The Crimson Conquest 19
Meanwhile De Soto’s troop, with armor glinting, guidon and pennons
fluttering, and trumpets sounding a spirited quickstep, marched out of
the square on its way to Guamachucho. At the end of the second day the
Spaniards entered the town. They found it a small place, unfortified,
and without a sign of the reported rising of the people.
A thorough reconnaissance of the country about occupied the next two
days, for De Soto was determined that no doubt concerning its quiet
should remain. At midnight of the second day he was seated with
Cristoval in the latter’s quarters, discussing the expedition and
planning for the morrow, to be spent in reconnoitring the country
farther south,—then a day of rest, and the return march to Caxamalca.
Cristoval rose to make his rounds when they heard a hurried step in the
patio, and a soldier entered, followed by a _chasqui_. The youth was
breathing heavily, and as he entered the lamplight his body glistened
with perspiration.
"The Viracocha Cristoval?" panted the _chasqui_, looking from one to the
other and drawing a paper from his pouch.
"Here!" said Cristoval. Taking the paper, he hastily broke the seal,
reading the contents with alarm and rage. He finished and thrust it
toward De Soto, who was anxiously watching his __EXPRESSION__.
"Read that, Soto!" he shouted, "and learn the black treachery we have
left behind!"
De Soto seized the paper. It was from Pedro.
"CRISTOVAL: The Inca hath been brought to trial. Return with all speed.
It is said that his conviction is determined, and that he is to be
burned at the stake.
"PEDRO."
De Soto looked up at his friend, their faces reflecting consternation
and anger.
"’T is for this Pizarro ordered us away—curse his perfidious heart!"
cried De Soto.
"A thousand times curse him!" exclaimed Cristoval. "By Heaven, if ’tis
true, I’ll kill him! Soto, I go to Caxamalca! Juan, have my horse
saddled! _Pronto!_—quick!" he commanded, and hurried to his room. De
Soto reread the message, muttered an oath, and followed him out. He met
Cristoval buckling on his rapier.
"Hold, Peralta!" he exclaimed; "thou ’rt not going thus, without thy
harness! Wear thy corselet, at least."
"No! I’ll ride light," returned Cristoval.
"Wait! come to my room," said De Soto. Hurriedly opening his
portmanteau, he drew out a package wrapped in oiled silk. He cut its
fastenings with his dagger and unrolled a shirt of chain-mail. "Here!
Off with thy doublet and on with this. It is Moorish, and of the best.
It may serve thee, as it hath many times served me."
It was on in a moment, and Cristoval quickly resumed his doublet. His
horse was already at the door, surrounded by three or four troopers,
tightening buckles and rubbing his legs, for he had been under saddle
since morning.
"_Adiós_, Peralta!" said the captain, grasping his lieutenant’s hand.
"Be not rash, and guard thyself until I come. I will follow at dawn."
Cristoval made no reply to the warning. "Farewell, Soto," he said, and
swung into the saddle.
Soon he was in the open country, his horse’s hoofs ringing on the
pavement of the great highway in a rhythm which he knew would not vary
for miles. Shadowy trees swept by, cottages and groves were dimly seen
and left behind. The walls of a _chasqui_-post threw back a short
chorus of reverberations, and were lost again in the darkness and
silence. Presently the streets of a village clamored with the measure,
and relapsed into stillness before the startled peasant could open his
door. Onward he flew, the night breeze fanning his hot cheeks, the
words of Pedro’s message repeating themselves over and over in the
cadence of the gallop: "The Inca brought to trial—Return with all speed.
The Inca brought to trial—return with all speed!"—while a thousand
thoughts mingled with the refrain, chasing one another through his
fevered mind, with a deep undertone of purposed vengeance if evil had
befallen the captive prince.
Mile after mile down the sleeping valley, and at last the gray of dawn.
Another half-league brought him to a hamlet. The people were astir, and
smoke was rising from their cottages. He halted at one and dismounted,
the villagers staring from their doors. His horse drooped his head,
nostrils wide. Cristoval surveyed him with anxiety. No help for it, he
must rest. A cottager advanced from his door with a friendly morning
greeting and offered his hospitality. The cavalier accepted with
gratitude, found grain for his horse, and an hour later was once more in
the saddle. The rest and refreshment had done much for both steed and
rider, but the leagues were covered slowly, for the animal was weary and
his flanks in lather. The halt had given a brief respite to Cristoval’s
sombre thoughts, but as he looked forward down the valley they returned
with full force; and when, late in the day, he descried distant
Caxamalca, the fever of his anxiety and rage came back with double
strength. At last he was in the suburbs of the town, urging his
exhausted horse to fresh speed. He reined up before a sentinel. The
halberdier saluted, and Cristoval demanded hoarsely:—
"What of the Inca? Am I in time—doth he live?"
With exasperating deliberation the infantryman ordered his weapon;
raised his hand without a word, clutched his throat, distorted his face
into a hideous grimace, and emitting a gurgle, closed his eyes and
lopped his head to one side. Then he opened his eyes and resumed his
position, surveying the blowing steed with critical interest. Cristoval
turned pale.
"Speak, fellow!" he shouted. "What of the Inca?"
"Dead!" returned the soldier. "Garroted! Gone to join his fathers in
the mansions of the Sun, say the Indios; but ’t is more like," he
continued, as Cristoval put spurs to his horse and galloped away with an
oath, "’t is more like he hath gone to hell—and mayst thou follow him!"
With jaws set, lips compressed, and oblivious of the pedestrians,
Spaniards and Indios, who barely escaped being run down, Cristoval
careered madly up the narrow street and across the plaza to the palace.
Reining up so sharply that his horse went back upon his haunches, he
threw himself from the saddle, and ordering a soldier to look after the
animal, strode into the building.
He had an indistinct impression of passing Mendoza, of an __EXPRESSION__ of
surprise on the soldiers of the guard in the great hall, of a hurried
salute from the sentinel in front of Pizarro’s office as he crossed the
anteroom, and he jerked open the door and stood before the commander.
Pizarro in half-armor was seated at his table, facing the entrance. At
the end of the table on his left was his sergeant-major, Dominguez.
Both looked up in astonishment at Cristoval’s precipitate intrusion, the
surprise on Pizarro’s face followed quickly by a scowl of displeasure.
Surveying Cristoval coldly for a moment, he asked:—
"Well, what dost thou here, Peralta? I thought thee at Guamachucho.
Where is thy troop?"
Ignoring the question, Cristoval advanced to the table and leaned
forward.
"Is this report true that I have heard?" he demanded in a tense voice.
"Hast slain the Inca?"
Pizarro’s scowl deepened at the bluntness, but after a moment, in which
he seemed to hesitate whether or not to resent it, he answered shortly,
"The Inca hath expiated his crimes."
Cristoval was fully prepared for the reply, but it came, nevertheless,
with a shock. His face paled, then flushed hotly. Unconsciously he
hitched the hilt of his sword a trifle forward. The motion was not
unnoted by Pizarro, who now watched him with the vigilance of a hawk.
Cristoval’s voice shook as he returned, with suppressed vehemence:—
"Hath expiated his crimes! Then it is true!—and thou hast put upon the
arms of Spain a blot which a hundred years will not efface. Great God!
Was not the atrocity of the plaza enough to glut thee? I tell thee,
Pizarro, thou hast done foul murder!—Hath expiated his crimes, sayst
thou!—Hath received the penalty of trusting a thing so scant and
beggarly as thine honor, which, by Saint Michael, did underfit thee,
thou perjured and lying miscreant, when thou wast a swineherd!"
Pizarro had risen. He was silent, but the deathly pallor of his
countenance and the sudden cat-like contraction of the pupils of his
eyes, burning with animosity in the shadow of his scowl, spoke his rage
more plainly than an outburst. And they were more dangerously
significant. A scar across his forehead, which Cristoval had never noted
before, now showed itself in a thin line and blue, the color of his
lips. The sparse black beard seemed more than ever straggling against
the sickly yellow-white of his cheeks, and the muscles about his mouth
twitched in a ferocious semblance of a grin, as if to bare his teeth.
But he spoke no word. He grasped for his sword. It was not at his
side, and with a curse he leaped toward his chamber where it lay.
Dominguez sprang to his feet with sword half drawn. Pizarro shouted to
him in a voice of fury:—
"Call the guard! Kill him, Dominguez! Kill him!"
Dominguez dashed to the door and threw it open, calling: "Ho, the guard!
The guard!" and turned upon Cristoval with his sword. The latter sprang
forward to meet him, and engaged his blade before he had made a step.
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기