The Crimson Conquest 66

The Crimson Conquest 66

The interview was short. A mere swift glimpse of happiness, and she had

torn herself away, lingering in a final caress, and gone. Cristoval was

left with the memory of her presence and touch, ineffably sweet, until

submerged in the pain of helpless longing.

 

The next morning the old man who attended him brought news. Pedro was

low, and his chances for recovery not yet determined, but there was

hope. Abul Hassan had crept into Matopo’s barricade during the night,

mortally hurt. Ocallo and Markumi had both been wounded, the former

seriously. Not a man in contact with the Spaniards came out unscathed,

and the total losses of the night were grave. What the enemy had

sustained could only be guessed, but they had since lain inactive,

though apparently doubly vigilant, and strengthening their defences.

 

Before midday Rava came with Paullo and remained an hour or more. She

forbade Cristoval’s speaking, and talked little herself, but it may be

said that the silence was not constrained. The day dragged after her

departure, but the cavalier slept, and was without fever. The following

day they came again, and Rava remained long. By a blessed fortune

Paullo was called away on three several occasions, and the moments were

not lost. Still she permitted few words, touching his lips and bidding

him wait. As she left she looked back with a swift, bright glance, full

of some meaning which he could not fathom, but withal, most agreeable to

remember. Later, came the Inca with Mocho and the Villac Vmu, but their

stay was short. Pedro, said Mocho, was better.

 

The day passed slowly, quietly. Night fell, and Cristoval prayed for

fortitude to endure the wait for the morrow and Rava’s visit; his

patience inversely proportioned to his gaining strength. He slept to

awake toward midnight stronger and more refreshed. The attendant dozed

with his back against the tent-pole. Cristoval was staring at the

feeble light, musing on the fatuity of a number of demented moths there

courting a painful death, while he wondered whether their singed wings

would smart as he had smarted after his own encounter with fire; and

whether, furthermore, they too fancied themselves impelled by love. He

forgot the moths in counting the hours before seeing her again. His

eyes were closed. They opened at a faint rustle, and he beheld an

apparition. Within the tent door stood Rava, her eyes dark with

excitement, but smiling as she touched her lips for silence. The

attendant glided from his seat to his knees in an ecstasy of amazement.

She whispered, and he vanished as if he himself had been an apparition.

Cristoval saw a flush of color mount to her cheeks. The next instant

she had extinguished the light, and was kneeling beside his couch in the

darkness. No phantom, this, but living, palpitating flesh and blood,

warm arms that crept about his neck, and a heaving bosom to which his

head was pressed.

 

Rava drew away and whispered breathlessly, passing her hand over his

face: "Oh, Cristoval, what canst think of me? But I could endure no

longer, and now I will tell thee why I have come—"

 

The pressure of Cristoval’s arm told his thought. "What can I think, my

own! Only of thy love and mine, and my gratitude. God make me always

worthy of the joy thou givest, dear heart!"

 

"Worthy of it, Cristoval! Of what hast thou not shown thyself worthy,

over and again?—and thy gratitude, my love! Ah, then what must mine be

to thee? But I must tell thee why I have come to-night: It is to say

farewell—Nay! but hear me—not a long farewell—to-morrow I go to Yucay."

 

The darkness deepened for Cristoval. "To-morrow!" he groaned. "No, no!

It cannot be, Rava. How can I live? The hope of seeing thee hath kept

me alive. Thou’lt not leave me!"

 

She touched his lips again. "Be patient, Cristoval. Yucay is not

distant, and it is the Inca’s wish that I go. Bethink thee! This is a

camp."

 

"Ah, true!" he said, sorrowfully. "No place for thee, and there might

be danger. Thou must go, though it is despair for me, Rava. But say we

shall meet soon again."

 

"Could I leave thee else, Cristoval?"

 

They were silent until Cristoval asked: "Is there other reason for thy

going, Rava? The Inca knoweth my love for thee. Is not that in part

the cause?"

 

"I know not. He knoweth mine for thee."

 

"Hath he said?"

 

"No: he hath said naught of thee to me, and from his silence I am sure.

I know not what is in his mind. He is as tender as he used to be in

earlier days—he parted from me in anger, Cristoval, months ago, in the

Amarucancha, when he learned I had become a Christian. His anger hath

gone, but he regardeth me always with strange sadness and gloom. I fear

it is because of our love."

 

Cristoval partly raised himself. "Rava, dost think he will forbid our

marriage?"

 

"Oh, my own, I do not know! By the law of Tavantinsuyu I can be married

only to one of royal blood. Manco holdeth the laws as sacred as the

ancient rites. In these perilous times he would dread their violation as

like to provoke the wrath of Inti. I know not!" she moaned, pressing

her cheek to his. "I know not, Cristoval!"

 

The cavalier’s arm tightened in its grasp. "And if he should forbid,"

he whispered, sharply, "if he should, then we must fly again. Wilt go

with me?"

 

"Thou knowest, my own! But whither? The uttermost parts of the empire

would be searched."

 

"Once on the coast—" said Cristoval.

 

"We should never reach it!" she replied, pressing him closer. "We

should never reach it, my love—but, we can die together."

 

They said little more, but clung together as if the morrow’s parting

would be final. Minutes passed, when Cristoval felt her shudder as she

raised her head in a sudden recollection. "Cristoval, oh, Cristoval!"

she faltered, "Father Valverde threatened thee!"

 

"Ah!" muttered the cavalier, gloomily. "Thou didst guess his meaning?

I hoped it had escaped thee. The words were Latin."

 

"I know. I have had time to learn much since Xilcala. But, oh, my

heart, dost think he will excommunicate thee?"

 

Cristoval hesitated. "If he should," he said, with courage, "thou’lt

pray for me, child. I’ll have no fear that the Virgin will not hear

thee."

 

"It is dreadful, dreadful!" she murmured, sobbing.

 

"Nay: think not of it. It were more dreadful, far, to have obeyed his

command to leave thee." And in Cristoval’s mind an eternity in hell was

naught in comparison. The certainty itself would not have forced him to

relinquish her.

 

It seemed but a moment before her trusted maid came to whisper that the

sky was growing light. A sweet, bitter instant of parting, and

Cristoval was alone.

 

Before the sun had touched his tent the cavalier heard preparations for

departure,—hastening steps, the rattle of camp gear, and soon, the

marching of the escort and the commands of its officers as it formed on

the parade in front of the Inca’s quarters.

 

Accompanied by Paullo, Rava went first to Pedro’s tent to say farewell.

 

"God bless thy sweet life!" said Pedro, weakly, as he pressed her hand.

"I shall miss thy visits sorely—and another will miss them more. But

thy going is sudden—doth Cristoval know?"

 

Rava colored, replying, "I am on my way to him now, Pedro. Shall I take

him a message?"

 

"Why, my greetings to him as a noble. Doth the _llautu_ become him?—No

doubt of it!—Poor boy, poor boy!"

 

"But he is hurt less than thou!" said Rava.

 

"The wound in his shoulder? Ah! But he hath another below it—and

harder to cure." Again came Rava’s color, and she took her leave

somewhat in haste.

 

The parting with Cristoval taxed her to the extreme, and only Paullo’s

presence saved her from breaking down. As it was, her distress and the

cavalier’s depression were apparent to the youth, and he gently and

wisely hastened her departure, but resolving to accompany her a part of

the way himself.

 

Rava had never confided to her younger brother her attachment for

Cristoval; and he, though staggered by the revelation of it on the night

of the rescue, had thus far refrained from questioning; but on the

journey with Paullo beside her in her _hamaca_, she confessed, with an

account, sufficiently heartfelt, of the cavalier’s golden qualities.

The youth, already predisposed toward his brother’s gallant ally,

listened with sympathy, promising to aid the lovers to the full in case

of the Inca’s opposition. He gave what hope he could, though this was

slight, and Rava pursued her journey with heavy heart.

 

To Cristoval the succeeding days were of torment. The fighting was

incessant, and the Inca rarely at his quarters, though he sent

frequently to ask for the two Spaniards, and to express his good wishes.

Opportunity for an interview, feverishly awaited by the cavalier, was

not offered, and he tossed in an agony of suspense. At last his

attendant informed him that Manco was in council with his generals.

Directing the old man to report their departure, Cristoval struggled

with his impatience. It was late when the orderly announced that the

council was dissolved.

 

"Give me thine aid, Tocache," said Cristoval. "I will rise."

 

"But, my Lord Cristoval, you will do yourself injury," deprecated the

old man. "Whither would you go?"

 

"To the Inca’s tent. Come! Help me to my feet and to dress."

 

"My lord—"

 

"Nay, Tocache; I must go. I am strong enough, man, and thou shalt lend

me a shoulder to lean upon."

 

Tocache demurred earnestly, but shortly Cristoval was clad and

sandalled, and with the other’s support, left his tent. The Inca was

standing with Paullo and the Villac Vmu when the sentinel announced his

visitor, and he turned in surprise when the cavalier, uncertain in his

steps and quite pale, entered the tent and saluted.