The face of the listener softened; she saw his love, and all his heroism, but said, coldly,—
“I have heard that wise men do such things only of necessity.”
“I do not pretend to wisdom,” he replied. “Had I been wise, I would not have loved you. Since our parting at Chapultepec, where I was so happy, I have thought you might be a prisoner here, and in my dreams I have heard you call me. And a little while ago, on the temple, I said to Io’, ‘Nenetzin will despise me, if I come not soon.’ Tell me, O Nenetzin, that you are a prisoner, and I will take you away. Tell me that the stories told of you on the streets are not true, and—”
“What stories?” she asked.
“Alas, that it should be mine to tell them! And to you, Nenetzin, my beautiful!”
With a strong effort, he put down the feeling, and went on,—
“There be those who say that the good king, your father, is in this prison by your betrayal; they say, too, that you are the keeper of a shrine unknown to the gods of Anahuac; and yet more shamelessly, they say you abide here with the Tonatiah, unmindful of honor, father, or gods known or unknown. Tell me, O Nenetzin, tell me, I pray you, that these are the tales of liars. If you cannot be mine, at least let me go hence with cause to think you in purity like the snow on the mountain top. My heart is at your feet,—O crush me not utterly!”
Thereupon, she arose, with flushed face and flashing eyes, never so proud, never so womanly.
“Lord Hualpa, were you more or less to me than you are, I would make outcry, and have you sent to death. You cannot understand me; yet I will answer—because of the love which brought you here, I will answer.”
She went into a chamber, and returning, held up the iron cross, more precious to her, I fear, as the gift of Alvarado than as the symbol of Christ.