The Crimson Conquest 20
Pizarro was a good swordsman, but of a school which, in Europe, was
already passing. His guard was high, with point depressed, most
suitable for his favorite attack, the cut. Now Cristoval, abruptly
becoming the aggressor, brought into play a later skill acquired from
the French. He assaulted on a lower line, with arm partly extended, hand
at the height of his breast, and point on a level with the eyes.
Instantly the advantage became his own, and he pressed his attack with
such fierceness that Pizarro found no opportunity to regain the
offensive. Compelled to lower his guard to engage Cristoval’s blade, he
was hampered by the unwonted position. The weight of his rapier counted
against him, and he was unprepared for the lightning movements of
Cristoval’s more slender and swifter sword, which played before his eyes
like a thin lambent tongue of pale flame.
Cristoval in his mail, and Pizarro defended by his corselet, the only
vulnerable points offered were their throats and heads. Here, again,
the commander was at a disadvantage. With that keen, swift point
menacing and perilously near, he dared not disengage for a cut.
Repeatedly he essayed a thrust, but each time a riposte came like a
flash, barely guarded. Cristoval directed his attack wholly at his
adversary’s throat, and time after time Pizarro escaped a fatal thrust
only by a hair’s breadth. But at length he felt a quick sensation of
burning as he was grazed, then presently another. Goaded to
desperation, he cut heavily at Cristoval’s head. Vainly, and again the
burning sting, this time deeper, and he felt the hot blood trickling
slowly to his breast. Savagely exultant, Cristoval pressed him more
closely, eager to end it before his own strength gave out, for now he
began to feel the effect of the long night in the saddle.
So intent was he that he failed to note the sounds of an effort to open
the door, but they did not escape Pizarro. Cristoval redoubled the
energy of his assaults, not free from concern regarding Dominguez, who
was but slightly wounded and now showed signs of returning animation.
Pizarro had been forced back upon a corner of his table, when the door
rattled again, and after a few seconds resounded with a crashing blow.
There were shouts outside, and the blow was repeated. Again, and this
time it was accompanied by a rending, splitting sound, and Cristoval
knew that it was being battered in. He saw Pizarro’s face brighten,
then both redoubled the vigor of their blood-seeking work. Cristoval
was desperate at the thought of interruption. The commander was now
intent only upon defence until the promised rescue should reach him.
Both combatants were breathing heavily and reeking with sweat. Blow
followed blow upon the door, and now a burst of splinters succeeded
every impact.
The meaning of this. Mendoza was leaving the palace when Cristoval
rushed in. He looked after the cavalier in astonishment, surmising at
first that he had returned with important news, perhaps confirmation of
the rumors of an uprising. But Mendoza passed out, intending to return
as soon as practicable. As he crossed the square, however, he recalled
Cristoval’s __EXPRESSION__, which was one of hot passion recently aroused,
as was evident from his flushed face and blazing eyes. Half-way across
the plaza he halted, considered a moment, then returned to the palace.
Crossing the great hall, he hurried direct to Pizarro’s anteroom and
looked in. The sentinel was not at his post. He hesitated briefly,
traversed the apartment, and quietly tried the door. It was fast. He
listened and heard rapidly shuffling feet, no voices, and the clash of
steel. He tried the door again, then rushed to the guard-room.
"_Hola_, soldiers!" he shouted. "Follow! There is trouble in the
general’s room!" and he dashed back, followed by the guard. At the door
they halted.
"Listen!" commanded Mendoza. "Do ye hear it?—There is fighting within!"
He threw himself against the heavy door. "Furies of hell! Lay on here,
men! we must break through!"
Again and again they hurled themselves against the resisting wood
without avail, wild now with excitement. Pikes and halberds were brought
to bear, thrust into the cracks to prize it open, Mendoza urging and
swearing. In vain! That door had been built by Pizarro’s direction, to
guard the treasure lying in the room beyond his office.
"Fetch a timber!" shouted Mendoza. "A beam—anything heavy! Go! Jump
about it!" He sprang at the soldiers, waving his arms, and they went
out with a rush. There were no timbers but the beams of the ceilings.
They were inaccessible. Finally Mendoza cried, "A bench-top from the
garden! _Veloz! Veloz!_"
It was brought by as many as could lay hands upon it. They hurried into
the anteroom and charged the door, Candia had rushed in, stared for a
second, and thinking a mutiny had arisen, drew his sword and collared a
soldier.
"Here!" he shouted, jerking the man around, "what’s to do?"
The soldier wrenched himself free, shouting back excitedly, "Hell is to
do! Peralta is loco, and is murdering the general!"
"_Santa Maria!_" ejaculated Candia.
Now the door was tottering, and another blow brought it down. The crowd
surged through, led by Mendoza, Candia following close. Pizarro’s
drawn, anxious face and labored breathing showed that he was desperately
hard pressed. Cristoval with merciless, silent determination upon his
death, was pushing him closely, but weariness clogged his movements, and
the fatal thrust was undelivered. Neither of the combatants seemed to
see the inrush of the soldiers. Cristoval’s back was toward them, and
Mendoza drove at him without a word, putting all his strength and hate
into a lunge with which he meant to settle all scores. His point caught
in the links of the mail, the blade bent and snapped close at the hilt.
The lunge whirled Cristoval half around and sent him full length upon
the floor. Pizarro sank back against the wall in exhaustion, while
Mendoza drew his dagger and with an oath sprang upon his prostrate
enemy. Before he could use it Candia had seized him, hurled him back,
and stood over Cristoval, facing the circle of soldiers.
Pizarro, half inarticulate with weariness and rage, found breath enough
to gasp: "Kill him! Kill him!—In God’s name!—will none of you put an
end to that accursed mutineer?"
The circle closed a bit nearer, but Candia poised his sword, and they
hesitated. Cristoval had regained his feet and placed himself back to
the wall, panting, but undismayed. At this juncture Almagro hurried in
and breaking through the crowd, demanded:—
"What is this? Our swords turned against one another? What meaneth
it?" He was answered by an excited and unintelligible chorus. Pizarro
started forward, his face distorted with frenzy.
"Kill him, I say, ye damned gawping sheep!" he bellowed again.
"What!—will ye disobey? Fall upon him, or I’ll flay you to the last
man!"
"Nay!" interposed Almagro. "Stand back! All in good time and order.
Peralta, thou ’rt a prisoner. Take him away, Candia."
"Out of the way, Almagro!" thundered Pizarro, struggling to pass him.
"I’ll have his life! Strike him down, ye dogs!"
"Away with him, Candia!" commanded Almagro, sturdily opposing the
general and thrusting him back. "Fall in about him, men, and make him
secure."
"Come!" said Candia, in a low voice, and seizing Cristoval by the arm,
hurried him out, surrounded by a dozen pikes, leaving Almagro to quiet
the infuriated Pizarro. In the hall outside Cristoval surrendered his
sword.
Word of the affair spread rapidly over the town, and as prisoner and
escort left the palace they encountered a throng already gathered at the
door, held back by the crossed halberds of the sentinels, whom they
besieged with questions. As Cristoval stepped out, still breathing
heavily and disordered from the struggle, their clamor ceased, and they
stared at him in silence, hardly able to believe they beheld the stanch
Cristoval in arrest for having turned his sword against his general.
"_Insano_—gone mad!" muttered an old arquebusier, and his neighbors
agreed to it as the only explanation. Cristoval saw them only vaguely,
and scarcely heeded the groups passed on his march across the square.
At the doors of the building at its lower end which had been put into
service as a prison he halted mechanically, marched again at the command
when the doors had been swung open, and only awoke to himself when,
having traversed the patio, he was led into one of the rooms opening
upon it and felt the oppression of its sudden chill and gloom. The old
sergeant of the guard eyed him gravely for a few seconds, then shook his
head and retired. The door swung heavily shut, and Cristoval was alone.
*CHAPTER XIII*
_*Cristoval a Prisoner*_
Cristoval stood near the door. His eyes grew accustomed to the
obscurity and travelled over the room and its furnishing; but his mind,
occupied by a tumultuous review of the incidents just past, received
little impression. In the middle of the room stood a table, and near it
two or three stools. Along the wall at the rear was a stone bench, and
in a corner a small heap of straw, the bed of some former prisoner. The
fragments of a water jar littered the table, with bits of mouldering
corn-bread. The low, heavily timbered ceiling, with the great thickness
of the walls and the little air from the two small windows, made the
atmosphere chill, stifling, and oppressive as that of a cellar.
He walked to the table and stood leaning against it, the disorder of his
thoughts gradually yielding to grief for the ill-fated prince whose long
durance he had lightened with his companionship. He realized now that
his friendship for Atahualpa had grown stronger than he had been aware,
and he felt an unexpected sense of loss. Slowly his sorrow was succeeded
by a storm of bitter resentment at Pizarro’s perfidy, and he raged at
his failure to avenge it. Every detail of the encounter presented
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