The Crimson Conquest 26

The Crimson Conquest 26

"Rava!" he shouted.

 

An answer came faintly from the roadside, and striding in the direction

of her voice, Cristoval found her leaning, half swooning, against the

wall. "Quick!" he cried, seizing her hand. "We must run. For your

life, run!"

 

The fierce energy of his tone gave her vigor. Behind was the clamor of

horsemen, and fear winged her feet. Cristoval’s strength seemed to lift

her from the ground, and as she sped beside him, seeing nothing, barely

touching the earth, and blindly confident of his guidance, there were a

few brief minutes of exhilaration.

 

They ran until Cristoval heard the horses reined up at the wounded

soldier, then he turned to the right of the road. Here was a low wall,

surmounted in a moment, and the cavalry roared past outside.

 

They found themselves surrounded by shrubbery and trees which rendered

the night more inky black than it had been in the streets. A few paces,

however, brought them to an open of some extent, and beyond rose another

shadowy mass of foliage. They were in the garden of one of the numerous

villas by which the town was surrounded, and they crossed the sward at a

run. A few yards farther, and they came to the villa, quite deserted

and dark. They passed it close and saw the doors were down. Cristoval

remembered that it had been plundered months ago by the soldiery. The

place served to give him his bearings, and he knew they were not far

from the fields. As they stumbled through the garden in the rear they

heard shouts and the gallop of the horsemen returning. They had lost the

scent.

 

A few hundred yards brought them to the rear wall of the garden. They

were as quickly over as at the other, and in the open. Now they paused

a moment to listen, but save for the wind and rain the night was silent.

There was no sign of pursuit, though once they heard a shout and answer,

far in the rear, probably on the road where they had encountered the

sentinel.

 

They pushed on. Vacant, sodden fields were all about, very low and

level, as if the land had once been the bed of an ancient lake. This

was the ground swept by the enclosing lines of the Inca’s army on the

day of the massacre.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XVI*

 

_*Pedro in the Thumbscrews*_

 

 

Cristoval’s escape was promptly uncovered in this wise. After he had

staggered away, the guard found the sentinel in a corner, comfortably

asleep with Pedro’s bottle. Half an hour’s work and several bucketfuls

of water brought him on his feet and aware of his transgression,

impressed upon him by the sergeant by a vigorous train of invective. He

was taken to the guard-room and put in irons.

 

When Zapato returned the sergeant reported a man drunk, and the need for

a substitute. He promptly received his quota of invective for having a

man drunk, and Zapato went to his office to meditate upon the

circumstance of having a sergeant who had a man drunk on guard, and on

the raking-over which he in turn would receive. He had settled himself

to reflect upon the hardships and chagrins in the life of a soldier,

when he was assailed by a thought. He threw open the door, and

demanded:—

 

"Sergeant, where was this man when he became drunk?"

 

"On his post, _Señor Teniente_."

 

"What post?"

 

"In front of Peralta’s door."

 

Zapato paled, seized a lantern, and rushed across the patio to

Cristoval’s door, followed by the sergeant. Two or three of the guard

rose and sauntered after. Zapato entered the hastily opened door,

raising his lantern and glancing about. He muttered his relief. On the

bench lay a form, apparently sleeping. Pedro moved slightly, clinking

the manacles, and Zapato was satisfied. He turned to go; was at the

door when a fresh doubt seized him, and he went back. Pedro lay quite

still, face to the wall; but Zapato espied his pinioned hands. He

looked closer, swinging the light upon the face, and raised a howl of

rage and consternation.

 

"Furies! This is not Peralta! It’s Pedro! Look, Sergeant—look, thou

idiot! Oh, thou doubly, triply accursed model of witlings! Thou

unspeakable effigy of imbecility! It’s Pedro, dost hear? Pedro! Oh,

saints and devils, we’re skinned alive already!"

 

He rolled the cook over while the sergeant stood silently making

crosses. Others hurried in and gathered round the cook, who snored,

bulky and peaceful. They hauled him off the bench, every man shouting,

but Pedro slept calmly on, gurgling gently when some one prodded his

ribs, but giving no other sign of consciousness. There was his stump of

a leg, its peg gone, vanished, evaporated. But Peralta—alas, no Peralta!

 

"Ho, the trumpeter!—the alarm!" roared Zapato, collaring the sergeant

and running him to the door. The sergeant disappeared, and in a moment

the call sounded which Cristoval had heard in the Ñusta’s apartment.

Its first notes were ragged and discordant, telling the musician’s

disorder of mind. Then it rose clear and stirring, startling many a

Spaniard out of dreams. A soldier scurried across the plaza to the

redoubt, carrying a lighted gunner’s match, and presently the flash and

bang of the falconet split the mist. Now individuals and groups came

running to the square, some half-dressed, others buckling and buttoning,

all pale, tousled, and breathless.

 

Pizarro was one of the first out of doors. A messenger stammered the

news, and withered in the general’s blast of fury. Commands followed

quickly. Guards to every exit from the town. Patrols for every street.

Cavalry for the suburbs and roads. A thousand _castellanos_ reward for

the recapture. Squads formed and went flying down dark streets, halting

every moving man and woman. Soon, horsemen in twos, fours, and

half-dozens left the square at the gallop in all directions. Groups of

natives gathered, silent and wondering, their impassive faces dimly seen

in the light of passing lanterns. Caxamalca had no more sleep—unless

Pedro’s. He apparently slept on, untroubled, under the eyes of one of

the guard who swore ever afterward that he had seen him disembodied on

that gusty Peruvian night.

 

Toward the eighth hour of the morning Pizarro, accompanied by his

secretary, with Almagro, Riquelme, Rogelio, and Father Valverde, entered

the prison. Pedro heard the clatter of thumbscrews as they were set

upon the floor by the squad of halberdiers who followed. The cook was

sitting with bowed head, absorbed in misery. He glanced up as the party

came in, saw that De Soto was not with it, and his heart sank. The

captain had been ordered out with the rest in search of the fugitive.

He had gone willingly enough, and had succeeded in tactfully reducing

the chances of discovery by leading his men in what he guessed was the

wrong direction. But at that moment he would have been a welcome sight

to Pedro. The cook, however, gave no sign, but invoked the aid of the

Virgin in consuming time until De Soto might return.

 

The court—for it was a court, duly organized and sworn, albeit

summarily—first examined the apartment with minuteness and deliberation.

The secretary recorded its findings. The fetters were inspected, and

the conclusion was arrived at, agreed to, and set down, that they had

been undone by a file or similar instrument. Thereupon the tribunal

proceeded to interrogate those suspected of complicity. First came

Pedro. After him would come the sentinel found drunk on post, the two

artificers who had been at work on the fastenings of the door, and

others. Thus far the process had been carried on with dignity and order.

Now Rogelio, who, with Riquelme, was to conduct the examination,

prepared to begin, swelling himself pompously, pursing his lips, puffing

his cheeks, and rolling his eyes from one to another of the court, until

Riquelme exclaimed impatiently: "_Infierno_! Commence, _Veedor_, before

the morning is spent!"

 

Rogelio opened his mouth at him, then turned to Pedro. "Prisoner," he

piped. Pedro made no sign of hearing him.

 

"Prisoner!" he repeated, and Pedro looked up, scowling.

 

"Ho! Art addressing me, _Veedor_? Then change my title. I am a cook.

A cook, look thou! A cook bereft, plundered, despoiled, and ravished of

a leg! Pray, hast seen it—my missing member?"

 

Rogelio hesitated, snuffled, and with dignity began again.

 

"Prisoner—"

 

"Cook, I tell thee!" Pedro interrupted, explosively. "Thy prisoner hath

flown—flown with three legs, one a stolen, and that one mine—not my

best, in truth, only my second best; but nevertheless most grievously

wanted. Hast seen it, Veedor?"

 

Rogelio’s mind was not alert. It could pursue a single line of thought

with a sort of porcine tenacity, but the intrusion of a second idea

produced derangement requiring time to readjust. His attention, now

drawn to Pedro’s lost peg and his uncanny-looking stump, was not readily

disengaged. He stood surveying the cook’s maimed member with

fascination until in the slow revolution of his thoughts they should

come back to their former connection. This achieved, he began again.

 

"Prisoner—"

 

"Cook!" shouted Pedro, jerking himself erect and glaring at the

_veedor_. The latter stopped, and Pizarro interfered.

 

"Be done, Pedro!" he commanded, angrily. "Cease interruptions and allow

the _veedor_ to proceed. Continue, _Veedor_."