The Crimson Conquest 47

The Crimson Conquest 47

With head bowed and form shaken by grief, her hands sought his neck; and

whatever he would have said a moment before in reproof of her feeling

for one of the hated race, it was forgotten in pity as he drew her into

his arms. With affectionate sympathy he endeavored to moderate her

anguish, but words were vain, and he could only hold her tight-clasped

until its force was spent. Then he half carried her, benumbed and

yielding, to her couch and called her maids, lingering helpless beside

her while they ministered.

 

Rava had grown more tranquil, and he was about to depart. She lay

quiet, her eyes closed, their lashes yet moist, and he bent over to kiss

the pallid cheek. As he did so she sighed deeply, and a small object

slipped from her bosom and lay sparkling at the end of its slender

chain. Its silvery gleam caught his eye. He started, looked more

closely, and recoiled as if he had seen a serpent in the folds of her

robe. He caught breath sharply, and an ashy paleness spread over his

bronzed face. By a blessing of Heaven the girl did not open her eyes

upon the mingled abhorrence, unbelief, and anger, with which he beheld

the tiny image of the crucified Saviour—the emblem of all on the broad

earth that he hated most savagely. He gazed for a fascinated instant,

stood erect, glanced at the sad face once more, and left the room with

features as rigid as if cast in the metal whose color they wore. The

startled maids looked after him as he went, but none saw him stagger as

he crossed the court with his hands pressed to his forehead. The Moon,

goddess consort of the Sun, was rising over the dark roofs of the

palace. He wavered out from the shadow into her rays and cowered

beneath them, shuddering as if he felt her silent denunciation of his

sister’s apostasy. Gaining his apartments, he passed his attendants

without a word, leaving them awed by a face they had hardly recognized.

 

When his generals met him, near midnight, his eyes were fevered, his

voice hoarse and dry, and his words, fraught with war, were uttered with

an abrupt tensity that fired their warlike hearts. The council was

long. At its close the _chasquis_ who were to bear his messages to the

distant provinces, calling them to arms, were summoned to have the words

from his own lips. They left it with nerves strung by their portentous

import and the fierce, suppressed energy with which they were given.

 

Before the sun rose above Cuzco the fiat had gone forth that would

convulse the empire.

 

Within the month every province, town, and hamlet within the realm was

in secret preparation. Armorers doubled their industry. The great

system of posts sprang to its highest activity, the tireless _chasquis_

speeding day and night over every road and mountain trail, hurrying

commands from the capital, bearing back reports of governors and

_curacas_, in ceaseless radiation and convergence. Magazines and

armories were replenished of their stores, and trains of carriers toiled

over every highway, concentrating provisions and material of war upon

the strongholds in the mountains surrounding Cuzco. All the machinery

of the most elaborately perfect organization the world has ever seen was

in motion, but as silently as clouds gather before a tempest. The

couriers stole in and out of the city under cover of darkness. Few of

them went to the Amarucancha, but were received and despatched by the

Villac Vmu at his own palace, their tidings and _quipus_ carried by him

to the Inca. The impending cataclysm gave no faintest warning, and the

Spaniards idled, caroused, and brawled, unconscious of its approach.

 

The Ñusta Rava, quite unaware, fortunately, of the agitation with which

Manco had quitted her, worn out by stress of mind and the weariness of

her journey, at length found forgetfulness in sleep. The next day and

evening were spent with her sisters and the Auqui Paullo, but Manco did

not return, though he sent a page with inquiries for her health. The

day following, and the next, her hope to see him was disappointed. At

length he came.

 

The first glance from his gloomy eyes chilled the warmth from her words

as she started to meet him, and she stopped, her smile of welcome fading

into startled inquiry. The Inca dismissed the maids, and motioned her

to her seat, neither avoiding nor heeding her hand as she laid it

hesitatingly upon his arm, nor replying to the question in her face.

 

The interview was not long nor violent, but when he left and sent in her

maids, they found her unconscious. The last of many woes had snapped

the frail thread of courage that had sustained her. Manco had

questioned her about the crucifix, had requested that she abjure the

abhorred religion, had been refused as firmly as gently. His respect

for her had prohibited command or reproach, but the coldness of his

farewell and its finality had been a stab more cruel than the most

passionate denunciation.

 

The next day Rava did not rise, nor the next, nor for many days

thereafter. The _amautas_ came—wise men—three of them. They noted her

fever, listened a moment to her delirium, consulted, and administered

the simple remedies known to the Peruvian pharmacopoeia. These were few

and mostly harmless, so nature fought for her with few hindrances from

drugs, and with all the assistance that nursing could give. But it was

a long and dreary struggle before the unseeing eyes at last looked sadly

but clearly at her attendants, and her whispered words grew

intelligible. Almost the first were "Father Valverde," and the maids

looked in wonder. But she repeated the name until the priest was sent

for and came.

 

Father Valverde, now Bishop of Cuzco, was an elderly man, well preserved

and well fed, with a rugged, determined face, a great slit of a mouth

with good lines about it; keen eyes which could look stern beneath their

shaggy brows when occasion demanded, or amiably and humorously upon

opportunity, and with an ability to storm at lawless soldiery in terms

suited to their understanding and their needs with a vigor that would

have been creditable to Chrysostom. He was a rabid hater of the devil.

Next to the devil he hated an unbeliever. A missionary of fanatical

type, he could burn a heathen at the stake for the good of his

unassoilzied soul with easy conscience and some satisfaction. But he

could, withal, rejoice sincerely over a soul rescued from damnation, and

did rejoice over a letter from Father Tendilla regarding the Ñusta Rava.

The missive, after the usual salutation and some preliminary words, ran

as follows:—

 

"I will leave her long story to a fitter time, and say merely that I

found her already a Christian, having been brought to the Faith by the

Caballero Cristoval de Peralta, whom thou knowest well. And not only a

Christian in belief, but what is more admirable, in fibre, inclination,

and bent of mind; being, in truth, a most gentle, saintly girl. I had

the ineffable satisfaction of baptizing and receiving her into Holy

Communion. Thereafter, she worked with me earnestly in the conversion

of her people here, and departed with the hope of pursuing the same good

work in Cuzco. I pray, therefore, that thou attend upon her. She hath

many sorrows. One is the death of this Cristoval.

 

"Now, I have thought of this concerning the Ñusta Rava, and having

broached it gently, found it received not with disfavor and even

gratefully, to wit: that as thou dost plan to found, as soon as may be,

a convent at Cuzco, she might be led to embrace a holy life. Her

preparation, begun here, could be completed at Panama, or even at

Seville, where she would doubtless enjoy the interest and favor to which

her rank entitleth her."

 

There followed items of personal concern, and the letter closed. The

interest aroused in the mind of Father Valverde was immediate and

effective, and once admitted to the palace, he devoted himself to the

work so well begun by Cristoval and Tendilla. Like his brother

missionaries, he possessed a knowledge of medicine, and was able to

hasten Rava’s convalescence. It need not be said that he found her all

that Tendilla had described, and the desolate girl received his fatherly

ministrations with a grateful heart.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XXVII*

 

_*The Incarial Diadem on a Spanish Saddle-bow*_

 

 

Tavantinsuyu was rousing; was at last aroused. Dark masses of warriors,

marching with grim purpose, without song, or drum, or horn, filled the

defiles and roads leading toward the City of the Sun. Day after day,

week after week, from the most distant quarters of the empire, the

converging columns moved upon the capital, swelling as each village or

province added its contingent. So rapid and secret was the

concentration that before a whisper of their danger had reached the ears

of the conquistadors, the fortified valley of Ollantaytambo, a few

leagues from Cuzco, had become a vast encampment, and waited only the

signal from the Inca to pour forth its avenging legions.

 

Proud, gloomy, and taciturn; enduring the contemptuous indifference, the

unconcealed scorn, and the open insult of the Spanish officers with the

patient fortitude of a heart of iron, Manco bided the hour. During the

long weeks of preparation, while his forces were gathering, he never

left the palace. From dawn to darkness, and often from darkness to dawn

again, he sat in his chamber, poring over _quipos_, or feverishly pacing

his floor while he listened to the reports of officers or issued his

commands. Daily intelligence borne by the _chasquis_ kept him in touch

with the advancing columns, and on a map roughly sketched with charcoal

on a sheet of cotton lying on his table he marked their approach. His

generals came and went unheeded by the quarrelling Spaniards, and the

ominous councils held nightly within the palace were unsuspected.

 

The day was near at hand. Manco was in midnight council with his

officers and the Auqui Paullo. The final disposition of his troops was

being considered, but the blow was withheld until word should come from

the coast that the forces near the newly founded Spanish cities, Ciudad

de los Reyes and Truxillo, were ready to strike simultaneously. At

Xauxa preparations for investment were complete. All passes and lines

of communication between the several Spanish posts were occupied.

Already the women of the royal household were being sent, in twos and

threes, and with all possible secrecy, to the protection of the fortress

at Ollantaytambo. Rava had not gone, but would depart with Paullo on

the following night.

 

The group of nobles about the young Inca as he stood at the head of his

table, was one which would have been distinguished in any council of

warriors or statesmen. All were veterans of many wars; and all, with the

exception of Yumaquilque, commander of the Amahuacas, a warlike mountain

tribe to the northeast of Cuzco, were of the pure Inca blood. Two, the

generals Mayta and Quehuar, were members of the royal family; the former

a cousin, the latter an uncle, of Manco. Quehuar, the eldest and next

of kin, stood beside the Auqui Paullo. At his side was Mayta, younger

by years, and one of the handsomest of the nobility of Tavantinsuyu. He

had the features and form of a Roman, every line indicative of the

energy and alertness which had gained him the sobriquet of "The Puma"

among his devoted soldiery. He commanded the Incarial Guard and was the

head of the military school. Next was Mocho, chief of the fierce Antis.

He was a short, dark, irritable genius of aggressiveness, known as the

fiercest fighter in all Tavantinsuyu, and the most persistent. There

were others of less distinction, but all were of tried courage and

ability. Now they listened with close attention to the words of their

young lord, whose force and spirit as developed in the last few months

had inspired an admiration in which his youth was forgotten, and had

filled them with high hope for their stricken country.