Chapter XXX

The death sentence rang through the room in the deep tones of Francisco Pizarro’s voice and a moment’s painful silence was broken by the sob of a woman. Yma had rushed out and brought back Molina. The girl gripped him, trembling.

“You will not let them do this crime, my beloved! You _will_ not!” she whispered. “Your arm is strong, your sword is cold and keen. I will help you. I have seen many men in this room who approve your words. They will help you--”

Molina pressed her hand for silence and faced the judges. He was calmer now.

“In the name of justice, humanity and God, I denounce this verdict and warn you to pause before you dare to execute it!”

The Pizarros hesitated, amazed at this further audacity. But Almagro leaped into the breach.

“The men are with us ten to one,” he muttered. “To hell with him.”

But the Chief Judge, taken with the courage displayed, listened in silence as Molina rushed on.

“This whole procedure has been a shameless farce. If your sentence is executed you will leave a record of infamy unparalleled in the history of Spain. You’ve done this thing with a haste indecent and indefensible. De Soto by his character, learning and rank was entitled to sit as judge--”

“His voice could not have changed our verdict,” Pizarro interrupted.

“Then why this haste lest he arrive in time to be heard? The evidence before you is too flimsy for discussion. The charges themselves were ridiculous. I deny your right to sit thus in judgment on a sovereign prince in his own domain. Only the Court of Charles V could try such a prisoner!”

“Is that all you have to say?” Almagro sneered.

“No, it’s not. Your charter requires that you consult the authorities of the Church on all matters of importance. Has this been done?”

Pizarro’s face fell at the cunning of his tormentor.

“Not yet.”

“I demand a delay that this shall be done in proper order. I appeal to Father Valverde to hear my argument for a stay of execution.”

“Send for the friar!” Pizarro commanded.

“I demand a day in which to prepare my appeal and argument before the Church!”

“You’ll not get it,” was the prompt decision. “Father Valverde will appear immediately, hear you and give his decision.”

The wily commander knew that he could rely on his own chaplain. Valverde listened to the fiery eloquence of the Inca’s young advocate with dignity. The judges submitted a copy of their verdict and death warrant for his signature or veto. But Pizarro knew his position.

He gave his decision without hesitation:

“In my opinion,” he said in stern accents, “the Inca deserves death.”

He promptly affixed his signature to the death warrant and returned it to the Chief Judge. Pizarro handed it to his executioners.

“Make your arrangements and complete the task within the hour.”

Molina again felt the soft grip on his arm and heard Yma’s sobbing voice:

“My god-man, you will not let them--”

The young cavalier drew his sword and stepped before the executioner. The judges stared in surprise, too great for words. It was preposterous that one man should dare thus to defy them all. And it was not until a score of stalwart figures crowded beside Molina, their hands on their swords, that Pizarro saw that he was confronted by an unexpected and dangerous crisis. A fight in his court room over the verdict might mean an attack from the attendants of the Inca at the same moment. A protest ending in bloodshed would send their record to the Crown under a dangerous cloud. He must use his wits and use them quickly. Almagro and his brothers had drawn their swords and a mass of their followers backed them.

“Sheathe your swords!” Francisco Pizarro sternly commanded his brothers, and turning to Molina repeated the command.

The young cavalier stood with set jaw and refused to move. Pizarro boldly approached, laid his hand on his shoulder and spoke in soothing tones:

“Come, come, my son, what madness is this? You would shed the blood of your people, for what?”

Molina shook off the hand.

“For the honor of Spain, for decency, and justice!” he replied. “You do not seem to know their meaning. Must I teach you with this?” He set his sword at guard.

Pizarro flinched at the scorn, but did not retreat from the sword.

“Words, words, my boy. Face the facts and forget your knight-errantry. Our lives are at stake--yours and the life of the girl whom you love.”

“We scorn life at such a price!”

“You refuse to see our danger?”

“There is no danger!” the cavalier cried in a rage.

“That is your opinion--”

“And the opinion of some who stand beside me.”

The men around him answered fiercely:

“Yes!”

“So be it, gentlemen,” Pizarro argued. “You are outnumbered ten to one. See for yourselves--” he paused and waved his hand to the hundred and more men standing behind the judges.

“Consider for a moment the outcome of a fight in this room. You and your followers would be killed to a man.”

“Our cause is worth it!”

“If so,” the wily leader urged, “take it to the highest court in Spain and we stake our lives on the decision of the Crown. It’s no time for Spaniards to kill each other. We are here to carry the banners of Castile and Aragon to new glories, not bathe them in fraternal blood. Write your protest, sign it and the clerk will forward it to his majesty at Toledo.”

“It might be wise,” a voice whispered by Molina’s side.

Molina considered. He felt the hopelessness of his position. Bare sword still in his hand, he swung on Pizarro:

“Your words mock you, Pizarro. Your villainy reproaches you. But I shall not shed blood. On this, though, I stand: Stay your execution until this protest is drawn and signed.”

“It is done.”

He signaled the executioner, took the death warrant, and ordered the clerk to draw the protest as the young cavalier should dictate. Yma watched the strange procedure with a look of dumb misery, yet hope was not dead. Her beloved had stayed the hand of death for the moment. She still believed he would win.

Every man in the room fixed his name in writing or cross-mark either to the death warrant under Valverde’s signature or under the protest of Molina. More than a hundred endorsed the decree of the judges and eleven men signed the protest.

The crisis passed, Francisco Pizarro slipped the death warrant into the hands of his executioner who hurried to do his bidding. The keen eyes of the Sun Virgin saw the look of despair on the face of Molina and watched with a low cry of horror as the executioner left the room. But she realized Molina’s helplessness. She darted from the room, and reported the dread news to the Dowager who hastened with the Inca into the presence of his judges.

Atahualpa pressed his way before Francisco Pizarro trembling with excitement. The blow had fallen with merciless swiftness. It was incredible. For the moment he was stunned. Through eyes swimming with tears he began his piteous plea.

“What have I done, or my children, that I should meet this fate?”

He paused, pressed closer and spoke in tones of desperate appeal.

“And from you, of all men, whom I have loaded with kindness and untold treasure.”

Pizarro turned from the scene with unusual emotion. He had not counted on this pitiful personal appeal to him as a man and a friend. He had pledged the Inca his friendship. It was a shock to see how implicit had been the man’s faith in the promise. The iron heart within the conqueror’s breast faltered for a moment in his stern purpose.

The Inca hastened to follow the advantage which his appeal had given him. He seized Pizarro’s arm.

“Surely you, my friend, whom I have learned to trust above all your followers here--you, whose mind has been too great for petty annoyances, can not do this cruel wrong. I beg of you my life. In this hour of my desertion and helplessness, you can not fail me. I can assure you the safety of your people. Spare my life, give me the time and I will double the ransom already paid. I will fill the room twice with gold, the smaller one four times with silver.”

The conqueror, deeply moved, attempted to go, but the Inca clung to him in final desperation.

“You will not desert me, my friend, in this hour of my anguish--”

The Dowager added her voice to the broken plea.

“Grant me the life of my son, Your Excellency,” she cried. “I speak as the mother who loves him. And I swear to you that he will keep his solemn word of honor. No hand shall be lifted against a Spanish soldier. We will work in harmony with your people and build a new Kingdom of the Four Corners of the World--”

The Inca suddenly lifted his hand to his mother for silence.

“It is enough. It is fate.”

He drew himself to his full height, folded his arms, and his face became again a stolid mask of bronze--a mask marked with supreme contempt.

Two hours after sunset the trumpet called the soldiers into the Plaza of Caxamalca to witness the _auto de fe_ on the 29th of August, 1533. A hundred blazing torches lighted the Plaza. News of the dreaded deed had spread a nameless terror in the heart of every native. That these new beings would dare to lay their hands in deadly violence on God Himself surpassed belief. They stood in the shadows in huddled groups and discussed the catastrophe as their ancestors had stood appalled by earthquake and volcano.

The executioners set a bronze stake in the center of the square and piled the faggots ready to be packed about the body of the victim.

The wails of his terror-stricken household swept the square from the open doors of the House of the Serpent.

But the Inca bore the trial with a stern stoicism. He embraced his wives, took each of his weeping little boys and girls in his arms and pressed them to his heart in silence.

He looked long and tenderly at Yma, his great head hanging low. He opened his arms and she rested her tear-stained face on his breast.

“Grieve no more, dear daughter of the Sun. You have done all that the brave and wise could do. You have within you the soul of a queen--my mother’s spirit is yours. My eyes have been blind or I had seen it sooner. Forgive my blindness and my many errors. You would have saved me, had I been wise. May the Sun bring you his blessing, my glorious Yma!”

He put the weeping girl aside and took his mother in his arms. For a long while they held each other in silence. He stooped and kissed her lips. She tried to speak, but her voice trailed into a strangling sob and she wept in silence.

The guards drew them apart and led the Inca before Pizarro who ordered him chained hand and foot. As he was led forth into the square, the heavy chains rattled loudly on the flag stones and a long piteous scream from his mother broke the stillness.

His people crowded to the doorway and watched the hideous scene still with unbelieving eyes. The Sun would not allow the infamy of such a death. They trembled and listened for the rumble of an earthquake that would shake the city and strike terror to the fiends. But they waited in vain.

An appalling silence now brooded over the Square. The figures of five hundred Spanish soldiers stood in dark groups about the stake.

Father Vincente de Valverde walked by the doomed monarch’s side, begging him in this hour of supreme need to renounce the religion of his fathers and accept the faith of his conquerors. But the bronze face gave no sign of hearing the friar’s appeal. His eyes were fixed on a far-off star as he walked with head erect. They bound his fine young body to the bronze stake, fixing his arms and legs in close fetters. Quickly the faggots were piled high about him and the executioner lifted his torch to apply the flame.

Valverde spoke.

“A moment. A last appeal.”

The friar held the cross before the dazed victim.

“Embrace the cross of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and be baptized, I implore you! If you will, I can spare you the agony of flames. You may die by the less painful form of strangling.”

The Inca turned his sad eyes on Molina.

“It is true, my friend?”

The cavalier hastened to assure him.

“It is true. Our religion, my lord, is true, if its followers are not. I beg of you to accept the terms and save yourself the horror of flames. They will sear my soul as well as your body.”

“Perhaps it is well,” the Inca slowly agreed. “To die in flames for me will be to lose both body and soul. My image could not then be embalmed as those of my fathers have been preserved.”

He paused and turned to Father Valverde.

“I accept your offer. I renounce the gods who have forsaken me and accept yours.”

The priest who had just signed his death warrant administered the rite of baptism and gave his convert a new name in honor of John the Baptist on whose day the tragedy fell. As the words fell from the lips of the priest Molina turned from the scene with rage and disgust.

“I baptize you Juan de Atahualpa in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost!”

The words died away in a dull drone, and Atahualpa turned to Pizarro with a look of appeal. He spoke with a quiet dignity that moved every hearer to astonishment.

“I ask of Your Excellency, that my body be taken to Quito, my birthplace, to be fittingly preserved with those of my ancestors--” He paused, searched the face of the conqueror and went on--“I ask this of you as commander of my kingdom. A last request I make of you, as the--shall I say?--friend I have known these past seven months. Have compassion on the sorrowing people of my household and protect my little children who are thus left desolate.”

Pizarro bowed his consent and signaled to the garroter, who stepped forward, the heavy wire used in strangulation gripped in his coarse hand.

The twisted wire touched the hand of Almagro who stood beside the dark figure of Hernando Pizarro. The little man moved with a gesture of anger at the lack of respect shown him. But a shiver of queer foreboding swept him. He shook it off with an oath, as he looked around him.

The Inca closed his eyes. The executioner circled his neck and strangled him to death while five hundred Spaniards pressed close murmuring their credos for the salvation of his soul.

As the stalwart body slowly relaxed in the tremor of death, the thunder of horses’ hoofs echoed at the gates and De Soto dashed into the scene with flushed face, his hand trembling on his sword.

He threw himself toward Pizarro with a dangerous smile playing around his strong mouth. The commander paled for a moment at the obvious threat.

“I am here,” De Soto shouted, “to report the country quiet, the talk of an uprising a shameless lie!”

“I’m sorry that we have acted in haste,” Pizarro muttered.

“You could not wait to hear my report! You rush your victim to his doom without a chance to prove his innocence! I ride madly to save him and you beat me to the stake. You disregard me as a judge! Well, by God’s light, you’ll answer to me and to your King for this violation of the laws of Christian humanity.”

Pizarro was stunned for a moment with the violence of the attack. He hedged and made excuses.

“I had no choice, De Soto--the soldiers clamored for his life. They would have assaulted his house and cut him to pieces had I not acted--”

“And you--you with all your vaunted power as commander, could not have held their hands until I returned to tell the truth?” De Soto sneered.

“I was forced to act by the Crown treasurer, his officers and Father Valverde.”

Riquelme, the treasurer, gripped his sword and faced Pizarro with blazing eyes.

“A lie, Francisco--a lie! I but followed your lead!”

“Besides,” the chief continued, ignoring the interruption, “I was urged by Father Valverde who signed the death warrant....”

“This is so?” De Soto demanded of the friar.

“It is true. It was his life or ours....”

The amazed captain turned to his chief:

“I challenge you to a duel to the death, Francisco Pizarro, for this betrayal of my rights as a judge in this matter--on guard!”

De Soto’s sword flashed in the torch light and Pizarro’s answered. But men on each side restrained them. De Soto shook off the restraining hands, sheathed his sword, and fixed Pizarro with a look of contempt. “I salute you, chieftain, as a prince--_the prince of murderers!_” He fixed his name at the head of the protest sent to Spain, and withdrew from the expedition.