The Crimson Conquest 12

The Crimson Conquest 12

Pizarro turned away impatiently, irritated by the cook’s garrulity.

"Explain this matter, Peralta!" he commanded sharply. Cristoval

explained in a few words.

 

"Soto, have the companies formed!" ordered Pizarro. "We will learn who

is out. Some of these dogs are plundering for themselves. It shall go

hard with them! Peralta, I will send thee an additional detail. Post

sentinels about the square until daylight.—Ha! Whom have we here?"

 

The man who had struck at Cristoval had regained his senses and was

sitting up, spitting out teeth.

 

"He is one of them, General," remarked Cristoval.

 

A soldier jerked him to his feet. "Put him in double irons!" commanded

Pizarro, and walked away.

 

The call was blowing for assembly, and the crowd of soldiers dispersed.

Cristoval gave his attention to Pedro, who was already being examined by

José. He found the wound slight, and it was soon bandaged. Cristoval

set about searching for the injured Peruvian whom he had saved from the

soldier’s knife. He found him presently, and called to José, who had a

lantern. The three gathered round him.

 

"Look him over, José," said Cristoval. "He is badly hurt, I think—and a

youth!"

 

"A noble!" exclaimed Pedro, inspecting him. "Santa Maria! The gold on

his tunic, and in his ears! Our friend whom thou gavest a sore face

would have found him rich scraping, Cristoval."

 

"Ah!" assented Cristoval. "Now, let us get him out of this. Take thou

the lantern, Pedro. José, help me with him to my quarters."

 

The wounded Peruvian was carried from the square. They laid him upon

Cristoval’s couch, and leaving him in José’s care, the former went about

his duties. About dawn he returned and found the Indio fully conscious,

with his wounds bandaged. Cristoval greeted him in a few words of

Quichua. The young noble started at the sound, and regarding the

cavalier eagerly, demanded:—

 

"Do you speak my tongue, Viracocha? Then, in the name of the great

luminary who shineth upon us both, tell me what hath become of my

brother, the Inca!"

 

"Thy brother?" exclaimed Cristoval. "God save us! Thy brother—if thou

meanest the Inca—is alive and unharmed."

 

"Oh, thou great God, I thank thee!" murmured the Indio fervently, and

closed his eyes, overcome. Presently, looking up again, he asked, "Is

he free, Viracocha?"

 

Cristoval shook his head. "Not free."

 

"Not free!—a prisoner!" cried the wounded youth, weakly. He raised his

hands, trembling with grief: "Oh, woe, woe! My country, what weight of

sorrow hath fallen upon thee!" He buried his head in his arms and lay

in silence. Cristoval was about to leave when he spoke again, his voice

steady once more, and all trace of feeling banished from his

countenance:—

 

"Viracocha, you have shown me mercy. You have saved my life. Let me

beg one more favor. Will you say to the Inca that Toparca sendeth his

affectionate greeting and sympathy; and that if it is permitted he will

share his imprisonment and minister to his wants—that he will share his

fate, whatever it be?"

 

"Willingly," replied Cristoval, and desirous of ending the interview, he

spoke a few words of assurance and returned to his post.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER VIII*

 

_*An Arm of the Inquisition*_

 

 

The day following was one of activity. The first task was to clear the

square. The hundreds of prisoners herded in one of the buildings were

set at the work, noble toiling beside common without distinction or

favor. Not even Indian stoicism was proof against the calamity, and old

men, scarred from a hundred battles, worked with streaming eyes,

dragging forth the bodies of their friends to be stripped of their

ornaments by the Spaniards and borne away for indiscriminate burial.

 

Hernando Pizarro was sent with his troop to the Peruvian camp to break

up whatever force might be lingering there, and to plunder the Inca’s

residence. Toward midday his return was announced by a sentinel, and

Cristoval formed his guard. The troop entered the town with a flourish

of trumpets. Its leading platoon was followed by a long procession of

captives laden with spoils, of _hamacas_ bearing the women of the court,

of disarmed warriors, and of townspeople who had been removed from

Caxamalca at the approach of the Spaniards. The men, stupefied by what

had befallen, marched in stolid indifference. But the women,

dishevelled, wild-visaged, and dreading all things for themselves and

the children in their arms or clinging to their robes, filled the air

with their wailing and frantic lamentations, until securely housed in

the buildings on the square.

 

Late in the afternoon an orderly summoned Cristoval to a council of the

officers at Pizarro’s headquarters. He picked up Candia on his way, and

the two were the first to arrive. They found Pizarro watching the

_veedor_ at work appraising the plunder brought from the Inca’s villa

and taken from the bodies of the Indian nobles. The commander’s face

was haggard, and he looked years older. He greeted the two officers

cordially and said, pointing to the table on which were heaped the

spoils:—

 

"The first fruits, _camaradas_! We have come to the harvest season at

last. Not a bad wage for one day’s work! What say you?"

 

Cristoval looked with astonishment at the wealth stacked upon the stone

table on which the _veedor_, or inspector, had set his scales. In the

middle was the chair of the Inca, a fortune in itself, and heaped around

it the royal table service of gold and silver. On one of the plates was

a little mound of emeralds, some of them of unusual size and brilliancy,

and near by, a disorderly heap of the personal ornaments taken from the

slain. On the floor were piled rugs, furs, embroidered tapestries, and

fabrics of finest weave and dye.

 

The _veedor_ ceased his work as he arose and walked round the table. He

was a fat, puffing, putty-colored individual of fifty years, with a

peculiar falsetto voice and a habit of perpetually snuffling. Now his

bulging eyes were more bulging than ever in their greedy leer. "Ah,

look upon it, gentlemen!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. "Behold it!

Satiate your eyes! Let them revel, my friends! Is it not a feast?

Delicious! Delicious! Look at these plates!—gold—solid gold! And

these goblets—silver! And these precious stones—ah!" He dug his hands

into the heap of emeralds and let them sift through his fat fingers, his

head on one side, fairly drooling with delight, while he screwed his

face into so gross and atrocious a smirk that Cristoval looked away with

an oath under his breath. The _veedor_ snuffled and went on: "And see

these gewgaws—stripped from the heathen! Oh, my soul and body, what

pickings! They are bloody yet, but how they’ll shine when they are

clean! They’ll weigh too. Eh, Pizarro?—Treasure, treasure,

_compadres_! The reward of our courage! A fitting reward of gallantry!

We’ll divide it by-and-by—we’ll all have some! But stay, my friend

Cristoval, thou didst not fight! What shall we do about Cristoval’s

share, General? We all know he did not fight. Of course, nobody would

question his courage—but there are so many brave fellows to provide for,

and after all there is not so very much to divide."

 

He turned to Pizarro, puffing out his cheeks and wiping from his

forehead the perspiration started by his emotion over the treasure.

Cristoval had listened with disgust, hardly able to restrain his hands

from gripping the fat throat. The slurring reference to his inactivity

in the massacre roused his ire, and the _veedor_ encountered a scowl so

black that he started back with a gasp and shuffled precipitately behind

the table.

 

"Pizarro! Pizarro!" he cried, his peculiar falsetto rising to a squeak.

"That man meditateth violence! He contemplateth doing me an injury! I

see it in his eyes! Restrain him, Pizarro! I am an officer of the

Crown, and call upon you to protect me with your sword. I have a wife

and five small—"

 

"Be done, Rogelio!" commanded Pizarro, who had small liking for the

timorous member of his civil staff. "Thou talkest too much. Learn to

hold thy tongue. Come! Get back to thy work, and I’ll vouch for thy

safety."

 

"I am a civilian, and a man of peace," piped the _veedor_, rolling his

colorless eyes at Cristoval. "I am an officer of the Crown, and I want

it understood, Pizarro, that I’ll accept no challenges. He may meditate

a challenge."

 

"I think thou doest him injustice," replied Pizarro, with sarcasm.

"Thou ’rt safe. Now return to thy work."

 

Cristoval had turned his back with a snort of contempt, and Rogelio

resumed his weighing and figuring, his fear gradually giving place to

malicious glances directed toward the back of the stout cavalier.

 

José entered, and Pizarro hailed him.

 

"_Hola_, José! Thou ’rt in good season. I have been hearing of thee

from Fray Mauricio. Dost know that he hath denounced thee as a

heretic?"

 

"He promised so to do, General."