The Crimson Conquest 21
The other phase of the situation came upon him. Not only was he a
prisoner, but a prisoner under sentence of death. He knew Pizarro well
enough to be sure of that. He must die. Not even De Soto’s power could
save him. He had sought the life of his commander. He was a mutineer.
For an instant he was seized of a sudden weakness, and sank again upon a
chair with a shuddering glare at vacancy. Doomed! He sat long,
motionless, his faculties numbed. The air oppressed his breathing.
Darkness closed about him and bore down upon his soul as if tangible.
His strength was gone, and though he sat bolt upright he had the
sensation of tottering. His mind ceased to act, absorbed and fascinated
by the terror called death.
He was roused, long afterward, it seemed, though but minutes had flown,
by the sound of footsteps and the opening door. Two halberdiers
entered, followed by the sergeant and two armorer’s assistants bearing
manacles and fetters, a portable forge, and an anvil. The door closed,
and the group surveyed the prisoner as if he were a captured lion.
Cristoval rose slowly and stood regarding them with apathy. The
sergeant spoke.
"_Señor Teniente_ Peralta, we have an unpleasant duty—" He hesitated,
and Cristoval waited in silence.
"The armorers here," continued the sergeant, "have a few trinkets which
it is ordered you are to wear—temporarily." He paused again, and
Cristoval wondered vaguely why such a trifle should embarrass his
speech. Fetters—what were they in the presence of the thought of death!
The sergeant resumed: "I trust you will give us no trouble, Señor. It
is near supper-time, and you know what that meaneth to a man already
twenty hours on guard. I had hoped this might be deferred until the new
guard cometh on, but the general seemeth burdened with an anxiety to
know you are secure—so here we are. Now, what say you?—shall it be done
quietly, or must I have a squad of pikemen?"
For answer, Cristoval turned up his sleeves and offered his wrists.
"Ah! _Bueno!_" said the sergeant, with relief. "That is what I like to
see. When a man must take his physic, why not do so gracefully? I have
observed that it marketh the distinction between a _caballero_ and a
yokel. You are a good soldier, Señor Cristoval: I have always said
it.—Armorers, set about it.—Would you believe me, Señor—the last man I
saw ironed took four to hold him! But he was a creature of base
instincts. Now, men, be expeditious!"
In half an hour the irons were securely riveted to Cristoval’s wrists
and ankles, and the sergeant was expressing his appreciation of the
prisoner’s forbearance, when he broke off abruptly, clapped his hand to
his forehead, and stared at a rent in Cristoval’s doublet.
"Ah, _Cielo_!" he cried. "Why was I equipped with mud in the place of
brains!—And you, too, ye numskulls—-where are your wits? Do ye see what
we’ve done?—left him in his mail!—and now there’s no way to have it off
but to undo his wristlets. Now what do you think of that?" he appealed
to Cristoval.
Cristoval shrugged, but made no comment. The others stood helplessly
about while the sergeant berated them until his feelings were relieved,
when he exclaimed, with regained philosophy: "Well, let it stay! ’T
will keep. The prisoner will be none the better for it, nor the worse;
and if it worrieth the next sergeant of the guard, let him worry, or
take it off. ’T is time to eat."
He led his men out without further ado, and once more the place was
quiet.
For an hour Cristoval sat in a half stupor; at last, overcome by
weariness, he hobbled to the bench beside the wall. He stretched
himself upon it, and his torpid mind passed insensibly into slumber.
Late in the evening he was awakened by the light of a lantern in his
face, and found himself confronting Pedro. The two regarded one another
silently, Pedro with elevated light and profound concern in his rubicund
countenance.
"’T is thou, good Pedro!" said Cristoval, at length.
"Ah!" assented Pedro. "And is it thou, Cristoval? Thou, _amigo_?—thus
ignominiously pickled and shorn of liberty, hoppled like a wayward barb.
I scarce know thee."
Cristoval smiled gloomily. "It is I, Pedro! Would it were some other.
A prisoner!—and all to no purpose."
Pedro drew a long breath, swore a little, and seating himself, placed
his lantern upon the floor and stared at it in dejection. "All to no
purpose!" he echoed. "The Inca is dead."
"And Pizarro liveth!" groaned Cristoval. "Oh, San Miguel! Could I have
had but a moment longer with him!" He seized the cook’s arm. "But,
Pedro—what of the Ñusta Rava?"
"Ah, the Ñusta Rava!" exclaimed Pedro, his face reddening in the
lamplight with indignation. "What thinkst thou, Cristoval?—but thou
couldst never guess! The Ñusta Rava hath been given by Pizarro to that
foul bird, Mendoza, as his share of the plunder of the Inca’s palace."
Cristoval sprang up and glared at the cook with an __EXPRESSION__ which
reminded him of the rumor that the cavalier had gone mad. At length
Cristoval hoarsely broke the silence:—
"Hath he—is she—"
Pedro met the burning scrutiny and shook his head. "No! She is safe for
the present. The plunder hath not yet been divided."
"Where is she?" demanded Cristoval.
"In the palace. She is unmolested thus far, save that Mendoza payeth an
occasional visit to ogle, gloat on, and leer, whilst he croaketh a few
words of Quichua. But she is never alone. Her maids are always present.
One of them came to me this morning, weeping, and begged that I devise
means to relieve her mistress of the monster’s visits. I’ll do it some
fine day, Cristoval, and there will be carrion to lug out of the garden.
She knoweth not her fate, poor girl."
"Kill him, Pedro!"
"I will—if thou dost not."
"I, Pedro! How in the fiend’s name could I kill even a rat?" demanded
the cavalier, with impatience. "Look at me! Look about thee! Is this a
paper house, imbecile? Am I tied with pack-threads? Another
day—perhaps two—perhaps three—and I shall share the Inca’s fate. Be
sure of it, friend."
Pedro shrugged and glanced about. "Keep thy courage, Cristoval. Stone
walls do not always make a prison. I’ve learned some tricks in my career
besides those of the kitchen. Thou knowest I was not always a cook."
"Thou’lt need the tricks of a thaumaturge to take me out of here, old
friend," said Cristoval, "and thou canst serve me better than by losing
good time in the effort. Promise thou’lt kill Mendoza if need be to
save the Ñusta."
"I will!" replied Pedro, cheerfully. "But we will talk of it
to-morrow—or when I come again. Now I must go. I’ve brought thee a
small supper—bribed the sergeant of the guard to let me pass. No
appetite at present? Then eat later. _Adiós, amigo mio_."
"Wait, Pedro!" said Cristoval, urgently. "Tell me first of the Inca’s
death."
"Oh, an infamy of infamies!" blurted Pedro, with an oath, and reseated
himself. "A devil’s own deed, brought about by a devil’s own device and
procedure! An indictment wanting even the merit of ingenuity in its
fabrication! A court presided over by Pizarro and Almagro, the Inca’s
prime enemies! A trial that began as a farce and ended in a quarrel
over the expediency of his death—whether it would further or hinder the
business of the conquest and the gathering of plunder. And it was
decided on that score, Cristoval. The judgment was determined upon
before the trial began. Didst know he was condemned to burn at the
stake?"
"Oh, God!" gasped Cristoval. "They told me he was garroted!"
"And so he was. At the last moment, after the fagots were ablaze,
Father Valverde offered him the easier death if he would accept the
Faith. He assented. The fire was kicked out, and he received baptism.
So he died a good Christian."
"So he died a good Christian!" repeated Cristoval, with bitterness. "He
was a better man a pagan than the Christians who slew him. Well, God
give him rest. But had he no defenders, Pedro? Was there no man less a
criminal than Pizarro?"
"A few, but, curse me, a sparing few! Among them was José, and he the
most vehement. He denounced the affair with an acrimony that stirred
the wrath of Father Valverde, who helped to draw the indictment. José
knoweth no discretion, Cristoval. But the Inca’s friends were not many,
and their protests were futile."
"How did he bear himself?"
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