There was a llama-herder, a young man who played a flute as he tended his flock; white llamas were in his flock, and many of them had their tender young lambs beside them. Near where he herded was the House of the Virgins of the Sun. Often those who were of that house walked abroad; there were two of them who often drew near and stood behind the rocks to listen to the music of that young man's flute.
One day the young herder whose name was Aroya-Napa looked up, and saw the two Virgins of the Sun standing beside two fountains that were there. And what else should that young man think but that these two most lovely Princesses were the embodiments of the two lovely fountains? He went on his knees to them. They gave him their hands to kiss. And then he knew that they were flesh and blood, albeit flesh and blood of the Inca, and that they were Virgins dedicated to the Sun.
He played upon his flute again, and one of the Princesses felt her heart torn with a love that came into it--a love for this young man who herded llamas. Her name was Chuqui-llantu, "Shadow-of-a-lance." And when her companion turned to go back to the House of the Virgins of the Sun she could hardly bring herself to turn back. Indeed she would not return until she had obtained something that belonged to Aroya-Napa. This was a silver plate that was on his forehead--a silver plate that had on it two figures eating a heart.
Then with her companion, Shadow-of-a-lance went back to the House of the Virgins. When they went within the doorway they were examined as was the custom; their clothes and all they carried were looked over, so that nothing that was unfitting might be brought into the House of the Virgins of the Sun.
In the place where Shadow-of-a-lance slept there were four fountains. Now she lay upon her bed and she thought upon the llama-herder, and she thought upon the silver plate that he had owned and that she now had upon her own forehead, and she thought that what it showed was her own condition, for her heart, too, was being eaten by two figures. She slept, and in her sleep she saw a bird flying between two trees and crying mournfully. In her dream she spoke to the bird--a checollo it was--and she told it that she, too, mourned for that for which there was no remedy--for a love that she, a Virgin of the Sun, had for a young man who herded llamas.
Then the bird told her that she was to arise and seat herself between the fountains, and there sing to herself what was most in her thought. If the fountains sang back the words that she sang to them, a remedy would come to her. Shadow-of-a-lance rose from her bed and sat between the fountains, and sang of the heart that was being eaten by two beings. The fountains sang her words back to her, but
sang them in a way that lulled her. All night she sat singing and listening to the song that the fountains sang back to her.
Now he who herded the llamas had a mother who lived upon the mountain. She had skill and wisdom. She dreamed about her son, and when the dawn came she hurried down to where he kept his flock. He was sleeping when she came to where he lay; she saw that his face was covered with the marks of tears. He awakened; she asked him where was the silver plate that he wore upon his forehead; he told her he had given it away, and he told her to whom he had given it. Then the Woman of the Mountain knew that her son longed for a princess, and for a princess who had been dedicated a Virgin of the Sun.
She stood before the but, and she saw Shadow-of-a-lance and her companion coming towards the place where the llama-flock was pasturing. She bade her son lie in his sleeping-place, and she covered him with a cloak she had brought with her--a magic cloak. Then she went amongst the rocks. She gathered herbs; she dipped the herbs in the fountains, and then she cooked them. The two princesses came to where she was; she served them upon her knees--she served them with the dish of herbs she had cooked.
They asked permission to go into the hut; they looked around it, and they looked in places beside it. Shadow-of-a-lance desired to see the young man she had dreamed about, and her companion did as she did. But they did not see the young man. They saw a cloak spread over a sleeping-place, but they knew there was no one under the cloak. Through the magic of the Woman of the Mountain, her son had passed into and was now part of that cloak.
Shadow-of-a-lance admired the texture and the colours of the cloak. The Woman of the Mountain told her that it had been given to her by a woman who had been beloved by Pachacamac, the great God. Then Shadow-of-a-lance, thinking that never again would she look upon the young man who had played on the flute, asked that she might be given the cloak--she wanted to have something that had gone upon him.
The Woman of the Mountain gave her the cloak, and Shadow-of-a-lance and her companion carried it between them. They went into the House of the Virgins of the Sun. 'Me doorkeepers, as was the custom,
stayed them and searched them so that nothing unfitting might be brought into that house. Then they went within, carrying the cloak.
Shadow-of-a-lance, as before, lay on her bed. She had laid the cloak beside her bed. In a while she rose, and she sat by the fountains, and she sang of the two beings who were eating her heart. The fountains did not sing her words back to her, and she wept, sitting there. Then she looked to where the cloak lay, and behold! the cloak filled out and became the youth whom she loved, the youth who loved her.
The two were together all through the night, and the fountains sang to them. In the morning they stole out together. But not all the guards were sleeping. One saw them and pursued them. Shadow-of-a-lance and her lover fled up the mountain. But now all the guards of the House of the Virgins of the Sun gave chase to them. They did not come to where there was safety; for the Sun turned the two of them into stones, and as stones they stand to this day between Calca and Huayllapampa.