The Crimson Conquest 54

The Crimson Conquest 54

Hostility returned to Manco’s eyes. He surveyed the cavalier for a

moment before replying coldly, "The Ñusta Rava is the daughter of an

Inca, Viracocha."

 

"I am a _caballero_ of Spain, my Lord Inca."

 

In silence contended the pride of two races. On the one hand, an

autocrat absolute, master of an empire, ruler of multitudes—but an

Indian. On the other, a soldier, an adventurer, but a Caucasian—a

Conquistador. Upon the monarch, unseen, unfelt, fell the shadow of

Destiny.

 

There was no wavering in the eyes of either. In the stern,

self-possessed cavalier the Inca saw and was compelled to acknowledge,

an indefinable superiority which eluded him—the genius of a breed of

subjugators. Withal, there was no arrogance in this Spaniard’s face;

only the grave serenity of a lofty mind, a strength of spirit which rose

above the distinction of the temporal rank of the Peruvian and all his

might. On his own part, Cristoval beheld a kingliness ingrained: a

majesty as natural as the air that Manco breathed.

 

Cristoval broke the pause. "My Lord Inca, I requested, a moment ago,

your gracious leave to pass the guards."

 

Manco seemed not to have heard, but stood in gloomy meditation.

Cristoval was about to speak again when the Inca replied with

abruptness, "It is my will, Viracocha, that you remain within the

palace."

 

Cristoval bowed, and again encountered the look of profound scrutiny.

Manco inclined his head, and the cavalier withdrew.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XXXII*

 

_*The Storm Breaks*_

 

 

Pedro was asleep in his chair, but roused when Cristoval laid a hand

upon his shoulder.

 

"Old friend," said the latter, "we are prisoners."

 

Pedro sat up, regarding his companion with incredulity. "Prisoners

again, sayst thou, Cristoval?"

 

"Prisoners! I asked the Inca’s leave to quit the palace at once, and

was denied."

 

"At once! To-night?" demanded Pedro. "Well, then stew me if I’m not

glad thou wast denied! Here is our supper, scarce touched. Here are

two beds, immaculate. Cristoval, thou ’rt rash, hot-headed, and too

impetuous by far! Now what if the Inca had given thee thy leave?"

 

"We should have taken it and gone," replied Cristoval.

 

"_Como asi_! Just so," said the cook, in a tone of reproach. "We

should have taken it and gone—supperless, bedless, two wanderers by

night. As for being prisoners, the news would have kept until morning,

and I for one, would have slept none the worse."

 

Cristoval regarded him moodily. "Gods, but thou hast philosophy, for a

captive cook!"

 

"Philosophy!" retorted Pedro; "’t is common sense. But come! Let us

fall to, and thou tell me whilst we eat."

 

They fell to, and Cristoval recounted the interview. At its close Pedro

remarked comfortingly: "Well, if this is durance, Cristoval, I’ve

experienced worse, and so hast thou. Which bed wilt have? They’re

alike. Shall we toss for it? I have a _maravedi_."

 

"_Madre_! Thou’rt a cheerful cook," returned Cristoval, glumly.

 

They tossed for beds, sought them presently, and while Cristoval lay

restless and pondering, Pedro’s peaceful snore resounded through the

halls of the Incas.

 

The cavalier was awakened next morning by the voice of Pedro in the

outer room, addressing an attendant and apparently amending his

salutation into Christian terms.

 

"Say, rather, ’May the Virgin guard you’; or, more briefly, ’_Dominus

vobiscum_.’ Either is good, and the sooner thou learnest them the

better for thy soul. Is that our breakfast? Art sure? Hast not

strayed into the wrong room? Hum! Well, it hath little of the look of

the prison fare I’ve—heard tell of, for a surety! Pleased with it, boy!

Why, I’m pleased from crop to tail-feathers, and that’s clear through!

A mere saying, my lad. Heed it not. Ah! My leg? It hath thine

admiration? In my country ’t is worn as a mark of transcendent virtue.

Few attain it. That will do. Just leave the door open when thou goest

out."

 

Presently Cristoval heard a low whistle of surprise, and Pedro stumped

hurriedly to his door. "Cristoval!" whispered the cook, "Cristoval! He

did it!"

 

"He did what?" demanded Cristoval.

 

"Left the door open, or I’m a scullion! Stir thyself!"

 

The cavalier stepped out. The door was broad open, admitting sunlight,

perfume, and the sound of the fountain in the court. "Move, man, and

we’re free!" exclaimed Pedro, urgently. "There is not a soul in the

patio."

 

"Useless, Pedro!" said Cristoval, turning away. "The place is surrounded

by guards, and the valley full of troops. We should not stir five

hundred yards."

 

"Oh, the fiend! We can try. ’T is a flaunt in the face of Providence

not to try!" He looked stealthily into the court and drew back with an

exclamation. "Here cometh Mocho! Shall I throttle him?"

 

"No!" thundered Cristoval.

 

Pedro shrugged. "_Amigo_, thou ’rt an ass!—with asinine propensities

for thorns and thistles." He pegged across the room and seated himself

with some violence, muttering, "This is what cometh of being a cook."

 

Mocho entered. "My friends," said he hastily, after their greetings,

"we move in an hour toward Cuzco. The Inca hath gone to Ollantaytambo

with Quehuar and Yumaquilque, who came this morning. The Antis are on

the march."

 

"We, my Lord Mocho!" said Cristoval. "We—Pedro and myself—are

prisoners. The Inca refused liberty to leave the palace."

 

Mocho shook his head with a smile. "No, Viracocha Cristoval. There was

a council at dawn when the generals arrived, and the Inca hath accepted

your service. In truth, you were not prisoners. The Inca could not so

soon forget."

 

Within the hour the two Spaniards were leading down through the park to

the valley with Mocho, and the latter said, "Viracocha Cristoval, the

Antis are to take the Sachsahuaman."

 

Cristoval nodded. "Count us with them, Lord Mocho," he said briefly.

 

A few days later a foraging party of Spanish pikemen and Cañares leaving

Cuzco by the Cuntisuyu road at dawn found its way opposed outside the

suburb of Chaquill-Chaca by a body of Peruvian archers. The sergeant in

command halted in astonishment, then with an imprecation ordered his men

forward to cut a way through. Before half-a-dozen paces had been

covered a flurry of arrows whizzed into their ranks. The sergeant

ordered a charge, met at quarter bow-shot by a volley, and the head of

his detail melted. Another discharge, and the foragers reeled, broke,

and stampeded toward the city. They dashed through the dim streets

crying the alarm and reached the square just as the garrison of the

Sachsahuaman rushed into it from the north in wild disorder. The

fortress had been surprised by an overwhelming force, and the Spaniards

had fled without a blow. A few minutes later half a score of wounded

straggled in, some borne by comrades. A number had been left within the

fortification, dead or captive, and others had dropped along the road.

Now, from the suburbs on the west and south came the distant howling of

the Cañares. A soldier burst into the sleeping-room of Hernando

Pizarro, admitting with him a confusion of shouts from the square and

the blare of trumpets sounding to arms.

 

"We are attacked!" cried the soldier. "The fortress hath fallen, and

the city is surrounded."

 

Hernando was out of bed at a bound. As he rushed out half-dressed, a

horde of retreating Cañares swarmed into the square, some wounded, some

naked, many unarmed, and all in panic, their savage clamor drowning the

shouts of the Spanish officers struggling to form the companies. For a

space it was a scene of madness. The Cañares, part terror-stricken by

the suddenness of the attack, part infuriated by wounds and the sight of

blood, whirled in the square like wild cattle, breaking the forming

lines of the infantry, struck at by angry pikemen, fighting back, and

howling. In a moment began a sputtering zip of arrows from outside,

with here and there an answering shriek and plunge of some man hit, and

the confusion rose to pandemonium. The sputtering increased; became a

steady rain of missiles searching every yard of the place, their flight

invisible in the twilight, making the vicious whir, or sharp, angry snap

as they glanced on the pavement or from the walls, the more sinister.

The Cañares broke for shelter in the halls of the palace of Viracocha,

followed by the infantry and Candia’s men dragging their guns. Here the

lines were hastily reformed. A few cavaliers were in the court, already

mounted; but a few only, for Juan Pizarro had gone, three days before,

with almost the entire strength of the horse in a fruitless pursuit of

the Inca Manco, whose rescue had been reported by the battered Mendoza

and his companion.

 

Hernando had gotten into armor in some fashion, and was now in the

saddle, adjusting his helmet while he bellowed commands. His handful of

cavalry clattered after him into the hail-swept square. The infantry,

not two hundred of them in all, closed in behind. No hesitancy here,

but grim resolution to fight whatever odds they might find; an

unreserved, deadly willingness to fight, though the legions of all

heathendom were arrayed against them.

 

For an hour the plaza roared, thundered, and trembled; was finally

cleared. The warriors of the Inca had fought with courage almost

superhuman, but had been met with steel, by the crushing weight of

cavalry, by the fire and havoc of guns. They retreated to the streets,

and the streets were swept by falconet and arquebus. They were driven

to the suburbs—and the attack had failed.