"The name of the man you call Don Torribio Carvajal is really Nocobotha, and he is one of the principal chiefs of the Aucas Indians."
"An Indian!" the young lady exclaimed in stupor.
"Yes; but one of those white-skinned Indians, who are descended from the Incas, and call themselves children of the sun."
"Take care, Conchita," Mercedes said, "Nocobotha is a terrible man."
"Then, all that is left me is to die," said the poor affianced, girl, as she fell into a chair.
Mercedes regarded her for a moment with a blended look of sorrow, compassion, and tenderness, then walked up to her and gently laid her hand on her shoulder. At this unexpected touch, Doña Concha started and turned round.
"What do you want of me, poor child?" she asked sadly.
"To save Don Sylvio, if he is alive," Mercedes answered in a calm, firm voice.
"You?"
"Yes, I! When I was shelterless, did you not open to me your home and your heart? You are suffering, and, in my turn, I have come to say 'here I am!'"