The Crimson Conquest 43

The Crimson Conquest 43

Rogelio looked at her in blank surprise; then, with a feeble effort at a

smile: "I would have a few words with her, Señora,—and alone! Pray,

open the door."

 

The señora made no move to open the door, but replied tartly: "The

señorita hath no words to spare and no ear for listening. She is

wearied."

 

The _veedor_ reddened slowly as astonishment turned to anger.

"What—what, woman! Dost think to offer me hindrance in mine own house?

Stand aside, then gather thy belongings. Thou ’rt dismissed, dost hear?

dismissed!" He stepped forward.

 

For reply the lady thrust out her arm and in close proximity to his

nose, snapped her fingers. The _veedor_ gasped. His nerves were

already unstrung, and his indignation set him a-quiver as if he had been

some huge, fancifully-moulded jelly.

 

"Why—name of a—thou—my soul and body! What meanest thou, beldame?

inconceivable termagant!"

 

Alas! Rogelio. That was unfortunate, ill-considered, rash. As if thou

wert not enough distraught!—and now to invite the overflow of this

brimming vessel of wrath! Before he could draw a second breath she was

outside, arms akimbo, her face thrust so close into his that her

features for a moment were a blur to his startled eyes. Then she

unrolled the infinite scroll of her diatribe,—a withering flow of

invectives garnered in years of rude experience; a schedule of strange

metaphors, born of inspiration and chasing in so rapid sequence that his

bewildered ears no sooner received the shock of one than another

followed, twice more shocking; a torrent of hyperboles so weird in their

personal application that his ideas staggered in a vague, wondering

effort to comprehend, then floundered helpless in the stream; and each

member of her discourse emphasized by a jab at his nose with thumb and

finger that forced him back, step by step, across the court. The first

flush of rage vanished from his countenance and left an __EXPRESSION__ of

surprised impotency, his jaw working in a futile effort to articulate,

until, turning with uplifted hands, he fled.

 

As his door slammed, the breathless señora became conscious of another

man. A man at the moment was as a flaunt in the face of a maddened

bull, and she turned upon him. It was Pedro. He had watched the

episode from its beginning to its close. Now he was bowing low, cap in

hand.

 

"Señora Bolio," he said, with great unction, "my admiration! My

admiration, my homage, my reverence! My veneration, my stupefaction, my

awe! My——"

 

"Oh, drat thy gibberings!" interrupted the señora, with irritation. "Be

done with thy bobbing, and come hither. Thou ’rt the very man I wished

to see."

 

"Heaven forfend!" murmured Pedro. "Hast yet more wind?"

 

She eyed him sternly, then her features gradually relaxed. "Not for

thee, my chicken pie. But hearken, Pedro. I have news. This girl—dost

know it?—is a Christian."

 

Pedro stared. "No!" he exclaimed. "And ’t is the Ñusta Rava?"

 

"’T is she, and she a Christian, Pedro, as I live! And she calleth for

Father Tendilla."

 

"For Father Tendilla! Then stew me, she shall have him! I’ll fetch

him."

 

"Fetch him, Pedro. Go at once." And taking him by the shoulder, the

señora turned him toward the entrance of the court. "Make haste, and,

_Adiós_."

 

Pedro went a few paces, and halted; reflected a moment, and returned.

As the señora looked back he nodded toward Rogelio’s dcor, and

approaching it, rapped vigorously. There was silence, and he pounded

again.

 

"Be off!" came a piping voice, not entirely steady.

 

Pedro pushed open the door, and heard a scurrying within. "Be off,

woman! I’m armed. Enter at thy peril!" trebled the voice. Pedro

thrust in his head. The _veedor_ was intrenched behind his table, bathed

in perspiration.

 

"Oh, thy pardon, _Veedor_! I thought thou didst bid me enter," said

Pedro, and closed the door with a grin.

 

"Hold, good Pedro! Wait! Tarry a moment, I pray thee, my dear friend,"

called the _veedor_, but Pedro was gone. As he left the court the door

opened, and Rogelio protruded his head, calling again; espied the señora

across the court, and retired abruptly.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XXIV*

 

_*Pedro Seeks Tidings of Cristoval*_

 

 

Pedro cantered into town and dismounted in front of the great, heavily

walled, low-roofed edifice that had been the Temple of the Sun,—the

Temple of the Sun for centuries, but now surmounted by a cross, the

interior shorn of its symbols of pagan worship and its splendor, and

consecrated to the Holy Faith. Beside the gray old building was the

ancient palace of the priestly attendants, now sheltering the good

Father Tendilla and his assistants in the pious work of saving heathen

souls.

 

The gentle-mannered old priest was shocked at Pedro’s revelation of the

_veedor’s_ iniquity, and made instant preparations.

 

"Good Father," said the cook, as he held the stirrup for Tendilla to

mount, "if you can learn aught of Cristoval——"

 

"I will, my son. Come to-night," and the priest rode away.

 

Arrived at the fortress, he went directly to the commandant, and in half

an hour was at Rogelio’s door with a squad of halberdiers. It drew an

outbreak of squeaky protests from that worthy, but the priest, leaving

him grovelling in fear of the punishing hand of the Church, ordered a

sentinel posted at his door and sought the señora. She admitted him at

once to Rava’s room.

 

The girl was asleep, her tear-stained cheek resting on her clasped

hands. Even unconsciousness did not release her from her sorrow, for

she sighed heavily and moaned as Tendilla knelt for a brief prayer

beside her. He arose, and stood regarding her with compassion. With

deeper compassion still, when, awakening, she drew back with eyes wide

and deep with the unutterable fear of a creature hunted and caught. But

her recognition of his silvery hair and benevolent face was quick, and

with a sigh, the faintest smile, and a movement entirely queenly, she

extended her hand. He took it, and touching the dark head, murmured a

benediction. Rava raised her eyes, studying his with the unconscious

intensity and directness of gaze that had often given Cristoval the

feeling that she looked beyond; then the lines of anxiety softened into

an __EXPRESSION__ of trust. But that kindly old face brought a train of

recollections of dreadful days, and she turned away in sudden weeping.

If Señora Bolio had at first impressed Father Tendilla with some doubt

of that lady’s fitness for her post beside the prisoner, she dispelled

it now by the tenderness with which she soothed the storm of grief.

With whispered words—words that might have sounded strangely enough to

the priest could he have heard them,—she pressed the shaking form to her

bosom, while with moistened eyes he waited for the return of calm. When

the girl was able to hear him he approached.

 

"My child," he began, in Quichua, and Rava turned quickly with joy in

her tears at the sound of the tongue which she had not heard since the

wild night at Xilcala. "My child, I have come to tell thee thou hast

friends, and thy dangers are past. As soon as thou ’rt composed we will

go from this unhappy place to one of safety, and I hope in a few days to

place thee in thy brother’s care."

 

"Oh, Viracocha—my father!" she cried, rising and nearing him with hands

pressed to her heart. "Is it true? is it true? Hath the sweet Virgin

Mother answered my prayers? Ah, Cristoval promised it would always be!

I believed him, and it is so! She hath heard me. She hath not turned

from Rava in her sorrow!" She drew the crucifix from her bosom and

kissed it passionately. "And he said thou wast good, and merciful, and

kind, my father. Oh, I know it is true. And thou wilt save me? Wilt

save me? Wilt take me from this wicked place—beyond the reach of these

cruel Viracochas? Ah, I thank thee, Blessed Mother! I thank thee, I

thank thee!" and she sank upon her knees, pressing the crucifix to her

breast.

 

Father Tendilla raised her gently and led her back to her couch. "It is

all true, my daughter. Thy prayers will never be in vain. Now, compose

thyself, and rest until I return. I go but for a moment."

 

He left the room, offering earnest thanks for her faith, and ordered the

_hamaca_. It was ready in a moment, and with the escort of halberdiers,

and the resolute señora riding close beside her litter, Rava left the

fortress.

 

Early in the evening Pedro went to the priest. He found his old

confessor pacing the floor and full of mild enthusiasm.

 

"Ah, my son," said the father, beaming upon his visitor, "we have done a

good work this day. I shudder to think of the infinite wrong that might

have been but for thy prompt action in placing so rare a guardian as

Señora Bolio over this injured girl, and apprising me of her peril. The

señora, Pedro, is a remarkable woman. Where didst find her?"

 

"Stew me!—your pardon, father—I found her not. She found me—as the

avalanche findeth the wayfarer." Pedro shook his head with a trace of

gloom in his jovial face, adding, "Yes, she is a remarkable woman. No

doubt of it! She hath powers and attributes, Father Tendilla. But, the

Ñusta Rava—she doth well?"

 

"Much more tranquil, and though most unhappy, beginneth to show

commendable patience and resignation. I have talked with her as my time

allowed, and would say from what I have seen, Pedro, that she is one of

the earth’s choicest blooms. Poor Peralta hath been a humble agent in

her salvation, but his task was well acquitted, and he shall have many

masses for his soul’s repose."

 

"Ah, _Madre_!" faltered Pedro. "Then Cristoval is dead?"

 

Father Tendilla shook his head sadly. "I fear it, Pedro. Duero hath so

said to Saavedra. I have forborne to ask the Ñusta, for the mention of

his name seemeth to pierce her heart. Alas! The old sad story of

mortal love and grief."

 

Pedro rose and stumped nervously about the room. When he seated himself

again his face was flushed and his hands were unsteady, but he said

nothing, and the father went on.

 

"I have told the Ñusta of thy part in her rescue, Pedro, and she would

see thee. She holdeth thee in kindly recollection."

 

"I am easily remembered," said Pedro, briefly. "I’m pegged in memories

wherever I roam," and he looked glumly at his wooden leg.

 

"For more than that, my son," said the priest, kindly. "Peralta never

forgot thee, and made the Ñusta partaker in full of his affection. But

thou must see her soon—not to-morrow, for she is much in need of quiet;

but possibly on the day following."

 

"_Bien!_" said Pedro, and his voice was hoarse.