Chapter XXIV

The news of Almagro’s landing and his probable joining with Pizarro at the head of two hundred more Spanish troops threw the Inca’s household into profound gloom.

With the rising of the heap of gold Atahualpa had regained something of the spirit of his strong youth. He saw, with hopeful eyes, the day of his freedom rapidly approaching. And he trusted his captor, which faith was rather pathetic in view of his betrayal and capture. Yet nothing was surer in the mind of the fallen monarch than that Francisco Pizarro would keep his agreement.

Certainly there was something compelling in the personality of the Spaniard. It accounted for his supremacy as leader of the riotous spirits who had crowded about his standard for the past eight years, and who saw as he saw the dream kingdom of the South, the beckoning vision of which they had followed to success.

So it was not to be wondered at that Pizarro’s astute and commanding mentality found it easy to dominate the simpler mind of the Inca.

Relying on the promises and friendship of his own arch enemy, Atahualpa had gradually relaxed the nerve tension of his early tragic, depressing confinement.

He learned of the Spaniards to play dice. With keen interest he mastered the intricacies of chess and became an expert at the game. In the long tedious hours of his captivity he often forgot his unhappy lot in the fascination of the game with the strangers.

The plates and cups of his royal table were of the gold to which he had been accustomed. His royal wardrobe was kept with immaculate care by the Virgins of the Sun in constant attendance. On ceremonial occasions they exchanged his vicuna-robe of silken sheen for a curious one made of the skins of bats, soft as velvet. He resumed the wearing of the crimson _borla_ on his forehead, the symbol of his sovereignty. The details of his court were conducted with the same care and reverence as before his capture.

But the shock of the arrival of Almagro threw the Inca into a fit of deep depression. He could not know of the rivalry between the two men; all Spaniards were alike to him and he could see only two hundred more ravenous wolves hungry for blood and gold.

To add to his despondency, a comet appeared in the sky and seemed to trail its long stream of cold fire over his prison. He feared it a token of coming tragedy although the Spanish soldiers viewed it with equal alarm as a threat against their safety and treasure.

Yma determined to take advantage of the gloom of the court and Atahualpa’s depression to spring her plan. It must be a surprise. She had noticed with increasing amazement the growing influence of Pizarro over the Inca. She distrusted this power intensely and did her work in the utmost secrecy.

She was now ready for the opportune moment to strike. Five thousand picked men were slowly moving on Caxamalca, threading their ways one by one over unused and dangerous trails of the mountains. The crowds now attending the Inca’s levees would give her the opportunity needed for the final stroke.

The day chosen was the one of the conference of priests held with their ruler to receive his orders for the celebration of the approaching festival of Spring, when every man from the Monarch to the rank and file of the people would repair to the field and open the sod with a solemn prayer to the Sun God for his blessing on the seeds and a rich harvest in return for their labor.

The day arrived. Only the Dowager had been made privy to the secret and she stood close beside her royal son, her handsome face flushed with excitement in spite of every effort at self-control.

The priests bowed to the floor in reverence for their Monarch, rose and crowded about him for his blessing and his commands for the festival.

Yma whispered to him.

“Quick, my Lord, I have the robes of a priest for you. You can don it quickly while we cover your body. The guards outside will pass you with your men without question. The priests around you are your faithful warriors. Five thousand more await you in the forest beyond the causeway.”

“How dare you plan this without my knowledge?” he asked indignantly.

“There is at least one traitor in your household,” his mother breathed. “She feared to trust her secret. I implore you to save your life and the life of your people.”

“I have pledged my solemn word to the commander.”

“And who will make him keep his?” she asked. “A new horde of invaders are on the way. It may be too late when they have come--fly at once.”

“Am I a coward to flee from my own palace in my own kingdom?”

“No--put yourself at the head of your men,” Yma begged. “Five thousand warriors will attack these invaders before nightfall.”

“Silence!” the Inca sternly ordered.

A hush as of death fell on the black-robed throng massed about his person.

“My word is pledged. It is sacred. Go.”

He pointed to the door and the “priests” slowly filed out. Their five thousand comrades again melted into the forest, and Yma found her way with a heavy heart to the house of the prisoner she loved. Her head was swimming. A sense of utter despair gripped her soul. The Inca had failed to take the tide at its height.