r loves sour. Where
are a man's friends when a woman has him by the heart?--although
perchance they love him better than ever will the woman who at bottom
loves herself best of all. Still, let that be, for so Nature works, and
who can fight against Nature? What Quilla takes, Kari loses, and Kari
must be content to lose."

"Have you done?" I asked angrily, who wearied of his homilies.

"No, Master. The matter of jealousy is small and private; so is the
matter of love. But, Master, you have not told me outright whether you
love the lady Quilla, and, what is more important, whether she loves
you."

"Then I will tell you now. I do and she does."

"You love the lady Quilla and she says that she loves you, which may or
may not be true, or if true to-day may be false to-morrow. For your sake
I hope that it is not true."

"Why?" I said in a rage.

"Because, Master, in this land there are many sorts of poison, as I have
learned to my cost. Also there are knives, if not of steel, and many who
might wish to discover whether a god who courts women like a man can be
harmed by poisons or pierced by knives. Oh!" he added, in another tone,
ceasing from his bitter jests, "believe me that I would shield, not mock
you. This Lady Quilla is a queen in a great game of pieces such as you
taught me to play far away in England, and without her perchance that
game cannot be won, or so those who play it think. Now you would steal
that queen and thereby, as they also think, bring death and destruction
on a country. It is not safe, Master. There are plenty of fair women in
this land; take your pick of them, but leave that one queen alone."

"Kari," I answered, "if there be such a game, are you not perchance one
of the players on this side or on that?"

"It may be so, Master, and if you have not guessed it, perhaps one day
I will tell you upon which side I play. It may even be that for my own
sake I should be glad to see you lift this queen from off the board, and
that what I tell you is for love of you and not of myself, also of the
lady Quilla, who, if you fall, falls with you down through the black
night into the arms of the Moon, her mother. But I have said enough, and
indeed it is foolish to waste breath in such talk, since Fate will have
its way with both of you, and the end of the game in which we play is
already written in Pachacamac's book for every one of us. Did not Rimac
speak of it the other night? So play on, play on, and let