Chapter VIII: Part 8

In the mornings the swollen eyelids were excused to the solicitous Maytalca with pleas of sleeplessness. But the settled sadness was not explained. It vanished momentarily in Cristoval's presence, to return and be noted by him in silence. He asked no question, but there was often questioning in his eyes, and asked thus it was hardest to bear. Many times when she read it she turned from him with quivering lips, and then his impulse to take her again in his arms was dangerously strong. But he forced it down relentlessly, with a whispered prayer to San Antonio of transcendent continence. Only once he took her hand, tremulous and unresisting; but the quick rising of color to her cheeks and the deepening of her eyes warned him of the frail barrier between them and peril, and he relinquished it with the faintest pressure. But that night Rava prayed without tears!

Stout-hearted Cristoval! It cost sorely to turn away from the light half veiled by those drooping lashes, but the inevitable parting was always before him. Soon he must fly Tavantinsuyu--if, by the grace of Heaven, the way should be open. If not flight, then death in the attempt; and in either event what would be left behind? The gentlest breast that ever sheltered a womanly heart torn by lifelong grief. No; he would give no further sign. The dearer the happiness now, the deeper the wound for each to carry to the grave. And what was his vow to Atahualpa? Ah, Blessed Virgin, lend thy strength!

So, while Rava wept and offered midnight prayer, Cristoval paced his room and offered none. The sunlight of Xilcala had grown dim for both. The cloud was not unnoticed by Maytalca; with a woman's intuition she divined the cause, with a woman's delicacy forbore to speak; and pressed the desolate girl in tacit sympathy, longing, but not daring to bid them both to hope. They were more constantly together than before, driven by the impulse that would not accept defeat. But alone, they walked or sat in silence seldom broken by words.

One evening, just after sunset, they were standing on the shore of the lake, watching the afterglow on the mountains. The valley was already shrouded in twilight, but the distant peaks gleamed brilliant rose against the darkening blue of the eastern sky. Alone, Cristoval would have swept the prospect with a glance and turned away; but now, as his eyes followed her guidance, he grew conscious of the beauty of creeping shadows and dying light, and echoed her quiet admiration.

They turned away at length, and walked slowly toward the villa, unconscious of the evil lurking in the growing dusk. They passed up the avenue, and a dark form rose stealthily from the shadow, parting the branches and leaning forward with the tense alertness of a cat to watch their receding steps. They disappeared, and after a moment's listening the half-naked figure skulked along the terrace, crouching to avoid the overhanging boughs, reached the enclosing wall of the garden, and was over, speeding away in the darkness like an apparition.

An hour later two Canares rose from their lair in a ravine half-way up the mountain-side to receive him. He spoke a dozen words, answered by a grunt from his companions; groped in the obscurity for his cloak, threw it over his shoulders, and the three filed out from their concealment, heading toward the lower end of the valley. Six days afterward they entered Xauxa.

Spring was now well advanced, and Xilcala grew daily more fair in fresh verdure and blossoming orchards. Stray, fragmentary rumors began to float in, borne by herdsmen on their way to pasturage in the higher Cordilleras. But the tales had reached them from mouth to mouth, and so far as they concerned the Spaniards, were tangled and over-colored. One day, however, there came news of a different order, brought by a _chasqui_, the first to enter the valley in many weeks. The first item was the death at Xauxa of the young Inca Toparca, and the burning at the stake by Pizarro of Challicuchima, the Quitoan general, on the suspicion of having poisoned the Inca. The second item, heard with greater grief by the Xilcalans, was Pizarro's advance upon Cuzco, and the defeat of the Auqui Manco in the Pass of Vilcaconga, where he had opposed the invaders. The Spaniards, it was thought by the _chasqui_, were doubtless in possession of the capital. Pizarro had left Xauxa garrisoned by a small force of infantry and several hundred Canares to serve as a base upon which to fall back if forced to retreat from Cuzco.

With the exception of Toparca's death there was nothing in the news which occasioned surprise to Cristoval. He was too familiar with Spanish prowess to doubt that Pizarro would take Cuzco. He mourned the young prince, but there was more than the intelligence itself to cause him uneasiness and depression. The seclusion of the valley seemed violated by its intrusion, and he awakened to reluctant thought of the end which must come to the half-dreamlike days, bringing uncertainties, dangers, and the parting which had grown more and more unwelcome.

The day of the arrival of the evil tidings Rava and Maytalca spent in retirement, and Cristoval was condemned to solitary wandering. His rambling did not take him far from the hemicycle, and he returned thither frequently, lingering with many a glance up the avenue; then strolled again, or lounged where he could view a certain favored seat. He often turned at fancied footfalls; a distant flutter of the garments of some maid of the Palla's household was strangely suggestive of Rava; and more than once he was deceived by a glint of bright sunlight on the foliage. Curiously, the garden seemed haunted by dim phantasms of that familiar, graceful form, and after the hundredth illusion he took himself to task: "What, Cristoval! Art a boy, to go mooning along these paths, starting at thine own conjurings? What aileth thee? Once thou wast good companion for thyself. Now thou goest about peering and stretching thy neck into the bushes like an unmated cock-pheasant. Come! Go saddle up and ride. Thou 'rt in sore need of exercise, _camarada_."

He started back with resolution. As he approached the hemicycle his steps slowed, and he halted in front of the seat where Rava had worked. There lay a forgotten skein of thread. He picked it up, contemplating it with an interest disproportionate to its importance or value. Useless to try to follow his thoughts. It was intrinsically feminine, that trifle, and the soldier succumbed to its femininity. He drew a small pouch from his bosom and placed the skein beside the half-dozen other precious trinkets it contained. He closed the pouch; reopened it hastily, removed the thread, and replaced it upon the seat where he had found it; then sprang to his feet and walked rapidly away. A half-hour later he was galloping along the lane toward the canyon by which they had approached Xilcala weeks ago.

Now the valley, stirred for a moment by the _chasqui's_ tidings, sank again into its repose. The mourning for the defeat at Vilcaconga was mitigated by confidence in ultimate victory. What enemy of Tavantinsuyu had ever triumphed? Soon a call to arms would come, and the nation would respond with overwhelming potency. All in good time.

At the villa of Maytalca the days went as before. But--were they days of growing happiness, or of more rapidly growing pain? Cristoval could not have said, nor could Rava. He had learned to interpret the evanescent light in the brown eyes that so often sought his own, but the joy it gave him was for the instant, and followed at once by a deeper pang. He turned away from the gentle face whose beauty, waxing daily more alluring under the tender burning of the soul within, would have shaken the knees of the resolution of one thrice more saintly than Cristoval. But though he told himself that the parting must be only a question of weeks, though he rode hard and invoked the good San Antonio, Cristoval found little peace.

*CHAPTER XX*

_*Hearts Revealed and Sundered*_

Now, when two human hearts are throbbing under the mysterious influence of the spell called Love, be it noted that the universe pauses in its majestic routine to take a part. Our good Mother Nature lends a more benevolent smile. The breeze touches with softer caress and gentler whispering. The trees and herbage are greener, the flowers yield a sweeter fragrance and wear an added loveliness. The Sun himself shines with brighter effulgence and more generous warmth; at his setting, paints the heavens and gray old earth in hues of unwonted brilliancy, and gives way to twilights more tender than twilights seen at other times. And the Moon--what splendor in her radiance then! and in the stars! The world--the non-human part of it, for our fellowmen are often less benignant and sometimes roughen love's pathway most lamentably--the world takes on new charms and promises things untold; conspiring with the insistent young archer and with a thousand circumstances to lure the lovers on to their silently coveted happiness. Let all mankind unite in a commanding "Nay!" yet the two hear a still voice in more urgent "Yea, yea!" and read approval in Nature's kindly face. Be their resistance never so strong in the beginning, it must surely be overcome by a fatal languor at a fatal moment, and the archer triumphs.

Often, when Cristoval sat beside her in the hemicycle in meditative silence, Rava would take up Maytalca's _tinya_[1] and sing to its accompaniment. The melodies were simple, soft, and plaintive, and she sang with the sympathy and sweetness of her nature, her voice quivering from the fulness of her heart. The music was the one thing needful to complete the agony of Cristoval's self-denial. He heard her at first with wonder, then with unaffected ravishment.

[1] Tinya = a stringed instrument something like the guitar.

One moonlight evening--alas, a moonlight evening!--Rava had been telling him the great Peruvian classic, "Apu-Ollanta." Ollanta, the hero of the drama, born in obscurity, had risen by bravery and soldierly skill to the command of the armies of the Inca Pachacutec Yupanqui, and was his most trusted and beloved lieutenant. In an unfortunate hour he had loved and gained the love of Cusi-Coyllur, the Inca's daughter. The attachment, forbidden by the laws of Tavantinsuyu because of Ollanta's ignoble birth, was punishable with death. It was the story which has furnished a theme for poets through the ages. They loved in secret, and when at length concealment became no longer possible, Ollanta braved the laws and the Inca's wrath, and demanded Cusi-Coyllur in marriage. He was denied and banished from Cuzco, and when a child was born to the unhappy princess she was cast into prison. Ollanta hurried to his army in one of the provinces, raised his soldiers in rebellion, and led them to rescue his love. The war raged through ten long years, and after the death of Pachacutec Yupanqui, was carried on by his son. At last Ollanta, vanquished and a captive, was taken in chains to Cuzco; but the young Inca, more generous than his father, and moved by the rebel's constancy, pardoned him and led him to the dungeon of the princess. Years of confinement and sorrow had aged her prematurely, but Ollanta saw only the long-lost adored one of his youth and their child, and--well, they were married and restored to happiness and honor.

The story was long, and Rava told it with the simple candor of innocence, repeating with feeling and expression quite without consciousness of self, those passages whose beauty most appealed to her, from time to time taking up her instrument for the songs in the play. She finished, and sat with hands clasped, looking out upon the moon-lit lake, preoccupied and musing, apparently expecting no comment from Cristoval. He had listened with rapt attention, leaning forward with cheek upon his hand, less mindful of the story itself than of her low voice and the emotion on her sensitive features. He sat contemplating the calm beauty of the dark eyes, until, conscious of his gaze, she turned toward him. He roused from his reverie.

"It is a beautiful story, Nusta Rava," he said, gently drawing the _tinya_ from her lap.

There was a shadow of doubt in her look as she replied, "Didst find it so, Cristoval? It telleth little of war."

"Little of war, to be sure," he answered, failing to notice her tone; "but perhaps the better for that. I have heard its like before," he went on, fingering the strings.

"Yes?" she asked, with slight surprise.

"Yes, Nusta Rava. Why not?" responded Cristoval, in turn surprised at the slight incredulity in her voice. "Stories of hopeless love and happy endings? Why not, my dear?"

"But do you have love-stories in Castile? I thought--"

"What didst think? We have love-stories and love-songs a-many."

"Thou hast never told me one," she said, with a shade of reproach; "nor have I ever heard thee sing except of soldiers and horrid battles."

"Why, mayhap 't is true," said Cristoval, reflectively. "But I know more of such than of the other, though once--" He paused, then added with more of suppressed emphasis and resolution than seemed to be required, "I will sing thee one now, Nusta Rava!"

He was familiar with the guitar, and the _tinya_ was therefore not so strange that he could not, without difficulty, find the chords. He had, moreover, taken it up when Rava was not by, and so made its acquaintance; so that after retuning he picked out a fair accompaniment and began. His song was one of those sweet Spanish airs which breathe passion in every line, and he sang with true feeling, with the richness of voice native to his race.

Rava listened to a song utterly strange and in an unknown tongue. But music, said to be the universal language, surely is the universal language of love, and her heart beat in response to every measure. Had she been indifferent to the singer she could not have been unmoved; but her unspoken longing made her doubly vibrant to his emotion, and the close left her pale and strangely quiet.

Cristoval laid aside the _tinya_. The moon was shining full in Rava's face as she leaned back, and he glanced into eyes from which the deep melancholy had gone. They were no longer doubtful, but swimming with happiness that struggled with timidity. The song was a revelation. It had solved the riddle of this good, brave Viracocha, and had shown him a man. He was no longer the demigod, reserved, with breast invulnerable, but of flesh and blood. She did not need to know the meaning of his words. Every inflection had said more than words. Her own voice was tremulous and almost inaudible.

"It was a love-song, Cristoval?"

"A love-song," he replied, looking away.

"Then thou--then the Viracochas can love?" she faltered, after a pause.

Cristoval turned quickly. "Can love, child!" he exclaimed. "Why, what dost think us? Men without souls?"

"But I mean _love_, Cristoval," she said, with timid earnestness. "The love that is not cruel, and merciless, and savage, like that of the Viracochas at Caxamalca; nor yet--" She hesitated, and dropped her eyes.

"Nor yet?" asked Cristoval, bending forward.

She looked at him again waveringly.

"Nor yet?" he persisted. "What wouldst say?"

Her eyes fell once more. "Nor yet," she murmured, "the love that is all unselfishness, like that of a father for his child. Oh, Cristoval, I know not what I would say, but there was in the song what I thought the Viracochas could not feel."

He replied impetuously: "Thou hast thought that? Thou hast dreamed we could not love? Shall I tell thee how we can love? We can worship, Nusta Rava, and yet, hopeless, be silent until death were happiness."

She regarded him in wonder. "Hopeless, Cristoval?" she asked, in a voice so low that he barely heard it, and the question threw him off his guard. He answered it quickly and desperately, and in giving voice to the torture of his soul for weeks, forgot to be impersonal.

"Hopeless!" he repeated, turning away again. "How else? What art thou?--a princess. And I?--" He stopped. When he looked again his eyes met that in hers which a lover should be willing to give his life to see. Darkened by the moonlight, they regarded him with strange, intent abstraction, serious, gentle, and ineffably fond. This time Cristoval did not turn away. He must have been more than human--or less--to have turned away.

For an instant, as a drowning man reviews a lifetime, he had a hundred thoughts of deprecation, each a stab. He spurned them. The dross of common things faded into due perspective. The world's cares and dangers grew shadowy. His hands sought hers. As they yielded, the deep eyes deepened, and her lips parted with a sigh, almost a sob.

The _tinya_ had slipped to the ground at their feet. Rava unclasped her hands from his neck and drew back her head to look into his eyes. "Ah, Cristoval, then thou canst love?--truly, thou canst love, and dost love me?"

Cristoval kissed the upturned lips and eyes and brow. "God knoweth I love thee, Rava, and have loved thee long. I had not purposed to tell thee."

"That would have been wrong and cruel," said Rava. "Why wouldst thou not have told me?"

"I thought we must part, my own, and would have spared thee an aching heart."

"Thou wouldst have denied me the only solace for a broken heart," she sighed, clinging more closely. "But now, we shall never part, Cristoval."

"Never! Never, with the help of Heaven!" he whispered.

But at length, the leave-taking for the night. A score of leave-takings before the last wafted kiss from her doorway, and the beloved form vanished in its shadow. Then Cristoval, alone, sought to realize his happiness. In his room he raised his sword, and kissed its hilt--the soldier's cross.

Ware happiness complete! Evil hath no harbinger more sure. Their glimpse of it was fleeting, as always. Even while they dreamed it would endure, the blow was falling. One day, a second, and a third--days with hours like minutes, speeding on so quickly to the evening, the evening so quickly into night, that the lovers seemed hardly met before it was time to part again and lie in fevered longing for the dawn, each with a thousand thoughts untold. Ah, Time! Capricious, perverse and always cruel; swift as light when the moments are of joy; grudging and niggardly in their measure when mortals would have them long; but unsparing, lavish, prodigal, when thou metest hours of sorrow!

Again a moonlit evening. They had said good-night and parted. Hours had passed; Cristoval was sitting beside his lamp, whose waning light drew his thoughts back to earth; even while he contemplated its struggles it sputtered and died, leaving the room in darkness. He sighed, loath to lay aside his reverie, and stepped to the window. The moon was nearly at the full, and he leaned against the casement, looking across the placid lake to the silvered peaks beyond. He stood long, enjoying the fresh beauty of the night, his eyes among the shadows of the garden where he had crowned his life. While he mused a cloud drifted across the moon, leaving the garden a moment in obscurity. When it passed and the light returned, he was startled out of his dreaming. The details of shade and illumination had come back, but now there was something more. Near the edge of the shrubbery, half a hundred yards below, was a formless shadow not there before. Cristoval leaned forward, studying intently a curious blot on the sward, suggestive of some lurking beast, yet different. It moved, ever so slightly, and the confused outline became suddenly clear. There was the head of a warrior, stretched alertly forward, and wearing the high, conical helm of a Canare. There was the line of his crouched back. One hand and a knee were on the ground. Now there was a sparkle just above--a javelin head!--and at the same instant an arm was raised in signal. At once other shadows appeared here and there, and they slunk, half running, toward the villa.

Cristoval watched no longer. In a second he was groping for his armor. His hands were shaking, but soon corselet was on, and helmet: no time for more. Now, sword and buckler. He threw the empty scabbard on the couch as he rushed to the door. In the anteroom slept Markumi.

"Markumi! Markumi!" Cristoval whispered, shaking him.

"Yes, Viracocha," said the youth, sleepily.

"Up, Markumi! Make no sound. Quick--thy weapons, and follow!"

Markumi needed no second word. Electrified by the cavalier's voice, he was on his feet at a bound. Cristoval had not reached the door leading into the court, which he must cross to gain Rava's apartment, before the boy was beside him, grunting as he slipped the loop of the bow-string into its notch. Cristoval halted, listening. Without were movement and suppressed voices. As he put hand to the bar to open, the fastenings creaked with the weight of some one trying. Across the court came the crash of blows upon another door.

Markumi gasped, "What is it, Viracocha?"

"Devilry!" answered Cristoval. "The house is surrounded. Canares, I think." The words were not uttered before the room reverberated with a rain of strokes upon the panels before them.

"Set an arrow!" said Cristoval, in Markumi's ear. "Stand clear of the door when I throw it open. Do not follow. Keep in the darkness, and shoot low."

Markumi hurriedly set his arrow, grateful that the darkness hid his shaking legs. The cavalier released the bar and sprang back. The door flew wide, letting in a sudden flare of torches, and two half-naked forms plunged in headlong. The first ran full upon Cristoval's point. The second was shot through by Markumi. With a shout a throng filled the doorway. A javelin whizzed past Cristoval's ear; another, and another. Markumi's bow twanged, a _Canare_ fell, and the cavalier dashed forward, his buckler ringing with the quick thrusts of spears, his sword playing swift and deadly. A gasp or moan followed every lunge at the unarmored bodies. Shielding his head he pressed close upon the group, cut through, and was in the open. A pause of half a second, and he found himself the centre of a confused surging of warriors, their limbs and dark, ferocious faces illumined by the dancing light of torches. The court seemed full, resounding with the uproar from savage throats. Now a fiercer yell, and they closed. So dense the mass none dared hurl his javelin, but they pressed from all sides, and for an instant Cristoval staggered under the impact of their weapons upon his shield and mail. As they rushed, shriek upon shriek, half smothered by the walls of the opposite wing of the villa, cut to his heart with a sudden deadly chill--Rava!

The chill was followed by a flame more quick, and Cristoval became a demon. He charged into the thickest, thrusting from beneath his upraised buckler, the thin, glimmering steel finding flesh at every stroke. It flashed low, reaching its mark under lifted arms: a dull ray of light, with the velocity of light itself; a chameleon's tongue, its gleam barely seen for its fatal quickness. For a moment he seemed to struggle hopelessly. Hedged about, he labored heavily, impeded by mere weight of numbers, lacerated from elbow to shoulder by their spears, the grip of his weapon slippery with his own blood. Hands clutched to wrench his buckler from his grasp. Once it was swept aside, and he looked into the eyes of a Canare in the head-gear of a chieftain: saw the glitter of a falling axe. It fell, glanced from his helmet, and struck with stunning force upon his shoulder--by the grace of Heaven, not upon his right! The chief went down, his naked body run through, and the circle widened. A javelin glanced from the shield, and impaled a Canare beyond. Another, thrown with terrific force, shivered against his breastplate.

But for his mail the cavalier would not have lived through a dozen paces. He was breathing in gasps, his arm stiffening with its wounds. Warriors whirled around him, yielding here before the lightning blade; closing there and forcing him to fight to the rear. From the doorway Markumi had sped his last arrow and fled. Every shaft had carried death. Cristoval fought, not with hope, not in despair, but in madness to reach and save his love; in a frenzy to kill, kill, kill, while a man lived to interpose. All at once he became conscious of a growing light. The villa was afire! A torch had been set to the roof of the main building, and the thatch blazed high, a column of rosy smoke curling toward the quiet stars. Half across the court his eye caught the gleam of a morion. A Spaniard dashed from a door, followed by two others bearing a senseless form. For the first time Cristoval gave voice, and his roar overtopped the din. The first Spaniard stopped, glanced toward the struggle, then rushed forward with a shout, followed by one of the others, leaving their burden to the third. Straight to thy doom, Juan Lopez!

He sprang through the mob, sweeping the Canares from his path, and whirling aloft his halberd. Cristoval rushed upon him. The axe fell, was caught upon the buckler, and Cristoval drove his sword into the Spaniard's throat, jerked it out, and while the other tottered, drove it home again with all the force lent his arm by hate.

It was the end. While he strove to disengage his blade the Canares swept upon him. He was down. On his knees he still fought, creeping a few inches toward his beloved, then sank beneath a war club whose force even his helmet could not ward. While his brain reeled he heard the yell of triumph, growing distant to his ears, and the world ceased to be. A score of hands clutched to tear him to pieces, struck back by the second halberdier.

"Off, dogs! He is mine.--_Hola_, Duero! We have him!--A thousand _castellanos_!"

He stopped. A Canare reeled against him in a spasm of coughing, tugging at the shaft of an arrow in his chest. In another moment the Spaniard had been forced away from Cristoval by a rush of the tribesmen, and arrows and javelins whistled about him from the darkness outside the court. He heard Duero calling and swearing, a fierce yell from the gloom surrounding the villa, and a storm of missiles swept the court, whose tumult became a pandemonium.

Xilcala had been roused. One of the household had given alarm, and the flames brought the villagers on wings. The conflagration wrought its own punishment: every Canare in the court revealed by the mounting flames, the garden in blackness. A merciless hail assailed the ravagers from the obscurity, and they were seized with panic--a mere tossing herd, stampeded by a foe unseen, dropping by twos and threes beneath the deadly rain. Yells, the crackling flames, and the shouts of the invisible assailants made the garden a horror.

The halberdier fought his way to Duero's side, and they stood in consternation. The still unconscious Rava had been drawn into the doorway. With a motion to his companion Duero picked her up, and they groped through the smoke-filled building into the shrubbery in front, and were away.

Clear of the garden, they made a detour to pass the village, halting once to bind and gag the Nusta as they hurried toward the gorge. A mile beyond the town they joined a small party of Spaniards and Canares in concealment beside the road. Duero replied to their questions with a comprehensive curse. "Move, blockheads!" he roared. "Fetch the litter. Before ye finish gawping they will be upon us. Hell is uncovered, d' ye hear? Fetch the litter."

A _hamaca_ was brought, Rava thrust into it, and the curtains drawn. Two Canares took it up, and the party hurried away.

At the entrance of the gorge they crossed the stream by a bridge of twisted osiers. On the farther side they hacked with their halberds until the structure hung, a wreck, from its opposite anchorage. It would cut off the retreat of their allies, but would delay pursuit, for the torrent was unfordable. Their route was down the gorge. Toward morning they crossed and destroyed another bridge, then proceeded in security.

The conflict raged about the villa until the Canares retreated to the mountains, leaving their wounded and dead. The villagers turned to the flames, tore away the thatch, and saved the wings of the house, but of the main portion only blackened walls remained. Until Maytalca was found, imprisoned with her maids in a room remote from the flames, the capture of Rava was unknown, and Duero's party had gained several miles the start. Pursuit, delayed at the first bridge, was balked completely at the second, and forced into a circuitous mountain path before it could come again upon the raiders' trail. The flight was toward Xauxa, but by the third day the pursuers found themselves impeded by prowling Canares. Forced again to the mountain trails, the chase was hopeless.

Markumi found Cristoval, and with assistance bore him, almost lifeless, to Huallampo's villa. For the second time he was hovering upon the brink, and for days the aged healer summoned by the _curaca_ answered the villagers with a dubious shake of his head.

*CHAPTER XXI*

_*The Senora Descends upon Pedro*_

We go forward to find ourselves at Xauxa, a week subsequent to the catastrophe at Xilcala, months after Pizarro's march to Cuzco.

The town lies on the river Xauxa, a branch of the great Apurimac, in one of the many fertile valleys, or _bolsons_, that break the arid desolation of the Sierra. Pizarro had found it well defended by the immense fortress on the steeps of an adjacent mountain. He left it with a small garrison, as has appeared. With this remained the sick and incapacitated, and most of the non-combatants. Among these were Pedro, who, since the escape of Peralta, was no longer _persona grata_, and felt more secure away from the commander; Jose remained invalided by an attack of the fever; Father Tendilla, as missionary to the natives; and Rogelio, the _veedor_, who tarried for reasons best known to himself. Rogelio, however, pleaded an indisposition which, as a civil officer of the Crown and a man with a family, he could not conscientiously neglect; and from his couch in his quarters within the fortress, bade farewell in a voice of feebleness and suffering. When assured that the last company had marched he rolled out of bed and dressed in time to watch the command from the rampart as it trailed down to the town below. He shook a fist at the distant figure he knew to be Mendoza's, rubbed his hands, snuffled, and emitted a chuckle of mingled glee, triumph, and malice. An hour afterward he was haggling with Duero and Mani-mani, a sub-chief of the Canares.

For several days the garrison remained within the fortress. A fortnight later word came that Prince Manco had met Pizarro peaceably at Xaquixaguana, and had presented his claim to the throne. His right had been formally recognized, and the prince was proceeding with the Spaniards to Cuzco, where the coronation would take place straightway. Accompanying the news was his command that all hostility should cease, and soon natives and garrison were on friendly terms. Those Spaniards privileged to do so took quarters in the town, and among them was Pedro.

Pedro established his _cantina_ near the square. One afternoon he was leaning idly beside his door, watching the passers-by, with an occasional glance down the thoroughfare toward the north. A _chasqui_ had announced the day before that a small company of Viracochas was approaching, newly arrived from Panama, on the way to join Pizarro. The _cantina_ was prepared, and a roast of llama on Pedrillo's spit divided the attention which the proprietor paid to the street. The latter was interesting, for the day was a festival of some sort and the town was full of the country people, gayly clad, and notwithstanding recent calamities, in full holiday spirits. As Pedro stood he noted that the crowd was growing. By and by he observed that his establishment was drawing a deal of persistent attention. No one had stopped in front of it, but a number had passed and repassed, and one Indio, conspicuous for his dignity of bearing, had already grown familiar. He was a tall old man, wrapped in a long, colored poncho of unusual elegance, its heavy folds falling to his knees and decorated with a profusion of conventionalized forms of birds and beasts. The object of particular interest to Pedro, however, was his suite. Following close as he stalked past for the sixth or seventh time, was his wife; and in her train a numerous family ranging in age from five to eighteen years or thereabout, the eldest a maiden of comely face and figure who glanced at the cook with shy but unmistakable curiosity. The old man seemed never to see him, apparently disdaining show of interest; but his family were less scrupulous, and favored him with stares undisguised. This group was but one of many, but it was notable to Pedro by the presence of the shy though curious eighteen-year-old of the comeliness mentioned. Pedro was not unsusceptible. Having once or twice caught her eyes, he straightway experienced a responding interest.

"Ho!" thought he. "How now? Have thy charms survived thy years, Pedro, my boy? Are there yet lines of grace in thy portliness? That was a wistful, surreptitious, yearning contemplation, or there's some mistake. It swept thy traits and fair proportions most lingeringly.--Ha! She cometh again! Stew me if she cometh not again! Hold! Guard thine eyes, admired cook. Bank their fires, lest they startle with too much ardour. I'll look at the sky till she is near. Ah! Fair sky! Ample, roomy, easy-fitting vault of blue! Large, capacious dome! Dome with space enough for stars to knock about in, and space to spare-- But she is here! Now look! Oh, hot kettles, Pedro, how comfortable thou art! Was there not warmth in that stolen glance? O, my patron saint!-- But who is she--and where abideth? That patrolling image in her lead must be her papa. I'll inquire."

With his jovial countenance glowing pleasantly he cast about for a possible source of information, and his eyes lighted upon a youth across the street who was surveying him with unmitigated wonder, his eyes and mouth equally broad open. Pedro motioned him, and the boy started hesitatingly across the street. At once the interest of the crowd was fixed, and they formed a respectful circle, across which the lad advanced with evident trepidation. Pedro had acquaintance with the Quichua, and hailed him cordially.

"May the day bring thee good fortune, and the night better, my lad. Come hither. There is something I would ask. This seemeth a gala day, is it not?

"The Feast of the Full Moon, Viracocha," replied the boy, respectfully.

"The Feast of the Full Moon! Good! Dost live in Xauxa?"

"No, Viracocha. I am here but for the day. I live yonder, up the valley," indicating the direction by turning and pursing out his lips, a gesture habitual with the Peruvians, and surviving to this day.

"Yonder, up the valley!" said Pedro, imitating his grimace. "Hum! Thou 'rt a good boy, I take it from thy face. Sleepest at home, and early?"

"Why, where else, Viracocha?" asked the other innocently.

"Ah! Where else, to be sure! But in my country o' nights, the boys oft go chasing nightingales--a bird which I have not yet seen in Tavantinsuyu. 'T is quite as well. But what I would ask is this: The folks seem curious. Now, what draweth their attention hereabout? What held thy lower jaw away from its fellow a moment since?"

"Viracocha?" asked the boy, puzzled.

"I observed thee looking this way. What is the interest which hath brought this crowd?"

"Oh!" exclaimed the youth, enlightened. "Why, you are one of the Viracochas--your pardon."

"No offence," answered Pedro. "A mere chance which hath befallen others of my race. Is that all?"

The boy hesitated. "No, not all. The bare bone of your leg, Viracocha--"

"Oho!" shouted Pedro. "The bare bone of my leg! God bless my soul! The bare bone of my leg, for a surety! Why, stew me! Now, 't is a sight, is it not--to see a man with a part of his skeleton sticking out into the glare of day! But, lad, what if I were to show thee my ribs? Nay!" he added, as the boy drew back aghast. "I'll not do it in the presence of ladies, never fear. Ha! The bare bone of-- But is that all?" He lowered his voice. "Yonder damsel, for instance, just now passing--do not look too quickly--hath she been drawn by my leg, thinkst thou?"

The boy looked round cautiously at the girl lingering at the edge of the circle. "I cannot say for her," he said, "but if the Viracocha wisheth, I will ask her," and full of accommodation, he started in her direction.

"Stay!" cried Pedro, seizing him. "_Santa Maria_, no! Let it pass. I'll endure the doubt.--The bare bone of my leg, saith he! Oh, pots and skillets!" Pedro exhibited some symptoms of a coming laugh, but the attack did not develop, and he went on: "A marvel, in truth! But if it hath merited so much attention I'll show it worthy of more."

Steadying himself upon the boy's shoulder, Pedro unscrewed his peg from its socket, and as an exclamation of amazement and dismay arose from the crowd, tossed it high in the air, caught it, and set it whirling in his nimble fingers. The circle spread abruptly. The old Indio forgot his dignity and watched in stupefaction while the cook juggled his member with the skill of a mountebank. Transforming it into a weapon, he attacked a fancied enemy, hopping about, striking, and guarding, until the foe was laid low by one last fell stroke. From the role of a weapon it passed to that of a flute, and as Pedro's fingers ran over imaginary keys he whistled a Spanish air, then one of their own, to their infinite wonder and delight. He finished with a bow to the old Indio, and tendered the peg for inspection. It was taken gingerly, and the ice was broken.

The old man examined it with profound solemnity, while his daughter looked upon the gracious cook with a round-eyed fascination most grateful to his complacent soul. It ended with an invitation into the _cantina_, and, having screwed his peg back into place, Pedro ushered in the entire family and served a luncheon, at the end of which he was asked to their _huasi_, six miles out beyond the fortress. The Indio, Municancha, was a master-mason engaged upon the uncompleted fortifications. Thus the cook opened an acquaintance which he afterward found of value.

Pedro bade his guests farewell, bestowing a significant squeeze upon the hand of the daughter, Coriampa, and was pleasantly reviewing the circumstance, when a shout from his boy at the door hurried him to the street. His expected countrymen were approaching. A distant flutter of pennons and the gleam of steel showed above the heads of the crowd, and soon Pedro was cheering lustily as the company passed. In the lead rode Sotelo, the commander of the company, with Saavedra, commandant of the fortress, his travel-stained accoutrements contrasting with the latter's burnished armor. Following, and escorted by Father Tendilla, were half-a-dozen priests and friars, a few on mules and jaded horses, but most of them on foot. As they passed, Pedro suddenly ceased his greetings.

"Aha! Thou back, Fray Mauricio!" he muttered. "Hast renewed thy courage and venom, my small, liver-colored brother? I'd exchange thee for the devil himself, my friend, and so would Jose, had he his choice. Would thou wert back in Spain--or farther! I'll warn the armorer, be sure of it. And now, the cavaliers--two, four, six, eight. Not bad! But, father of famine, what a hungry lot! _Hola_!" he shouted. "What fare on the way, _compadres_? Saddle-leather and surcingles, I'll be bound. Cheer up! There's better beyond. Come, smile thou, my empty _caballero_ in the rear! In a week thy waistband will renew acquaintance with thy pansiere. There's that in Peru to fill it, and some to be left over for the infantry. Oho! Here they are--our honest lads of the foot! Twenty in all--and that is to say, twenty larcenies the more for each day of the calendar. _Bien_! Were there no thieves we'd have no love for honest men. What cheer, pikemen? Did ye ever see a cold boiled ham? Ah, see them drool! They're blest with powers of memory, 't is sure. What, ho! A civilian! A leech, _amigo_? No? A barber!--next of kin. _Gracias a Dios_, a barber! Fall out, my friend; thy journey endeth here."

A weary individual in civil garb, his legs bare to the knees but for the fringe of rags that fell below them, turned out of the column.

"_Nombre de Dios_! Is this an inn?" he asked in astonishment, peering through the open door and sniffing the fragrance.

"An inn, and no less. An inn, and no more," replied Pedro. "Enter. Thou 'rt as welcome to it as the smell of it seemeth to be to thee."

The stranger shook his head. "I have no money, Senor."

"The fiend!" ejaculated Pedro. "But thou hast an appetite, or thy looks belie thee. Enter, and call for what there is. Thy credit is good. Are there any others--civilians?"

"My gratitude, Senor," said the other, with feeling. "Yes, there are four in the rear of the baggage, and three women with the rear guard."

"Three women!" repeated Pedro. "Native women, thou wouldst say?"

"Of our own race, Senor."

"What!" exclaimed Pedro, in amazement. "Three Spanish women? _Santo Sacramento_! sayst thou so? What do they in this land of paynimry? Oh, these modern women!"

"Two are wives of cavaliers. The third is alone. And, Senor"--he spoke earnestly--"beware of this third."

"Ho!" responded Pedro, with a shrug. "I have all my feathers, _amigo_."

"Nay; but, Senor--" he was interrupted by the jubilant bray of a pack-mule which had divined the end of the march. When he would have continued Pedro was badgering a muleteer. The stranger entered the _cantina_--and Fate rode down upon the unsuspecting Pedro.

The rear guard approached. Sure enough, there were three senoras, two heavily veiled, riding mules. Pedro was bowing profoundly.

"Welcome, Senoras! Welcome to the land of gold. 'T is a Heaven's blessing to look once more upon your kind."

They inclined their heads graciously and Pedro raised his eyes to the third, some paces in the rear. As he bowed again he was conscious of a buxom figure, strangely bedight in a rusty corselet and a man's sombrero which showed marks of the hard journey, its limp rim hanging tow about a face which he saw only partly. She was astride, he noted, with a huge battle-axe at her saddle-bow, and a ponderous spur on a foot of goodly size.

The lady glanced at him, gasped, reined up with vigor, and shouted in a voice of joyful surprise, "_Pedro!_"

Pedro straightened with a jerk and staggered against the wall.

"Pedro!" she shouted again. She urged her steed across the street with a series of jabs of her spurs, and tumbled out of the saddle, a confusion of petticoats, arms, legs, and a flapping sombrero. Dropping the reins, she charged the cook, who stood transfixed to the wall, powerless.

"Pedro, as I live!" she cried, seizing his hands. "Oh, Pedro, thou graceless, fat, one-legged darling of a cook, I was never more joyed in my life!"

Pedro struggled in her grasp, speechless, his face reddening violently, as she held him at arm's length, surveying him with pleasure.

"And 't is thou!" she exclaimed. "Hold, whilst I look at thee--stop squirming, thou lubber! Yes, I'd know thee in a brigade, even did I not see thy peg. But why dost not greet me, Pedro? Greet me, sinner! Dost think I've journeyed a thousand leagues over sea and mountain to be received like a cold omelet? Fie, Pedro!"

He gained his voice with an effort. "Why--my greetings, Senora Bolio!" he panted. "What the devil--I'm glad to see thee well!--but release my hands, prithee!--we're in the street, woman. Thou'lt stir a scandal!"

"A scandal!" returned the senora, scornfully. "Soapsuds! A scandal, forsooth! What care I for these pagans? I'm glad to see thee."

"Of course--of course!" gasped Pedro. "But look to thy mule!--he's wandering away, reins down. Let me go! I'll--I'll catch him."

"Let him wander, Pedro, and may the fiend ride him with hot spurs! He hath jolted the life out of me these many days. But, art not surprised to see me? Say!"

"Name of a martyr! Yes!" said Pedro, desperately. "But loose my hands, I tell thee! We're observed."

"Oh, Pedro, thou 'rt so coy, thou dear old cherub!"--and she laughed joyfully.

"Oh, coy!" groaned Pedro. "Thunder and Mars! Dost not see the town watching us? And look at the rear guard!"

The troopers had halted, and were observing the little drama with interest.

"Brava, Senora!" called one, encouragingly. "His timidity is that of inexperience. Persist, and he'll succumb, my head upon it!"

The lady turned. "What now?" she demanded, indignantly, facing them with hands upon her hips. "Who gave you command to halt? Jog on, jog on! Circulate! Go, you singular accumulation of veal and old iron! Wend, worry on, flit, you most unusual galaxy of junk and poultice! You grotesque pack of----"

They tarried not to hear the completion of her period. They had journeyed with Senora Bolio for many weeks, and had learned her powers. When she turned to Pedro he was vanishing through the doorway, and she followed precipitately. He backed against a table, and she dropped into a chair facing him.

"Vagabonds!" she exclaimed, wrathfully, fanning herself with her sombrero. "They have gone clean through my patience a hundred times since we sailed from Panama. May the goblins gnaw their shin-bones!"

Pedro passed his sleeve across his forehead. "But they have left thee thy gifts of speech, Senora," he ventured.

"Ah! What would I do without them--a helpless woman? Oh, me! 'T is a sad world, Pedro.--But thou 'rt plump as a suckling porker, _chiquito_. And this is thy place? _Cara_! What a savory smell!"

"Why, bless me!" cried Pedro, forgetting his disturbance in his hospitality. "Thou must be hungry!"

"Hungry!" said Senora Bolio. "Boil me this hat, and I would eat it, _amigo mio_! But first, help me off with this rusty furniture of mine. Saints! I was never so wearied of a garment as of this iron bodice. 'T is a man's, of course, tight where it should be full, and' full where it should be snug. But they told me I should have to fight as often as eat, or more, so I bought it, with the cleaver thou mayst have seen on my saddle. And, Pedro, we must find the mule, for I would keep that cleaver by me. No telling when I may need to use it on an Inca--thou callest them Incas, these varlets in sleeveless pinafores?--Well, 'tis all the same. Now, I am ready for a full trencher."

Seated before his guest while she ate with an appetite keened by hard marches and harder fare, Pedro recovered his composure in listening to news of the civilized world, interrupted now and again by the entrance of patrons, each of whom started at sight of the lady, then bowed with a curious glance at the host which made him fidget.

"Now," said the senora, finishing, "thou must find me lodgings, Pedro dear; and before night, my mule, for I'll not sleep without that axe. My crucifix and it have been mine only comforts since I touched this benighted land. I'll part with neither. Canst find me a room, thinkst thou? Ah, thou'rt a love! I could wish thou hadst two legs; but with only one and a half thou 'rt more complete than any other man I ever knew," and she bestowed a smile whose warmth caused him to back away with an uneasy glance about the room. To his relief she made no further demonstration, and shortly they sallied out in search of quarters for her accommodation. A satisfactory lodging was found with a native couple--and thus was Senora Margarita Bolio established in the land of the Incas.

*CHAPTER XXII*

_*Rava in the Toils*_

Next morning early Pedro's mule, held by Pedrillo, stood at his door, surrounded by a whispering, awe-stricken group of native urchins lingering to see the dread beast mounted by the Viracocha of the fabulous leg. As Pedro appeared the brute twitched an ear toward him, opened his mouth, and drew breath in a faint, rasping, wheezy note of salutation. Pedro was gloomy, but he paused to rub the gray nose.

"Ah, my good friend," he said, with feeling, "there is melancholy in thine accent--belike, the echo of a melancholy in thy soul, like that in mine. 'T is but a sorry life: we're agreed in that, and comrades in misery. Thou, a mule, a cook's mule; I, a cook, a one-legged cook; and a panting, surcharged, vociferous Bolio at our heels, following with the pertinacy of doom! But if thou, too, hast doleful thoughts, forbear to voice them, lest I be brought to tears. Now, prithee, lend me thy back. _Adios_, Pedrillo. Remember the _frijoles_. Burn them again, scamp, and I'll--Whoa, mule! Thou misbegotten whimsy, I thought I read sadness in thine eye,--and 't was the devil. Be done, or I'll chew thine ear! Farewell, Pedrillo."

Pedro was off. Half-an-hour's ride took him through the suburbs, and he turned into the military road toward the grim fortress overlooking the town. A short, steep climb, and he was at the gate, bantered by the guard about the coming of Senora Bolio. Within was a citadel, surrounded by buildings for the garrison, or the townspeople when driven by war, and quarters for the Inca's officers. As Pedro was passing he was hailed by the familiar pipe of Rogelio. He drew rein, not in the best of grace, awaiting the _veedor's_ approach.

"Ah, Pedro, my good friend," said Rogelio, "I am pleased to see thee. I had thee in mind, 't is but a moment since. I----"

"Ware the heels of the mule!" bellowed Pedro, with a violence that startled the _veedor_ into sudden agility in a backward spring.

"My soul and body!" exclaimed Rogelio, rolling his eyes from the beast to its rider. "No need to roar, my friend. Thine animal looketh gentle enough."

"He hideth an abundance of wickedness under a smooth exterior--like some of his brethren who go on two legs," remarked Pedro.

"Ah?" Rogelio eyed the cook suspiciously.

"Ah!" returned Pedro. "But, hadst aught to say, Senor _Veedor_?"

"Why, I have, good Pedro," said Rogelio, recovering. "In a few days--perhaps a fortnight, perhaps very soon--I expect--that is to say, I--he, he, Pedro!--'tis a delicate subject--but--well, I may need a woman servant. Just a common servant, Pedro."

"Ah!" said the cook. "Just a common servant! So! 'T is a common need, _Veedor_, shared by common and uncommon. I thank thee for thy confidence, Senor. I'll betray it to no man." And apparently considering the interview closed, Pedro gathered his reins to go.

"Wait!" shouted the _veedor_. "Blockhead, that is not all!"

"Not all, Senor! Thou hast need of two?"

The _veedor_ piped a curse, then controlled himself and went on with a smile of forced amiability. "I mean it is not all I have to say, Pedro. In a few days--or less--I hope to share thy happiness."

"My happiness!" exclaimed Pedro, mystified. "Oh, I see! The Senor is going to turn cook."

"Damnation!" squeaked the _veedor_; then stifling his rage, he continued: "No, no! Not that. By thy happiness I mean thine _inamorada_, the Senora Bolio----"

"Oh, blessed saints!" interrupted Pedro. "Thou wouldst share my happiness in the Senora? Take it all, Senor! Take the whole of her. By heaven, I'll send her up entire! Wait but an hour." He started to turn his mule.

"Stop, fool!" choked the exasperated _veedor_; and grasping at a rein, narrowly escaped a kick. He sprang out of range with a gasp.

"Well," said Pedro, complacently, "I gave thee warning, Senor. But hast more to say?"

It was a minute before Rogelio regained his speech. "Yes!" he shrilled. "Perdition! Yes! If thou wilt but hold thy tongue!"

"_Bueno_! I listen. Proceed, Senor _Veedor_."