The Crimson Conquest 46
The lamps were being lighted before Manco was in a mood to greet the
Ñusta Rava. He sent a page to advise her of his coming, requesting that
she be alone. After the youth had gone, he stood at his table with eyes
bent moodily upon the floor; then with quick impulse lifted the _llautu_
from his head, laid it aside, and quitted the apartment.
The evening was quiet and warm, but at that hour the several courts were
almost deserted, and he walked slowly, encountering few but the frequent
sentinels posted since the coming of the Spaniards. Through
intermediate patios, he gained the establishment devoted to the suite of
Rava and her younger sisters, the Ñustas Ocllo and Alcaya, halting near
a door through which came the notes of a _tinya_ and of some fair one
singing. The song was a sad one, and he walked on, thinking of the days
when these gloomy courts were enlivened with music and laughter from
hearts untouched by care. Would those days come again to the brooding
old Amarucancha?—to stricken Cuzco? The question was like the thrust of
a dagger, self-administered. Was not this air of sadness, this
pervading gloom, directly due to his own supineness? Was not its source
in his weak, nay, criminal, submission to the Viracochas. Ah, why was
he lingering, inactive, under the goading of every crying hour? Why did
he rest an instant while there remained an enemy in Cuzco, or in all
Tavantinsuyu?
He came to Rava’s door, and passed it; returned and passed it again and
again, the sweat starting under the flagellation of his conscience. How
could he face the noble girl within? What would she say of the Cuzco
she had left so fair: now so shorn of its glories? Would she not
reproach him, and justly? And could she do otherwise than attribute to
his neglect the suffering and dangers from which she had just escaped?
He must explain—without another second of delay, he must explain!
He recrossed the court impetuously, and pushing open the door without
ceremony, entered the room. Rava arose, startled, and hurried forward
with a cry of joy, alarmed again when she saw his pallor and the drawn
lines of his countenance. But there was no reproach in her tone or
bearing, only affection and gladness, and he embraced her with nervous
fervor.
Rava’s arms were about his neck. "Oh, my brother! Oh, my brother! Do I
really see thee again? Manco! Manco! How many, many times in these
long months have I feared—but fears are gone. How thou hast changed, my
dear! Thou ’rt troubled! Ah, me—" she stopped, regarding him with
surprised concern. "Where is thy _llautu_, Manco? Why dost not wear
it?"
He reddened painfully as he kissed her forehead again. "I—I have laid it
aside to-night," he said quickly, seating himself beside her.
"To-night, I am Manco—not the Inca, my dearest."
"But I would have seen thee wearing it. It should never be laid aside,
save in privacy, brother dear; and thou wouldst still have been Manco to
Rava, thou knowest well. That is not the reason."
He looked at her with troubled eyes.
"Why didst thou leave it?" she persisted, studying his face.
"I have told thee, Rava. I have put it by that I might be to thee only
Manco, as of old."
The lightness of his words was forced, and Rava saw it. "Nay, it is not
that," she said, gently. "Tell me why."
His eyes left hers, and she laid a hand upon his arm. "Tell me why,
Manco." He rose, but she detained him; and a glance at her anxious face
forced a confession. He hesitated, then said with an effort: "I will
tell thee why, Rava. It is because—oh, may the souls of the departed
Incas look mercifully upon me!—it is because—it is stained, my sister:
debased and dishonored! It came to me not from the hands of a priest of
the Sun, but placed upon my head by the foul hand of a Viracocha. O,
thou great Inti, why was I suffered to live to bring this shame upon my
line? I wear the _llautu_, and look thou, Rava, the shadow of a
Viracocha resteth ever upon my throne. When I speak to my people a
Viracocha speaketh, and my voice is drowned. My laws have ceased to be.
The very dogs of the streets look dumb question of mine authority." His
words failed, but he resumed, his voice strained with agony: "But
worse—worse hath befallen Tavantinsuyu. They have violated the Temple of
the Sun, stripped it of its splendor, and polluted its halls. They have
cast down the silent forms of our fathers, ravished of their sacred
insignia. The golden effigy of the Sun hath been torn from the wall,
crushed into ruin by Viracocha feet, and carried away to be gambled for.
The gardens have been despoiled, and not one hand’s-breadth of their
hallowed soil hath been left unturned by these destroyers in their
ravening for gold. The Inti-pampa is a desolation. Ah, Rava, Rava, ask
me not why I lay aside the _llautu_! Ask me, rather, how I dare to wear
it! Ask why the Sun doth rise and set upon my profanation!"
He covered his face with his hands. Rava sat very still. She was
prepared for his tale of ravage, and was less shocked by his words than
by the intensity of his agitation. A strong man’s anguish is always
terrible to a woman or a child, and the stoicism of the Peruvian made
this outburst the more harrowing. She stepped to his side and put her
arms about his neck. The unspoken sympathy gave him strength, and he
controlled himself and went on more calmly.
"Ah, my dearest sister, the sacredness of Cuzco is no more! Its palaces
have been despoiled. The beasts of the Viracochas defile the halls of
the Yupanquis. These very decorations on the walls that shelter thee
are here only on sufferance." He paused long enough to steady his
voice, pressing her hand to stay her from speaking. "A moment more, my
dear, and I have done. I have told thee only of Cuzco. The cloud that
darkeneth her sunshine hath spread to the four quarters of the empire.
Quito hath fallen. Daily, as came the reports of the great pestilence,
come now tales of new invasion. The great sea, vacant since the world
began, disgorgeth fresh swarms with every tide, as some rotten pool its
burden of vermin. The gaunt leader, Pizarro, is rearing cities, driving
our children into slavery to hew his stone and build his walls. The
fairest vales of Tavantinsuyu are being seized by strangers, their
people banished from their homes, or lashed into servitude. Yet I am
called the Inca! Oh, Rava, turn away thy face till Manco hath been
worthy of his trust!"
He sank into a chair, his head bowed. Rava touched him. "Manco, do I
behold my brother in despair?"
He looked up, his face reddening. "No, no! Not that, my sister, not
that! I have spoken of the past and the present. The curse hath fallen
whilst I have been held by chains of circumstance—the great Inti knoweth
how much against my will. Now, it is ended!" He rose and regarded her
with steady eyes, his voice calm, but intense. "It is ended, Rava!
To-night I meet the Villac Vmu and my generals. To-morrow at dawn,
whilst _chasquis_ are speeding the four roads from Cuzco, the priest
will sacrifice to the Sun—not in his desecrated temple, but under his
blue vault secretly in the mountains—invoking at last his dread
ministers, the Thunder and Lightning. But, Rava," he exclaimed, seizing
her hands, "think not that in the weakness thou hast seen to-night there
was the plaint of a coward! My heart was full. My lips have been
sealed in all these months of shame with links of bronze. No mortal but
thee hath heard a sigh or a faltered word; but thy dear eyes have drawn
from me what torture could not compel. Not even Amancay, sweetest of
consorts, hath heard a whisper of the sorrow which hath made mine every
night a harrowed year. But now, it is done!"
He fell into gloomy reverie, while Rava, pale and quite silent, sat
pressing his hand and looking far away, or anxiously at his sombre eyes.
He was oblivious of her presence, until he roused with a faint smile.
"But now, dear girl, what of thyself? I have not even told thee my joy
in having thee again. Forgive me."
Rava placed her fingers on his lips. "No need, Manco, either for thee
to tell me, or for me to say that I forgive. But mine is a long story.
Be content to-night to know that I am safe."
"No; but let me hear it, Rava. It is of concern to me, as thou knowest.
How didst come to be at Xauxa?"
"Ah, that is near the end of the story, brother."
"Then tell me from the beginning. I had thought thee in Toparca’s suite
until I met—Pizarro at Xaquixaguana. He told me, Rava, thou hadst fled
from Caxamalca with a traitor Viracocha who had broken prison." Manco’s
voice was grave.
Rava’s eyes flashed as they met his. "Pizarro called him so, Manco?"
she demanded; then after a pause, "Ah, yes—a traitor! But what wouldst
say of a traitor to these men of evil?"
Manco studied her face before he replied slowly, "Much worse even than
they—or much better."
"Then much better!" she said, with quiet emphasis. "His treason lay in
this, my brother—that he fiercely resented Pizarro’s perfidy to our
kinsman, Atahualpa, whom he befriended in his darkest hours. And in
this—that he saved me from worse than death when I was at the mercy of
those vultures; that he fought for me, starved for me, kept hope alive
when my heart was broken, and shielded me from a thousand perils, until
he led me to safety. And all this, Manco, for the sake of a vow to
Atahualpa, whom he promised to deliver me from mine enemies. A traitor!
Oh, my brother, if thy nobles have virtues like his treason, thou ’rt a
fortunate monarch!"
While she was speaking, and afterward, Manco searched her deep eyes
until, conscious of his scrutiny, they fell. Her hand was trembling,
and his face darkened with displeasure. "Rava," he demanded, "where is
this Viracocha?"
She looked up, and the sorrow and desolation which had swept quickly
over her gentle face brought generous remorse for his instant of
sternness. Her lips trembled piteously. "Oh, Manco, Manco," she
faltered, "he fell for me at last. He is no more!"
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