"No," he whispered softly. "I don't really believe I do. Will you
teach me?"

"Of course I will," she said brightly. "But you'll have to live it.
And you'll have to do just as I tell you," holding up an admonitory
finger.

"I'm yours to command, little woman," he returned in mock seriousness.

"Well," she began very softly, "you must first learn that love is just
as much a principle as the Binomial Theorem in algebra. Do you know
what that is? And you must apply it just as you would apply any
principle, to everything. And, oh, it is important!"

"You sweet little thing," he murmured absently, gazing down into her
glowing face. "Who taught you such stuff? Where did you learn it? I
wonder--I wonder if you really are a daughter of the Incas."

She leaned back and laughed heartily. "Yes," she said, "I am a
princess. Of course! Don't I look like one?"

"You look like--I wonder--pshaw!" he passed his hand across his eyes.
"Yes, you certainly are a princess. And--do you know?--I wish I might
be your prince."

"Oh, you couldn't! Padre Jose has that honor." But then her bright
smile faded, and she looked off wistfully down the long corridor.

"Who is he?" demanded Ames savagely. "I'll send him a challenge
to-night!"

"No," she murmured gently, "you can't. He's way down in Simiti. And,
oh, he was so good to me! He made me leave that country on account of
the war."

The man started slightly. This innocent girl little knew that one of
the instigators of that bloody revolution sat there beside her. Then a
new thought flashed into his brain. "What is the full name of this
priest?" he suddenly asked.

"Jose--Jose de Rincon," she whispered reverently.

Jose de Rincon--of Simiti--whom Wenceslas had made the scapegoat of
the revolution! Why, yes, that was the man! And who, according to a
recent report from Wenceslas, had been arrested and--

"A--a--where did you say this--this Jose was, little girl?" he asked
gently.

"In Simiti," she replied. "He is working out his problem."

His eyes shifted quickly from hers. But he could not hold them away.

"His problem?"

"Yes. You know, he never was a priest at heart. But, though he saw the
truth, in part, he was not able to prove it enough to set himself
free; and so when I came away he stayed behind to work out his
problem. And he will work it all out," she mused abstractedly, looking
off into the distance; "he will work it all out and come--to me. I
am--I am working wi