The Crimson Conquest 32

The Crimson Conquest 32

Over all was an atmosphere of peace that went to the heart of the girl

standing with cheeks pale and eyes darkened by the sorrow, hardship, and

dangers through which she had come. She gazed long with clasped hands.

At length in a whisper, as if loath to break the silence which like the

evening haze brooded over the tranquillity below, she said to Cristoval,

who stood leaning upon his lance beside her, "Ah, my friend, is it not

beautiful? Oh, Viracocha Cristoval, is it not too beautiful to be

real?"

 

"Why, God bless thee, child!" answered the cavalier, "not too beautiful

to be real, surely; but fair enough for a dream, no less! and welcome as

’t is alluring."

 

"Most welcome! Most welcome!" she exclaimed; and after a pause, "And

now—our cares and dangers are over."

 

He did not reply at once, and she glanced at him inquiringly. "Thy

cares and dangers are over, Ñusta Rava," he said. "I pray ’tis so."

 

"But," she said, with concern, "I said ours, Viracocha. Are not yours

as well?"

 

"No doubt, no doubt!" he replied, hastily. "The most immediate of them,

assuredly." He looked away toward the distant mountains, as if

unwilling to pursue the subject. She studied his eyes for a moment,

observing their cloud, and said gently, "The most immediate of them, but

not all?"

 

"Oh, belike all!—But shall we not move again? We have yet some

distance, and thou ’rt a-weary."

 

"Presently," she answered, with decision; "when you have told me what

you reserve in your thoughts. Why may not your care and danger be past,

as well as mine?"

 

He smiled at her persistence. "Why, Ñusta Rava, thou dost forget! I am

a renegade from my countrymen—a traitor—with a price upon my head. And

to thine own people, what can I be but one of a band of plunderers—an

enemy?"

 

"Something far different, Viracocha Cristoval," she replied, earnestly.

"You are my friend." He inclined his head, but made no reply, and Rava

continued: "You have been my preserver; and that meaneth, doth it not,

that you are a friend of Tavantinsuyu? Surely, you cannot think we are

without gratitude! Not one of my people—not one! but will share mine

with me."

 

"Nay!" replied Cristoval, gravely, "it is not that I would doubt their

generosity, Ñusta Rava; but I am a Spaniard, and Spaniards have done

your country wrongs that will not be forgotten whilst there lives a

father in Tavantinsuyu to tell them to his sons. They will do more

grievous ones, for I know them well. Their deeds will breed a hatred

for my race that will not die in a thousand years. Think not that my

blood can be overlooked."

 

Rava was pale. "But, Viracocha," she said faintly, after a moment, "you

had no part in those deeds—nor will have."

 

"I had no part in the massacre, and strove to save thy brother—but

failed."

 

She touched his arm timidly. "Your friendship for him, as well as for

me, shall be remembered. Be sure of it."

 

Cristoval shook his head. "It may be so, Ñusta Rava; but to thy people

I shall always be one of the race accursed."

 

She looked long toward the lake and beyond. He resumed with his kindly

smile: "And now, child, I shall presently give thee into the hands of

thy friends, and thou’lt be ’child’ no longer, but a Daughter of the

Sun, surrounded by a court, inaccessible to thy rusty cavalier, and with

thousands ready to do for thee more than he hath done—though not more

gladly, upon my heart!"

 

She turned to him quickly, her lips parted. No words were uttered, but

Cristoval saw a depth and strange lustre in her eyes that haunted his

memory. The look was brief and unfathomable. She extended her

hand—quite cold, he noted—and faltered, "Let us go, Viracocha." He bent

over it, and led her to the horse.

 

Cristoval walked on beside the head of the steed, striving to divine

what she had been about to say, and the meaning of the fleeting

__EXPRESSION__. He looked back at her, but she seemed lost in reverie, and

gave him but a brief downward glance half hidden beneath the veil of her

lashes, with the faintest trace of a smile. But, he thought, the smile

had more of sadness than her __EXPRESSION__ of repose.

 

They had covered half the distance to the town when their guide, who was

some paces in advance, halted, faced about, and went upon his knees,

bending until his forehead touched the ground.

 

"Ah!" growled Cristoval to himself, "there goeth that benighted varlet

nosing the dust once more. The ten thousandth time since we left his

hut! Well, doubtless he hath, with our gracious permission, some humble

matter of information." He led up to the prostrate Peruvian and

stopped, waiting patiently for the development.

 

"Rise, Mati," said Rava, gently. "What wouldst thou say?"

 

Pointing toward the lower valley, he said diffidently: "Most illustrious

Daughter of Inti, if you will permit, yonder villa on the hill between

this and Xilcala is the home of the Palla[1] Maytalca."

 

 

[1] Palla = married woman of the blood-royal.

 

 

"Oh! Is it so, Mati?" cried Rava, eagerly. "Then, Viracocha Cristoval,

it will be ours. The Palla Maytalca is a kinswoman and was one of my

royal father’s household. In my childhood I loved her well. We shall be

most welcome. Mati, do thou go forward and prepare her for our coming."

 

The youth dropped to the ground again, rose, and backed away for a dozen

yards, then turned and sped down the trail. They followed, and the path

shortly entered a lane between rows of willows around the margin of the

lake. Night was coming rapidly, and it was almost dark when they

arrived at the gateway of the villa. Mati met them, and Rava having

dismounted, Cristoval removed his helmet, tethered his horse, and they

followed the herdsman down an avenue of trees toward the residence. It

was a rambling building, or a group of several, and of a size comporting

with the rank of its occupant. As they drew near torches flashed toward

them, and they were presently met by the Palla Maytalca, advancing with

perturbation, attended by excited young women and torch-bearers. Rava

uttered a cry of joy and threw herself into the Palla’s arms, and the

two mingled their broken exclamations of delight. Cristoval halted a few

paces back.

 

"Rava, Rava, my best beloved!" at last exclaimed the Palla, holding the

girl at arm’s length, surveying her in surprise and fondness. "I cannot

believe it is thou. Hast come from the clouds? By what miracle of the

great Inti art thou here?"

 

"Oh, I hardly know, dearest Maytalca!" answered Rava, smiling and

sobbing, "and can make it seem real no more easily than thou. Nor can I

tell thee the thousand perils in our coming. Had it not been for the

bravest and best of friends—oh, Viracocha Cristoval, I pray you come

nearer!—This is he, Maytalca: my deliverer and defender—the Viracocha

Cristoval."

 

The lady started as his grim, warlike figure clanked out of the

obscurity and the light fell upon his steel. Observing her trepidation

the cavalier halted, saying as he bowed: "Palla Maytalca, you do not

know my joy in seeing the Ñusta Rava at last in safety, and in

witnessing her affectionate welcome."

 

His voice and manner were reassuring, and she conquered her fears

sufficiently to extend a trembling hand and say, timidly: "One who hath

befriended the Ñusta Rava, Viracocha, hath no need to be assured of a

welcome to the home of Maytalca. It is yours."

 

"Be sure of my gratitude," said Cristoval, as with Rava he followed

their hostess to the villa. As the Princess passed, the kneeling

attendants rose and went after, dumb with awe of the royal maiden and

her mysterious companion.

 

The Palla led across a terrace into a large hall, brightly lighted and

strewn with rugs. A pair of braziers were burning, for the evening was

growing chill, and Rava was soon established among the cushions of a

divan, giving a hurried though unconnected narrative of her late

adventures to the wondering Maytalca. The Palla, who, as her title

indicated, was of royal blood, though not of the reigning family, was

the widow of one of the princes of the realm. She was a stately woman,

just past middle age, with hair slightly touched with gray, and robed in

the rich costume of the women of the nobility. Her bearing was that of

a gentlewoman, and whatever disquietude she felt at her steel-clad guest

it was effectually concealed. As a matter of fact he gave an impression

of formidableness with his rust-streaked armor, his half-grown beard,

eyes burning in sockets made deep by hardship, and cheeks hollowed by

the recent toil and hunger, which his gentle comportment could only half

dispel. When he excused himself some minutes later and left the room

with a servant to look after his horse, the Palla turned to Rava and

seized her hands.

 

"Rava, my child," she exclaimed, in a low voice, "how hadst thou courage

to trust thyself with that terrible-appearing man? I tremble to look at

him! I shall never sleep while he is beneath the shelter of this roof."

 

Rava smiled up at her from her cushions. "Ah, Maytalca, thou dost not

know him! Had I been a child he could not have been more gentle.

Indeed," and the slightest pout came into her __EXPRESSION__, "he seemeth to

hold me but a child! But oh, my dear, he is brave as he is kind! The

god Viracocha himself were not more terrible when he meeteth an enemy:

nor thou more tender than he hath been to me. He is invincible; yet

hath the heart of a woman. Sleep as thou wouldst with Inti guarding,

dearest Maytalca. Thou’lt love him."

 

The Palla seated herself beside the girl and placed an arm about her,

gravely studying her eyes. "Hast thou found, Rava, such traits in thy

protector?"

 

Rava turned her eyes upon her for an instant with a half-frightened

look, then dropped them with sudden reserve. "He was the Inca’s trusted

friend, Maytalca," she replied, with womanly art, "and hath been mine. I believe him most worthy."