clerk, the schoolman, the man of books, came down on us with his reserve like a whirlwind.  Oh! cavaliers, did not God fight against us, when He let us, the men of iron, us, the heroes of Cuzco and Vilcaconga, be foiled by a scholar in a black gown, with a pen behind his ear?  We were beaten.  Some ran; some did not run, senors; and I did not.  Geronimo de Alvarado shouted to me, ‘We slew Pizarro!  We killed the tyrant!’ and we rushed upon the conqueror’s lances, to die like cavaliers.  There was a gallant gentleman in front of me.  His lance struck me in the crest, and bore me over my horse’s croup:  but mine, senors, struck him full in the vizor.  We both went to the ground together, and the battle galloped over us.

“I know not how long I lay, for I was stunned:  but after awhile I lifted myself.  My lance was still clenched in my hand, broken but not parted.  The point of it was in my foeman’s brain.  I crawled to him, weary and wounded, and saw that he was a noble cavalier.  He lay on his back, his arms spread wide.  I knew that he was dead:  but there came over me the strangest longing to see that dead man’s face.  Perhaps I knew him.  At least I could set my foot upon it, and say, ’Vanquished as I am, there lies a foe!’ I caught hold of the rivets, and tore his helmet off.  The moon shone bright, senors, as bright as she shines now—­the glaring, ghastly, tell-tale moon, which shows man all the sins which he tries to hide; and by that moonlight, senors, I beheld the dead man’s face.  And it was the face of my brother!

* * * * *

“Did you ever guess, most noble cavaliers, what Cain’s curse might be like?  Look on me, and know!

“I tore off my armor and fled, as Cain fled—­northward ever, till I should reach a land where the name of Spaniard, yea, and the name of Christian, which the Spaniard has caused to be blasphemed from east to west, should never come.  I sank fainting, and waked beneath this rock, this tree, forty-four years ago, and I have never left them since, save once, to obtain seeds from Indians, who knew not that I was a Spanish Conquistador.  And may God have mercy on my soul!”

The old man ceased; and his young hearers, deeply affected by his tale, sat silent for a few minutes.  Then John Brimblecombe spoke: 

“You are old, sir, and I am young; and perhaps it is not my place to counsel you.  Moreover, sir, in spite of this strange dress of mine, I am neither more nor less than an English priest; and I suppose you will not be willing to listen to a heretic.”

“I have seen Catholics, senor, commit too many abominations even with the name of God upon their lips, to shrink from a heretic if he speak wisely and well.  At least, you are a man; and after all, my heart yearns more and more, the longer I sit among you, for the speech of beings of my own race.  Say what you will, in God’s name!”

“I hold, sir,” said Jack, modestly, “according to holy Scripture, that whosoever repents from his heart, as God knows you seem to have done, is forgiven there and then; and though his sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow, for the sake of Him who died for all.”