When consciousness returned to José, he was surrounded by what seemed to his dazzled eyes a flood of light. Yet, in fact, he was only lying in the gloomy, dimly-lighted space between decks. An agony of burning thirst was his first feeling; and, as his eyes gradually recovered their powers of vision, he instinctively looked around him for the means of quenching it. A pitcher of water lay near; but when he moved to take it, some one raised it for him, and bore it to his lips. Then he drank, and never had he enjoyed so delicious a draught. After this, his thoughts grew clearer.

“Where is the patre?” he asked.

“I am here, my son,” said the voice of Fray Fernando; for he it was who sat by his side, and who had raised the water to his lips.

“Where are we? What has happened?” questioned José, in a tone of bewilderment.

Fray Fernando explained:—“They have put the ship into a bay, a kind of natural harbour, on some lonely island—where, probably, the foot of man has never trod since the making of this world. The storm is over; and the lives of all on board are saved, thank God.”

“And you, patre?”

“I am better. They have brought us here, between the decks, whilst the hold is being cleansed, and some leakages repaired. Most of the soldiers and the crew are on shore. Even so much of God’s free light and air as we enjoy here seems to bring new life to me. Now I return your question. And you, José?”

“I? Since I drank that water, I am quite well. How cold it is! Easy to tell it has come fresh out of some deep fountain in God’s own blessed earth.”

“Drink again. There is no stint now, thank God. They have found spring water, and are bringing an abundant supply on board.”

And José drank again—deeply, as one who had thirsted long and sorely.

Then Fray Fernando prayed him to eat. Food was at hand,—not coarse, hard biscuit, but cool and luscious plantains and bananas, fresh gathered from the luxuriant grove that filled three-fourths of the little island.

José ate, and was refreshed. “How long shall we stay here?” he asked.

“For several days, at all events, we must stay. Some damage has been done during the storm to the rigging, and especially to one of the great sails, which must needs be repaired before the ship can put to sea again.”

“How has the storm dealt with the other ships that were with us?”

“That we cannot tell. We have been separated, by the stress of weather, from all, except one. One vessel has taken shelter in the same bay, and is near us now. One for which we have good right to care. Guess its name, José.”

“Is it a galley, patre?”

“Yes—a galley.”

“The San Cristofero! O patre, if only we might see the face of Walter Grey once more!”

But Fray Fernando shook his head. “Our making inquiry after him could do us no good, and might do him cruel harm,” he said. “He would come again under suspicion, as the friend of prisoners of the Holy Office.”

For the space of a week, and rather more, the captives were permitted to enjoy their comparatively comfortable quarters between decks; and their lot was further alleviated by good food, delicious fruit, and an abundant supply of fresh water. But this little gleam of sunshine soon faded. Both the commander and the captain of the Trionfo were very anxious, and with good reason, to overtake and rejoin the Plate fleet. They were therefore of one mind in desiring to hasten the departure of the galleon from the friendly shelter of the island; though they were by no means so unanimous in their ideas of the share that the soldiers and the mariners ought respectively to take in the preliminary labours rendered necessary by her condition.

The captain was reported to have said one day, in the bitterness of his soul, that he supposed the “señores y caballeros,” who did him the honour of walking up and down the deck of the Trionfo, would rather go to the bottom at once, or fall alive into the hands of the English pirates and cut-throats, Draco and Achines (he meant Drake and Hawkins), than demean themselves so far as to roll a single water-cask on board. And that, as for himself, he was a plain man, and must speak his mind, if the señor commandante were the Lord Viceroy’s nephew ten times over; ay, and if he were to run him through the body the next minute.

To whom the señor commandante made answer, with cool contempt and well-bred scorn, that the worthy señor capitano very far mistook if he imagined that anything he could possibly say or do could induce Don Francisco Solis so far to forget what was due to himself as to honour him with his sword.

In spite, however, of these bickerings, the work was done at last; and, accompanied by the San Cristofero, which had waited to attend upon the larger vessel, the great galleon bade farewell to the peaceful shores of the friendly island. In return for Nature’s profuse hospitality,—for the cold fresh water bubbling in crystal streams, for the golden juices of the delicious fruits, for the wild birds all the more easily snared and taken because unused to the destroyer,—surely the best thing her first visitants could have wished the little isle was so to slumber on for ages yet to be, unsullied by the foot of man, who has so often turned his rightful lordship over creation into cruel tyranny.

If such thoughts did not occur to Fray Fernando and to José, it was because they had never seen the island. And now they could only think that they should never see anything on God’s free earth again; they could only feel the crushing, stifling misery of their return to the hateful dungeon of the hold, the scene of such bitter suffering.

But to each other they gave no utterance to what they thought or felt. Indeed, at this time they spoke but little. Sometimes, however, Fray Fernando repeated psalms or other passages of Scripture suited to their condition; and often he prayed, for himself and for José.

As weary nights, and days which were nights in all except the name, wore on, the gloom around them grew and deepened, until at last it seemed to pervade everything, and to shut their very voices in like a thick and heavy fog. Gradually, silence as well as darkness was establishing her dominion over them. They were losing the desire to move, as well as to speak. Both often lay for hours motionless, as if in stupor.

Yet night and silence frequently cover, with their veil of mystery, the slow quiet growth that tells of the presence of life. Over the chaos of one heart, at least, the Spirit of light and liberty was brooding throughout the great darkness of those gloomy hours.

Much was Fray Fernando surprised, when one day José suddenly raised himself, and with considerable energy began to speak:—“In the old days of the Incas—”

Never before, in that dreary prison, had José named his heroic fathers—a significant and mournful sign. When the lute thrills no more to the master’s touch, when the heart responds no longer to the theme that always awakened its deepest harmonies, there is room to fear that both are broken. Fray Fernando felt a throb of joy at hearing the familiar words once again; and had he been even in the act of death, he would have roused himself to listen to what followed.

“In the old days of the Incas,” José said—and though his voice had certainly a muffled sound, it was unfaltering and full of purpose—“the eldest son of the sole Inca, who should be his heir, was prepared for his high inheritance by severe and arduous exercises. He had to suffer pain and weariness, to fast long and often, to go unshod and in poor mean clothing, to sleep on the bare ground. All this, that ‘when he should behold himself on the throne of his majesty, he should look down from thence with a compassionate eye on the poor, in remembrance that he himself was one of them.’”⁠[53]

Fray Fernando feared his companion’s mind was wandering. He scarcely knew what to answer. At length, however, he said, “That was a noble thought.”

But after a short pause José went on, in a measured musical tone, almost a kind of chant:—“In after-days, when the poor man came to the Golden Throne with his tale of wrong and woe, he would bend low before the sole Inca, on whose head was the crimson llautu and the white wing-feathers of the cora-quenque. ‘Inca, Child of the Sun, Friend of the poor!’ he would say, ‘I pray thee, look on me. I hunger. Thou hast hungered too. I have no place to lay my head. Nor hadst thou. My feet are weary, and they bleed; for the paths are rough and stony. So were the paths thou didst tread in once.’”

Here again José paused, and Fray Fernando suggested, “Then the Inca would have pity on him?”

José’s voice rose higher—though still it was soft and harmonious—as he glided insensibly from the parable into the interpretation. “Pity? No. It was not pity He gave me. Shall I tell you, if words can tell it, what He said, stooping down from the throne of His majesty? He said, ‘Come near to Me,’ and I came. Then He said, ‘Child, it is true. My unshod feet have trod that rough and thorny way. My heart has hungered and thirsted—even as thine. I too wept over My people—bitterer tears by far than thou hadst ever need to weep over Tahuantin Suyu. Hast thou forgotten that great and bitter cry, “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that slayest the prophets”? Yet I remember all.’”—Here José paused, overcome by his emotion.

But “a breath and a beam of heaven” passed through the weary heart of Fray Fernando, as he asked, with eager interest, “Has He then taken the burden from you, José?”

“No, He has not; He has shown me more love than that. He has said, ‘I bear it with thee,’—a better word, ten thousand times, than ‘I take it from thee.’ Don’t you know sharp pain can become highest joy sometimes? With us, the crowning glory of the Belting festival for the noble youths who stood victorious and approved, was when the sole Inca pierced their ears with his own right hand. How the touch of that hand thrilled them through with pride and rapture! And now—His hand touches me—His voice whispers, ‘Once I suffered all; now I know all. Wait. Trust me. My name is Secret. Believe, and thou shalt see the glory of God.’”

“And you can trust Him now, José?”

“With all my heart and mind and soul and strength. I only grieve now for my past distrust of Him. I know not what He will do; but I know Him. I give my people up to Him, as freely and joyfully as I give Him up this life of mine. He is the King. He is coming, and that soon. He shall right every wrong. ‘He shall deliver the poor when he crieth, the needy also, and him that hath no helper. And His dominion shall be from sea to sea, and from the river even unto the ends of the earth.’ Ranti, ranti! Capac Inca, Huacchacuyac!”

Fray Fernando could only say, from the depths of his heart, “Thank God!” And so Peace came down to that gloomy dungeon, and spread her white wings over the desolate captives there. Nay, the Son of Peace Himself was with them. And whenever His voice should summon them, they would come forth out of the darkness “into the sudden glory” with instant readiness and glad confidence. Surely soon now—any day, any hour, any moment—might that thrice welcome voice be heard, calling them home, to dwell with Him for ever.