Chapter IV: Part 4

“Is it, patre?” José asked innocently. “Yes—no; I do not think I read this one. Not in Spanish, at least ‘Give justice, O God.’”

Fray Fernando’s nerves were in that miserable condition in which the slightest jarring touch means torture. He felt it intolerable to lie still and listen to José’s blunders. By way of correcting him, he began the familiar words himself,—“‘Give the king thy judgments, O God, and thy righteousness to the king’s son.’”

“Ah, that is easy to understand,” said José. “But when I change the words for myself, I lose the first word before I find the second. If the patre would only go on, and recite it all for me!”

Fray Fernando had no objection. It was indeed far less troublesome to recite the well-known words himself than to hear José stumble over them. Coldly and monotonously enough, for his thoughts were far away, he repeated the words of that sublime psalm—words first of prayer—such prayer as any righteous king might fitly offer for his son and successor; then kindling and rising into a grand prophecy of a greater King than Solomon, a holier and more enduring reign than his; and ending at last with that fervent burst of thanksgiving, the noble and appropriate close to the prayers of David, the son of Jesse.

Crouched on the ground by Fray Fernando’s side, and with eager eyes that never stirred from his face, the Indian youth drank in every word.

This was what he heard:—“‘Give the king thy judgments, O God, and thy righteousness unto the king’s son. He shall judge thy people with righteousness, and thy poor with judgment. The mountains shall bring peace to the people, and the little hills, by righteousness. He shall judge the poor of the people, he shall save the children of the needy, and shall break in pieces the oppressor. They shall fear thee as long as the sun and the moon endure, throughout all generations. He shall come down like rain upon the mown grass; as showers that water the earth. In his days shall the righteous flourish; and abundance of peace so long as the moon endureth. He shall have dominion also from sea to sea, and from the river unto the ends of the earth. They that dwell in the wilderness shall bow before him, and his enemies shall lick the dust. The kings of Tarshish and of the isles shall bring presents; the kings of Sheba and Seba shall offer gifts. Yea, all kings shall fall down before him, all nations shall serve him. For he shall deliver the poor when he crieth; the needy also, and him that hath no helper. He shall spare the poor and needy, and shall save the souls of the needy. He shall redeem their souls from deceit and violence; and precious shall their blood be in his sight.’”

No longer could the delighted hearer keep silence. “Ranti, ranti! Capac Inca, Huacchacuyac!” (Hail, hail! mighty Inca, Friend of the poor!) he cried, springing suddenly to his feet.

“What is it, José?” asked the startled Fray Fernando, whose thoughts were recalled from the ends of the earth by this impassioned interruption.

“Nothing, patre,” said José, resuming his seat, and his habitual manner. “Will it please the patre to go on? They are good words.”

The patre went on: “‘He shall live, and to him shall be given of the gold of Sheba; prayer shall be made for him continually, and daily shall he be praised. There shall be an handful of corn in the earth upon the top of the mountains.’”—(And here the Inca’s son beheld, through the happy tears that filled his eyes, the terraced hills of his fathers’ land, with their waving handfuls of maize on the narrow ledges at the top, sure tokens of the industry and the prosperity of the nation.)—“‘The fruit thereof shall shake like Lebanon; and they of the city shall flourish like grass of the earth. His name shall endure for ever: his name shall be continued as long as the sun, and men shall be blessed in him: all nations shall call him blessed. Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, who only doeth wondrous things. And blessed be his glorious name for ever: and let the whole earth be filled with his glory. Amen, and Amen!’”

“Amen, and Amen!” José echoed. Then he said softly, “Thank you, patre,” and without another word went out.

He stood on the brink of the precipice overhanging the current. The moon was pouring a flood of light over the rocks, the mountains, the bridge; even the waters of the river, far beneath, caught the silver radiance, and glistened as they flowed along. José knew that his fathers called that stream the Apurimac—the Great Talker—because they dreamed of mystic murmurings in its noisy path, which, duly interpreted, would reveal the secrets of the future. Would that the Oracle would speak to him—but this once—and tell him who was that great Inca, that King of the East, who would deliver the poor when he cried! Had He reigned long ago, like King David, who was dead and buried in Jerusalem? No; for it was said, “They shall fear Thee as long as the sun and the moon endure.” Was He still to come? Or could it be that He was reigning even now? In the valleys amongst his own people, mysterious rumours passed from lip to lip about pale-faced bearded strangers, with golden hair, who should come from beyond the Mother Sea, and avenge the wrongs of the Children of the Sun upon the cruel Spaniards. Some called these people English, but perhaps they meant Jews, as when men said Castilians they meant Spaniards. The Spaniards slandered these their rivals, as was natural; saying that they were not Catholics, that they did not adore the Holy Cross, and that they roasted Indians and ate them. But those who knew better bore witness that they were always just and kind to the people of the lands where they came, and never did them any harm. Probably the tale that they were governed by a _coya_, or empress, came from the Spaniards also; for how could a woman govern a great and brave nation? Surely they must have a king! Why not the great King that David described in the psalm?

If he might only find that King, lay the wrongs of his people at His feet, implore His help for them! To accomplish this, peril would be light, difficulty nothing. Gladly would he do what none of his race had done yet of their free will—cross the Mother Sea, and plant his foot on the strange shores of which his fathers had never dreamed. Gladly would he die, slain by the sword or burned to ashes at the stake, like others of his people, if that would bring deliverance to Tahuantin Suyu, and set the rainbow banner of the Incas free once more to wave in the sunshine. Surely the Great King, if once he could but find Him, would be pitiful, for He should judge the poor and needy; and He would be strong to save, for His dominion should be from sea to sea, and from the river to the ends of the earth.

Once more he looked down at the foaming Apurimac. But in all its noisy tones there was no voice for him. Well he knew that the dreams of his fathers were but dreams, baseless and unsubstantial, to vanish when the morning light arose. Then he looked up to heaven. Quilla, the silvery spouse of Ynty, could tell him as little as the babbling stream below. But above—far above? There dwelt the Great God, who made Indian and Spaniard alike, who was blessed and praised in that wonderful psalm, and to whom, Fray Fernando told him, men might pray for help in every time of need. He knelt down, and clasping his hands, prayed his first real prayer,—“O God, teach me about the Great King, and help me to find Him.”

That was all he said. But as he rose from his knees, and quietly re-entered the tampu, a calmness and a strength, never felt before, came down upon his perplexed, bewildered mind. It had its root in two persuasions, not clear enough to be expressed in words, but real enough to sink deep into his heart—that God would hear his prayer; and that he had now a purpose worth living for, and, if need be, worth dying for.

XII.

What they did Beyond the Mother Sea.

“On my soul there fell
A horror of great darkness, which shut out
All earth, and heaven, and hope.”

HEMANS.

All was still within the tampu, and José had been asleep for some time, when Fray Fernando softly called him.

He started up quickly. “Is anything wrong, patre?” he asked.

“No; if you are not sleeping, I should like to talk with you.”

“Chachau!” (willingly and gladly!) said José, good-humouredly, as he threw the remains of his store of dry sticks on the fire, and seated himself beside it. The night was frosty, and his yacollo, or cloak, was beneath Fray Fernando.

Except for the dim light thrown out by the smouldering brands, the place was in darkness. Like most of the Peruvian buildings, it had no windows, and the door was closed.

Fray Fernando’s voice came out of the gloom,—a little lower, slower, more restrained than usual. “I should like to tell you a tale of the things that happen in my country,” he said.

“I like well to hear those tales, patre,” José answered.

“You will not like this one. It is sad as death—sadder!—sad as life.”

José understood him. He knew what were the lives of the mitayos in the obregas and the mines.

Fray Fernando went on, still in the same quiet tone, like one treading the crust of a volcano with light and wary footsteps, lest perchance he should disturb the hidden fires beneath:—“In that land beyond the Mother Sea where I was born, José, is a great and fair city called Seville. There are noble churches and stately marble palaces, glittering white in the sunshine; and there are fragrant orange-groves and delicious gardens, fringing the banks of the bright river, loved of all Spanish hearts, the peerless Guadalquivir.” And on that bleak mountain, at the other side of the world, Fray Fernando paid the tribute of a passing sigh to the memories of his sunny native land. “In that fair city,” he went on, “dwelt the two boys whose story I wish to tell you. They were foster-brothers. One was of noblest lineage, and bore an honoured name; his father’s father had been amongst the conquistadors.”

“I call not such lineage noble, but base,” said José, forgetting for a moment his habitual caution.

“There you err,” the monk returned. “The conquistadors of Seville were brave men, who rescued the city from the Infidels, and planted the Cross where the Crescent had glittered for centuries, to the shame of Christian Spain. The memories of such a conflict stir the heart of youth like the sound of a trumpet, and the noble’s son I speak of had his training in the midst of them. His foster-brother shared them also; his parents, though poor, were old Christians, respected by all in the district where they dwelt. That district was—but I shall have to speak of it hereafter. Pleasanter is it to speak of Melchior—gallant Melchior, with his handsome face, curling black hair, bright dark eyes, brave yet gentle heart. Fearless always, quick to resolve, strong to do and dare, impetuous yet persevering. He grew up a regular _majo_.”

“What is that, patre?”

“A gallant youth of Seville, who ruffles it on the Prado or in the street, resplendent in velvet and silver lace, his dagger in his belt, his guitar on his shoulder, ready for a fight, a bull-feast, or a dance, and always ready to do homage to bright eyes and fair faces. Yet Melchior, gay as he seemed, was simple and pious, kind to his troop of young brothers and sisters, and never forgetting in his wildest moods to say his prayers, or to bring his offering to the Virgin’s shrine.—Ay de mi!”

“Patre, you are forgetting the other lad, the young noble. You have not even told me his name.”

“It was—Don Alfonso. Had they been brothers in blood, they could not have loved each other more. They shared the same sports, practised the same exercises. Together they rode at the ring, wrestled, played with canes. Sometimes one excelled, sometimes the other; but they were never jealous, their love was too true. Together they dreamed of the future, and planned deeds of daring and high emprize. Sometimes Africa, sometimes Ireland or Flanders, oftener your wild Western World, José, was to be the scene of their exploits. Vain, idle dreams! One of them, at least, lived to thank God for the veil wherewith His mercy hides the coming days. But for it, life would be all suffering from its dawn to its close.

“As for Melchior, no shadowy forebodings dimmed his bright young spirit. He early gave his heart to a lovely girl, the beauty of the district where they lived, and accounted as good as she was beautiful. Great was his joy when, after an anxious wooing, he came at last to tell his friend that she had consented to bestow her hand upon him; and Señor Don Alfonso had to promise forthwith to dance the cachuco at their wedding. He was nothing loath, for he knew and liked the pretty little Juanita, and sincerely rejoiced in Melchior’s happiness. He had dreams of his own at this time, moreover. There were sweet blue eyes, whose gleam made summer in his heart, and golden hair—”

“I did not think people of your nation had golden hair, patre,” José interrupted.

“It is rare amongst us, and therefore perhaps more highly prized.—But to return to Melchior. Between him and the fulfilment of his hopes there was one great barrier. You cannot understand, José, how sorely, in the lands beyond the sea, men and women ofttimes suffer for the lack of those morsels of gold and silver you treat with such disdain.”

“I understand very well, patre. They were poor. But why did they not ask the king? Surely he would have given them a little piece of land, enough to live upon.” With José, the king was the “Deus ex machina,” who was to solve every difficulty, and set right every wrong.

“That is not the custom in Spain,” said Fray Fernando. “Nor do we think it the king’s business to provide for all his needy subjects.”

“Then,” thought José, “_he_ assuredly is not the King who will deliver the poor when he crieth, the needy also, and him that hath no helper.” He asked aloud, “What, then, could they do?”

Fray Fernando answered,—“Don Alfonso at length suggested a plan which seemed feasible. His sisters, at his request, obtained a place for Juanita as waiting-woman to a noble lady, who was both rich and liberal; so it was hoped that after a year or two spent in her service, Melchior’s bride would have something to call her own besides her velvet bodice and her silver ear-rings. Melchior, too, had his plans. He had already distinguished himself by coolness and daring in more than one bull-feast.—I have told you of the bull-feasts of Spain, José?”

“Yes,” said José briefly. They were, to him, amongst the many incomprehensible things on the other side of the sea.

“Melchior dreamed of winning gold as well as glory by his feats as matador. In truth, he was far too daring. I sometimes warned him that he might tempt fortune once too often. An hour came when I wished to God that he had bled his young life out beneath the horse-hoofs on the sand of the arena!”

“Then you knew those foster-brothers, patre?” asked José with interest.

“Yes,” Fray Fernando answered. He resumed after a pause, and in an altered tone, “What comes next is not easy to tell. Yet it must be told. You know what heresy is, José?”

“Anything against the Catholic Faith—such as what the Jews believe,” José replied promptly.

“Right. In Seville, just before the time I speak of, there had been many heretics, but they were discovered and punished by the Holy Inquisition.”

“I pray you tell me, patre, what is the Holy Inquisition?”

“A tribunal for the discovery, trial, and punishment of heretics.”

“Are people, then, in your country punished for believing wrong?”

“Most assuredly. What can be more necessary and proper?” said Fray Fernando with decision, and perhaps with a little sharpness. “The lady whom Juanita served,” he continued, “though to all outward seeming truly pious, was in heart a confirmed heretic. And she dropped the subtle poison of her false faith day by day into the unsuspecting ear of the simple peasant-girl. Poor Juanita thought her words good and holy, and very comforting to the heart. In truth, these people often begin with good words, such as no Catholic could object to, and thus they deceive the unwary. You know what the Gospel says of wolves in sheep’s clothing, José! Juanita used to remember what she heard, and repeat it all to Melchior, who dreamed of harm no more than she did. They were children, playing at the mouth of a volcano, gathering flowers unconscious of the fire that slumbered beneath, ready to break forth and overwhelm them.

“One day Don Alfonso came home from walking on the Prado. He was light of heart; the solid earth seemed air beneath his feet; for those blue eyes of which I spoke had beamed graciously upon him. He said within himself, ‘I will cross the bridge of boats to Melchior’s dwelling, and tell him.’ But as he took again the montero he had laid aside, his little foot-page came to say, ‘Melchior del Salto is in the patio, desiring to see you.’ Gladly did he go thither, but on entering, his mood changed in an instant. There sat Melchior on the settle, his head bowed upon its oaken arm, over which his curled hair fell in disorder. His attitude spoke despair; and neither at the step nor at the voice of his friend did he move or look up. Don Alfonso’s anxious and repeated questions at last drew forth the murmured answer, ‘She’s gone!’

“‘Gone!’ reiterated the other, in utter bewilderment. ‘Gone!—whither?—when?’

“Melchior spoke again,—‘At midnight—the alguazils of the Holy Office.’

“José, you know not the despair, the dread despair, where _that_ doom falls upon a loved one. They who sit and weep beside their dead,—they it is who are envied then. For we know, at least, that the dead are safe from the troubles of this miserable world—that they are in the hands of God, not of man. But years may pass before the watcher without hears so much as a whisper of the fate of him—or her—upon whom the gates of the Triana once have closed.”

“O patre!” cried José in horror, “is that the justice they do in your country?”

Fray Fernando now became conscious that he had said more than he ought to the unlearned Indian youth, thus “offending one of the little ones,” as his class were wont to speak. So he drew the monk’s frock over the man’s beating heart, and hastened to explain:—“You must not think there is any injustice, José. God forbid. Their reverences, the lords inquisitors, are wise and holy men. Heresy is fearful sin, and when the Church has to deal with it, as one of her ablest doctors has most truly said, ‘Severity is mercy, and mercy severity.’”

José listened with becoming awe. “But then, patre,” he ventured to say, “that poor girl meant no harm. It seems hard she should suffer thus.”

“You cannot understand,” said Fray Fernando wearily. “Indians never can understand.”

José was not at all convinced of the natural disabilities of his race, but he was very anxious for the rest of the story. So he said presently, “Tell me about Melchior, patre.”

“The dark hour that saw the gate of the Triana closed behind Juanita changed Melchior into another man. He grew moody, restless, sometimes even fierce. No more bull-feasts, no more gay walks on the Prado, no more dances in the evening—one absorbing occupation filled every moment snatched from work or sleep. Love alone could teach the patience with which day after day, night after night, he used to take his stand beneath the wall of that gloomy fortress. Not quite in vain. The first tears that relieved his breaking heart fell as he told his friend how he caught a glimpse of the face he loved—pale and changed—behind the bars of a grated window.

“Months passed; and Melchior’s despair gave way to a fierce and frantic hope—a hope first whispered cautiously to Don Alfonso, but so eagerly shared by him that the flame was fanned to sevenfold strength. The suburb of the city where Melchior lived was close to the prison of the Inquisition, and took its name from it—the Triana. Though the Holy Office, for wise purposes, keeps its proceedings secret as possible, things must needs ooze out sometimes, and men will talk about them. At the particular time of which I speak, there was much indignation, especially in the neighbourhood of the Triana, called forth by the robberies and cruelties of the head-jailer, Gaspar Benevidio—a wretch abhorred of God and man, and afterwards righteously punished by his superiors. The Triana suburb abounded in lawless characters, many of whom, being of Moorish blood, were not particularly zealous for the Catholic Faith or the Holy Inquisition. Whenever Gaspar Benevidio went abroad, men scowled and laid their hands on their daggers, and women cursed him as he passed. Some of Melchior’s friends of the bull-ring were often heard to murmur, ‘’Twere a better deed to send a lance through a hard heart than through a tough hide.’ ‘But what use in that?’ Melchior would say. ‘That would save no one. If now we were to attack the Triana, God only knows what we might accomplish!’

“This was the project hinted to Don Alfonso. And he answered promptly, ‘Do all that is in thine heart. I am with thee, according to all that is in thine heart.’ Then they laid their scheme. In the midst of their madness they were prudent in details. They organized the conspirators, armed them, concerted signals, even corrupted some of the lower officials within the castle. At last came the night agreed upon.[28] Melchior and Don Alfonso headed the rioters—the latter disguised in his foster-brother’s clothes, to save the honour of his noble house. There was an hour of fierce excitement, of wild fighting, of frenzied hope—then confusion, terror, despair. It was madness all—from first to last! As soon, José, might your people stand victorious against the might of Spain, as force or fraud prevail to rescue one captive from the dungeons of the Triana.”

It was well, perhaps, that the monk could not see the “dark lightning” that flashed from José’s eyes as he said, “Madness is strong, patre. _Did_ they not rescue any?”

“None. The morning light found the rioters broken, scattered, flying. Most of them were themselves soon made prisoners of the Inquisition. Spite of all precautions, Don Alfonso’s share in the matter was suspected; but his family sheltered him, and placed him in concealment. Of course, his career was ruined, his prospects blighted. And if _that_ had been but all! But besides his share in the riot, a great and guilty secret lay upon his heart. He knew that in the conflict his hand had dealt a mortal blow to an alguazil of the Inquisition. That was a crime to rank with heresy itself. Like heresy, blood could not wash it out—fire must burn its stains away.”

“I do not understand, patre,” José said, half shuddering.

The friar’s answer was slow and faltering. “I mean, the punishment was—_death by fire_!”

“Horrible!” cried José. “Was Don Alfonso saved?”

“From _that_ doom, yes. His relatives managed to procure for him, under a feigned name, a passage in a vessel bound for these unknown shores. It was the best they could do; and he was grateful for it—more than grateful, because they did not hate and curse him, though he had sinned against the Holy Inquisition. Father and mother blessed the wanderer—the last comforting memory left him to cling to.”

Fray Fernando was silent, until at last José asked, “Where, all this time, was Melchior?”

“Don Alfonso often inquired after him; and was assured that he was safe, and in hiding. But he believed too easily. In due time he embarked. The vessel dropped down lightly from Seville to San Lucar, a port on the coast; where she lay at anchor waiting for merchandize. Don Alfonso, standing at her side, gazed listlessly, through the golden evening light, on the quiet waters, and the low green shore, where the herds of oxen were browsing peacefully. From the shore came a little boat, with a passenger, whom business or pleasure had detained in Seville, and who, not to lose his passage, had ridden hard from the city. On board, he met an acquaintance, with whom he discussed the news of the day, walking up and down the deck, within earshot of Don Alfonso. But he heeded little; till at last a word was spoken that thrilled his soul. ‘To-day is taking place the great and long-expected _Auto-da-fé_.’”

“The—_what_, patre?”

José had to repeat his question. The monk seemed unwilling or unable to answer.

“What is an _Auto-da-fé_?”

“A solemn sacrifice,” Fray Fernando said at last; and he said no more.

“Let me make an end,” he resumed presently. “The stranger named the names of the victims, as he had heard them from his uncle, a Dominican. Happily, Juanita was not amongst them. I suppose she died in prison. There were some notorious heretics, several foreigners. And at last—”

“Patre, what ails you? Are you ill?” asked José, who was himself trembling at the vague, imperfectly understood horrors of the tale.

“No,” said the monk, lifting up his hand with a forbidding gesture, as José, now thoroughly alarmed at what the firelight revealed of his looks, seemed about to spring to his side.

He continued, though with evident effort:—“At last Don Alfonso heard the words ‘Melchior del Salto also is to be burned alive.’ The sky grew black, and the earth reeled around him. Yet, gathering all his strength, he held himself from swooning, that he might hear the end.—‘Why _that_ doom for him—never once suspected of heresy?’—The voices seemed to come from a great distance, but the words were clear and distinct.—‘He dealt a mortal blow to an alguazil of the Holy Office. The thing was proved beyond dispute. The poor man lived two days; and though he had not seen the face of his assailant, he swore to the dress, discerned by the torchlight. Nor did the prisoner deny the fact.’—At that word, Don Alfonso fell senseless. Better had he died thus,—save for his unhappy soul!”

“Patre,” said José, with decision, “you shall tell me no more such stories. This one is killing you.”

Fray Fernando wrestled in silence with some strong emotion ere he answered:—“What is begun shall be ended. José, that man did not die. When consciousness returned, he would fain have thrown himself from the ship, and rushed back to Seville. But too late! All was over now, all gone—save blackened ashes. So he let the winds and waves bear him onward where they would, with broken heart, and memory filled evermore with the image of the brother who died for him.”

“Did he kill himself?” asked José, whose race parted with life too lightly.

“No. He feared God, against whom, in His ministers, he had sinned most grievously. But he carried the mark of Cain on his brow—the doom of Cain in his heart. ‘My punishment is greater than I can bear. Behold, Thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from Thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth.’”

“Poor, unhappy man! Does he live yet, patre?”

“It may be. To me it seems that, were he near death, he ought to confess his deed. Not simply to a priest, for his soul’s sake, but also to some faithful friend, who for love of him would cross the sea, and, by revealing the truth, clear away the stain of infamy from the name of him who died in his stead.”

“A faithful friend, who for love of him would cross the sea!” José repeated. “Has he such, patre? Then there is hope for him yet.”

It was some time before Fray Fernando answered. When he did, his voice was choked and faltering, like the voice of one that wept. “Your words are wise,” he said. “Perhaps wiser than you think. Never ask me more of this, José. Never speak of it, to me or to another.”

“You may trust me, patre.”

“I do. Now lie down and sleep.”

José lay down obediently. But the command to sleep was more easily given than obeyed. Never in his life had he been more thoroughly awake. His mind was full of new, bewildering, fearful thoughts. What was this _Auto-da-fé_—this sacrifice, which seemed a horrible execution? Did Christians then offer human sacrifices? Where and how had the patre known the Melchior—and, still more, the Don Alfonso—of his tale? Was he, perchance, the faithful friend of the unhappy young nobleman? Or—at last there flashed unbidden on his mind another thought, so frightful that he drove it away with all the force of his will, loathing himself for having allowed it even to enter his imagination.

XIII.

The Doctors.

“But where is the iron-bound prisoner, where?
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.
Say, mounts he the ocean wave, banished, forlorn,
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn?”

CAMPBELL.

“Patre,” said José, as soon as the sun had risen, “will it please you now to permit me to run to the nearest dwellings and seek for food?”

Fray Fernando did not refuse the desired permission; and José, delighted to obtain it, first made his patient as comfortable as he could, then started on his errand.

In a few hours he returned, accompanied by a party of five or six Indians, whom, with much apparent satisfaction and some ceremony, he ushered into Fray Fernando’s presence, saying, “Here, patre, are the doctors.”

The men were comfortably clothed, after the native fashion, in tunics, short trousers, and mantles, with bright-coloured turbans, or caps, on their heads. But they looked worn and haggard, as men who followed a toilsome calling. Each had a kind of wallet strapped on his shoulders by a cord of maguey. The foremost of the group unbound his, and laid it at the feet of Fray Fernando, in token of his respect and desire to serve him.

But Fray Fernando naturally hesitated to receive medical advice from those whom he accounted mere barbarians; and expressed as much to José. The latter assured him, however, that the doctors were very wise—very skilful. “They spend many months together in the forests,” he said, “collecting herbs and plants of great healing virtue. Then they travel through the whole country, giving them in exchange for food or clothing, and making the sick men well. This knowledge has been handed down to them from the grandfathers of their grandfathers.”[29]

Upon this, Fray Fernando, thinking it probable they would not poison him, and perhaps also thinking it little matter if they did, consented to allow one of them to examine him; which he did by feeling his pulse, not at the wrist, but at the top of the nostrils, and under the eyelids.

José was soon informed in Quichua, which he translated into Spanish for the patient’s benefit, that the patre’s disease was the _sorachi_, an ailment to which travellers in those mountainous districts are liable. But the worst of the attack seemed to be over. The patient would be the better for pursuing his journey as soon as he felt at all able to do so. By the time he reached the plain he would probably be as well as ever. For his headache, he was to take a draught of herbs, and to use the powdered leaf of the _sayri_, a supply of which the doctor produced from his wallet. This was, in fact, the tobacco of modern Europe, which the Peruvians only employed as a medicine. José having hinted, however, that food was just then more needful to them than medicine, all the wallets were explored, and a sufficient quantity of parched maize, chuñu, and charqui (dried meat) was produced to make an abundant meal for the whole party. A portion of the latter was carefully cooked for Fray Fernando; but José and the other Indians did not use so much ceremony with their own food.

When the repast was finished, the “doctors” had some further conversation with their countryman; then they strapped up their wallets, and prepared to go their own way, from which they had been diverted by José’s earnest entreaties that they would come to the aid of his sick friend. Fray Fernando asked José what recompense he ought to bestow on them. But José told him none was needed. “They are very glad to serve you,” he said, “because you are my friend.” There was no arrogance or assumption in this: it was the simple truth. The words, “Yntip Churi” (Child of the Sun), had a magic in them to bow all hearts in Tahuantin Suyu. Fray Fernando, however, gave the doctors a few silver coins, which were thankfully accepted; and they parted with mute demonstrations of respect and good-will.

When they were gone, José silently prepared and administered the prescribed remedies, replenished the fire, gathered together and put aside the food that had been left. That done, he sat down, and looked at Fray Fernando with the air of a person who had tidings, heavy tidings, to communicate.

“Of what are you thinking, José?” the monk inquired. He rather expected that José would urge him to get up, and to make some effort to resume his journey.

But José’s thoughts were very differently occupied.

“Before they went away the doctors told me something,” he said.

Fray Fernando asked rather languidly what it was.

“Nothing good,” José answered sadly. “Another crime for the Spaniards, another wrong for the children of my people. The Inca is a captive.”

“Whom do you mean by the Inca?” Fray Fernando might be excused for asking, since seven years had passed since José named in his hearing the exiled prince whose right it was to wear the llautu. Moreover, much confusion was created in Spanish minds by the fact that _all_ the male descendants of Manco Capac were permitted to assume the cognomen of Inca.

“Whom should I mean but the sole Inca, Tupac Amaru? The viceroy has sent an army to Vilca-pampa. They have made him prisoner, and led him to Cuzco. Patre,” José continued, with scarce an effort to conceal his deep anxiety, “you understand your own people. Tell me what they will do with him.”

“How can I tell you, José?” Fray Fernando answered. And in truth it would have been hard for him to tell. But he knew something of the Viceroy Toledo, the kinsman of the notorious Alva, a stern, determined man, little likely to have taken the trouble of making the Inca a captive without a settled purpose and still less likely to shrink from executing that purpose, whatever it was.

“Three things are possible,” José continued, thoughtfully. “The Spaniards may desire to wring from us yet more of those treasures they covet so madly. They are wise. If for the usurper, Atahualpa, we filled the great hall of Caxa-marca breast high with gold, we will not do less, sorely as they have robbed us since, for the true heir of Manco Capac. But my heart misgives me they have worse thoughts than that. They may keep him in captivity, or even send him beyond the Mother Sea. Either way, it would be his death; for his spirit is brave and free, like the condor of the mountain.”

Fray Fernando knew there was yet another course possible to the Spaniards, but he did not care to name it.

José continued, “I can tell you at least what they will _not_ do with him. What they did with Sayri Tupac. To no deed renouncing the rights of his birth will the hand of Tupac Amaru be ever set.”

“When we arrive at Cuzco we shall learn all,” Fray Fernando said. “And, José, I will try to pursue the journey. I see we cannot remain here.”

“The doctors have left food enough to last us for to-day, patre. To-morrow, I hope, with God’s help, you will be able to travel a little.”

An expectation that was happily fulfilled. But Fray Fernando was still too weak to proceed far. He succeeded, however in reaching a little Indian village, where rest and refreshment were readily obtained.

Ten or twelve leagues of very mountainous country had yet to be traversed before Cuzco could be reached. It was not until the evening of the third day that the still invalided monk, with his Indian companion, stood at last upon one of the heights which overlook the ancient City of the Sun.

Cuzco nestles at the head of a fair and fertile valley, which forms an angle between two mountain ranges. José, whose demeanour all day had been solemn and reverent, like that of one about to participate in some religious rite, long gazed in silence on the scene spread out before him. But Cuzco was not only the sacred city of his dreams; it was also the first city he had ever seen. The mass of buildings confused and bewildered him, until at last he turned with a sigh of relief to the snowy peak of Vilcañota, which rose majestically above the hills that bounded the valley on the other side. Yet he soon turned back again to gaze upon the city of his fathers—the home of his imagination, the goal of his longings. “And was _that_ indeed the city? Was that beautiful Cuzco, the centre and the heart of Tahuantin Suyu?” Here seemed only shapeless masses of building, tangled mazes of streets, and the flash of a river here and there amidst a wilderness of thatched roofs and tumbled heaps of stone. Nothing was like what he expected.

All at once, however, his eye kindled, his whole countenance lighted up. He laid one hand on Fray Fernando’s arm, and with the other pointed to a rocky eminence on the north side of the city. It was crowned by three great semicircular walls of massive masonry, one within the other; and again within these were three lofty towers, built of light-coloured stone. “Look there!” he cried in rapture. “Yonder is the great fortress of Sachsahuaman, built by my renowned forefathers. Yes, it is; ofttimes have I heard it described. Every wall, every tower, I know already.” Long and fondly did his eye rest upon them; then he slowly turned his gaze to the other buildings, as if he would learn to understand them also, and imprint them on his memory. He felt no longer a stranger, but a child—a child going to his father’s home.

Yet he entreated Fray Fernando to defer his entrance into Cuzco until the following day, that the Sun himself might welcome them to his own city. Fray Fernando looked on this as an instance of the childishness which seemed strangely interwoven in the tangled web of José’s character with manly sense and feeling. Still, he granted the request, and all the more readily because he was very weary, and comfortable Indian dwellings were close at hand, in which they might rest for the night.

XIV.

The Last Inca.

“Oh, there was mourning when you fell,
In your own vales a deep-toned knell,—
An agony, a wild farewell!
But that hath long been o’er.

“Rest, with your still and solemn fame,—
The hills keep record of your name;
For never can a touch of shame
Darken the buried brow.”

HEMANS.

The next morning our travellers descended the hill, and soon found themselves within the precincts of the royal city.

As frequently happens, neither experienced just the emotions he expected. José was so confused and bewildered by the crowds which filled the street to overflowing, and thronged past him on every side, that he scarcely made an effort to look about him, and actually stood close to the temples and palaces he had dreamed of all his life without seeing them. His first impression was that the whole population of the city was escaping from some terrible calamity—a fire, an earthquake, or a flood. But recollecting that he had never seen a city before, and could not therefore be sure that this was not its ordinary condition, his apprehensions subsided, and he determined to hold his peace for the present. His fears, however, revived when he began to observe the downcast, tearful faces of the Indians, of whom the crowd was chiefly composed. Nor was he reassured on discovering that they were shared by his more experienced companion.

“José,” said the monk, “something very extraordinary must be going forward here. Ask one of the Indians what it is.”

Instead of making the inquiry at once from the next in the crowd, José managed to mount a large stone belonging to one of the Indian buildings which the Spaniards were demolishing, and from this vantage-ground surveyed the street. Noticing amongst the throng a white-haired, venerable-looking Indian, who wore around his head a cord of vicuña wool dyed carnation and yellow (the distinguishing badge of the Incas), he made his way, with much difficulty, towards the spot where he stood. But just as he was beginning to address him, a loud cry of terror drowned his voice, and he saw the Indians around scattering in all directions. Some hid themselves in the adjacent lanes and houses, the rest rushed wildly hither and thither—trampling upon each other in their panic.

The cause soon appeared. A young Spanish cavalier, dressed in shining armour, and mounted on a high-mettled horse, was spurring in hot haste through the crowded street, little regarding the lives and limbs of “los Indios.” In any thoroughfare such a circumstance would have caused alarm and confusion, but it created a fearful panic amongst a people who had not yet overcome their superstitious dread of the “huge earth-shaking beast” that obeyed the white man.[30]

José at first gave way with the rest. But he had seen horses in Nasca, and being naturally courageous, had successfully endeavoured to overcome his fear of them. Recovering self-possession, he looked about him, and observed that a poor little Indian child, who had been thrown down in the confusion, was lying almost beneath the horse’s hoofs. To snatch it from its perilous position, and deposit it safely in the nearest of a dozen pair of arms, stretched out simultaneously to receive it, was a minute’s work. In the next, José’s hand was laid boldly upon the rein of the reckless rider. “Have a care how you ride, señor caballero,” he said in Spanish; “we have all lives and limbs to lose, worth as much in God’s sight as your own.”

The youth, for he was no more—a very handsome young Spaniard, with fine, haughty, aristocratic features, dark, curled hair, and the first down on his blooming cheek—cast a look of amazement upon “El Indio,” who dared to remonstrate with him, and in such good Castilian. Then, flushing with anger, he raised his riding-whip. “Curse your insolence!” he cried. “Let go my rein, you Indian dog.”

Don José Viracocha Inca had not come to the city of his fathers to be treated as a slave. He instantly snatched the whip from the hand of the Spaniard, whose keenly-tempered blade leaped the next moment from its scabbard and flashed in the sunlight. Fatal consequences might have followed, had not one from the crowd laid a strong hand on José’s shoulder, and, partly by force, partly by a few words—brief, but of momentous import—whispered in his ear, drawn him away from the scene of conflict. The whip fell to the ground, and one of the bystanders picked it up and gave it to its owner; who spurred on to the great square, lest he should incur a severe rebuke from his senior officer, and still more, lest he should miss the tragedy about to be enacted there.

Meanwhile José turned a blank, terrified face to the old Indian with the fillet of vicuña wool—for he it was whose friendly violence had extricated him from his perilous position.—“_The Inca?_” he repeated; “what is it you say of the Inca?”

“I say of you, that you are a brave youth, but that this is no time to show it, when the eye of every man in Cuzco is dim with tears for the Inca.”

“The Inca?—Do I hear aright? Speak once again, my father.”

“While I speak, they are leading the Inca to his death in yonder square.”

“Alalau! Dare they do such a deed?—even the Spaniards?—What is his crime?”

“He has refused to touch Spanish gold,” said the old man bitterly. “From hands red with his people’s blood he would accept nothing. So at last they give him the one gift he cannot refuse—the stroke that sends him to the mansions of his Father the Sun.”

To José it seemed as if the sun itself had suddenly become black in the heavens. To him the Inca was as truly a part of the unchanging and unchangeable order of things as the light that ruled the day. Gladly would he have laid down his own head on the block instead of his.

“Let me look on his face,” he exclaimed at last; “I have never seen him.”

“Come,” said the other briefly; and together they threaded their way through the crowd to the great square.

In the old times, when the Inca made his royal progress, the spots where his golden litter rested took a new name from that auspicious hour. Eager thousands thronged around, rending the air, and, as the historian says, “bringing down the birds” with their joyful acclamations; and a happy man was he who was so favoured as to behold the face of his prince and lord. _Now_, instead of the golden throne, there was a grim scaffold draped with black; instead of shouts of joy, there were groans and lamentations, and “noise of weeping loud.” Yet the devotion of the nation’s heart burned on unquenched. Because the homage rendered was not born of fear, but of love, it survived all outward change, all circumstance and pomp of golden thrones, and armed guards, and costly apparel, and was poured forth, only more richly than ever, at the feet of the despoiled and fettered captive on his way to death.

With hands bound, and halter round his neck, the son of Manco Capac ascended the scaffold. His face was calm and his step firm. He was not unworthy of his royal ancestors, who had ever braved death dauntlessly on the battle-field. Yet Tupac Amaru, still in the morning of his days, keenly felt the injustice of his doom. Looking down upon the sea of upturned dusky faces, he raised his fettered right hand, with the palm open, then slowly lowered it again, mutely commanding silence.

And silence, sudden and complete, fell upon that great wailing multitude. It was “as if there had not been one soul left alive in the whole city.” So was obeyed the Inca’s last command.

“Let it be proclaimed to all the world,” said Tupac Amaru, “that I have done no wrong, and that I die only because it is the pleasure of the tyrant.”

Then he knelt down on the scaffold, clasped his hands, and raised his eyes to heaven. “O God!” he cried, in his native tongue, “behold how mine enemies rob me of my blood!”

There was a minute’s pause; then the silent gliding forward of a hooded, black-robed figure; then the gleam and flash of steel. Then a wail of anguish—the cry of a great nation’s broken heart—that arose from the crowded square of Cuzco, and swept on and on till it reached the most secluded hut of the distant Andes. The last sands of the glorious dynasty of Manco Capac had run out. There was no more an Inca.

The murder of young Tupac Amaru deserves to be remembered, not because it was the most cruel of the misdeeds of the conquerors of Tahuantin Suyu, but because of the innocence of the victim, and because of the hopes that were buried in his grave. How, after that day’s tragedy, could the Indians continue to cherish in secret the fond belief that the true heir of Manco Capac reigned still in the wild forests of Vilca-pampa, and that one day he would issue thence in victorious might to recover the throne of his fathers?

Yet hope is hard to kill. It may lie in seeming death, and be laid in the grave; but if inspired by love it will rise again, partaking of love’s immortality. There was no more an Inca. But not the less did the Indians whisper to each other, “The Inca will come again.” Only henceforward the restoration of the loved dynasty became not so much a political hope as an article of religious faith.[31]

XV.

The Golden City.

“How princely are thy towers,
How fair thy vales, thy hills how beautiful!
The sun, who sheds on thee his parting smiles,
Sees not in all his wide career a scene
Lovelier, nor more exuberantly blest
By bounteous earth and heaven. The very gales
Of Eden waft not from the immortal bowers
Odours to sense more exquisite than those
Which breathing from thy groves and gardens now
Recall in me such thoughts of bitterness.
The time has been when happy was their lot
Who had their birthright there; but happy now
Are those who to thy bosom have gone home.”

SOUTHEY.

The voice of José’s white-haired guide mingled in the great wail that rose from the square of Cuzco. Then the old man bowed his head and wept, José also weeping with him.

“Come home with me,” said the Indian noble at last, as the crowd began slowly to disperse.

“We are kinsmen,” José answered, and told his name, then briefly recapitulated his pedigree.

“I also am of Viracocha’s ayllu,” said the Indian. “My name is Yupanqui.[32] And here,” he added presently, “is my house.” For Yupanqui’s dwelling, like most of the palaces of the Inca nobility who resided at Cuzco, opened on the great square.

José followed his conductor into a low, one-storied building, formed of massive blocks of stone fitted into each other with wonderful accuracy. The doorway, wide near the ground, sloped gradually inwards, the lintel being considerably narrower than the threshold. A kind of passage brought them to a court, into which many similar doors opened, each leading to a separate chamber. This arrangement was rendered necessary by the absence of windows.

The old Inca conducted his guest into one of these chambers, which was spacious, and adorned with richly-coloured hangings of llama’s wool. There were also niches in the walls, containing a few ornaments of gold and silver—not many, for Spanish cupidity must not be tempted: the less men had, or were thought to have, the better for them in those days. On the ground were seated a group of women of all ages, weeping and wailing, and making sore lamentation for the Inca.

On a raised seat in the midst were two young girls dressed in robes of pure white, bordered with yellow, woven of vicuña wool, soft and fine as silk. Their black and glossy hair hung over their shoulders in long plaits, while the symmetry of their slight, graceful forms, and the dark beauty of their delicate features, fully justified the admiration of the high-born cavaliers of Spain for these daughters of the Sun. A delicious sensation stole over the heart of José: it was as though he heard the spirit-music of the desert of Achapa, which surprises the weary traveller at sunset, coming he knows not whence, and passing he knows not whither.

He stood apart, a silent spectator. The conversation between the old Indian, his grandchildren, and their attendants, gradually revealed to him much of their history. He came to understand that one of these girls had been destined to occupy the high position of Coya (empress, or chief wife) to the murdered Inca. But some time elapsed before he could tell which, since the grief of both seemed equal. When the younger, still almost a child, clasped her small hands, and raising her dark, tearful eyes to heaven, prayed God to avenge their prince, José said within himself, “Surely this was the Inca’s choice. No marvel,—she is surpassingly lovely.” But he was mistaken. Soon afterwards, turning to her sister, who sat silent, her face for the most part hidden in her robe, she said, “Sumac,[33] my sister, above all things I pity you that you cannot die with him, as they used to do in the old days—the good ones.”