ocents who this night have fallen by your hands. Their
blood will cry to Heaven for vengeance. Preserve this man's life,
repent, and pray for mercy."

A _cacique_ now stepped forward from among the crowd.

"Senor Padre," he said, "we listen to your words with reverence, for you
are a priest, and have ever proved our friend; but this man was placed
in authority over us, and most cruelly did he abuse that authority. He
has been tried and found guilty. As his ancestors murdered our last
Inca, the great Atahualpa, so he must die. He has but one minute more
to live. We have already shown him more mercy than he deserves."

The tone, as much as the words of the speaker, convinced the padre that
his penitent must die. To the last he stood by his side, whispering
such words of consolation as he could offer. Several Indians, appointed
as executioners, advanced; and in an instant the miserable man was
hurried into eternity.

"For this man's death, the vengeance of his countrymen will fall
terribly on your heads, my children," exclaimed the padre; for the proud
spirit of the Spaniard was aroused within his bosom, and he did not fear
what they might do to him. Too truly were his words afterwards
verified. No one seemed to heed what he said; and he was led away from
the spot by a party of Indians, in whose charge he was given by the
chief Tupac Amaru. To his horror, he found that every man, woman, and
child among the white inhabitants of the village had fallen victims to
the exasperated fury of the Indians.

This account was given me some time afterwards by Padre Diogo himself;
though I thought the present a proper opportunity of introducing it.

I will now return to my own narrative. I rapidly recovered my strength,
and in a few more days was able to leave the hut and walk about without
assistance; but my anxiety for the fate of my family was in no way
relieved; and though Manco made all the inquiries in his power, he could
afford me no consolation. I was sitting one evening in front of the
hut, meditating what course to pursue, when Manco came and threw himself
on the ground by my side. He took my hand and looked kindly in my face;
but I saw that his countenance wore an expression of deep melancholy.
With a trembling voice I asked him what news he had to communicate.

"Bad news, bad news, my young friend," he said; and then stopped, as if
afraid of proceeding.

"Of my parents?" I inquired, for I could not bea