that I had thee come to Caxamalca. I would not have thee mourn needlessly, nor think me a monster in holding him in brief imprisonment. It is against my wish, believe me, and only to prevent renewal of the late unhappy war."
"Oh, most unhappy, most dreadful, my lord!—and between my brothers!" she answered with a sob.
"Most dreadful!" repeated Atahualpa, gravely. "Yet thou knowest how it was forced upon me."
"Forced upon thee, my lord? They told me different."
"They told thee falsely!" he exclaimed. "Dost thou not know how it was brought about?—I fear not, in its truth. Then let us walk whilst I tell thee." He passed his arm about her fondly, and led her down the avenue.