When they moved on, Maria-Teresa and the Indian were riding side by side.
“Well, señor Huayna Capae Runtu?” she smiled at him.
“Oh, señorita, let us forget all those illustrious names, which died with my ancestors. The only one I have a right to now is that by which I am known at the bank—just plain Oviedo, like everybody else.”
“Yes, I remember now. That is what you called yourself when you came to me from the bank.... Well, señor Oviedo, can you tell me now what you were doing outside my tent last night with Huascar, my former servant?”
Oviedo Huayna Capac Runtu did not budge, but his mule swerved slightly. He reined it in.
“So you saw Huascar, señorita? An old friend of mine. He arrived late at night, on his way to Cajamarca, and knowing I was at the camp, halted here a minute to see me. I remember now, we did stop outside your tents. When I told him you were there, he asked me to keep watch over you.... He went on immediately afterwards.”
“Do I need somebody to keep watch over me, then? Am I in any danger?”
“The ordinary dangers of a journey like this. A mule may miss its footing, or a saddle may slip off. In either case, it spells death. That is what Huascar meant, and that is why I myself chose your mule and girthed it up this morning.”
“You are too kind,” said Maria-Teresa drily.
At this moment, Uncle Francis drew level with them. He had recovered his equanimity with the wider path, and spoke casually of mountain dangers.