He recrossed the court impetuously, and pushing open the door without ceremony, entered the room. Rava arose, startled, and hurried forward with a cry of joy, alarmed again when she saw his pallor and the drawn lines of his countenance. But there was no reproach in her tone or bearing, only affection and gladness, and he embraced her with nervous fervor.
Rava’s arms were about his neck. "Oh, my brother! Oh, my brother! Do I really see thee again? Manco! Manco! How many, many times in these long months have I feared—but fears are gone. How thou hast changed, my dear! Thou ’rt troubled! Ah, me—" she stopped, regarding him with surprised concern. "Where is thy _llautu_, Manco? Why dost not wear it?"
He reddened painfully as he kissed her forehead again. "I—I have laid it aside to-night," he said quickly, seating himself beside her. "To-night, I am Manco—not the Inca, my dearest."
"But I would have seen thee wearing it. It should never be laid aside, save in privacy, brother dear; and thou wouldst still have been Manco to Rava, thou knowest well. That is not the reason."
"Why didst thou leave it?" she persisted, studying his face.
"I have told thee, Rava. I have put it by that I might be to thee only Manco, as of old."
The lightness of his words was forced, and Rava saw it. "Nay, it is not that," she said, gently. "Tell me why."
His eyes left hers, and she laid a hand upon his arm. "Tell me why, Manco." He rose, but she detained him; and a glance at her anxious face forced a confession. He hesitated, then said with an effort: "I will tell thee why, Rava. It is because—oh, may the souls of the departed Incas look mercifully upon me!—it is because—it is stained, my sister: debased and dishonored! It came to me not from the hands of a priest of the Sun, but placed upon my head by the foul hand of a Viracocha. O, thou great Inti, why was I suffered to live to bring this shame upon my line? I wear the _llautu_, and look thou, Rava, the shadow of a Viracocha resteth ever upon my throne. When I speak to my people a Viracocha speaketh, and my voice is drowned. My laws have ceased to be. The very dogs of the streets look dumb question of mine authority." His words failed, but he resumed, his voice strained with agony: "But worse—worse hath befallen Tavantinsuyu. They have violated the Temple of the Sun, stripped it of its splendor, and polluted its halls. They have cast down the silent forms of our fathers, ravished of their sacred insignia. The golden effigy of the Sun hath been torn from the wall, crushed into ruin by Viracocha feet, and carried away to be gambled for. The gardens have been despoiled, and not one hand’s-breadth of their hallowed soil hath been left unturned by these destroyers in their ravening for gold. The Inti-pampa is a desolation. Ah, Rava, Rava, ask me not why I lay aside the _llautu_! Ask me, rather, how I dare to wear it! Ask why the Sun doth rise and set upon my profanation!"