"Look him over, José," said Cristoval. "He is badly hurt, I think—and a youth!"
"A noble!" exclaimed Pedro, inspecting him. "Santa Maria! The gold on his tunic, and in his ears! Our friend whom thou gavest a sore face would have found him rich scraping, Cristoval."
"Ah!" assented Cristoval. "Now, let us get him out of this. Take thou the lantern, Pedro. José, help me with him to my quarters."
The wounded Peruvian was carried from the square. They laid him upon Cristoval's couch, and leaving him in José's care, the former went about his duties. About dawn he returned and found the Indio fully conscious, with his wounds bandaged. Cristoval greeted him in a few words of Quichua. The young noble started at the sound, and regarding the cavalier eagerly, demanded:—
"Do you speak my tongue, Viracocha? Then, in the name of the great luminary who shineth upon us both, tell me what hath become of my brother, the Inca!"
"Thy brother?" exclaimed Cristoval. "God save us! Thy brother—if thou meanest the Inca—is alive and unharmed."
"Oh, thou great God, I thank thee!" murmured the Indio fervently, and closed his eyes, overcome. Presently, looking up again, he asked, "Is he free, Viracocha?"
Cristoval shook his head. "Not free."
"Not free!—a prisoner!" cried the wounded youth, weakly. He raised his hands, trembling with grief: "Oh, woe, woe! My country, what weight of sorrow hath fallen upon thee!" He buried his head in his arms and lay in silence. Cristoval was about to leave when he spoke again, his voice steady once more, and all trace of feeling banished from his countenance:—
"Viracocha, you have shown me mercy. You have saved my life. Let me beg one more favor. Will you say to the Inca that Toparca sendeth his affectionate greeting and sympathy; and that if it is permitted he will share his imprisonment and minister to his wants—that he will share his fate, whatever it be?"