The Crimson Conquest 22
Pedro to the Rescue*_
When Cristoval awoke, stiffened and unrefreshed, the room was gray with
feeble light. He stared at the heavy rafters, not yet fully roused to
his dismal circumstances.
"’T is early," he thought sleepily, "or a dull morning. What hath the
day? Let us see—where am I? Guamachucho? No. What pent up air is
this?" He turned his head and blinked at the windows, then raised his
manacled wrists. The history of the day before flashed over him. He
looked a moment at his irons, then closed his eyes and set his lips.
Presently he sat up, painfully, and bent his head upon his hands. "I
thought I had dreamed. _Ay de mi_! No dream, Cristoval. To-morrow a
court, a shrift, the garrote. Ah, _Madre_, it hath been a life not well
spent! But it seemeth short—too short." He sighed heavily, once,
twice, arose abruptly, and shook himself. "Enough, Peralta! Thou’lt be
groaning in self-pity. No more of it! Let us look about."
He hobbled to the table. There was a jar of water and a loaf of coarse
corn-bread. "Some one hath been here—not Pedro, I’ll stake my head. I
wonder what the hour may be. It must be late. _Bien_! The day will be
the shorter. And now we’ll eat, if but to kill time. Would that hope
were as faithful in our extremity as appetite! We’d ne’er despair. Two
good comrades, hope and appetite, and sad to lose. Pedro would say
that—though belike in Latin. Good old cook! When will he come? But
he’ll come, God bless him! What did he mean?—he hath ’learned a trick
or two besides those of the kitchen.’ Can he hope to free me? Chance
slight as air! Would that De Soto were here, though I see not how he
can help. But he could save the Ñusta Rava, and that he will do, I
know. Poor girl! Her fate may be worse than mine. Now, we’ll have
another look at these fetters.—Strong enough, by the Faith, and strength
to spare! But one of José’s files on the rivet-heads—as well wish for
the Arabian lamp!"
The day dragged slowly and wearily. He spent it in waiting, vaguely, he
knew not for what, and in listening for the few slight sounds that broke
upon the stillness. The steps of the sentinel, the murmur of voices when
the reliefs came, the faint echo of the trumpet-calls on the plaza, were
noted with painful attention. Now he sat straining his ears; now he
limped haltingly round and round the apartment, filling it with the
clank and scrape of his shackles, until his ankles were worn to the raw
and he could walk no more. Seated on the bench, he dozed at last, and
when he awoke the light was failing. This day Pedro did not come.
Thrice Cristoval thought some one fumbled the bolt of the door, but it
was unopened until night was on, when the new officer of the guard came
in with the old. They entered in silence. A soldier held a lantern
aloft while the new commander surveyed the room and the prisoner,
briefly returning his nod as all went out without a word.
The night was a year, but toward dawn he slept, rousing when his food
was brought. The soldier eyed him indifferently, and departed without
salutation. Soon after, two of José’s artificers came in with a pikeman
of the guard, inspected the windows, and strengthened the fastenings of
the door. Cristoval spoke to one of them, but the guard gruffly forbade
a reply, and the prisoner said no more.
The day was maddening in its length, monotony, and stillness. Why did
not Pedro come? Where was De Soto? Had all friends failed? He must
communicate with De Soto concerning the Ñusta, and time might be short.
When should he have his trial? These questions came again and again to
his tortured mind, but all remained unanswered. They troubled him more
now than the thought of death, for with the loss of hope had come the
blessed resignation with which the All-wise softens the approach of the
inevitable hour, and he was surprised at his own indifference. His one
anxiety about it was the question when it would be. He would have
interrogated the soldier who brought his food, but the man did not even
answer his greeting.
Another restless night, and Cristoval rose haggard and savage. Solitude
had preyed upon him, and the silence even more. The taciturnity of his
guards was infuriating. When the soldier entered with his breakfast he
sprang up from the bench with a suddenness that caused the man to drop
his burden with a crash of broken stoneware, and draw his dirk as he
dashed to the door calling for help. The sentinel burst in and stood
with lowered pike while Cristoval glared upon them like a madman.
"_Loco!_" whispered the attendant, with a gasp. "_Jesu Cristo!_ let me
out!"
"Out, then, thou knave!" bellowed Cristoval. "Who holdeth thee? And
hearken! When thou comest again, speak!—say something, or by Saint
Michael, thou’lt die unshriven! Is this a tomb, that ye varlets must
come and go, tiptoeing and mum like undertakers’ help? Pass the time of
day, ask me how I like my fare, mention the weather, or blow thy nose;
but break this accursed silence if thou wouldst have thy neck unbroken!"
The soldier edged toward the door. "We are forbidden to have words with
you, Señor Cristoval."
"Good! Then say that! Say it over and again! Say it backward; but ware
being silent. Dost hear?"
"_Muy bien—Adiós_, Señor Cristoval," and the two squeezed themselves
out.
"Bring more water!" shouted Cristoval, and sat down relieved.
The day wore along. When the officers of the guard came at nightfall
Cristoval was asleep. Later he was aroused and sat up. A lantern
blinded him, but in a moment he recognized Pedro with a shout. He rose
and clanked across the room, extending both hands.
"Pedro, thou blessed saint! Pedro at last! My life! I thought never to
see thy good face again. Where hast thou been these years? Welcome,
welcome as the sun! Would these bracelets permit, I’d embrace thee, old
friend." His joy was unaffected and pathetic. Pedro was for a moment
overwhelmed by its demonstration. Freeing himself of a burden whose
savory odors told its nature, he grasped Cristoval’s hands, then dropped
one to dash his own hastily across his eyes.
"God ha’ mercy, Cristoval! I—I—Spit, roast, and baste my carcass!—I’m
glad to see thee. Wait!"
He turned hurriedly to the basket which he had deposited upon the table,
fished out a loaf, and thrust it upon the prisoner. "Here!" he
whispered, with great impressiveness, looking carefully toward the door,
"Chew it up fine! Chew it fine—dost hear?"
Cristoval took the loaf mechanically, surveying him with astonishment.
"What thinkst thou, man—that I would swallow it whole? I am hungered,
but no cormorant. I’ll wait, by thy leave."
"Yes, yes! Wait till I’m gone. Hide it. Eat it when alone."
Cristoval scanned his round face, now serious, and tucked the loaf into
his doublet.
"Ah!" quoth Pedro, with a nod of approval. "Now I will lay out thy
supper, and whilst thou dost eat I will talk. I must not tarry over
long—to-night. To-morrow night I will tarry longer. Ha, ha! Stew my
tripes and giblets!" and he patted Cristoval on the back, mystifying the
cavalier with his uncalled-for levity. He continued rapidly: "Sit,
_amigo_, and I’ll tell thee a history of late events, and briefly. I
have talked with De Soto."
"Then he hath returned!" said Cristoval.
"Hath returned, and would be sharing thine imprisonment could Pizarro do
his inclinations. But De Soto was more discreet than thou, Cristoval.
On his arrival he paid his respects to the general in full armor, whilst
his troop stood to horse in the plaza in front of the palace. ’T was a
bluff and blustering parley, I’ve been told. The captain forced Pizarro
to lame defence of his execution of the Inca, and to swallow more of his
own choler than he will be through with tasting for a fortnight. But he
had naught else to do, for De Soto would have killed him at a word. In
the end the commander threw blame upon Riquelme, Almagro, and others—a
burden unloved by any of them, it would seem, for they fell upon him in
full cry and rammed the accusation down his throat. The lie was bandied
among them like a shuttlecock. This one appeached that, that one the
other, then all of them each one in turn. Their chorus reached to the
plaza. A bag of cats were not more earnest and vociferous. Swords were
out, and but for Candia and Gonzalo Pizarro’s blood had been spilt.
Stew me! I would they had gotten well at it. What sayst thou to ’t?—a
rare batch of back-clawing freebooters, not so, Cristoval? Aha! De Soto
stirred them well.—But what wouldst guess was the outcome of the
wrangle? Scorch me if Pizarro did not shift the blame upon that scamp,
Felipillo, whom he accuseth of having falsified to incriminate the
Inca!"
Cristoval’s comment was a laugh of disgust. Pedro added an imprecation,
and resumed.
"And now to thine own business, _amigo_. De Soto spoke for thee, but
with ill success. Thine offence was flagrant, dost see?—black, grave,
and most flagitious! For the sake of discipline thou must come to trial.
The most Pizarro would grant is a delay until the day after the morrow.
But for De Soto it would have been yesterday. The moment was unfavorable
for intercession."
Cristoval had ceased eating and sat gloomily regarding the cook.
"Useless to intercede," he said at last, "then, or at any time. My
campaign is ended, Pedro. But I must see De Soto. Thou and he must save
that unhappy girl."
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기