The Crimson Conquest 65

The Crimson Conquest 65

A spark of fire! Trivial! But what if it were a lighted gunner’s

match?

 

Cristoval gave voice. Found Mocho, and roared a warning. A Spanish

trumpet was blowing the recall, and the charge had been arrested. Mocho

was ordering back his men, but as well shout at a mountain torrent.

They bore forward with resistless pressure, and Cristoval was forced

against the rampart, fighting them back and shouting with all the

strength of his lungs. Futile! They passed and were mounting the

rampart. As he stood on the _débris_ at the foot of the scarp he was

head and shoulders above the work, and glancing up, saw again the spark

of fire, just as he felt himself seized by a strong hand and dragged

back toward the wall of the Acllahuasi. Pedro shouted something,

drowned by an explosion that shook the earth, and in the flash he

saw—horror not to be told. A gun had been dragged to the top of the

breastwork and fired in the very faces of the Antis.

 

Horror not to be told, not to be imagined, while falconet and arquebus

raked the street. Pedro held the cavalier with firm grip as they

crouched beneath the spurts and flashes of the fire overhead, their ears

benumbed by the repeated shocks.

 

At length the rush and yells of the retreating Antis died away, and the

arquebus-fire was stopped; but the falconet still roared, though with

longer intervals between the shots. Cristoval counted the seconds

intervening. There would be time enough to allow a dash to the gate of

the Acllahuasi, where they would have cover until the firing ceased. He

spoke to Pedro,—no fear of being overheard, for the night was full of

voices raised in every intonation which agony could wrench from human

lips. Between explosions they reached the gate through the stinging

atmosphere, but as they turned into its shelter Cristoval halted his

comrade with a hand upon his arm. From the enclosure came the sound of

Spanish voices, and lights were flitting. Valverde had reported the

invasion, and the place had been entered through another door. A party

was coming toward the gate. No alternative, then, but to keep the

street, count the seconds, and before each discharge, throw themselves

upon the pavement behind their bucklers. These, faced with steel, might

deflect the slugs and fragments with which the gun was charged.

 

The intervals lengthened to near a minute, the firing being a mere

warning against renewed attack; and the street had not ceased to

reverberate after the next explosion before the two were away. Poor

Pedro’s speed was not high, and Cristoval moderated his own, counting as

he ran. "Down!" he cried, at the limit of the period of safety, and

they went upon the ground full length. Now the report, and the deadly

blast flew over. Cristoval was up and speeding, the cook close in his

rear, then down once more and waiting with nerves a-quiver. Again the

report, but this time with a thick patter of the projectiles on every

hand as the charge spread with the increase of range. With a call to

Pedro, the cavalier sprang to his feet and dashed on. Twice more he

dropped and covered himself: gained the barricade, and was through the

breach. He turned with a shout to his comrade. There was no reply.

 

Cristoval called again, answered by the moaning of the wind, a sound

unnoticed since they had left the barricade, he could not have said how

many hours ago. Some one laid hand upon his shoulder:—Mocho, bandaged.

Cristoval gave his hand a silent pressure, and shouted again. There was

a flash far up the street, the report, and the barricade sputtered.

Antis gathered round, and the cavalier turned to them, seeking hope

against despair.

 

"Hath he been seen—the Viracocha Pedro? Quick!—hath he been seen?"

 

They communed among themselves, and the question was passed back. Mocho

answered after a silence, but Cristoval was straining his eyes toward

the square. He knew the reply before the question had left his lips.

"God have mercy! I fear for him!" he was muttering. "Oh, God have

mercy!"

 

Once more the street flashed and roared, and Cristoval started forward.

Mocho halted him.

 

"Stay, friend!" cried the general. "Hast lost thy mind? Whither?"

 

"I must find him," said Cristoval, and was gone.

 

The way was littered with wounded and dead, grewsome obstacles over

which he stumbled as he crouched along, groping among the bodies for one

in steel, but counting with diligence. He had not gone twenty paces

before Mocho was beside him. The cavalier dragged him into a doorway:

"Lord Mocho, thou must return!"

 

"With thee: not before!" replied the general. The falconet spoke again.

Cristoval stood irresolute, then exclaimed: "Rashness, my lord!—but I am

grateful. Come! Keep close, and drop at my word."

 

They sallied forth on their desperate, almost hopeless errand, searching

for a few brief, fevered seconds, then prone to wait for the deadly

flurry. Thus they proceeded slowly, far up the street. The interval

between the shots had grown—near five minutes, was the cavalier’s rough

guess—and they covered the ground more rapidly. At last the firing

ceased. The searchers were in front of the Acllahuasi, and turned back.

They must hasten, for dawn was at hand, and through the powder-smoke the

mangled forms on the pavement were indistinctly visible, a grievous

sight to Mocho. Should the veil lift, the hunt would end abruptly.

Now, however, it went on without interruption.

 

Somewhere near the cross-street a suppressed exclamation from the

cavalier drew Mocho to his side. He was bending over a prostrate form

in armor, and the general, as he neared, heard a sound very like a sob.

Pedro lay face downward and quite still, but as Cristoval gently rolled

him over he groaned slightly, and they knew him to be alive. Silently

they raised him and started on their return.

 

In the last few minutes the light had grown appreciably, and the street

was almost clear of smoke. In the direction of the square they heard

voices: a Spanish search-party, looking for their own wounded.

Cristoval glanced back, and they pressed on. The barricade was but a

few yards away when there was a shout near the Acllahuasi. They had

been observed. Another shout, and the report of an arquebus.—Poor

marksmanship, thought Cristoval. A second shot, and a ball struck the

pavement close by, and with a vicious sing and spat hit the barricade. A

third, and Cristoval stumbled to his knees with a quick catch of breath.

He staggered up at once, his face white. "It is naught," he replied

hurriedly to Mocho’s startled question, and glanced anxiously at Pedro,

from whom the jolt had started a groan.

 

They passed the barricade, laid their burden on the ground, and kneeling

beside him, Cristoval rapidly removed the armor. There was a ragged

hole through Pedro’s corselet beneath his right arm, one more ragged and

terrible in his side where a projectile had torn its way, but a hasty

examination showed that it had passed entirely through. Cristoval

worked quickly, cutting away the clothing, and while water and bandages

were being sought, laid aside his own helmet, conscious that a numbness

in his shoulder had given place to pain. But he finished with Pedro’s

wound, and rose, somewhat giddy, to ask assistance in disarming. Matopo

was beside him. Cristoval grasped his arm.

 

"She is safe, Matopo—the Ñusta Rava?" demanded the cavalier. "Speak!

Thou hast seen her in safety?"

 

"She is safe, Viracocha Cristoval," answered an even voice behind him,

and turning, he beheld the Inca. Paullo was at his side, and near by, a

group of nobles. Manco extended his hand and continued: "She is safe—I

thank the great Inti, and thee!"

 

Cristoval took the proffered hand, but the reaction from hours of strain

was upon him, with the realization that he had found his love and led

her out of danger. The agony of months was ended. "Sapa Inca," he

began, unsteadily, but could say no more, and Manco, as he released his

hand, felt it shaking.

 

The young monarch eyed him gravely, his sombre eyes growing thoughtful,

then kindly, when he said as if in obedience to an impulse:—

 

"Viracocha, should I try to tell thee my gratitude the words could but

make it seem unequal to thy gallant service. Once, I offered thee a

gift. Now, I offer thee another which hath no value but the honor which

it beareth with it, and the esteem which I wish it to express." He drew

from his bosom a _llautu_, woven of vari-colored cords and threads of

gold and silver. Braided in the fringe were strands of the imperial red

of which his own diadem was made. He stepped forward, and pausing

slightly, said, "I beg thou wilt accept it, Viracocha Cristoval."

 

The cavalier replied earnestly, with a quick rise of color, "My Lord

Inca Manco, I accept it most gratefully and proudly."

 

"Then I make thee an Inca of Tavantinsuyu by Privilege," said the

monarch, and placed the _llautu_ upon Cristoval’s head. He touched the

red in the fringe. "This, my Lord Cristoval, I bestow as a mark of

especial confidence. Thou knowest its significance and power, for I am

not the first to give it thee." He turned to Pedro. "For thy brave

comrade I shall find another __EXPRESSION__ of my gratitude. He must be

brought to my headquarters, where there are tents for you both." He

made a slight gesture to stay Cristoval’s words of thanks, and giving

his hand once more, added: "The Ñusta Rava, my lord, will thank thee for

herself."

 

As the Inca moved away, his nobles gathered round the cavalier with

words of friendship. Paullo had taken both his hands, saying something

eagerly, but his voice seemed strangely far away. The earth was rolling

and whirling, and Cristoval heard some one exclaim, "Great Inti, he is

hurt!" Mocho was supporting him, and he knew no more.

 

They found a wounded shoulder, not dangerous, but much blood had flowed,

as they discovered by his saturated clothing.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XXXVIII*

 

_*A Tie of Mingled Blood*_

 

 

Cristoval became languidly conscious of the swaying of a litter; then he

was being lifted to a couch in a tent softly aglow with morning

sunshine, and heard friendly voices around him. He opened his eyes, and

with an effort whispered an inquiry for Pedro.

 

"He is being cared for, my lord," said an officer, bending over. "He is

badly hurt, but hath asked for you. Otherwise, his mind seemeth to

wander, for he muttered something which Markumi translated as a request

to be stewed. We did not heed him, Lord Cristoval."

 

Cristoval smiled faintly and dozed again.

 

When he awoke the tent had grown dim with the declining day. As he lay

with partly open eyes he became aware of clasping something in his hand

that pressed his own and trembled. He raised it weakly, and his eyes

travelled from a wrist to a rounded arm. A face hovered over him,

lovely as a vision, with dark eyes deep with tenderness and solicitude.

 

"Rava!" he whispered; and she knelt, pressing her cheek against his own,

her form, as he passed his arm around her, quivering with a passion of

joy. He would have spoken, but she pressed her fingers upon his lips,

murmuring an injunction and nestling closer. Cristoval was content, and

lay marvelling that contentment could be so perfect.

 

But if he could not speak, he could listen, and he hearkened to

whispered words, mere incoherencies, broken by faintest of sighs, coming

from the depths of a heart which beat with love without reserve. They

are not to be set down here, those sweet, disordered fragments, nor are

their like to be comprehended save by the ear into which they are breathed.