"And now," continued Tendilla, "we must communicate with the Inca
Manco."
"No better way than by _chasqui_," said the cook, "though there is
uncertainty of his reaching Cuzco. It is said there are roving bands of
Quitoans—remnants of Atahualpa’s troops—still in the mountains. Since
Manco’s coronation they have been hostile. But have you learned,
father, where the Ñusta was found?"
"Only that the place is called Xilcala, and is some six days’ march from
here."
"Xilcala," repeated Pedro, and fixed the name in his memory. When he
pegged back to his _cantina_ he meditated a purpose.
Two days later the cook was admitted to Rava’s presence. She was
expecting him, and if he had been disposed to think disparagingly of the
grounds on which he was favored in her recollection, his modesty was
gently reproved by her evident pleasure. He found her changed. Her
pallor was sadly heightened, and the proud fire had gone from the dark
eyes. Sorrow seemed indelibly impressed upon the gentle face; but with
it a dignity strangely at variance with her youthfulness, and a
refinement of beauty almost startling to the good Pedro, who whispered
to himself, "Blessed saints! ’t is the face of an angel." As she
greeted him her eyes lighted with a faint smile, but he noted with a
twinge the quiver of lip and chin and the scarcely controlled tremor in
her voice.
"Ah, Pedro," she said, after bidding him to sit, and observing the
diffidence in his honest eyes, "Father Tendilla hath told me all. I
would that I could tell thee my gratitude, but thou knowest. Thou didst
come to mine aid at the moment of despair, when I thought that even
Heaven had forsaken me."
"I have done naught, Ñusta Rava. Father Tendilla and the señora——"
"Thou didst send them, Pedro; and it is twice, now, that I have owed
thee the means of my rescue. But for thy help at Caxamalca——" She
shuddered, then presently went on: "I know how our escape was made
possible, my friend. Cristoval—Cristoval told me. Ah, Pedro, he loved
thee well!" A choking sob shook her frame, and covering her face with
her hands, she turned toward Señora Bolio, who hastened to her side.
Poor Pedro dashed his hand across his eyes, and sat bolt upright, his
lips compressed. In a moment Rava was able to proceed.
"He spoke of thee often, Pedro."
Pedro bent forward. "Ñusta Rava, is there no hope that Cristoval still
liveth? Do you know that it cannot be?"
"Oh, I know not, I know not! Once, on that dreadful night, I thought I
heard his voice rising above the clamor. I heard no more." She covered
her eyes as if to shut out the memory of the horror.
Pedro silently cursed himself for the stupidity of the question, and it
was moments before he could say something to divert her. He did so at
last, and soon took his leave. Rava said earnestly, "Thou’lt come
again, good Pedro?"
"I’ll come again, Ñusta Rava; and meanwhile, keep courage." He added to
himself as he crossed the court, "I would I might say, hope! _Ay de
mi_, Cristoval! if I could but know."
He tarried at the _cantina_ only while Pedrillo was saddling his mule,
then mounted and struck toward the fortress. Again his errand lay
beyond; and he drew rein at the _huasi_ of Municancha. The old Indio
gave him welcome, and to him Pedro narrated Rava’s flight from Caxamalca
with the gallant Viracocha Cristoval. He told of her recent perils and
deliverance, and begged Municancha’s aid in learning from Xilcala
whether the good soldier still lived, and if not, where lay his grave.
He found a willing helper. The old man, overjoyed by the news of the
safety of Rava, who had been mourned as dead throughout the empire, did
not hesitate. He had a nephew, Ocallo. Ocallo was summoned. He would
gladly accompany, would organize a company at once, and would be ready
to start the following dawn. They agreed upon a meeting place, and
having enjoined secrecy, Pedro rode back to Xauxa, grateful to the peg
which had won him so good a friend as Municancha.
Night had fallen before he reached the town. He told his plan to Father
Tendilla, arranged for his absence, received the confessor’s blessing,
and departed to prepare for the journey. Pedro worked late, completed
his preparations, and lay down for a few hours’ sleep. Long before dawn
he was up, and having breakfasted, was assisted by Pedrillo to arm. His
mule was brought, and with a few parting instructions, he was away. In
half an hour he was clear of the town, on the road going north. A brisk
trot for a mile or more, and he halted at a cross-road. A dim figure
rose out of the darkness and was hailed by Pedro in Quichua. After a
brief greeting, the man summoned half-a-dozen companions from a thicket
beside the road.
"Are we all here?" asked Pedro, looking over the group.
"All here, Viracocha—four archers and two carriers," replied the one who
had first approached.
"Good! Then we will move. Take the lead, Ocallo. We should be well in
the mountains before the light."
Thus Pedro set out on his search for Cristoval.
*CHAPTER XXV*
_*A Glimpse of Cuzco*_
The interest at first aroused by Pedro’s disappearance gradually
subsided, and was suddenly forgotten for a time, in the excitement
following upon another departure. This was attended by tragic
circumstance. Fray Mauricio, having established himself at Xauxa, at
once denounced José to the commandant, Saavedra, as a heretic, demanding
his arrest. Saavedra, intimidated by threats of the Inquisition’s
vengeance, unwillingly consented. He was not prompt, however, and word
of the friar’s efforts reached the armorer, who was almost recovered
from his fever. The next morning Mauricio was found in his quarters,
stabbed to the heart. José had vanished.
Search was made in the town and neighboring mountains, but no trace of
the armorer was found, and as no reward was offered, the hunt was given
up.
Pedro’s absence was not unnoted by Rava, however, and her gratitude for
his devotion and services inspired her persistent inquiries. To these
Father Tendilla made evasive replies, deeming it unwise to suggest a
hope which would probably renew her anguish when Pedro returned. But to
Señora Bolio, so much exercised that she even proposed to take the field
in search of the cook, he confided his mission, perplexed at that lady’s
attitude, which seemed too resolute to imply tenderness, but which
nevertheless indicated something more than mere solicitude. Even had
the good father been better versed in the gentle passion as manifested
in the feminine breast, the señora’s symptoms might easily have balked
his diagnosis. When she learned that Pedro had left Xauxa she suspected
it was prompted by his unconquerable coyness, and shocked the mild
priest by a characteristic opinion of the apparent treachery. But,
apprised of the fact, she melted in a manner no less surprising, blew
her nose violently to abort a threatened tear, and broke into eulogy
even more emphatic than her denunciation.
Rava’s spiritual growth had been such as to rejoice the good
missionary’s heart. She turned now with all the emotion born of grief,
the yearning of a heart bereft, the ardent faith of a sincere and
ingenuous mind, to the Mater Dolorosa and the Redeemer. Obedient to her
preceptor, she conquered the despair which he saw was menacing her life
itself. She found divine consolation, and in its realization her belief
received new strength. She was baptized and received the sacrament.
The occasion was one of utmost solemnity, and the garrison attended in
body. The little flock of native converts and as many more of the
people of Xauxa as the walls of the church would hold, gathered to see
the daughter of an Inca repudiate the gods of her fathers in their
ancient temple.
One morning Father Tendilla hastened to Rava with the news that a
_chasqui_ had arrived from Cuzco, announcing that the Inca Manco had
despatched an escort to convey her to the capital. Not many days later
the sun rose upon a city of tents on the plain outside the town. The
escort had arrived at nightfall the day before—battalions of the
Incarial Guard, a hundred nobles, a throng of maids for the Ñusta’s
attendance, and a long train of camp servants, _hamaca_ bearers, and
carriers for the baggage. That morning the sacerdotal palace was
a-glitter with the richly costumed members of the royal suite, bringing
the Inca Manco’s brotherly greetings and their own homage to the
restored princess. Rava’s simpler life was of the past, and once more
she was a Daughter of the Sun.
A fortnight later the _cortège_ of the Ñusta was descending by the great
Chinchasuyu Road into the valley of Cuzco. As the column emerged from
the pass, and the fertile _bolson_ opened out below, Rava drew aside the
curtains of the _hamaca_. The arid slope dropped for hundreds of feet
to the uppermost terraces of the _andenes_ which clung to the
mountain-sides and ended with their green the bleak wilderness of eroded
rock. Beyond these the rolling floor of the valley, traversed by the
stream Cachimayo; and on the left, rising abruptly from the plain,
crowned by the ramparts and towers of its huge fortress, loomed the
sullen mass of the hill Sachsahuaman. At its feet lay Cuzco, the
"Navel," the centre of the universe, the ancient capital of the Incas;
and still farther away, the bastions of the gigantic circumvallation of
the Cordillera, its peaks delicately outlined against the azure of the
cloudless sky or the white of more distant snow-clad summits.
A faint haziness overhung the valley, with filmy spirals of white smoke
rising languidly above the roofs into the air, a-quiver with the warmth
of the lowland and lending lightness and unreality to the almost
dreamlike splendor of the capital. It seemed not of the West. The
bright walls of dwellings, the glare of street and plaza, the green of
interior court and garden, and the gold of the roofs of palace and
temple, were blended by distance into a harmonious beauty which might
have belonged rather to some metropolis of the fabled Orient.
As her escort wound slowly down, Rava looked forward with throbbing
heart, her eyes seeking in the confusion of roofs the spots endeared to
her by lifelong association. The palace, the Amarucancha, was easily
found on the great square, and even her own court with its shade of
quinuars. Beyond gleamed the golden roof of the Temple of the Sun, now
to her a symbol of the darkness from which she had been led by loving
hands, and whence she felt it her mission to rescue others. A turn hid
the city from view, and she leaned back with closed eyes until the
rhythmical tramp of the companies was echoed by the walls of houses, and
she heard the murmur of a multitude. The street was full of her people,
and as she looked from the _hamaca_ they raised a mighty shout, waving
hands and brightly colored scarfs and showering her with flowers. Her
heart was full as she smiled back their greetings, and in her joy over
theirs at beholding her again she could have embraced the humblest.
