The Crimson Conquest 64

The Crimson Conquest 64

But the Antis held the rampart, and the gate of the Acllahuasi was

broken through. Followed by Pedro, Mocho, and a score of warriors,

Cristoval dashed into the enclosure. The darkness was pitchy, and he

went headlong into a copse of shrubbery, stumbled through into a path,

lost it at once, and lost himself in another thicket. Half a minute had

separated him from his friends. He groped about in bewilderment,

blundering on. Heard voices, and shouted: answered, as it seemed, from

every point of the compass. One voice was Pedro’s, but Heaven alone

could have sent a clue to its direction. He was in a great garden, dark

with foliage intersected by a maze of paths. He crashed forward into

another gravelled walk, and brought up against a wall. He was across

the enclosure, and felt a pavement beneath his feet. He could discern

doorways, numbers of them, all alike; some open, with empty dark

chambers, some closed. He followed to the right, trying the closed

ones, finding them unlocked and the rooms vacant. No sign of life, and

he hurried on with sinking heart, sick with the fear that he had come

too late. The night was hideous with the clamor outside, but he gave

little heed, intent only on his quest. He heard a step, and ran against

someone in the gloom, who sprang back with a familiar exclamation and

engaged him. "Pedro!" he shouted, and the cook responded: "Thou,

Cristoval! Heaven be praised! Where the fiend are we? Where are the

others?"

 

"Only the fiend knoweth. Come!" They hastened along, throwing open

doors, but finding everywhere darkness and vacancy. Cristoval’s hope

was fast going. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" he muttered over and over.

"Where is she? Rava! Rava!" he called. "Answer, in the name of

Heaven!"

 

Suddenly a gruff voice commanded in Spanish, "Halt!" Cristoval sprang

forward. Again the summons, "Halt!" and a burly form loomed in the

darkness with a mace raised to strike. "Halt! I command you in the

name of the Holy Church!"

 

"Father Valverde!" cried the cavalier. "Hold, man! I am—"

 

The mace descended with sturdy force, dexterously caught on Cristoval’s

buckler. In an instant the priest’s heels were kicked from under him,

and Cristoval strode past, while Pedro seated himself upon the prostrate

ecclesiastic. Without hesitation Cristoval tried the door Valverde had

been guarding. It was fast, and he hurled his weight against it. At

the second assault it yielded, burst open at the next, and the cavalier

found himself in a dimly-lighted room, facing a group of shrieking women

clinging about one who confronted him with unwavering, courageous eyes,

but with no sign of recognition.

 

He stepped forward and halted, strove to speak, and failed, and stood

overcome, while the women, made hysterical by the tumult beyond the

convent walls, wailed at his dread appearance. He had forgotten his

lowered visor, his bared sword, and the seeming menace of his attitude,

and could only murmur hoarsely as he advanced: "Rava! Rava! Dost not

know me—Cristoval?"

 

She cowered away, glaring in terror and anger, but with no word. He

halted again, and lost his voice, standing before her helpless in a

sudden fear. "Rava!" he cried in desperation. "Rava! in God’s name,

child, hast forgotten me?"—Then thought of his visor and raised it.

 

Her __EXPRESSION__ changed slowly to one of wonder and unbelief, and she

raised her hand to her heart, growing suddenly more pallid. In the

semi-darkness of the room she was uncertain until he spoke her name

again. Then she stretched forth her hands, took a step forward, and

sank with a sob into the arms of the Ñusta Ocllo.

 

In a second Cristoval had her in his own, pressing his lips to hers, to

her forehead, and to her eyes until she opened them; but quite too

choked himself to speak—this stalwart cavalier!—and half blinded by

something he feared she would see.

 

"Oh—is it thou, my Cristoval?" she murmured, raising her hand to touch

his swarthy cheek, only half-convinced by her eyes. "Ah, my love, I

thought thee forever lost!" and in a passion of weeping she put her arms

about the steel-covered neck, pressing her cheek upon his breastplate,

insensible to its cold and hardness, conscious only of a joy beyond

belief.

 

They were oblivious of those around them, of the din of battle coming

through the open door; forgetful of all but one another, and might have

remained fatally so, had not the Auqui Paullo rushed in, followed at

once by Pedro and Father Valverde. The bishop had been disarmed, and

was flaming with rage. The youth, wild-eyed, and pale with the

excitement of the night, halted at the astounding spectacle of his

sister embracing a Viracocha. Before he had recovered, Mocho dashed in

and seized his arm.

 

"Auqui Paullo," cried the general, "there is no moment to lose!

Assemble the women and get them to the gate. Hasten!"

 

Mocho in armor was unrecognized. Paullo wrenched himself free and

demanded angrily, "Who art thou?"

 

"Oh, Supay!—I am Mocho! Fly, Paullo!—Cristoval; do not tarry. Lead the

Ñusta to the gate."

 

Paullo stared for a second, then hurried out to collect the rest of the

household. Mocho turned to the wailing women. Cristoval was gently

forcing Rava toward the door when Father Valverde, as suspicious of the

cavalier as of any other soldier, interposed. Planting himself in front

of the two, he commanded sternly:—

 

"Peralta, forbear! Release the maiden. She remaineth here."

 

Cristoval surveyed him in astonishment and anger. "Remaineth here,

priest! Art mad? Out of the way!"

 

"Release her!" commanded Valverde, advancing to restrain her. Cristoval

interposed his buckler and thrust him roughly back.

 

"Release her!" thundered the bishop. "Pass me on pain of the wrath of

the Church, her holy guardian! Rava, beware this man, and remember thy

promise! Peralta, this maiden is for no man."

 

The cavalier laughed in his face. "Stand aside!" he cried, savagely.

"Thou’rt in peril, Valverde!"

 

Valverde raised his hand in menace. "_Excommunicabo te—_" he began

solemnly; and Cristoval blanched, then replied, fiercely:—

 

"Excommunicate and be damned! I defy thee! By what right this

interference? Aside! lest I forget thy gown." He strode past.

Valverde, white with passion, would have sprung upon him, but Mocho,

furious at delay, thrust himself between with his sword at the bishop’s

breast, his eyes blazing with vindictiveness. "Back, Viracocha, or by

the great Inti, I will lay thee open!"

 

Valverde recoiled, and Cristoval hurried to the door with Rava, followed

by the women, whom Mocho drove after them with scant ceremony.

 

They were soon at the gate with all of the household that could be

collected. But many of the terrified women had hidden themselves, and

there was no time to search. Outside, the conflict was still raging.

The Antis were holding the breastwork with desperate valor and

determination, Abul Hassan at the front, for the hour a madman, a Moslem

fanatic: pity the Spaniard who came within reach of his terrible blade.

Ocallo and Markumi, with the other armored Antis, fought beside him,

tigers. At the gate the street was a mere madness of warriors struggling

to the places of those who fell.

 

Mocho and Cristoval forced themselves into the throng, leading the

convoy of women surrounded by the detail which had followed into the

Acllahuasi. It was minutes before they could make an avenue through the

tribesmen, but at length they gave way, and leaving the two Spaniards to

take the rescued to the rear, Mocho turned back to the rampart, which

must be held until the women were in safety. Slowly Cristoval forged

through the press, keeping close to the wall, and at length the worst

was past. A hundred yards more, and they were at Matopo’s barricade and

through the breach: Rava was delivered from her peril.

 

Cristoval sought her in the crowd of hysterical women, and reached her

side. No time for words. He embraced her once, and before she knew his

purpose he was gone. Now she was safe, his duty lay elsewhere. The

Antis must be withdrawn.

 

Once more to the front, crowding, staggering, almost fighting his way

through the mass, Cristoval became aware that Pedro was behind. He

turned and shouted into the cook’s ear: "Back, Pedro! For the sake of

Heaven, go to the rear!"

 

There was scorn in Pedro’s voice as he leaned forward and roared,

"_Infierno!_"

 

Of damnable obstinacy, this cook! Cristoval pushed on, every step more

difficult. Here was an officer. The cavalier seized him by the

shoulder, bellowing and gesticulating that the Antis must be retired.

Hopeless! Mocho was at the front. Retreat and leave their general?

 

Forward, then, the cavalier, and at last the breastwork. Here was hell’s

own fury. The work had been lost and retaken repeatedly by the Antis,

and was half demolished, its crest a rampart of dead. Mocho’s men had

just been swept from it and the Spaniards were in the street. The

square and its approaches at other points had been cleared, and many of

the troopers had dismounted to fight here. Their weight had turned the

tide, and Mocho had lost some dozen yards. Cristoval reached the point

of contact, Pedro close behind and roaring a battle-cry. In the

pressure, the foremost of the foes fought shield against shield in a

swaying, howling death-struggle of men bereft of reason, the more

horrible for the darkness. Cristoval could see nothing, or, vaguely, a

wild surging around him. Knew that he was in touch with the enemy only

when his buckler rang with the blow of a mace. Then he fought.

 

For the rest, a mere delirium, hardly to be remembered. He heard Mocho’s

war-cry, the Morisco’s howl, and knew they were alive. Pedro was beside

him. Their two fresh blades in the narrow thoroughfare turned the tide

once more, slowly at first, then with a rush, and Cristoval was atop of

the breastwork. Battled here a brief minute, and was hurled back by a

fresh charge from the square—but with the memory of having seen a spark of fire!