The Crimson Conquest 61

The Crimson Conquest 61

When he came to his senses, hours later, it was as if awakening from a

hideous dream. He had indistinct memories of insane dashes into

flame-swept streets, beneath infernal, incandescent canopies, past

doorways belching red-hot blasts; of terrible repulse and flights for

life; of renewed attempts, and bewilderment in fiery labyrinths whence

escape seemed impossible; of weeping, laughing, and shouting frantically

for Rava while he battled; of a long detour, later, through dark,

fuliginous thoroughfares, hot and stifling as ovens; of finding himself

wallowing in a stream, drinking and praying; and at last, of bursting

from the darkness upon a squad of startled soldiers and of fighting with

the fury of a maniac. How he escaped he knew not; but while he fought,

welcoming wounds that seemed to ease his burns, he heard again the

shrill, weird cry, "_Allah il Allah!_" saw a pikeman fall with an arrow

in his brain, then another and another; and fled alone, unpursued.

 

After this, dim wanderings through a Cimmerian wilderness of streets,

black, desolate, stinking of dead embers, and of eternal length and

intricacy, but cool. At last he heard a fountain; staggered into a

ruined patio, drank deep, and dropped into the nearest corner, asleep in

an instant.

 

High noon roused him to consciousness of suffering. His swollen eyes

would hardly open, and as he moved and groaned he heard a voice beside

him:—

 

"_Allah akbar_! I thought thou wouldst sleep to thy death. _Hola_!

Canst see, Cristoval? Dost know me?"

 

Cristoval’s smarting eyes came open with a start, and he stared up at a

lank figure in burnoose and turban, bending over him. "José!" he

exclaimed, thickly, his lips cracking with the effort, and he sat up,

feeling for his sword.

 

"No need for that, my friend!" said the old armorer. "But look thou,

Cristoval: call me not José. A curse be upon the name! I am Abul

Hassan Zegri. Be thankful that ’t is Abul Hassan Zegri, and not one of

thy countrymen. What, Cristoval! Dost doubt me? Man, had it been my

purpose to do thee harm, I would have saved thee the trouble of

awakening!"

 

Cristoval regarded him distrustfully a moment, and offered his hand. He

was in a roofless, blackened apartment, off the court he had entered in

search of water. The armorer had dragged him from the fountain into

better concealment.

 

"Canst drink?" asked Abul Hassan, tendering a smoke-stained vessel.

 

The cavalier drank with avidity, nodding his thanks. Never a draught

more delicious; never a drinker more grateful. The Morisco watched him

in glum silence, brought more water, and more, and still not enough.

"Ho! Let that suffice, Cristoval," he said, at length.

 

Cristoval groaned, but yielded. "_Madre!_" he mumbled, conscious of his

weakness, "what aileth me?"

 

"What aileth thee! Thou ’rt a fool—a madcap," replied the Morisco,

bluntly. "What hare-brained motive hath possessed thee, Cristoval? For

two nights and a day I’ve seen thee in the city, careering like a santon

pursued of devils."

 

"_Por Dios!_" growled Cristoval; "thou wast not far from putting an

estoppel upon it, Abul Hassan."

 

"When I split an arrow on thy casque? I did not know thee, Cristoval,

save as a Spaniard—and thou hadst followed me. For what purpose?"

 

"I was not in purpose to follow thee. It was a chance."

 

"Then it might have been a costly chance, for I had it in mind to kill

thee, until I found thee killing pikemen. What dost seek in Cuzco?"

 

"The Ñusta Rava."

 

"Ah!" Abul Hassan studied him narrowly, then asked, "Hast friends

outside, among the Indios?" Cristoval nodded.

 

"As soon as thou canst move we’ll seek them," said the other.

 

The cavalier shook his head. "I must find the Ñusta Rava," he answered,

with resolution.

 

"_Galimatias_! Bosh! Thou’lt find the garrote. Dost know how long

thou hast lain thus among these cinders? This is the second day. I

found thee yester morning. But, canst eat?"

 

The Morisco had a pouch well supplied, and the cavalier broke his long

fast. He wasted no time in words while a morsel remained of his prudent

allowance; but finished and refreshed, he asked, "And thou, Abul Hassan,

why art thou in Cuzco?"

 

"I am here to be near mine enemies."

 

"Thine enemies!"

 

"The enemies of my race," said Abul Hassan, with a quick flash in his

eyes; then, regarding the cavalier steadily, he added, with increasing

energy, "and of my faith! For, hear me, Cristoval, I am no more a

Christian! I am a follower of Mahomet—an unworthy Mussulman whom Allah

hath punished for his apostasy!"

 

Cristoval stared at him, horrified, and crossed himself. At the gesture

the old man spat upon the ground in sudden rage.

 

"Ah! The Cross!" he cried, his face drawn in repugnance. "The Cross!

The sign accursed! The sign which hath been stamped upon every atrocity

the minds of fiends—of Christians—can invent! The sign under which

murder, torture of body and soul, wreck of hearts and minds, have been

works of piety! I scorn it, spurn it, and hate it with a living

hatred!" He spat again and turned away, his gaunt form trembling with

passion.

 

Cristoval had gained his feet, suspecting a madman. Abul Hassan

controlled himself, and faced the cavalier. "Forget the words,

Cristoval—if thou canst. I would not offend thee, but—I have suffered

much. Behold me, an old and broken man, but hunted, hunted! Once I had

loved ones— O, Allah, thy wrath is hard to bear!"

 

He bowed his head, and Cristoval said hastily: "Say no more, old friend!

I owe thee much, and thy words shall not stand between us—nor thy faith,

for, by Heaven! I’ve known other gallant men who were not Christians.

Let it pass, Abul Hassan." Cristoval changed the subject, and presently

the Morisco resumed his usual composure.

 

All that day they remained in hiding. Food and rest restored some of

the cavalier’s strength, but realizing the futility of a hope to

accomplish his purpose in his present condition of body, he agreed

reluctantly to the wisdom of leaving the city. Late in the evening they

started, but though they were in the western suburbs, Cristoval was so

crippled by his burns that notwithstanding his companion’s assistance

they were long in clearing the ruined outskirts. In the open country at

last, the Morisco left him concealed while he went to the Peruvian lines

for help. He returned with a _hamaca_ and bearers, and Cristoval was

borne to a hamlet among the foothills on the western margin of the

Bolson of Cuzco. Here they found simple medicaments, and when Pedro

appeared, two days later, he found his friend much as he had come upon

him in Xilcala.

 

The cook stumped into the cottage without a word. Cristoval was lying,

smeared to his eyes in grease, with bandaged limbs, and Pedro looked him

over with great severity.

 

"Well, stew me!" he exclaimed, with bitterness. "If thou ’rt not done

brown, Cristoval, then I’m no cook to judge! Broiled to a turn!

Roasted with a crust!—and a complexion like a boiled ham in the summer

sun. Damnation, man! thou’rt overdone, dost not know it?" He paused,

regarded the cavalier for a moment with increased sternness, then

resumed reproachfully: "Ah, but no! Thou hadst no need for Pedro, an

experienced cook who would have taken thee out in time, and mayhap saved

the gravy—but must go and cook thyself, like a bedeviled Phoenix!" He

paused again, and Cristoval smiled slightly, waiting for the storm to

pass.

 

"Grin!" blurted the cook, with irritation. "Thou ’rt as

cheerful-looking as a smoked herring. But what the fiend dost think I

have had to grin about these several days? ’T is the second time I’ve

mourned for thee as dead, and twice too often!"

 

Cristoval extended a bandaged hand, and presently the severity faded

from Pedro’s countenance. He touched the hand, swore a little, and

seated himself. "Well, curse it! I’m glad to see thee once more,

Cristoval, cooked or raw. But I tell thee, old friend, my belt hath

gone loose from worriment!"

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XXXVI*

 

_*The Barricades*_

 

 

The fire had burned itself out and left two-thirds of Cuzco in ruins

long before Cristoval was in condition to mount. In the meantime, it

had required all of Pedro’s persuasion, entreaty, expostulation, and

threats, to keep him on his couch. Haunted by the conflagration and

visions of Rava in the perils which he had just escaped, he taxed the

cook’s abundant patience to extremity. The Spaniards’ daily sorties

were inflicting heavy losses upon the Inca’s devoted troops, most of

whom, for the first time confronting cavalry and firearms, were led by

ignorance into useless sacrifice. When Pedro brought accounts of these

engagements the cavalier groaned and fumed, fumed and groaned, and at

last declared vehemently that he would lie inactive no longer. The

brunt of his unrest fell upon Pedro, for the old Morisco, having seen

him in good hands, had stolen away with replenished quiver, to lurk

among the ruins and spread death and terror among the ancient enemies of

Granada.

 

One day, intelligence came that the Sachsahuaman had been stormed by the

Spaniards and taken. Juan Pizarro had lost his life leading the

assault. Mocho and his Antis had been relieved a few days before, and

Mayta, the new commander of the fortress, driven with a remnant of its

defenders into the citadel, and seeing that the place was lost, had

wrapped himself in his cloak and plunged from the battlements to death.