self? He was passing through the furnace of a bitter anguish. Many men, whose love was true as his, have had to do the same. But few come forth from that furnace unscarred, scarce one unscathed. Some hearts its fire burns hard, turning them to stone; some hearts consume in it like dry wood, leaving only ashes behind; while some, perhaps, are melted there, that they may be refined and purified like gold.

José could not forget. There was in his nature a dumb, persistent tenacity, both of purpose and of affection. The river might flow for leagues underground, yet its still, strong current would know no change. He rather brooded than thought, rather dreamed than reflected. After that one outburst of fierce agony on the Sachsahuaman Hill, he uttered no complaint, even to himself. Perhaps eventually the doom of his race might come upon him, and stoicism pass gradually into apathy.

A Spaniard in his circumstances would have acted differently. Had the rival of Don Francisco Solis been of his own race, the successful suitor would have worn a shirt of mail beneath his broidered doublet, and barred his windows well. For "Honour," that idol of chivalry-a bloody idol, too, propitiated by many a costly hecatomb sanctioned almost every kind of treason and violence when glozed over by the name of love. It was fortunate for Don Francisco that he had not torn his prize from a Spanish hidalgo, but from a simple Inca Indian, who reverenced from his heart the Quichua laws of his ancestors, and the Ten Commandments he had learned from Fray Fernando.

strong enough to justify the most unbounded devotion.*

When Fray Fernando was engaged in his spiritual ministrations, José always accompanied him as his acolyte; and from this office he reaped the great advantage of being able freely to visit all the ships in the bay. It was not long until his attention was arrested by the miserable condition of the slaves on board the galleys. Not all the wonders of the great galleons, with their tall masts and spreading sails, and their strange monstrous guns, could turn his eyes and his thoughts from those black unsightly hulks, where sat the long and serried rows of degraded wretches; brown, haggard, filthy, fettered to their places. "Are they men?" was his first question to Fray Fernando. When told they were criminals, enduring a severe but well-merited punishment, he remarked, "The king ought rather to kill them. Why does he not?” For José was himself the son of kings whose stroke often dealt death swift and remediless, but who knew not the fiendish joy that delights in torture.

Then Fray Fernando said, "We will bring alms to the slaves on board the galleys."

"Chachau!" José answered. "My Fathers were the Friends of the Poor." And they did so.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE FRUITS OF THE WEST.

"And when you see fair hair, be pitiful.”

GEORGE ELIOT.

THE good galley, San Cristofero, was doomed to lie at rest for a lengthened period in the port of Callao. She needed repairs; and since these repairs had to be accomplished by Spanish hands, and "To-morrow is the god of the Spaniard," a great many to-morrows came and went before they were completed. And even when at length they had come to an end, the galley had still to await, for an indefinite time, the pleasure of the stately man-of-war she was destined to escort.

These delays were no cause of regret to the slaves on board. They gained thereby some trifling alleviation of the miseries of their lot.

* This fidelity of the Peruvians to any master to whom they had once yielded themselves, is described in very striking terms by

The rowers who sat on the first bench, and who had the severest toil, but the greatest privileges, were often permitted to go on shore; their peculiar dress, and the iron anklet they always wore, being considered sufficient securities against the possibility of an escape. Although this welcome relief to the monotony of their life was not usually granted to the others, they also sometimes received small sums in charity, which their more fortunate comrades used to lay out for them. Moreover, there was little to be done. The rowers might sleep through the sultry hours of the tropical day, or sit idle, leaning against their oars, and gaze on the fair sights that met their eyes-the crystal waters, the green shore, the white and distant mountains.

One very hot day a cry ran along the benches that the Commissary had fallen down dead. And almost immediately afterwards the slaves saw him carried along the gangway into the little covered recess in the forecastle. No very kindly interest in a man from whom they had received little save curses and blows could be expected from them; but in their present state of inaction any event was sure to be eagerly discussed. By-and-by they learned that he was not dead, only suffering from a sunstroke. But his condition was thought sufficiently dangerous to require the immediate services of a priest.

There stepped on board accordingly a Franciscan monk, accompanied by a handsome welldressed Indian, who carried the little silver bell intended to warn all who heard it of the presence of their Creator. Even the slaves were expected to prostrate themselves at the signal. The matador had, apparently, no scruples about this ceremony; but to Walter Grey it was a bowing of the knee to Baal, which in his heart he detested, though he was not yet strong enough to challenge martyrdom by a refusal.

He was not particularly pleased to meet the keen dark eyes of the Indian fixed upon him with an earnest and, as he fancied, a suspicious gaze. Nothing, indeed, could be more unlikely than that an Indian should either observe his reluctance or scrutinize his motives; but he had suffered so much that his apprehensions were not always under the control of his reason.

The slaves maintained a respectful silence, or

conversed only in whispers, until the monk had performed his ministrations, and with his attendant re-entered the boat that was to convey him on shore. They then began to discuss the occurrence amongst themselves. "Did you see the monk's face, comrades?" one of them inquired. "On my faith, he might be a brother of ours He looks as lean and hollow-eyed as if he had sat for a twelvemonth at the oar."

"Yet what an eye he has, the holy man!" remarked Walter's oar-fellow, the Quatrero. “He looked at me for a moment, and I had to turn away lest he should begin to reckon up to me on his rosary all the sins of my life."

"If he began that bead-roll he would be here till sundown, and not half through then," said another drily.

Hush, mates!" a third interposed. “Here comes the dark-faced sacristan again, and with a basket of fine fruit on his arm. Enough to make us all die of thirst this burning day. What lucky fellow has got a real to spend ?”

"What good in that? He will serve our betters first. Well if he comes our way at all."

And now the "dark-faced sacristan" stood on the deck, holding parley with a soldier who acted as sentinel. All took notice of his gallant air an manly bearing, and saw that he wore his handsome national costume with as much stately grace as a Spanish cavalier could wear his cloak and sword. "A fine bird that, and in fine feathers,” muttered the Quatrero. Meanwhile the soldier conducted José Viracocha to the captain, of whom he made some request, which appeared to be granted immediately. The captain politely ac companied him to the gangway, and by a motion of his hand indicated that the slaves were p mitted to hold communication with him.

José stepped at once to the bench where sat the English youth, whose golden hair and fair complexion rendered him conspicuous amongst the swarthy Spaniards and dusky Creoles and Mulattoes. With a bow and a smile he placed his basket of fruit in his hand.

Walter, in his surprise, at first took it me chanically. Then reflecting that the Indian probably wished to sell, and that he had no money. he tried to convey as much by signs.

José, making use of that language.

"I do," Walter answered, more and more surprised.

"Then I pray of you to accept my gift, señor Englishman," the other said, adding the last two words in a low voice. Some of the more forward amongst those around beginning to beg from him, he responded at once, "Yes, yes, poor fellows, you shall all have something." And he scattered small coins with a liberal hand amongst them, taking especial care that the feeble, worn-out men who sat on the bench next the water should have their full share.

Both Walter's disposition and his interest led him to share the Indian's gift very freely with his comrades, of course not forgetting his special friend the matador. And the sweet and luscious chirimoyas proved very acceptable to men obliged to sit unsheltered under the fiery blaze of a tropical sun. Every one supposed that the Indian was the dispenser of his master's charity, though for what reason either he or the Franciscan monk should have singled out Walter Grey as the chief recipient of their bounty could not be surmised.

The young Englishman's story was known to all on board. But, fortunately for him, the captain of the galley was no bigot; he was a thoughtless, idle young prodigal, the son of a respectable merchant, sent to sea in despair by his relatives, whose interest procured him the situation he filed.

The commander of the troops on board, on the other hand, was far too fine a gentleman to have any concern at all with the slaves, beyond holding his men in readiness to shoot them down if they attempted mutiny. Thus, whilst every one believed, as a matter of course, that Walter Grey, the English heretic, was infinitely worse than a thief or a murderer, no one thought much about him.

The Indian came again the next day with a larger supply of fruit, which, however, he gave to the soldiers. But the disappointment visible in the longing eyes of the thirsty slaves as the store quickly disappeared was soothed by charity of even a more acceptable kind. Many blessings were invoked both upon himself and upon "his reverence the holy father," whose emissary he was supposed to be-nor did he contradict the sup

coins to the others, to slip a broad piece of gold into the hand of Walter. The Englishman was about to express aloud his astonishment at this liberality, but the Indian caught his eye and whispered, "Tace." As may be imagined, the Latin word, spoken by such lips, only changed | Walter's look of surprise into a stare of amazement.

After the Indian's departure he expressed his wonder at the circumstance to his friend the matador.

"Depend upon it, Englishman," said the old galley-slave in reply, "the good friar has taken pity on you for your youth and your gentle looks, which would strike a stranger, like the sight of a fair green sapling amongst a bundle of dry, brown fagots. One can read in his face that he has known much sorrow himself, and therefore, perhaps, his heart is tender for others."

66

Why not? He is the servant of a churchman a; and he that measures oil gets some on his fingers.' Though," he admitted, "he seems wondrously wise and civil for one of the wild men."

A concession that moved Walter to draw upon old stores of information; and to talk of the strange civilization of the New World, and the splendours of the two great empires that had already been discovered there. Growing more and more interested as he went on, he conquered Mexico with Cortes, overran Peru with Pizarro, and was making rapid progress towards the discovery of El Dorado, when at last the matador brought him to a pause.

"I used to know all these things long ago," he said. And this was true. Time was when such themes never failed to bring the blood to his cheek and the light to his eye. But now the dry embers were not even stirred by the old fire. "I have done with Golden Cities now," he went

story that is all true. About a City that hath foundations, ay, and streets of gold and gates of pearl."

The extensive and accurate knowledge of Scripture that Walter had acquired in his childhood was now proving a great comfort to him, He gladly shared his stores with his companion, who listened to the words of Holy Writ with an intense and unflagging interest, contrasting strangely with the seeming indifference with which he heard Walter's other narratives.

Walter Grey was not now the miserable, dejected wretch, passively accepting his life of suffering, that he had been a short time before. The light of heavenly hope had arisen upon his soul, making all things new. It was worth while to live, since he might live unto God—even in the galleys. Many things in his lot were still hard to bear; but nothing was intolerable, since the worst could only mean death, and death was the gate of everlasting life.

And, as it is God's will that little things should often contribute not a little to the help and healing of sorrowful hearts, the visits and kindnesses of his Indian friend, which were continued from day to day, proved a wonderful tonic to Walter Grey. The very occupation they gave his mind was a much prized relief from the dreary monotony of slavery. The visits were something to expect, to long for, to think over. It was good also to be able, even in the midst of his poverty, to minister to the need of others; and thus he began to find positive enjoyment in sharing the liberal gifts he received with his less fortunate comrades.

The true explanation, however, of the strange partiality José evinced for him was this. Whilst looking with a pitying eye along the rowers' benches of the San Cristofero, his glance had been suddenly arrested by Walter's fair, or golden hair. Now, in José's eyes, fair hair had wonderful significance. It was linked in his thoughts with the Sun, his great Father; and with his ancestor Viracocha, called the fairhaired. And yet more, it was bound up with all those dim, mysterious prophecies-those faint rumours floating amongst his people-of the bearded strangers, wise and mighty and strong to deliver, who were to come to them from beyond

the Mother Sea. The hopes dearest to José's heart were built upon the fair-haired English

men.

Great was his joy, therefore, when he ascer tained that Walter was in very deed an Englishman. And he was confirmed in more than one fond delusion by finding that when he addressed a Latin word to the captive, the latter, though naturally surprised, evidently understood him.

He soon found, however, that it was better on the whole to communicate with his new friend in Spanish. And he directed all his address to the task of opening up and improving the means of communication with him. This did not prove as difficult as he had anticipated. Even on board a galley a man's gift maketh room for him; and José had both the means to offer very acceptable gifts, and the tact to offer them in an acceptable way. It is true that in losing Coyllur he los also the secret hoards of Yupanqui; a loss for which he grieved little; far less than he rejoiced that they were saved from the covetous gripe of Don Francisco Solis. But Maricancha, who was childless, made him welcome to all that he had. At their parting interview, when José was on the point of starting for Lima, he pressed upon him as much gold as he could carry, with several valuable jewels.

It was not hard for José, thus amply supplied with the sinews of war, to gratify the officers and soldiers of the San Cristofero. They-as well as the galley-slaves-looked upon him as the Indian servant of a Francisean monk; a character of all others the least likely to excite suspicion. And as José knew well enough that Franciscan monks had not usually the means, even if they had the inclination, to exercise unbounded liberality, he soon gave his friends to understand that his master was the almoner of a rich and pious lady, who had great compassion upon poor galley-slaves, and moreover wished to benefit her soul by works of charity. But it was his finest stroke of policy to bring on board the galley frequent supplies of a fragrant brown leaf, which proved a most welcome gift to all-from the señor commandante, who was not too proud to thank the Indian with an elaborate Spanish bow, to the poor rowers, who begged for it piteously to comfort them under their miseries. If the bearer

of such treasures chose to amuse himself for half an hour chatting with the slaves, it was no one's business to hinder him, and, consequently, no one did it.

us his master's name and his own," said Walter's comrades to him one day.

And Walter did so.

José smiled at the question; and very readily

YOUTH despairs easily. The young, unused to sorrow, sink beneath a burden that the aged would bear without a murmur; unused to life, they put the cup aside as soon as the taste grows bitter. But the rebound is easy also. At any moment hope may revive; the flowers may bloom and the birds sing again.

It was wonderful, considering all the circumstances, that Walter Grey did not die. But since life remained, it was not wonderful that even in the galleys his crushed heart began to recover itself, under the combined influences of heavenly hope, and of the thoughtful and generous ministrations of his new friend.

It had at first been no trifling ingredient in his cup of bitterness that the robbers and murderers amongst whom he toiled looked upon him as a wretch infinitely more degraded than themselves. Even the Quatrero was wont to play the Pharisee, and, crossing himself devoutly, to thank God that he was not as this English heretic. But things were altered now. He was beginning to be regarded by his comrades as rather a person of distinction, and one whose intercession might upon occasion do them a good At least he could and did procure for them, or share with them, many a valued gift, including the much-prized tobacco. They thought he owed the special favour he enjoyed to his extremely youthful appearance; José always called him "El Mozo "—the lad.

turn.

"Ask our Indian, next time he comes, to tell

Fernando, and "a man more like a saint there never was in the world," he added. But when pressed to tell his own name, he returned an evasive answer, saying that the rowers ought first to tell him theirs. It was wonderful how far José contrived to lay aside the reserved and stately dignity of his ordinary bearing, and to assume a frank and friendly, even a jovial manner, in talking with these poor men. For it was absolutely necessary to his plans that they should all regard him with confidence, as a friend. Yet he drew the line somewhere; he never touched them.

They complied, gladly enough, with his request; the more hardened telling him their soubriquets with coarse jests and oaths, which he fortunately did not understand. At last, however, it came to the turn of Walter's special friend, who said simply, "I am called the matador." "Matador!" José repeated.

man who slays a bull."

"That means

Great was the astonishment and admiration with which this evidence of José's knowledge inspired the galley-slaves; and it was certainly remarkable in one who had never seen a bull, not to speak of a bull-fight.

"And did you really slay a bull, señor matador?" he questioned with interest.

"No, Señor Indio. I only wounded him, and saved a gentleman from being gored." "Tell the story, matador," cried several voices.

"There is none to tell," said the matador, who, except to his immediate neighbours, rarely spoke at all, and still more rarely spoke of himself. Being, however, urged by José to relate the circumstances, he did so briefly. "Some twelve years ago," he said, "when my arm was stronger, I sat on the first bench, and had leave to go on shore at Carthagena. There was to be a bullfeast the next day; and they were driving the beasts into the city-all the world out to gaze at them, of course. In old days, I knew something of the ring myself.

So I must needs stand and