“You sweet little thing,” he murmured absently, gazing down into her glowing face. “Who taught you such stuff? Where did you learn it? I wonder––I wonder if you really are a daughter of the Incas.”
She leaned back and laughed heartily. “Yes,” she said, “I am a princess. Of course! Don’t I look like one?”
“You look like––I wonder––pshaw!” he passed his hand across his eyes. “Yes, you certainly are a princess. And––do you know?––I wish I might be your prince.”
“Oh, you couldn’t! Padre Josè has that honor.” But then her bright smile faded, and she looked off wistfully down the long corridor.
“Who is he?” demanded Ames savagely. “I’ll send him a challenge to-night!”
“No,” she murmured gently, “you can’t. He’s way down in Simití. And, oh, he was so good to me! He made me leave that country on account of the war.”
The man started slightly. This innocent girl little knew that one of the instigators of that bloody revolution sat there beside her. Then a new thought flashed into his brain. “What is the full name of this priest?” he suddenly asked.
“Josè––Josè de Rincón,” she whispered reverently.
Josè de Rincón––of Simití––whom Wenceslas had made the scapegoat of the revolution! Why, yes, that was the man! And who, according to a recent report from Wenceslas, had been arrested and––