The Crimson Conquest 60

The Crimson Conquest 60

Arriving at the strip of light, he crossed it hastily, and halted by the

wall. Farther up the street was another lighted spot, and he watched it

with vigilance. Again the form, seen for an instant, and lost in the

gloom. Now, Cristoval’s courage was proof as his own mail against

tangible danger, but volatile as ether before the uncanny or mysterious.

The fleeting form was both. The cavalier was daunted, and admitted it

to himself. But he braced himself with a sign of the cross and stole

forward. "After all," he muttered, "belike ’t is naught but some poor

devil of a native, burned out and homeless. But the fiend take a man

who moveth with so ghastly locomotion! Neither a walk, trot, nor

canter. Anyway, he seemeth to have as little appetite for me as I for

him, and man or spook, I’ll not crowd him, I swear it!"

 

At the next corner he halted, inspecting the dimly lighted street for

signs of soldiery, but no living being moved. The spectre-like stranger

had vanished. While the cavalier stood, he heard distant cavalry. It

was wholesome and earthly at least; and although it called for caution,

yet it was in some sort reassuring, and he went on in greater ease of

mind. A few minutes later he entered another square flanked on the left

by a large edifice recognizable by the glow on its gilded roof as the

Temple of the Sun. He had his bearings, and knew that the Huatenay was

not far beyond. The plaza was the ancient Coricancha, or Place of Gold.

 

Half-way across he heard horses once more, approaching, and not distant.

The great door of the temple stood open. He hurried to its shelter as a

patrol of cavalry trotted into the square. They were coming in his

direction, and he entered the building. The darkness was absolute, but

opposite was another door, faintly lighted by the reflection from the

heavens. He stole toward it with reluctance, awed by the vastness of

the hall, whose walls sent back sepulchral echoes of his furtive tread.

High up indistinctly outlined windows revealed the loftiness of the

interior, which seemed to be unceiled. The place was lugubrious, as if

tenanted by ghosts of votaries of the ancient faith, mourning its

desecration. So thought Cristoval, and hastened his steps—then stopped.

There had been a movement in the doorway in front of him: a mere blur,

and gone, noiseless as a shadow. There was a trickling chilliness under

his back-plate, and again he made a sign of the cross. The place was

unholy—accursed by pagan rites. He must out of it! Should it be to

face the patrol, or—the other? The open air of the court was nearer,

and he quickened his pace to gain it, assailed by a multitude of

whispered reverberations; chased, as he knew, by devils, spooks,

goblins, and lemures.

 

In the court, he was sweating, but cold. It was bare, ghostly, and

surrounded by buildings with broad, open doors into which he did not

look as he sped across toward a gate that stood ajar. Outside, he

breathed more freely. He was in a garden with trees and shrubbery, and

these, even in the dark, are always friendly. There were avenues, but

the ground had been upturned by his countrymen for buried treasure, and

he could follow none. He turned across what had been a lawn, descending

from terrace to terrace, burdened by the sense of being watched by the

lurking stranger; nor paused until he had placed distance between

himself and the unhallowed temple. Now he could hear the ripple of a

stream, and knew that he was at the Huatenay; but kept on, looking for a

stout bush he could have at his back, and with a vigilant outlook for

the other tenant of the garden. He was now fully aware of his burns,

but dared not remove a jambe to ease them. He seated himself presently,

but after a minute’s rest the sensation of being under espionage became

unendurable. It chafed him, and with the irritation of his burning feet

and legs, roused a bloodthirsty desire to hunt the lurker and determine

whether he was substance or shadow. He thought better of it.

 

A few minutes, now, would bring him to the Amarucancha, and impatience

pushed him on. He had gained the lowest terrace when the mysterious

form appeared again, directly in his path, a hundred feet away. It rose

as if out of the earth, retreated a few paces, and vanished into the

shadow of the gully, leaving Cristoval in dismay.

 

"_Santa Madre!_" he gasped, and stood irresolute, wishing with ardor for

a crucifix. The figure was so wholly spectral that the thought of

following it into the darkness started his courage oozing as quickly as

it did the perspiration. Yet there was no help for it unless to return

through the temple. The stout cavalier was in a wavering frame of mind.

Then it stole over him that this shadowy creature was interposing

between him and Rava. He sprang down the bank with an oath. Were it

Satan himself he would dispute such hindrance.

 

He stumbled among the bowlders, straining his eyes for a sight of the

figure, furious to test its reality. But he plunged forward resolutely.

Above the temple he came to a stairway leading to the quay, and mounted

it, intending, if the streets were quiet, to leave the stream. As he

raised head and shoulders above the parapet, an arrow, coming with

terrific force, struck the bars of his lifted visor and splintered with

a crash that made his ears ring within his helmet. At the same instant

the figure rose a few yards ahead and sped away through the darkness.

Notwithstanding the shock, Cristoval’s dread vanished in a flash. "Aha!

thou flitting, gliding, misty son of an imp of perdition, then thou ’rt

real!" He dropped his visor. "By the saints! ’t is a burden off my

mind. I thought thee a ghost, but that was no ghostly arrow, my word

for it! And ’t was good archery. _Bien_! I’ll keep thee in mind until

I can teach thee thou ’rt shooting at a friend." Convinced now that the

stranger was a native bent on vengeance on his own account, Cristoval

descended again and pushed on up the stream, infinitely relieved in

spirit. But thereafter he kept his visor closed.

 

At length the black buildings on either bank came to an end at the great

square, and with beating heart the cavalier recognized the pile on the

right as the Amarucancha. He crept cautiously up the steps by which the

Inca and Mayta had descended on the night of their attempted escape.

Here he could look out upon the plaza, so near that he heard the

Spaniards’ voices. The fire had eaten from the direction of the

Sachsahuaman to its margin, and like the Rimac Pampa, it was partly

illuminated by burning ruins. In the middle were awnings and tents

occupied by his beleaguered countrymen. Near the camp was the picket

line with the steeds saddled, and in front of it, a detachment standing

to horse, ready for instant action. Cristoval took it in at a glance,

then his eyes sought the palace before him. Immediately opposite was a

door. Would it be locked? Locked, no doubt!—and would he dare to

knock? First he would try its fastenings. Cristoval was shaking at the

knees, and so intent that he had forgotten prudence. He was about to

steal across the quay when he was arrested by the tread of an

approaching sentinel. The cavalier retreated down the steps with a

flash of sudden heat over his body. Ten thousand devils! Here was a

condition unforeseen. Standing in the water and leaning against the

shadowed wall, he thought with diligence and many whispered

interjections. With the square so near he could not overcome the

sentinel without an alarm. The attempt might serve as a last resort;

but he put it aside to debate a hundred impracticabilities. After a time

he crept up the steps again and stole a look at the soldier. The latter

was keeping close to the palace wall, and for a pikeman his vigilance

seemed preternatural. Had he divined his surveillance by a pair of

watchful eyes in a head simmering with plans for his quick

extinction!—but he had not. He paced so many paces to the south, turned

with a glance at the sky; paced so many more to the north, turned with a

glance at the sky; and so for an hour, when he challenged the relief.

 

Meanwhile, Cristoval descended and stood meditating furiously.

Assuredly the chance for entrance here was slight. He picked his way

carefully down the stream, ascended by the first flight of steps to the

opposite bank, and started toward the square in the shadow of the

buildings. At its edge he descried another sentinel, and turned back.

At a bridge passed going up, he crossed the rivulet. At the farther

side he glanced back up the street toward the western line of fire, now

sweeping rapidly forward, and once more caught sight of the flitting

figure crossing the light, slinking toward the plaza, but lost at once

in the darkness. "Aha! my friend," muttered Cristoval, "thou ’rt off

the scent. Keep off it, thou heathen, or I may warm thy legs with the

flat of my blade."

 

He moved up the quay with a slight hope of finding an unguarded door

into the palace. Twenty paces more and he was startled by a long-drawn

yell of agony from the direction of the square. The stranger had

attacked a sentinel. "Holy Mother!" he exclaimed, "the skulking archer

hath scored."

 

The whispered words had not been said before a second cry arose,

fiercely exultant, "_Allah il Allah!_" Cristoval started at the words,

and crossed himself.

 

The cry was answered by a shout and a rush of soldiers. Cristoval

glanced about for a stairway to descend to the stream. None at hand,

and no time to search. He dropped his buckler over the parapet, lowered

himself by his hands, and let go. An instant to regain his shield, and

he fled down the rocky bottom as a platoon galloped along the edge of

the square, divided at the quay, and a party clattered toward him,

following the bank on his right. It divided again at the first street,

but as he blundered on through the darkness a squad passed him, going

down the stream. The square was in an uproar.

 

Far off somewhere Cristoval heard the cry again, "_Allah il Allah!_" and

stopped. "José, as I’m a Christian!" He reached the temple garden,

blown by the flight, and threw himself upon the bank, nearer despair

than he had been since entering the city. Only a miracle would admit

him to the Amarucancha.

 

He lay for an hour listening to the patrols, now near, now far, before

he rose heavily and looked about. It was necessary to seek a shelter

for the coming day; but where he should find security at once from the

fire, from Spaniards, and from the equally hostile Morisco, was a

question which taxed him to answer. He now had a wholesome dread of

buildings, and finally decided upon the garden itself, whose thickets

would afford concealment against any but a systematic search.

 

He found a coppice on one of the upper terraces; and having removed his

jambes and sollerets, bandaged his blistered feet with his torn-up

kerchief, and crawled into the lair. Physically tortured by burns,

mentally by anxiety, he lay broad awake until after sunrise, watching

the advancing fire, laboring with the problem before him, and wondering

at the presence and hostility of José.

 

It was late in the day when he awoke and looked out. A strong westerly

wind was blowing, and he saw at once that the conflagration was making

rapid headway toward the quarter of the palaces. Would reach it by

nightfall, if not before. He groaned at his helplessness, forgot his

pain, forgot the hunger and thirst now assailing him, and lay the day

through, feverishly watching the progress of destruction.

 

The hours dragged. The air was hot, dry, and stinging with the reek of

burning. His throat was parched, his lips split and bleeding, and his

face, from the heat in the palace, was raw and so badly swollen that his

eyes were almost closed. His burns were maddening. But all his torture

of body was a trifle, was nothing, to the agony of beholding the

inexorable approach of the fire to the Amarucancha.

 

By evening he was feverish, and lay reënacting every minute circumstance

of the preceding day and nights; went through new struggles quite as

real and of worse torment; and suffered horrors unspeakable.

 

When night fell he awoke bewildered, unable for a time to untangle the

actual from his delirium, and lay staring at the ruddy light, straining

to comprehend its meaning. It came like a flash, and he sat up, groping

for his arms. Greaved and shod, he staggered out, aching and giddy.

His first glance was toward the north.—God of Heaven! The Amarucancha!

The fire had crossed the stream!

 

The temple loomed black against an appalling background of flame. He

reeled and went upon his knees, weak with fear; was up and rushing

forward, crashing through shrubbery, colliding blindly with tree-trunk

and branch, until he reached the court; across it, and into the hall of

the temple, its ghostly terrors forgotten. Through the entrance

streamed a broad light from the Coricancha. The centre of the city was a

vast furnace, a hell, with flames leaping and whirling with the roar of

breaking surf.

 

The long night which followed seemed as unreal in its horror as his delirium. Cristoval went fire-mad.