Cristoval interrupted. "What! Didst serve with Gonsalvo?"

"With the Great Captain," said Pedro.

"Then, by Saint Michael, we were comrades!"

Pedro nodded without surprise, and continued quickly: "She had beauty

then, senor. Poor girl! She was learning, by hard experience, to hold

all men her enemies. She hath not forgotten. I heard of her again in

the campaign of '22, and again at Pavia, where I left my leg. After

that, no more until I found her here at Panama, two years ago. It is

said she worked her way hither from Spain, disguised as a common sailor,

and I doubt it not, for I have known of another woman who did as much.

_Por cierto_, her eloquence was not gained in camps alone! It hath the

savor of the sea as well, and she commandeth the most vigorous that each

affordeth, my head upon it! But whatever her youth, Senor Cristoval,

the saints preserve the man who would turn a soft eye upon her to-day.

She weigheth, I should guess, some twelve or fourteen stone. 'T is all

hostility!"

Cristoval reflectively gathered up his papers. "Well," he said, "we can

pray for peace. Let us go."

"Whither?" asked Pedro.

"To the senora's."

"_Misericordia_! I think I had best ride back to my _hacienda_ for the

night, _Senor Teniente_."

"How far?" asked Cristoval.

"Three leagues or less."

"Absurd, Pedro! Thou 'rt to begin thy duties in the morning. Come."

Accompanied reluctantly by the stout cook leading his mule, and followed

by the halberdier, Cristoval led down a narrow, garbage-littered street

to a large house built around the usual patio. It had been the

residence of some officer of government, and its size made it suitable

for the recruiting officer, the poverty of whose levies made it

necessary to provide for their keep before sailing to join Pizarro.

They entered the suggestively quiet court, and having seen that his

recruits had made proper use of the kitchen, Cristoval gave orders

concerning quarters for the night, and ascended to the second floor in

quest of the senora. He found her alone in a dim-lighted, lofty,

bare-walled apartment,--the salon of the establishment in its better

days.

The senora was a black-haired, black-eyed woman of generous proportions.

She wore, now and generally, an air of stern repression of what

Cristoval, after Pedro's account, knew to be the hostility mentioned.

Notwithstanding the marring effects of a stormy career on her rather

florid face, she was not uncomely. Her eyes were those of her race,

which seem always smouldering with the fire of passion, gentle or the

reverse as the case may be. She received the cavalier with dignity;

heard his explanation of Pedro's status; directed, coldly, that her

servants be called upon for assistance, and Cristoval bowed himself away

with relief.

*CHAPTER II*

_*The Senora Declares a Purpose*_

The next day the whole city crowded to look upon the booty from Peru, on

display at the office of the governor, and many an adventurer, after

feasting his eyes on the gleaming treasure, went straight to the door

beneath the banner of the "Army of the Conquest." Thereafter the

recruiting went on rapidly, and the Bolio establishment soon wore the

appearance of a barrack. When sufficiently advertised the office was

transferred from the square, and now the banner floated over the Bolio

gate.

The arrival of Hernando de Soto with a small company lent new impetus.

The participation of a leader of his reputation gave confidence to many

who had hesitated to enlist in an enterprise which had already met

serious reverses and was led by one commonly regarded as visionary.

Neither Pizarro nor his partner, Diego de Almagro, had been known as

other than needy soldiers of fortune, and not even the countenance given

by the Crown of Spain had raised them above the derisive scepticism of

Panama. It had long been incredulous regarding a rich and civilized

empire to the southward, and had been niggardly in its support. The two

preceding expeditions had met disaster complete; but the leaders

persisted with unconquered resolution, and the matter began to assume

moment. There were scoffers still, but many who had held aloof hastened

to offer service. Most of the levies were drawn by mere hope of

plunder, or driven by sheer necessity. Some were impelled by ambition

for the sort of glory won by the conquerors of Mexico. A few were

attracted by the audacity and perseverance of the commander, but these

qualities were not uncommon enough to give Pizarro preeminence among men

of a race then unsurpassed in its soldiery, and of all considerations

they weighed the least.

Whatever the motives that led recruits to Pizarro's banner, they

comprised all sorts and conditions of men, from the noble and hidalgo to

the fugitive from the law--younger sons of ancient families bearing

historic names; veterans of European wars, free-lances from every

country on the northern shores of the Mediterranean. It was a band as

mixed as the swarms of pirates infesting the Indies in later years, and

hardly less ferocious in hunger for blood and plunder.

The days flew quickly, and few remained before the command should

embark. Considering the character of the men, the preparations had gone

on smoothly. But there had been, it must be said, certain flurries,

even small tempests, from another source. These episodes were due to

the temperament and powers of Senora Bolio. This worthy lady proved to

be a slumbering volcano--yet not always slumbering--with potentialities

that justified the impressive words of Pedro. She erupted unexpectedly,

for causes unforeseen, and spread sudden confusion throughout the

establishment. There would be heard from time to time in the patio a

quick disturbance, a scurrying of soldiery, and then a tirade in the

deep tones of the senora, matchless for rapid invective. Perhaps a

soldier, a newcomer to Panama, would venture to oppose her eloquence

with his own, like in kind, but feeble in comparison. It was only to

court defeat and humiliation.

To Cristoval, at first amusing, it soon grew monotonous, and as his time

became precious, an annoyance and irritation. He appealed, to Pedro, in

whom there might lie hope.

"In the name of the fiend, Pedro," said he, "canst suppress that woman?

If so, do it--in a gentle way if possible; for she is a woman. Those

varlets below deserve their flaying, but it groweth wearisome."

Pedro shook his head. "I doubt if she could be estopped by anything

short of strangulation. However, I'll cast about." But he muttered as

he moved away: "Now the saints lend me their protection! This is what

cometh of being a cook."

Thereafter, when the lady broke out, Pedro, with marvellous patience,

would go to the patio, approach her with all deference, and oppose her

torrent with an equal flood of apologies, assurances, entreaties,

compliments, and cajoleries, with splendid versatility. And however

great her rage, the moment would come when Madame would stop to

listen--and be undone. The cook would thereupon lead her ceremoniously

to her door, bow her across the threshold, and return to his kitchen

leaving the lady appeased. But having regained his privacy, Pedro would

swear roundly.

These repeated softenings were not without their effect upon the senora.

This effect was cumulative. As the days went by it grew apparent that in

her hostility toward mankind she made the suave _cantinero_ an

exception. This he noticed at first with natural complacency. Later,

when her attitude became one of tolerant friendliness, he blessed his

stars, vowing privately that his circumspection should be without a

flaw. Still later, as a consequence, the senora's amiability grew more

pronounced, expressed by small favors, and even by occasional

invitations to sup. The good Pedro's serenity increased, and its

influence seemed to spread over the establishment. Alas for his

tranquillity, for its life was short! The senora had speaking eyes, and

as they looked with growing favor upon the gracious cook, they softened

in a measure that could never have escaped one less unsuspecting than

he.

Pedro went his placid way, unconscious of the growing tenderness, until

a glance awoke him to his peril. There was no doubt, no need of words

to interpret. It was only a glance in passing, but Pedro looked after

the lady in consternation. As she passed he crossed himself, stood a

moment, then deserted his task and stumped with precipitation to the

first refuge--to Cristoval. The cavalier looked up as the cook entered.

Pedro sank into a chair.

"Ho! Pedro, what is to do?" demanded the cavalier, surveying his

agitation with concern. "What hath happened?"

Pedro stared at him in silence, with parted lips, and in abstraction.

He seemed not to have heard the question, nor to see his questioner, in

the absorption of contemplating the tacit revelation of a moment before,

with the possible complexities to follow. Senora Bolio's avowal was

unspoken, but how long would the silence be preserved? And with the

ardor of that impetuous nature turned to tender passion, with her

boundless powers of utterance directed against him as its object!--ah,

_Dios!_ what would become of him?

Again Cristoval demanded, more than half alarmed: "What is it, Pedro?

Name of a saint! Why dost stare in that ghastly way? Come! Speak,

man! Hast lost thy tongue?"

Pedro, still speechless, gathered up his apron and wiped his forehead;

placed a fist upon either knee, and glowered at the floor. Cristoval

leaned back in astonishment. Never before had Pedro's language failed.

Once more the cook passed his apron across his brow, glanced again at

Cristoval, arose abruptly, and went as far as the door. Here he paused,

hesitated, then turning back, whispered hoarsely, "Senor Cristoval, by

the gods of heathens, I've--I've overdone it!"

"Overdone it! Overdone what, thou mysterious cook?" But Pedro had

gone.

He regained his kitchen by stealth, moving by short dashes, with many a

halt to reconnoitre. His boy-helper, Pedrillo, was there, and

approaching, Pedro clutched him by the arm. "Pedrillo," he said

solemnly: "Pedrillo, have I been good to thee?"

Pedrillo looked up with wide-open eyes. "Why--bodkins!--of a surety,

Master! Who saith not?"

"No one hath said. But hear me, Pedrillo!--as thou hopest some day to

be a cook, stay by me! Stay by me! Dost understand? Until we are safe

aboard ship, leave me not for a minute!--not a minute!"

"_Cielo!_" exclaimed the astonished boy. "What is wrong, senor? Do--do

you have fits?"

"It will be worse than fits, Pedrillo," replied Pedro, seriously, "if

thou failest me an instant. Promise!"

Pedrillo promised, swore to it, and for the rest of the day watched his

patron in mystification. Thereafter the cook slept with his heavy

furniture piled against the door.

Pedrillo kept his word as far as possible; but vigilance cannot be

eternal, and sometimes Pedro was alone. On one of these occasions the

worst befell. The senora entered. That she came with fell purpose Pedro

divined at a glance. He saw flashes of soft lightning in her eyes, more

dreaded now than the blaze of her ire. Instinctively he placed himself

with the table between.

The lady looked quickly about, and approaching, said in a tone he had

not heard her use before, "Pedro, I have a word for thee."

"Oh, the fiend, senora!" he interrupted, paling slightly and looking for

Pedrillo. "Say it to some one else--now do! There's a good woman!

I--stew me!--I am a busy man. I have a roast on the point of burning, I

swear it! Come, now, I--"

"It is for thee, Pedro," she said with resolution, but Pedro noted with

relief that she spoke slowly. He had expected a storm of tender

protestations without prelude, as vehement as her upbraidings of the

men. "It is for thee," she said again, and Pedro quailed.

"Nay, Senora Bolio," he pleaded. "Be discreet, I pray thee! Talk of it

first to--to Father Gregorio, now. Thou'rt young, and--" The senora

blushed, and Pedro cursed the slip. Said she:

"I will talk to Father Gregorio later, Pedro; but first to thee."

Pedro groaned, and swore under his breath. "Hold, senora!" he cried.

"Thou 'rt making a mistake. Say it not to me--to some other man. To

Peralta--to De Soto! They are good men both; but I--"

"And so art thou!" she said hastily, "though once I did think thee a

knave, like the rest."

"Ah! So I am! So I am!" cried Pedro with impetuosity. "That and

worse, my word for it! I am a very Turk--a basilisk! Senora, thou

knowest not the depth of mine iniquities--and moreover, I have but one

leg. Consider that! Peralta hath two good ones. I am incomplete--a

cripple--a--"

"Oh, Pedro, thou 'rt the only man I ever knew!" interrupted the lady,

with fervor; then, rapidly: "Thou 'rt a good man, Pedro, and hast a

kindly heart. Not once beneath this roof hast thou used an unbecoming

word to me. Whilst these scapins of soldiers have tried my patience

with their insolence, thou hast spoken only with gentleness--and 'tis

rare enough to me--rare enough, God knoweth!" She brushed away a coming

tear. "But I have come to tell thee, Pedro--"

"Do not say it! Do not say it!" shouted Pedro in desperation. "I tell

thee, senora--"

"But I will say it," she said with a sudden return of firmness. "And

why not? I've come to tell thee--I am going to Peru. Why should I not

say it?"

Pedro staggered. "Is that all?" he exploded. "Is that all? Naught

else?"

"Numskull!" retorted the lady. "Is it not enough? What more wouldst

have me say?"

"Nothing more, by the Sacrament! 'Tis enough! Why didst not say it in

the beginning?" and Pedro's good knee grew suddenly weak, as if he had

been snatched from death. The senora regarded him kindly for a moment,

and went on:

"I am going to Peru--not now, for De Soto hath denied me passage--but

later. I'll find thee, good Pedro. We shall meet again." Pedro's jaw

set, but he said nothing.

She took a step forward and said gently, "Pedro--" Pedrillo entered,

almost embraced by his master, who at once became feverishly occupied in

a variety of duties. The senora tarried a moment and withdrew, with a

smile to Pedro, who sank into a chair and used his apron on his forehead

with industry, pausing at intervals with his hands on his knee to glower

at the floor. The senora was going to Peru!

De Soto took command a few days later, and the force marched to the

Cathedral, where solemn High Mass was celebrated and the sacrament

partaken of by every soldier. The two brigantines for the expedition

rode at anchor off the town; before midday they were standing out to

sea.

You may learn, Reader, from history, how Pizarro, strengthened by De

Soto's reenforcement, descended upon the Peruvian city of Tumbez, and

how he found it in ruins, the result of a civil war between the two

heirs of the Inca Huayna Capac. The old monarch had left his domain to

be divided between the princes Atahualpa and Huascar, fatuously hoping

that either would be content with less than the whole. For five short

years the brother kings had reigned in peace. Atahualpa, younger of the

two, was son to a princess of Quito, a kingdom conquered by his

grandfather. He was an ambitious and warlike ruler, and to him fell

Quito as Huayna Capac's bequest. To the elder brother, Huascar, fell

Cuzco, the ancient capital, and the southern part of the empire.

Huascar was the son of the legitimate wife of Huayna Capac, a woman of

the Inca blood; and although a wise and generous king, he was inferior

to Atahualpa in aggressive energy. Causes were not long wanting for

war. Huascar was vanquished, and when Pizarro landed at Tumbez, was

prisoner in the fortress of Xauxa. Thus much, briefly, Pizarro learned

concerning the country he was invading, and that Atahualpa with his

victorious army lay at the interior town of Caxamalca, some three

hundred miles to the southward.

You may read, furthermore, how the Spaniard, tarrying not long at ruined

Tumbez, marched down along the coast, peaceably for the most part, by

rigid restraint of his men, and was hospitably welcomed by the wondering

natives. Three weeks he marched, proclaiming the temporal sovereignty

of the King of Spain, the spiritual sovereignty of the Pope of Rome,

unfolding his banners, and formally recording as acknowledgment of

vassalage the acquiescence of the Peruvians to manifestoes of whose

sense they had no inkling. Fine hardihood! With a handful of men--fewer

than two hundred and fifty--Pizarro was invading an empire of whose

civilization and warlike character there was ample evidence. He was

calmly laying claim to the realm of a prince whose power he could not

guess!

Toward the end of May he halted in the fertile vale of Tangarala, near

the sea, and announced his purpose to build a town. And build a town he

did! He pressed the natives into service, and they quarried the stone

and hewed the timber for buildings as solid as his own intrepidity. He

named the place San Miguel.

Four months were consumed in establishing this base. On the

twenty-fourth of September the Army of the Conquest took up its march to

meet the legions of the Inca. The command, reduced by the number left

at San Miguel, mustered seventy horse, one hundred infantry, and two

small pieces of artillery.

*CHAPTER III*

_*Nipping a Conspiracy*_

The column found convenient halting places in the caravansaries, or

_tambos_, established for the troops of the Inca. These were of great

extent, with barracks, magazines, and extensive fortifications. They

afforded more than ample security for Pizarro's force, and he availed

himself of their shelter and stores of food without scruple.

Five days out from San Miguel there occurred an incident but for which

this story had not been written,--an incident, not only of momentous

import to the fortunes of Cristoval in its sequence, but one which

threatened as well to end Pizarro's dream of conquest.

The command had halted at a _tambo_, finding it, as usual, ungarrisoned.

Details were quickly made for guard and other duties, and Cristoval was

assigned to command a patrol to reconnoitre the neighboring village. An

hour after sunset the detachment returned, and Cristoval went to his

quarters to disarm. De Soto entered a moment later, and together they

repaired to Pedro's.

The portly cook had already established himself as no mean adjunct of

the expeditionary force, and at every halt set up his _cantina_, opened

his wineskins, and served whatever broils, fries, or stews his

unscrupulous energy as a forager made possible. He was a good cook, his

kettles and spits always held something more savory than the kitchens of

the companies afforded, and as a consequence he was well patronized by

the soldiers, of whatever rank. On the march, with Pedrillo leading his

two pack mules, himself astride of an ambling gray, his peg-leg in a

stirrup specially contrived, his saddle festooned with vegetables and

other predatory trophies, he brought up the rear or jogged along beside

the column, bantering the soldiers, telling droll stories, or singing

ballads of doubtful propriety. When camp was made, headquarters were

not established more promptly than Pedro's cook shop, and from sunset

until closed by the rounds it was full of men, eating, gambling, or

drinking _chicha_, the native beverage distilled from maize.

Places were made for the two cavaliers at one of the tables, and soon

Pedro limped across the room, wiping his hands on an apron once white.

"Well, Senor Cristoval," said he, lounging against the table, "what

news?"

"News? I'm hungry."

"No news at all!" retorted Pedro. "Who ever knew thee otherwise? I

have better. A few more turns, and I'll have a haunch of llama done to

a brown; and it will taste none the worse for the fact that it is a

misdemeanor for anyone but an Inca--a noble, that is--to eat of it."

"Oh, Pedro, thou prince of foragers!" exclaimed Cristoval. "How camest

thou by it?"

"Why," said Pedro, "I made an excursion this morning with my boy."

"Unhappy Peru! Well?"

"Well, we met a herder on the road, a few miles back, with a beautiful

drove. We dismounted, my boy and I, and I paraded my wooden leg to the

marvel of the Indio; took a pack of cards from my saddle-bag and wrought

divers tricks of magic--vanishing cards and the like--thou knowest;

swallowed a horseshoe nail and took it out of mine ear; swallowed it

again and took it out of his ear. He was spellbound with wonder--turned

to stone, as if he had looked upon the aegis of Minerva,--and at this

juncture my boy threw his jacket over the head of one of the calves, or

lambs, or colts, or pups, or whatever Heaven may be pleased to call the

offspring of these heathen quadrupeds, and vanished into the bush. He

might have removed the herd entire! I patted the Indio on the back,

embraced him as a brother--found he had no pockets!--and sent him on his

way. When last we saw him his jaws were still agape!"

As Pedro finished, his face grew red, his eyes closed in a convulsion

which gradually extended over his broad body, and from the depths came a

succession of wheezes that shook his frame. He made no other sound.

Apoplexy seemed imminent, and Cristoval exclaimed:--

"Gods, man! Be sparing of thy laughter, if that is the form it taketh.

Thou 'rt too plethoric to do it safely, Pedro!"

Pedro's symptoms subsided, and he stumped away to send Pedrillo with the

roast.

A few minutes later an orderly entered, seeking De Soto. The latter

rose, and, saying that he would return presently, followed the

messenger, leaving Cristoval dawdling over his supper. There were few

besides himself in the room--a spacious apartment with walls of

unadorned stone, a flagged floor, and great doors opening upon the

court. In the rear Pedro had his fire on the pavement, the smoke

escaping through a hole in the roof, which, like all thus far seen, was

of thatch. Rough tables and benches had been thrown together by the

soldiers, always willing to do Pedro a service, and in the corner sat

two troopers and three or four of the infantry. They had been

conversing over their _chicha_, with heads together, and evidently

occupied with a subject of interest. After De Soto went Cristoval noted

casually that they were referring to him and glancing in his direction.

Finally Moreno, one of the troopers, caught his eye, and beckoned him to

join them. He sauntered over.

"Sit, _companero_, and have a cup with us," said the trooper, pouring

for him. "We would have thine opinion."

"My opinion!" said Cristoval, in slight surprise. "In what connection?"

"Regarding this," replied Moreno. "Thou hast soldiered enough to think

with a cool head--to estimate chances for and against in a campaign.

Now, what are thy views here? Thou knowest our strength,--some

three-score horse, well equipped; a hundred foot, miserably equipped;

two pieces of artillery, three arquebuses, a handful of arbalests. What

force hath this Senor Inca whom we seek? God knoweth! We have heard,

ten thousand warriors; again, fifty thousand; again, one hundred

thousand. _Por cierto_, he may have at the beck of his finger every man

and boy in his kingdom, not to say the women! Now, what will the Inca

do with the Army of the Conquest some morning after breakfast? He will

wipe it out! He will eat it up! We shall dance one merry fandango to

his piping, and--pouf!--_Adios, la Conquista_!"

"And copper-colored dames will rock their copper-colored brats in

Spanish bucklers," added an infantryman named Juarez.

"And make soup in Spanish morions," growled another.

"Hast thought of these things?" asked Moreno.

"Aye, I have thought of them," replied Cristoval, "and I confess your

prophecy seemeth not unlikely; but--"

"But the worst of the matter is that the farther we go the smaller our

chance of plunder," continued Moreno. "At Coaque every varlet of the

natives wore his gold and silver. They shed it at a poke of the finger

in the ribs. Hereabouts the people are as innocent of precious metal as

a flock of sheep."

"At Coaque, moreover," said Juarez, "we were not far from Quito, and if

there was aught in the rumors concerning that city, the looting of it

would load us all with what we seek. At any rate, if the Inca with his

army lieth beyond these accursed mountains, he is not at Quito. We might

have sacked the city and been away ere this, and getting the worth of

our gold in pleasure at Panama."

Cristoval quietly sipped his _chicha_. "Well," said he at length, "what

would you, Senores?"

"In brief, this," responded Moreno, emphatically. "Give over this

harebrained purpose of bearding the lion and being made meat for his

whelps, and go back where we found gold in plenty."

"But the general hath planned otherwise," remarked Cristoval, revolving

his cup. "Dost think he is a man to alter at our discontent? I think

not."

"Most certainly he will not alter--so long as he hath followers,"

replied Moreno. "But if we refuse to follow?"

Cristoval eyed him for a second before answering. "But we have given

oath to follow, Moreno."

"A witch's blessing upon our oaths!" exclaimed Juarez, hotly. "Have we

given oath to jump into fire after this _loco_? I, for one, set value

on my hide. Let him lead with his senses about him, and we will go!

Otherwise, by--"

"Softly, softly, _amigo mio_!" interrupted Moreno, unwilling that the

disaffection should be too outspoken until Cristoval was more thoroughly

sounded. "As thou sayest, we will go with him, Juarez, but," he turned

again to Cristoval, "we are losing time and golden opportunity. If we

but drop this insane purpose of conquest, a month's campaigning, rightly

directed, will make us all rich men--thee as rich as the rest, Peralta."

Cristoval pushed away his cup. "Waste not thy breath, Moreno. If you

men are discontented, quit the expedition. Return to San Miguel without

spreading your dissatisfaction. It were better."

Moreno bit his lip. "Art thou, then, as mad as Pizarro? Canst not see

that every league we march toward the Inca doubleth our peril? Dost not

see this seeming friendliness on the part of these heathens is only to

lure us farther into the trap? And what have we gained thus far? Not a

_maravedi_!"

"Enough, Moreno!" exclaimed Cristoval, with impatience. "I see the

danger, _seguramente_! But better the danger than perfidy."

The last word was unwelcome. A foot-soldier swore, and a murmur rose

from the group.

"Peace!" commanded Moreno, glancing at his fellows with darkened face.

"Thou hadst best consider, Peralta. Listen," he lowered his voice and

leaned over the table. "As a matter of truth, there is dissatisfaction

among the men at rushing blindly against the Inca's unknown strength.

They would have a more prudent leader, Cristoval, and--several have

spoken of thee."

Cristoval blurted a sudden oath and pushed back from the table, glaring

from one to another with kindling eyes. "What! Hath it gone so far?" he

demanded. "Have ye settled the details of your treason? Furies and

devils! And ye would have me one with your cursed scheme of mutiny? A

more prudent leader, forsooth! By the saints, ye should have a

swineherd! Ah! Have ye smelled an enemy, that ye've so suddenly lost

your bowels for going farther? Then go back!--sneak back with your

tails between your craven legs!"

Moreno sprang to his feet. The others rose with him, and a growl went

up as they turned upon Peralta, several with swords half drawn. He

remained seated, contemptuously ignoring the menace, and continued:--

"Thou hast asked mine opinion, Moreno, and, by Saint Michael, thou shalt

have it to sleep over!--and these pig-driver's dogs of thine shall have

it as well!"

However, they did not have it. His words were not uttered before a

confused gleam and the sinister ring of steel went round the table, as

every weapon was bared. In a flash Cristoval was on his feet, sword in

hand. Moreno and Juarez vaulted over the table. The others came round

its end, pell-mell, stumbling over one another in blood-thirsty

eagerness. The soldier nearest was too close to use his blade, and

before he could step back Cristoval felled him with the heavy hilt of

his own; but felt the steel of the man behind as it grazed his side. He

sprang back of the overturned bench and placed himself in the angle of

the wall, his right partly protected by another table. They were upon

him in the instant, but the confusion of their combined attack was in

his favor. There was a lightning play of steel about him, but each of

the assailants impeded the others. Aided in defence by a poniard in his

left hand, Cristoval warded cut and thrust, and after a short moment of

rapid clash and glitter his opponents fell back, one with a cheek laid

open, another coughing from a thrust in the chest.

"Damn your zeal, learn a lesson of caution!" muttered Cristoval, and

they were upon him again. This time the assault was circumspect.

Moreno, by far the most formidable, had been hampered in the first

attack by the crowding, but now he assured himself of ample room.

Cristoval found himself hard pressed, and thrice he felt the burning of

their points.

Meanwhile Pedro, who had gone out before the conflict began, reentered

and stood for a moment transfixed. The confusion was so great that he

was unable to distinguish the sides opposed; but when he saw the danger

of Cristoval he broke into a stream of oaths, dancing about, frantic at

his own unarmed helplessness. His boy stood petrified, a fork in hand,

gazing at the battle. Pedro sprang at him.

"Fetch Pizarro!" he shouted. "Call the guard! Quick! Jump, thou imp,

or I'll spit thee!"

The boy dashed out, and Pedro jerked a kettle of boiling soup from the

fire, seized a ladle, and threw himself into the fight. A flood of the

scalding liquor descended upon a pikeman, and he whirled upon the cook

with a howl of rage, to be promptly knocked down by a blow from the

heavy ladle. Shower after shower fell upon the group in front of

Cristoval, carrying scalds, dismay, and demoralization. Blinded and

smarting, they fell away from the attack, and Moreno, recognizing the

source of the hot counter assault, lowered his head and charged the cook

with his rapier. Pedro's ammunition was exhausted. He hurled his

kettle, missed, fell backward over a bench, and rolled under a table,

where Moreno was thrusting at him ineffectually when a heavy hand jerked

him back, and Pizarro stood before him, black with anger. The guard had

followed him in, and was already making the other combatants secure.

"How now?" Pizarro demanded hoarsely. "Fighting among ourselves? Name

of God! Is Spanish blood so cheap that we can waste it in

brawls?--Seize this man!" he commanded, turning to the guard.

Pedro had gathered himself together, and was lifting Cristoval out of

the corner where he had fallen. A sentinel was posted at the door, and

a soldier despatched to summon the officers. De Soto and Jose, the old

armorer, had followed Pizarro, and Cristoval's cuts were quickly

bandaged. The officers hurried in, a summary court was organized for

inquiry, and the assailants, with the exception of three who were

receiving rough surgical care, were lined up under guard, blistered and

sullen.

Pedro's testimony was the first to be taken, but it gave no

enlightenment regarding the origin of the affray, and Juarez was

examined. He was disposed to be recalcitrant, but Pizarro ordered

thumbscrews, and the sight of the instrument loosed his tongue.

Discipline was enforced in those days by effective means. Juarez well

knew what was coming. He glanced at the screws, at Pizarro, and

shrugged his surrender; then, with apparent candor, he told of the

conversation and of the growing discontent among the men. Pizarro

ordered the prisoners into confinement, and they were marched away by

the guard, their relief at escape from the thumbscrews marred by a

vision of a courtmartial and the garrote on the morrow.

Cristoval was conveyed to his quarters, and Pedro immediately turned the

management of the _cantina_ over to Pedrillo, assuming the role of nurse

as a matter of course.

About midnight he stepped outside the cavalier's door and stood for a

moment enjoying the freshness of the night. The _tambo_ was silent

except for the footfalls of the sentinel at the gate, a murmur of voices

from the guard-room, where the affair was being discussed, and an

occasional sound from the distant stables. A light shone through

Pizarro's door, and as Pedro stood a shadow passed and repassed within.

An hour before dawn he again stepped into the square. The light still

burned, and still the shadow came and went. Clearly Pizarro was having

a bad night. Pedro shook his head and muttered an anathema upon all

traitors.

In fact, Pizarro was having a bad night. On his stone table, weighted

down by one of his steel gauntlets, lay the record of the summary court,

left there by his secretary hours before. He could not read it, for he

was unlettered; but he knew every word of its content. It told of

sedition. He could only guess how far disaffection had spread, but the

knowledge that the spirit was abroad had come with stunning effect.

Hour after hour he paced the room, his footfall a dismal accompaniment

to dismal reflections. After years he had almost reached his goal with

an army at his back, only to feel the earth crumbling beneath him,

undermined by cowardice and treachery. As he walked, his thin lips

moved as if in prayer. But Pizarro was not praying. He was heaping

black curses upon his riffraff soldiery.

Jose relieved Pedro at daybreak, and an hour after reveille the cook

returned with breakfast for the wounded man. His jovial countenance was

perfectly blank.

"Well, what news?" asked Jose. "Do the conspirators get the rack or the

garrote?"

Pedro put down his burden with deliberation. "Thou 'rt a fool at

guessing, Jose, and I another. Neither rack, nor yet garrote! Let me

tell thee. After roll-call and reports the general stepped forward. He

looked along the line, and the line stopped breathing. Torres, of the

infantry, let fall his pike. Then Pizarro began to speak--as quietly as

I am speaking now. He said it had come to his attention,--had come to

his attention, Jose!--that there are certain ones among us who have lost

enthusiasm--not that they are damned traitors, Jose, but have lost

enthusiasm! He would say to these that the hour is critical; that it is

big with events which it will need all our courage to meet bravely, as

becometh Spaniards. He would have no man go forward who goeth not with

a whole heart, and to such as had liefer return the road is open. With

those who choose to follow him, few or many, it is his purpose to pursue

the adventure to its end."

Jose resumed tearing bandages. "_Jesucristo!_" was his only comment.

"Stew me to rags!" observed Pedro with slow emphasis. After a pause he

continued, "Didst ever see such a man, Jose? He staked much on a single

throw. On my oath, I should not have been surprised to see half the

army take the route to San Miguel! Hah! He would have no coacted,

weak-kneed service, quoth he; but to my mind he chose a perilous way of

stiffening it and weeding out discontent. The rack were better.

However, every cook hath his own way of cooking."

Before noon nine malcontents slunk out of the _tambo_ and started back

to San Miguel. Three wore bandages.

In a few days the march was resumed. Little fever resulted from

Cristoval's wounds, and Jose pronounced him in condition, to go forward,

borne in a litter.

*CHAPTER IV*

_*The Inca's Encampment*_

Six weeks later the Army of the Conquest was descending the eastern

slope of the Maritime Cordillera into the interior valley of Caxamalca.

Here, Pizarro learned, the Inca Atahualpa lay with fifty thousand

warriors.

The march over the mountains had been one of toil and hardship, but the

few Peruvians encountered had displayed nothing but hospitality. Two

embassies from the Inca had met the invaders, bearing presents and

assurances of welcome. The messages were translated by a young native,

called by the soldiers Felipillo, who had been picked up on a former

expedition, taught the Spanish language, many Spanish vices, and

retained as interpreter. Through him the commander sent courteous

replies, and, while neglecting no precaution, marched with a sense of

security always.

To Cristoval, stretched helpless on his rude litter, the first few days

had been torture. Later, however, a halt was made at a mountain village

whose friendly _curaca_, or governor, proffered the use of his sedan

with native bearers. They were hardy, sure-footed mountaineers, and

thereafter Cristoval swung along with little discomfort. Halts were

frequent, and some were protracted, for Pizarro hoped for reenforcements

from San Miguel if ships should come from Panama, whither his partner,

Almagro, had sailed in quest of fresh recruits. He tarried in vain, but

the halts were favorable to Cristoval. His rugged health, aided by the

bracing mountain air and the vigilant care of Pedro, hastened his

recovery; and by the end of October his wounds were healed, though he

had yet to regain his strength. He bore his inactivity with what

patience there was in him, but with no prevision of the gratitude he

should one day feel for those very wounds.

The Fifteenth of November saw the last day's march in the mountains.

The column had for hours trailed down a rocky gorge, which at last

opened upon a full panorama of the valley of Caxamalca. It stretched

out far below, a fertile and verdant plain, checkered with fields,

damaskeened with the silver of rivulets and canals for irrigation, and

traversed throughout its length by a fair river. Near its centre,

gleaming in its setting of green, lay the town of Caxamalca, surrounded

by orchards and gardens, and groves of willows, quinuars, and mimosas,

in whose shelter could be descried the tinted walls of the cottages and

villas of the suburbs.

Involuntarily, when the scene burst upon him, Pizarro reined his horse.

His trumpeter sounded a halt, and De Soto, whose troop was in advance,

rode up beside him, joined straightway by the officers of the staff.

They surveyed the valley with amazement. Pizarro was the first to

speak.

"_Maravilloso_!" he exclaimed. "Ha! Senores, what say you to it? Have

your eyes ever beheld a fairer vale? Did I not know better, I could

think myself in Andalusia--but, _Santa Madre_!--look beyond the

river--at those hills!"

"Tents, as I live!" ejaculated De Soto, "and by the ten thousand."

"By the soul of me!" growled Hernando Pizarro, the eldest of the

commander's four brothers. "Methinks, Francisco, thy dreams of conquest

have overreached. Ho! good Father," he continued, turning with a grin to

Valverde, the square-jawed chaplain of the expedition, "I'll presently

call upon thee for a shrift. Meanwhile, do thou pray a little."

"Aye!" muttered Candia, the Greek captain of artillery, "pray a little,

and have the other frocks at it with thee. We'll need all your

supplications, and,"--to himself,--"the devil's aid besides."

The priest did not reply even with a glance. The commander had ridden a

few paces in advance and was looking over the vast encampment below with

as little emotion in his thin, sallow face as if the Inca's army were a

flock of goats.

When the leading files of the column first caught sight of the distant

encampment a shout arose and was quickly carried to the rear: "_El Inca!

El Inca! El ejercito del Inca!_" and pikes and halberds were brandished

with fierce enthusiasm. But as realization of the magnitude of the host

came over them the demonstration gave place to ominous silence, and they

gazed with something akin to consternation. Pizarro noticed the change,

and looked back over the ranks with a barely perceptible curl of his

lip. "Forward!" he said to the trumpeter, and moved down the trail.

The command wound its descent through the foothills, and at midday

halted again. Pennons were affixed to lances, plumes to helmets, and

the banners were uncovered and spread to the breeze. Here Cristoval

demanded his horse, and, when Pedro protested, declared with emphasis

that he was well, and if not well, then well enough; that in any event

he would not go into the presence of an enemy borne in a litter, like a

woman. So he mounted, though without his armor. The formation most

favorable for action in case of attack was now adopted. The infantry

and artillery were placed in the middle of the column with cavalry in

front and rear; and, with a small advance guard, the army debouched upon

the plain.

No hostility met the Spaniards. As on the coast, they came upon knots

of the natives gathered at the roadside, and these gazed upon the

glittering, bannered pageant as if stupefied. When the outskirts of the

town were, reached the afternoon was late, and rain, for some time

threatening, set in with dreary steadiness. To their surprise they

found here no sign of life. The last group of Indios had long been

passed, and as the troops plashed along the muddy highway through the

suburbs they were greeted only by silence and desertion. Cots and

villas were numerous, but all closed and tenantless. They marched

through a desolation emphasized by every mark of recent habitation. The

people had fled at their coming as from a pestilence.

At length they were in the town. Here, too, vacancy and silent

thoroughfares, awakened now to unwonted echoes by the ring of horses'

hoofs and the rumble of the guns on the pavements. They entered through

one of the poorer quarters, where the dwellings were of bricks of

sun-dried clay, heavily thatched with straw, all of a single story,

substantial, and severely plain. Toward the middle of the town they

passed larger buildings of heavy masonry, whose blank walls, unbroken by

window or decoration, wore a dull gloom and mystery which, indeed,

pervaded the very air. The gray streets, depressingly regular and paved

throughout, were unrelieved by a single tree or shrub or patch of sward.

Over all a sombreness profound; no sign either, of welcome or hostility;

only the apathy of abandonment everywhere.

The thoroughfare opened into a great plaza. Pizarro rode to the centre

to direct the deployment of the column: on the right, cavalry; in the

centre, artillery and foot; on the left, cavalry again; and in the rear,

the pack train. The line formed in silence--a spiritless, sullen line,

rain-soaked, mud-splashed, with drooping plumes and dripping banners;

and oppressed withal by yonder vast encampment and the sense of being in

the toils. The march was ended.

Patrols were detailed, scouring the town and its outskirts to make sure

the desertedness was not merely apparent. Pizarro assembled his

officers. He began with his customary terseness:--

"Senores, I purpose sending an embassy to the Inca at once. We must

know better than we can judge from the cold reception he hath seen fit

to accord to us how he regardeth our coming. We must know to-night.

To-morrow we will govern our actions accordingly. So do thou go, Soto,

and tell him we have come. Say that we have sailed across the seas from

a great prince,--God save him!--to offer service and impart to him and

his people the True Faith. Put it in a courtly way, but with no

servility--thou knowest how--and say that we pray he will honor us with

a visit to-morrow.

"Remember that to these people we are superior beings, almost more than

mortal. Carry thyself as a superior even to this emperor, and he'll not

fail to credit thy assumption. Did he know our estate, do not doubt

that he would hotly resent our pretension. In a word, by every look,

gesture, and tone of thy voice strive to impress him. Display thy

horsemanship, if there be opportunity,--he hath never seen a horse,--and

hold thy chin well in the air. 'Tis important, Soto! Now go, and

_Dominus vobiscum_. Take Felipillo and a dozen lances,--more if thou

wilt."

The captain saluted, and, turning his horse, cantered to his troop to

select a following for the perilous mission. In a few minutes, with

fifteen chosen cavaliers, he was clattering down the street. Pizarro

looked after him, and said, turning to his brother:

"Hernando, take twenty more and go with him. He hath too few."

The second detachment followed at a gallop.

Pizarro briefly surveyed the place. The plaza was enclosed on three

sides by low stone buildings, thatched like the others, with great doors

opening upon the square. At the western end, toward the Inca's

encampment, rose a redoubt or citadel, overlooking the country and

commanding the plaza, from which it was entered by a flight of steps.

Hither Pizarro rode, dismounted, and ascended to the _terre-plein_,

followed by his officers. Here he could view the Inca's position with

the intermediate plain and its river. The road followed by De Soto led

over a causeway extending from the town to the bank of the stream, and

from time to time the watchers caught glimpses of the cavalcade, until

it was finally lost to sight.

It was twilight when the detachment returned, but the dusk could not

conceal its gloom. The result of the mission had not been cheering. De

Soto and Hernando Pizarro dismissed their detail, and hastened to the

commander to report the interview.

Cristoval was in his quarters in one of the large buildings on the

square, seated with Jose over a flask of _chicha_ when, an hour later,

Pedro entered.

"Good evening, Senores," said he, smiling benignly. "My blessing--a

cook's blessing. Ah, Cristoval, thou 'rt the first cheerful-looking man

I've seen this night! 'Tis most commendable. Put a good face on 't,

and discountenance the devil. _Hilarum semper fac te et

lubentem_!--which meaneth, gentlemen, be cheerful and good-humored

always--a good maxim just now, is it not?"

"Excellent!" replied Cristoval. "Sit and have a cup with us, Pedro.

These be serious times."

"True!" said the portly cook, squeezing himself between the bench and

the table with difficulty. "And there is something like demoralization

abroad among the men. So many are clamoring to Father Valverde to be

shriven that the good priest is beside himself. _Terror incidit

exercitui, bonum facit militem_--fear striketh the army and maketh the

soldier good. They have just consecrated the building next the infantry

quarters for a chapel--and 't is well placed, I'll swear, for not a

pikeman but is a thief!--and there will be services all night. Pizarro

goeth about among the men like their own father, blowing upon the embers

of their extinguished courage. What a man! He knoweth neither fear nor

doubt, and he can talk both out of any man who weareth ears. _Cara_!

To-morrow might be a _fiesta_ so far as it fasheth him. Just now I met

him on the square. '_Hola_, Pedro!' quoth he, 'hast heard? This pagan

king cometh to-morrow for a visit, and I would give him a taste of

Christian cooking. Canst scrape up a meal?' What d'ye think of that,

Senores?--with the army in a cold sweat from looking at the Inca's camp

and counting his tents!"

Cristoval smote the table with his fist. "By the fighting Saint

Michael, he hath not his peer in armor!"

"No!" Pedro concurred with emphasis. "Thou sayst right, Cristoval. But

the poor _veedor_! Have ye seen him? He hath been waddling about the

square, swollen with consternation, now climbing to the fortress to

stare at the campfires on the hills, now scuttling down again to tell

how many there are; one minute praying, the next swearing, and the next

bellowing like a calf that he is a civilian, no fighting man, and is

misplaced. And misplaced he is, I'll take my oath! Pizarro locked him

up at last, to prevent the panic he was beginning to spread. Gods,

gentlemen! were I the commander I'd melt him and make him into tallow

dips."

A bugle sounded in the square, and Cristoval exclaimed, rising,

"Officers' call! The general hath something to say."

Pizarro had something of moment to say, and was in council with his

officers through the night.

*CHAPTER V*

_*The Monarch and the Princess Rava*_

The entry of the Spaniards into Caxamalca had not been spirited, nor

jubilant. But the rain, which had conspired with other depressing

circumstances to dishearten them, ceased during the night, and the

sixteenth of November broke with a cloudless sky. Its first light was

greeted in the Peruvian camp by the clamor of trumpets, the wailing of

conches and horns, and the thunder of drums--a warlike and mighty

dissonance which struck faintly upon the listening ears of the invaders

in the town, and set many a good Christian making the sign of the cross

and murmuring his prayers. The army of the Inca was portentously astir.

The monarch was quartered in a villa at the edge of the eastern

foothills. Not far away, their position marked by columns of rising

steam, were the hot mineral springs which had made the place a resort of

the Incas for generations.

The villa itself differed little in its severe simplicity from other

structures of the country. It was massively built of stone, with the

usual high-pitched covering of thatch--a form of roof far from primitive

in this instance, for the thatches of Peru were artfully and durably

constructed, often highly ornate in the weaving and gilding of their

straw. The building was without exterior decoration except for the

sculptured geometrical design bordering the entrance. This doorway,

like the small windows set high up under the eaves, and the numerous

niches with growing plants, which served to modify the severity and

blankness of the walls, narrowed from threshold to lintel as in the

architecture of ancient Egypt. The walls, too, broad at the base and

sloping inward as they narrowed to the top, further suggested the

comparison.

On either side of the villa entrance stood sentinels in the blue of the

Incarial Guard, in heavily pourpointed tunics or gambesons, similar to

those worn by the European men-at-arms of the fourteenth century. Each

wore a casque of burnished silver, with heavy cheek-plates descending to

the point of the jaw, and surmounted by the figure of a crouching

panther, the device of their corps. Above the head-piece rose a high

crescent-shaped crest, not unlike that on the helm of the warrior of

ancient Greece. Their arms were bare to the shoulder, but encircled by

heavy bands of silver above the elbow and at the wrist. Their legs were

protected only by the blue and silver lacings of their sandals, which

entwined them to the knees. They were armed with javelins, small round

shields of polished brass, and from their broad, heavily plated belts

hung small battle-axes and short swords of bronze, an alloy which the

Peruvians tempered almost to the hardness of steel.

At an early hour the throne-room was filled with officers and nobles

costumed as brilliantly as the court of an Oriental potentate. The

majority were Quitoans, but among them were a small number of the nobles

of Cuzco, recent adherents of Huascar, who had tendered their allegiance

to the successful Atahualpa, or whose presence at the court the latter

had commanded. All were in the sleeveless outer garment of the country,

belted at the waist, with skirts falling to the knees, and not unlike

the _tunica_ of the Roman. The stuff was of wool, woven in fanciful and

often elegant patterns, and not infrequently decorated with elaborate

passementerie, or with braid or scale-work of gold and silver. Every

stalwart form glittered with jewelled armlets, bracelets, necklaces, and

girdles in the precious metals, while the nobles of Cuzco wore, as a

distinguishing mark of their order, heavy discs of gold let into the

lobes of their ears.

The apartment in which they awaited the coming of the monarch was no

less splendid than the assemblage, and showed the same lavish use of

gold and silver, which in the empire of the Incas had no value except

for ornamentation. It was a lofty chamber with walls of polished

porphyry, divided by pilasters into panels bordered with vines in

precious metal, perfect in leaf and stem. Suspended from silver

brackets wrought in forms of serpents, lizards, and fanciful monsters,

were lamps burning perfumed oil, filling the room with faint aroma, and

dispelling the obscurity of the early morning with their radiance. The

ceiling, panelled by heavy rafters, was of rushes, gilded and

elaborately woven in squares and lozenges. At intervals the walls were

niched like those of the exterior, to receive natural plants or

imitations of them in the metals.

In the rear of the apartment, beneath a canopy resplendent with

embroidery and featherwork, was a dais of serpentine on which stood the

Inca's seat, a low stool of solid gold, richly chased and jewelled.

Back of this, against the wall, was the imperial standard, on whose

folds blazed and sparkled in embroidery and precious stones a rainbow,

the insigne of the Incas.

The room was nearly bare of furniture, but its marble floor was softened

by richly dyed rugs and the skins of animals. In a word, in this

country villa of the ruler of an empire of the farthest West was a

wealth of decoration that would have dimmed the splendor of the palace

of a maharajah.

Presently, a door in the rear swung open, and a silence fell as a

grizzled veteran in the splendid uniform of a general of the Quitoan

troops entered and raised his hand. He was followed by two officers of

the Incarial Guard, who halted and took post at each side of the

doorway. A breathless moment, then came the Inca Atahualpa, attended by

his personal staff. The nobles went upon their knees, bending until

their foreheads touched the floor, and so remained until the monarch,

moving with brisk, soldierly pace, had gained the dais, where he turned

with a brief command that they arise.

Atahualpa was then close to his thirtieth year. His countenance was one

which would have been striking among men of any race. He had the

warrior-face of the American aborigine--the aquiline nose, the high

cheekbones and firm jaw and mouth, the calm pride and dignity of

expression--but refined by generations of Inca culture. It was the face

of a fighter, and a slumbering ferocity was perhaps lurking in the dark

and somewhat bloodshot eyes; but it was also an intellectual one,

clear-cut in line and contour, and backed by a well-formed head,

handsomely poised. His complexion, of the usual bronze of the Indian,

was yet not more swarthy than that of many Spaniards. His black hair was

closely trimmed, and on his head was the royal diadem, the _llauta_, a

thick cord or band of crimson, wound several times around, with a

pendant fringe covering his forehead to his brows from temple to temple.

Set closely in the _llauta_ above the fringe, diverging as they rose,

were two small white feathers, each with a single spot of black. These

were taken from the wings of the _coraquenque_, a rare bird sacred to

the Incas. He was simply clad in deep red, the royal color. His tunic

was quite devoid of decoration, but the cloak thrown over his shoulders

glittered with embroidery and scales of gold, and besides his heavy

ear-ornaments he wore at his throat a collar of emeralds worth an

emperor's ransom.

A powerful man, well and serenely accustomed to his power, mentally and

physically equal to its exercise, and sufficiently wonted to it not to

be self-conscious, is truly a fit object of admiration. There is

nothing more sublime, in its way, on earth: nothing more majestic, and

only suggested by the brute kingliness of the lion. Atahualpa, the

descendant of a long line of absolute monarchs, a line believed by the

Peruvians to have sprung from Inti, the Sun-god himself, wore his

majesty as naturally as he wore his cloak and with as little thought of

it.

On this occasion the audience was short, and the Inca did not seat

himself. Having heard the reports of his generals, he directed that

supplies be sent to the Spaniards in Caxamalca, gave a few orders

concerning the disposition of his troops and the formation of his escort

for the visit to Pizarro that afternoon, and retired, while the nobles

went again upon their knees until he had quit the apartment. In the

court outside he dismissed his staff and descended a terrace into the

garden in the rear of the palace.

It was an alluring place at any hour, and to its quiet seclusion the

young monarch often resorted when he wearied of councils, the affairs of

government, and the endless formalities of the court. From the rear of

the villa an avenue, bordered with flowering shrubbery and spreading

palms backed by tall quinuars, led to an open lawn in the middle of

which played a fountain. Around the margin of the green, set in shady

niches in the foliage, were marble benches. Over one of these rugs had

been thrown, and leaning sadly on its arm with her cheek resting on her

hand sat a maiden of seventeen. A few paces away were half-a-dozen

attendants, seated on the sward, arranging armfuls of flowers. So busy

were they, and so deep the maiden's reverie, that the Inca's coming was

unnoted, and he paused, surveying the group and hesitating to interrupt.

At that moment, slightly turning her head, the girl observed him; with

sudden pallor and a movement of her hand to her heart she arose.

She was handsome and womanly, and as she stood timidly awaiting her

monarch's approach he did not fail to note her beauty with brotherly

pride; for she was his half-sister, the Nusta[1] Rava. Her dark eyes,

heavily veiled by their lashes, were downcast, and her color came and

went with every step of his advance. Her cloak, falling back as she

arose, had left partly uncovered one dimpled arm and shoulder, and the

low-cut white robe, or _llicla_. This garment, made of the soft wool of

the vicuna, was loosely and gracefully draped about her form, caught in

at the waist by a richly jewelled girdle, and secured by golden _topus_,

or large, broad-headed pins. A necklace of pearls and the jewelled band

of gold about her head were her only other ornaments, save those

necessary to keep in place a wealth of black tresses coiled in a form of

Grecian knot.

[1] Nusta = Princess.

As the Inca drew near she would have knelt, but he stayed her quickly,

and taking her hand, reverently carried it to his lips.

"May the sun shine brightly upon thee this day, my sister," said he.

"Thou 'rt abroad early. I thought to find the garden deserted."

"I have been walking, my lord," she replied, with eyes still lowered,

and drew almost imperceptibly away. "I was about to return."

"Nay: let me walk with thee. Perhaps I can tell thee something to

lighten thy heart. Come."

"Ah, my lord," she sighed, raising her eyes to his with a swift glance,

and turning them away filled with tears.

"I know--I know! Thou grievest for our unfortunate brother Huascar," he

said kindly. "It was partly on his account that I had thee come to

Caxamalca. I would not have thee mourn needlessly, nor think me a

monster in holding him in brief imprisonment. It is against my wish,

believe me, and only to prevent renewal of the late unhappy war."

"Oh, most unhappy, most dreadful, my lord!--and between my brothers!"

she answered with a sob.

"Most dreadful!" repeated Atahualpa, gravely. "Yet thou knowest how it

was forced upon me."

"Forced upon thee, my lord? They told me different."

"They told thee falsely!" he exclaimed. "Dost thou not know how it was

brought about?--I fear not, in its truth. Then let us walk whilst I

tell thee." He passed his arm about her fondly, and led her down the

avenue.

"Thou knowest, Rava," he began after they had taken a few steps, "the

will of our father, given at Cuzco some months before his death, by

which the kingdom of Quito was bequeathed to me, and Cuzco to Huascar.

Thou knowest that for several years we reigned in peace, each in his own

domain. So it might have continued had Huascar been content. But,

chafing under the loss of Quito, which but for me would have been one of

his provinces, he sent an ambassador demanding that I acknowledge myself

vassal and feudatory. It was a challenge, and what reply could there be

but war? Huascar's misfortunes flow from his misguided ambition and

impious disregard of our father's will."

"Oh, pardon him, pardon him, my brother!" implored the princess, turning

to him and pressing her clasped hands to her breast. "He was

ill-advised. He was hounded to his fault, I know, by wicked ministers.

Most bitterly hath Cuzco repented it!"

"Cuzco!--it may be," replied Atahualpa, slowly; "but Huascar--However,

it is my purpose to pardon him, Rava; so banish thine unhappiness. For

the present, for the sake of the tranquillity of the empire, we must

hold him. But when that is assured he shall be free. Weep no more."

"Oh, Atahualpa, what words will tell thee my heart's gratitude!" sobbed

the young girl, taking his hand in both her own. "Thou knowest not what

my grief hath been!"

"Nay! but I do know, my dear. Since the war began I have thought often

what it must be. But do not thank me. No need of words. Thy happiness

is more than thanks enough. I always loved thee, Rava, when we were

together in the old palace at Cuzco. Now, thou 'rt no less dear to me

than mine own daughters in far-off Quito. I trust soon to remove the

nearest cause of thy sorrow. It was for this, as I have said, that I

sent for thee to come to Caxamalca."

They were interrupted by a youth of twenty years, in the uniform of a

Quitoan general. As he drew near he removed his helmet, disclosing the

yellow _llautu_ worn by the princes of the blood royal, and knelt as he

placed a pebble upon his shoulder in the customary sign of homage. It

was the Auqui[2] Toparca, brother to Atahualpa, and like the latter, a

half-brother of the Nusta Rava. Not even his exalted rank permitted him

to approach the sovereign otherwise than in the attitude of a subject;

but the obeisance performed, he arose and was embraced by the two, and

the trio strolled on together. The conversation turned at once upon the

strangers in Caxamalca. The purposed visit of the Inca was deprecated

with timid earnestness by the Nusta, and with energy by the Auqui; but

Atahualpa waved aside their objections with a smile, and soon afterwards

returned to the palace.

[2] Auqui = Prince.

*CHAPTER VI*

_*The Massacre*_

It was after midday when the Inca gave the order for the formation of

his troops, and the brazen notes of trumpets rose from the parade in

front of the villa. As the last measure died away the call was taken up

in one quarter after another, and the air trembled with the din of the

horns of the legions from Quito, the hoarse bellow of the conches of the

coast tribes, the shrieking pipes of the mountaineers from the highlands

around Chimborazo, and the growl of the drums of the fierce hordes from

the eastern slopes of the Andes,--a huge wild diapason that sent another

chill to Spanish hearts as it floated over the valley.

The tumult died away on the distant flanks of the encampment.

Presently, company after company was sweeping into the low plain between

the camp and the river, and forming into battalions. Here they stood

motionless, broke at last into columns, and marched down to the fords,

the earth shaken by the feet of their thousands, the air hideously

vibrant with the fierce music of their instruments and wild chanting. A

sound as of surf breaking on a shingled beach rose above the stream, its

silver turned into yellow turbidity which stained its course for many a

mile below, while the dark columns crept up the eastern bank and

deployed on the plain in front of Caxamalca.

Pizarro, standing with a small group of officers on the parapet of the

redoubt, gazed upon the dense, sinuous line of masses, silent now,

stretching up and down the valley. From tens of thousands of

spear-points and from myriads of brazen shields and helmets, the rays of

the western sun were thrown back in a restless, quivering infinitude of

scintillations. Slowly, but with a terrible steadiness, the line rolled

forward, now obliterating a canal or roadway, now a garden or a field of

grain; here, a battalion losing itself in a grove; there, in the aisles

of an orchard; to reappear on the hither side, perfect in alignment. At

length, at a distance of something less than a mile, the central

battalions halted, but the wings swept on until a vast, dark semi-circle

confronted the town.

Pizarro watched the progress of the movement in silence, speaking only

to give an order, or in brief reply to some remark or inquiry from one

of his companions. With him were several of his staff, Father Valverde,

Felipillo the interpreter, and two or three orderlies. At the head of

the stairway descending to the square were Candia's two cannon,

commanding the place. Close at hand was a brazier of burning charcoal

for the matches of the cannoneers, who were clustered at the parapet,

barefooted and stripped to the waist, watching, half-stupefied, the

advancing hordes.

Below, the sunlit square, with its shadows now stealing out from the

westward, was deserted--peaceful as on a Sabbath. And the Sabbath it

might have been, for from one of the buildings came the unceasing murmur

of the priests at prayer. All night long priests had knelt in pious

invocation of the aid of the Lord of Hosts and the Holy Virgin upon this

day's undertaking. Thus, too, they had knelt since dawn, when mass had

been celebrated, the soldiers joining devoutly in the hymn, "_Exsurge,

Domine, et judica causam tuam_."

"Rise, O Lord, and judge thy cause!"--so they had chanted, with hearts

swelling with the exaltation of faith that the cause was just, with the

sublime confidence that the Holy Cross must triumph. Through the night

Pizarro had been among them, had spoken with simple eloquence, had

inspired their zeal by his own; and had roused alike the fires of

religious fervor and the lust of conquest and of pagan gold. Through

the night the ecclesiastics had given themselves to discipline, had shed

tears and blood while they scourged themselves and cried to Heaven to

give victory to the soldiers of the True Faith. Such was the prelude!

And now, behind the great doors giving upon the square the companies

waited in grim readiness: in one of the buildings, the infantry; in

another, De Soto's troop; in a third, that of Hernando Pizarro. The

hours had lengthened through the morning, and still they waited in

suspense. Under prolonged tension their enthusiasm had waned, and now

many a villanous face, recently alight with devotion, grew anxious or

lowering. Some time after midday a _chasqui_, or runner, had arrived

from the Inca with the announcement that he would come with warriors

fully armed, like the Spanish emissaries the day before. Replied

Pizarro, "Say to your Senor that in whatever manner he cometh he shall

be received as a friend and brother." Then he turned to Hernando with a

black scowl: "Let the infidel come as he will!--only Heaven grant that

he may not come tardily! Delay is more to be dreaded than an onslaught.

A few more hours of this waiting, and the blood of our men will turn to

water."

Hernando shrugged gloomily, and turned his eyes upon the advancing

lines.

It was late afternoon before the movement of the Inca's troops was

completed. For any sign of perturbation Pizarro might have been

observing a parade; though his thin lips were more than usually

compressed, his face a bit more pallid, his taciturnity increased. De

Soto was conversing in a low tone with Candia as they surveyed the

field. Hernando Pizarro was standing beside his brother on the parapet,

muttering occasional oaths.

"_Caramba!_" he exclaimed, as the wings of the approaching army began to

close in. "It appeareth that the Inca accepteth thine invitation with

some emphasis, Francisco! Had we better not change our plans and

prepare to defend the town whilst there is yet time? That is a pretty

formation for attack, if I ever saw one, and more promising of a fight

than of a neighborly visit, I'll be bound!"

"Wait!" replied the commander, shortly.

"By the saints, we have little time for waiting! They will be upon us

in half an hour; and not even a barricade! Let me take my troop and show

them our metal, at least."

"Wait!" repeated Pizarro, sternly.

Hernando sprang down with a curse, and strode away. At this instant an

exclamation broke from De Soto.

"Look!--The causeway!"

The head of a column had pushed out from the trees which hid the

approach to the bridge. The distance was too great to disclose its

nature, but soon the highway was covered with thousands. Presently

Pizarro noted with relief that the movement of the encircling line had

been arrested, and the approaching column had advanced beyond it. He

could hear the rolling of drums and the weird strains of heathen

marching music. Soon no doubt remained that it was the escort of the

Inca. About half a mile from the edge of the town the column turned

from the causeway and halted, and the anxious watchers saw they were

pitching tents. A _chasqui_ was seen speeding toward the town. Pizarro

descended to the square with his officers. A soldier from the exterior

guard hurried in with the _chasqui_, a half-naked, clean-limbed,

intelligent-looking youth, lithe and supple as a panther. He bore a

message, translated by Felipillo, to the effect that the Inca would camp

for the night on the plain, and would enter in the morning. An

impatient oath, quickly suppressed, escaped Pizarro, and he replied

coolly:--

"Tell him that our disappointment will be immeasurable. We have made all

preparations for his reception, and hope to have him sup with us."

The _chasqui_ darted away.

After an interval another arrived. The Inca would be pleased to come;

and as he would remain overnight, would bring his attendants, but

without arms. The _chasqui_ departed. Pizarro, his pallid face lighted

for an instant by a smile, sinister and triumphant, turned to his

officers.

"Now, gentlemen, the quarry! Remember--everything, our lives, all, hang

upon the absolute and implicit observance of my instructions. If we

fail," he waved his hand toward the menacing dark semicircle outside the

town, "ye know what to expect. But we shall not fail. Now, to your

posts, and may the Virgin have us all in her keeping! I believe every

man knoweth his duty. Candia, art ready?"

"More than ready, General!"

"Then, to thy guns!"

Candia returned to the redoubt, occupied now only by his cannoneers and

the sentinel.

On the plain the tent-pitching is given over, the column has regained

the causeway, and is again approaching the town. In front are a

multitude of sweepers, clearing the way of every pebble, fallen leaf, or

twig, singing as they work. In their rear are a hundred drummers

beating, in a strange cadence, long-bodied drums of varied size and

pitch of tone. Following these, the imperial band of five hundred

musicians, gorgeously liveried and resplendent with trappings of

burnished metal, playing on trumpets, pipes, and stringed instruments of

divers forms, the wild but not unmusical march sung by the sweepers.

Then, at an interval, follow a thousand nobles in white tunics, bearing

small mallets or hammers of copper and silver. Another interval, and a

second body of nobles of higher rank, in tunics of checkered white and

red, ablaze with ornaments of gold. Now, two battalions of the splendid

warriors in the blue of the Incarial Guard, but without arms. Between

them, and guarded by a platoon of nobles, floats the standard of the

Inca. Immediately after the detachment of the guard, seated upon an

open litter, or sedan, borne on the shoulders of half a score of nobles

of the highest rank, and surrounded by his attendants, counsellors, and

priests, is Atahualpa, a most imperial and commanding figure, as we have

seen. In the rear, follows a great column of guards and nobles no less

splendid than those of the van.

Treasure enough here, Pizarro, to whet the greed and nerve the arms of

your ravening, plunder-hungry companions, could they but behold it from

their concealment! Let us see. Twenty-five thousand ducats in the seat

on which the Inca sits. Thousands more in the decorations of the sedan.

Thousands more in the gem-encrusted standard, and every noble in the

train wearing a small fortune on his person. Such a display never

before met the eyes or brightened the dreams of your Spaniards, whom the

_chasqui_ has reported, not without truth, as huddled, panic-stricken,

in some of the buildings of the town.

The pageant has passed the suburbs and is in the streets, deserted as

Pizarro found them yesterday; for the exterior guards have been

withdrawn, to be of use, presently, elsewhere. Now the column has

entered the great square, opening its files to the right and left to

permit the passage of the Inca and his suite, who move to the middle of

the place and halt, the escort massing on the flanks and rear. Company

after company of the guard, and body after body of the nobles, march

into the plaza and take position with a celerity and precision of

movement showing the highest discipline; and it is long before the rear

has deployed from the narrow street. Meanwhile the Inca has looked

about, at first with expectant interest, then with growing suspicion and

impatience as he perceives no sign of welcome, nor any living being

outside of his own following. The silence is strange, in truth, and not

reassuring,--even it is ominous. The great doors facing upon the square

are closed and blank. At the head of the stairway entering the redoubt

two bronze muzzles overlook the plaza, but these are quite without

significance. At last the Inca demands, with increasing ire at the too

evident discourtesy:--

"Where are the strangers?"

As if in answer to his question a door opposite partly opens, and the

dingy, gray-black figure of Father Valverde, in march-worn cassock,

bearing crucifix and breviary, enters the square. A soldier follows, in

complete armor. He is known to history as Hernando de

Aldana--introduced and dismissed for all time by a dozen brief words.

Behind him comes the malicious, spoiled renegade, Felipillo, shaking now

in his Spanish boots, and scarcely fit to perform his office of

interpreting.

Slowly, and with priestly dignity, the gray-black figure approaches the

Inca as no man ever approached him before, with unbended knee or back,

bearing no burden or symbol of one, and no doubt regarded curiously and

contemptuously enough by the monarch, who is not done with considering

the quality of his reception.

Father Valverde, informing the Inca that he has been ordered by his

general, Pizarro, to teach him the doctrines of the True Faith, at once

sets about that undertaking, expounding its tenets briefly and as

convincingly, perhaps, as could have been done under the circumstances.

Then, following the formula customarily used by the Spanish

conquistadores, he announces the spiritual supremacy of the Pope, and

the temporal power of the Emperor Charles the Fifth, and urgently

recommends that the Inca acknowledge himself tributary to the latter,

forthwith.

No doubt the father expounded the doctrines as convincingly as possible

under the circumstances; and with as much effect, probably, as was

expected of the perfunctory mockery by the Spaniards themselves: at any

rate, not convincingly enough, but with the effect looked for and

desired; for Atahualpa, firing at the suggestion of vassalage, reddens

with anger, and demanding of Valverde his credentials and authority,

seizes the breviary, turns its pages rapidly, then casts it upon the

ground with right kingly scorn and rage.

"Tell your general," says he, with hot pride, "and let him say it to his

emperor, that I am no man's vassal! And say further that before I leave

this place your people shall account to me for every act of presumption

or violence done within my territories!"

Shocked at the sacrilege offered the holy book, the good father snatches

it from among the feet of the heathens. The doughty Aldana claps hand

to his sword with Spanish bravado,--even draws it, says one,--but the

priest is scuttling across the plaza to Pizarro, who is waiting in the

building occupied by the infantry. Aldana follows. The wretched farce

is ended--a farce truly Spanish, as what follows is truly and

characteristically Spanish.

The door opens again, and Father Valverde, pale to the lips, enters and

stands before Pizarro, who is no less pale, but infinitely more

composed. Back of him in the dim obscurity of the great hall is massed

the infantry, every sword bared, every pike and halberd clutched with

nerves strained by long suspense. The priest, his voice husky with

excitement and rage at the indignity put upon the holy book, and, it may

be, at the unconcealed contempt with which he was received by the

monarch, exclaims:--

"Dost not see--dost not see what is taking place? Whilst we are engaged

in courtesies and parley with this dog full of pride, the plains are

filled with his warriors! Fall upon him! Fall upon him!--I absolve

you!"

Pizarro makes no reply, but flushes with unaccustomed color, and steps

out of the door into the plaza, in his hand a white scarf. The Inca,

with the frown deepening upon his stern, calm face, sees him raise it

over his head, and wonders what new idleness----

A quick, sudden flash, half perceived, a sharp, ear-stunning explosion,

as of lightning striking near, and an unseen messenger of death ploughs

a mangled, horrid furrow through the dense ranks of the Peruvians. A

plunging, white sulphurous cloud has burst from one of the guns on the

redoubt, and rolls low and stifling over the square. There is a brief

instant of stillness, then a moan of terror, broken quickly by yells of

wounded men, answered by a second flash and roar. The great doors swing

back, their blankness giving place to sudden fell activity as charging

columns crash into the open with the battle-cries of Spain. An avalanche

of steel-clad men and horses here; another there; a rushing, bellowing

phalanx of infantry between. "_Santiago a ellos!_" "_Cristo y San

Miguel!_" They strike the fear-numbed mass of the Peruvians, cutting,

thrusting, slashing, with resistless fury. The ranks of nobles, silent

and motionless a moment ago, are whirled by the shock into a seething,

shrieking tumult. Those on the edge of the concourse are hurled back

upon their fellows by the tremendous impact, and cut down while they

reel. The mail-clad Spaniards, released from the nervous strain of

hours' duration, are seized of blood-madness. Their battle-cries are

lost in an infernal chorus of screams of agony, overtopped by the

reports of the cannon which thunder savage accompaniment. A

pandemonium! An outbreak of hell itself! A horror not to be dwelt

upon!

The worst of the slaughter is around Atahualpa, whose person the

Spaniards are making most desperate efforts to gain; but a large number

of his escort, cut off by the charge of De Soto's troop, have stampeded

in wild panic down the narrow streets leading from the plaza. A few

escape, but in a moment these avenues are blocked by the crush. De

Soto, having perceived at once that the Peruvians are unarmed and that

victory--if this atrocity can be so called---was assured by the very

first collision, essays gallantly to check the worse than useless

butchery. His commands are unheard. He snatches his trumpeter's

instrument and blows the recall--blows again and again. As well shout

injunctions to a tornado, or call to a pack of wolves. He drives among

his men, striking up their weapons. De Piedra, enraged by his

interference, aims a cut at him, and is unhelmed and unhorsed by a blow

from the captain's mace. Well struck, De Soto! Pity it had not been

better; for Piedra will be breathing again before an hour has passed.

But De Soto finds it perilous work. In a moment his horse is wounded by

a pikeman, and rearing, slips and is down. Steed and rider are lost in

the confusion: at last, up again, the captain unhurt. It is some

minutes before he is mounted, and meanwhile a wall of stone and adobe

forming part of the enclosure of the square has given away before the

crush of the fear-driven horde, and they burst through the break in a

huge struggling torrent. They reach the plain outside the town, pursued

with relentless ferocity by the cavalry. The Inca's troops, already in

consternation at the uproar in the village, the shrieks, the cannonade,

and the overhanging cloud of smoke, take the panic and scatter as chaff

before the wind.

In the square the din has lost its volume. Candia has ceased firing,

for the smoke impedes his view of the shambles, where friends are

endangered by his guns. Around the Inca the unequal struggle goes on

under his horror-stricken eyes, and he stands, benumbed and helpless,

tottering on his reeling litter. In the anguish of their despair his

nobles cast themselves to death with a loyalty of devotion the gods

might envy; but the bulwark they interpose before their beloved lord

grows steadily less. Several of the Spaniards now are making frenzied

efforts to reach him with their weapons, and one has hurled his pike.

Pizarro sees the movement and shouts, hoarse with weariness, unheard and

unheeded, "Strike not the Inca, on pain of death!"

But he is heard by Cristoval, who, with two or three sick men, has been

left as a guard for the priests, still at their supplications. Since

the first thundering charge he has watched the long tragedy, at first

with tense excitement at the onslaught, then with deepening horror and

loathing when he saw the defencelessness of the Peruvians, until he has

turned away, sick to his very soul, hating his race, his blood, his

parentage, himself. He has cast his sword upon the ground. Now he

seizes it and bounds toward the scene with a curse at every stride.

The enclosing line of Spaniards has drawn near to the Inca. One of his

bearers goes down, then another. The sedan plunges wildly and sinks,

throwing its royal burden almost upon the weapons of his enemies. He is

down. A pike is at his breast, but swept aside by Cristoval's sword,

whose savage thrust the infantryman barely escapes. An axe flashes

overheard, and crashes upon Cristoval's buckler. But Pizarro is beside

him. As the general stretches out his hand to raise the Inca, a

pike-thrust rips both hand and arm--the only wound, be it known to the

everlasting infamy of this band of murderers, received by a Spaniard in

the day's affair!

Pizarro's voice rises above the tumult: "Back, dogs! Back, or, by God,

ye shall suffer!"

De Soto has dismounted, and dashes through the rabid pack. His buckler

touches that of Cristoval, and the two shields ring with a shower of

blows aimed at the Inca. It is minutes before the murderous zeal is

quelled, and a circle cleared around the captive prince.

A stillness has settled over the plaza--alas! not a stillness; for the

din has given place to sounds yet more dreadful, in the shrieks and

groans of the wounded and dying.

There are many prisoners, and Hernando Pizarro is directing the work of

making them secure in the buildings. Surrounding the group about the

Inca is a turbulent circle of soldiers, panting yet from their work, and

jostling one another for a view of the royal prisoner. They make a

savage and grewsome picture as they glare, red-eyed, faces flushed,

reeking with sweat and splashed with blood from head to foot, leaning

upon their gory weapons. Atahualpa stands silent, proudly erect, his

features immovable as bronze, seemingly devoid of emotion as if his

heart were of that metal. His dark, stern eyes overlook the encircling

mob, but as if they see no man. He is no less kingly now than a few

hours ago, when surrounded by the splendor of his court. Those guarding

him are equally silent in the stupor of weariness and reaction. At

length Pizarro speaks:--

"Come, gentlemen, let us move! Guard him closely!"

They close round him. As they are about to leave the square, Atahualpa

turns toward the heaps of his people who vainly gave their lives in his

defence, and raising his hands, speaks a few words in Quichua, broken by

one great sob that shakes his frame. Then he turns away, his

countenance as sternly impassive and inscrutable as before.

As they enter the building which is to serve as his temporary prison,

the sun is setting--setting forever upon the empire of the Incas.

*CHAPTER VII*

_*Cavalier and Cantinero*_

Night fell before the cavalry returned from pursuing the wretched

fugitives, whom they hunted almost to the confines of the Peruvian camp,

riding them down in their flight, and slaying without mercy. The troops

of the Inca had fled without striking a blow. It would be difficult to

explain their complete demoralization did we not consider the

superstitious awe with which the Spaniards had been regarded from their

first landing upon the Peruvian coasts. Their aspect and the

supernatural powers ascribed to them bore out the ancient tradition of

the fair-faced god, Viracocha, who, it is said, had once appeared upon

earth, and whose reappearance had been foretold by the oracles. The

white men were his descendants and agents. Already they were known as

Viracochas. A mere handful, but armed with thunderbolts, they had

seized the sacred person of the Inca and destroyed his nobles and

generals at a blow. The keystone, the arch itself, of the empire had

crumbled and fallen under the dire calamity. The people were without a

ruler, the army without leaders. The authority which had held the

tribes together was dissolved in an hour. Accustomed for generations to

the rule of the most absolute despotism the world has ever known, they

were now incapable of initiative. The Empire of Tavantinsuyu was a

rudderless ship. The army resolved itself into its elements and fell in

pieces.

The Inca supped that night with the Spanish commander and his officers,

as had been promised. Cristoval, the only officer fit for duty after

the day's work, had been detailed as commander of the exterior guard,

glad to be relieved of the need of sitting at table with his comrades

after so base a massacre, which, in his enforced role of spectator, he

had seen in its full horror. He was a soldier, and possibly not less

callous to bloodshed and suffering than many others of his calling, but

never had he beheld butchery so wanton and unhindered. Had he been a

participant--and now he fervently thanked God for preventing it--he

would have been less impressed by its enormity. He must even have shared

in some degree the infection of ferocity, until he should have realized,

as had De Soto, the uselessness of the slaughter and revolted. But

compelled to look on in cool blood, he had sickened. He sickened more

at the brutal exultation, and at the ghastly sights in the square. A

battlefield he could have surveyed unmoved. This slaughter-pen horrified

him.

When his detail was formed he marched it away, grateful to Heaven that

his post was remote alike from the jubilation of the soldiers and from

the sounds and tainted air of the plaza.

At a villa beside the road along which the Inca had entered the town, he

halted his command. The place had been broken into the evening before

for use as a guard-house, and while his sergeant was making up his

reliefs, Cristoval took a lantern and walked through the vacant rooms.

They showed at every step the marks of the vandalism of yesterday's

guard, and he explored gloomily the ruin of what had been a handsome

dwelling. Tapestries before the doors had been torn down for beds.

Quaintly carved furniture had been used for firewood; fragments of

tableware were scattered everywhere, with curiously fashioned bronze and

brass vessels crushed by the heels of the soldiers. More precious

articles had been sought, as was evident in the disorder of every

apartment, in broken chests, and doors with battered fastenings.

Cristoval ordered a room cleared and prepared for his vigil.

Just after midnight, having returned from his rounds, he heard a

challenge from the sentinel in front of the villa, then the voice of

Pedro, and in a moment the cook stumped across the court and knocked.

Cristoval called to him to enter, and he came in, followed by his boy,

laden with what Pedro guessed would be welcome at midnight to any

officer of any guard.

"_Tibi bene dico!_" quoth Pedro, "and may the night be without alarms.

I have brought thee good cheer, Cristoval, lest hunger contend with

vigilance. _Stomachus plenus vigiliam longam contrahit_--which is to

say that a full stomach shorteneth a long watch. Caesar, I believe."

Pedro grinned benignly upon the cavalier, who arose and greeted him with

warmth.

"Pedro, thou 'rt a good man, full of good deeds. On my soul, I rejoice

to see thee with or without thy cheer, for I find the night melancholy."

"Good!" said Pedro. "Then am I doubly welcome. Here, Pedrillo, lay out

the supper on this table. Have a care, boy! Spill that soup, thou imp,

and I'll make another of thee!"

"Why, _amigo_," said Cristoval, surveying the repast, "it is a feast!

Thy substantial cheer is second only to the spiritual cheer in thine

atmosphere. Accept my thanks. Hast supped, thyself?"

"No. No time for it. I prepared the banquet to the Inca and saw it

served."

"Then thou'lt sup with me. There is more than enough for two.

Pedrillo, another chair. Fall to, thou good culinary saint, and tell me

about the banquet. How doth the Inca bear it?"

"He near broke my heart with his indifferent appetite," growled the

cook, as he seated himself; "but otherwise he is most commendable. I

thought to see a sullen, savage chieftain, oppressed by conscious

inferiority and afraid of the tableware. Not so! He was gloomy, 't is

true,--and who, in his position, would not be so?--but he strove against

it, and talked graciously with Pizarro and the others through Felipillo,

making the best of matters right gallantly, like a man. He wore a

dignity and fortitude in the face of adversity, Cristoval, that would

become any king, white or bronze."

"So he bore himself in the square, when taken," remarked Cristoval.

"Ah!" said Pedro. "'T is as much as a point of honor with them, saith

Felipillo, not to show emotion. I tell thee, _amigo_, he compelled the

respect of the officers, and no one said a discourteous word but that

beast of a Mendoza, whom Pizarro commanded to keep his tongue between

his teeth, and forbade Felipillo to translate his words. The Inca paid

much attention to De Soto, who sat nearly opposite, and who, it

appeareth, defended him against the pikes of those hounds of the

infantry who would have had his life. He asked for someone else, and De

Soto spoke thy name, Cristoval. Wast thou beside De Soto when the Inca

fell? Then that was it! Well, the Inca hath not forgotten. I would

there had been other acts of chivalry done by Spaniards this day worthy

to be remembered!"

"A horrible affair, Pedro!" said Cristoval.

"Most damnably horrible!" replied Pedro, lowering his voice. "I have

never seen its like but once. That was when a boy, in Palencia. One

night near dawn a pack of wolves, driven by the winter's cold down from

the Cantabrian Mountains, broke into the sheepfold. I thought of it

to-day. I have soldiered long, Cristoval, but curse me if my sword ever

took life from a defenceless man! But let me warn thee to make no

comments likely to reach the ears of the commander. He and De Soto have

had words already. De Soto tried to stay his troop during the

slaughter. Jose and two others aided him."

"I am glad to hear it of Jose," said Cristoval.

"I fear Jose hath trouble in store," returned Pedro, with a shake of his

head. "That little jaundiced friar, Mauricio, hath announced that

during the struggle he saw the Virgin and Babe, with Santiago mounted on

his white charger smiting the infidels with a flaming sword. He hath

been seeking corroboration, and two infantrymen swear they beheld it

too. The friar asked Jose, and Jose ripped out a great oath, 'No; and

if such a sight was seen, the observers must have mistaken the spirits,

for none but the devil and his devils would have taken part in such

infamy!' Fray Mauricio's face went livid, and he denounced Jose as a

heretic. He hath gone to Father Valverde and the commander. Thou

knowest he is fresh from the Inquisition? Well, it is so! He was one of

its most zealous officers, and the soldiers say he hath a chest full of

instruments to make good Christians of the Indios."

"He will hardly make trouble for Jose," replied Cristoval. "Jose is

indispensable to the army."

"A heretic is indispensable to the Inquisition! For the present Jose is

safe; but wait!" Pedro hitched his chair a little nearer, and bent

forward. "I tell thee, Cristoval, Fray Mauricio intendeth trouble.

Thou knowest Jose is sometimes called '_El Morisco_' by the soldiers.

_Bien_! And a Morisco I believe him to be. Hast ever thought of it?"

Cristoval laid down his knife and regarded the cook seriously. "By the

saints, Pedro!" he said at length, "I believe thou 'rt right. I had

given it no thought, but now I reflect, he hath the look, for a

certainty."

"Ah!" said Pedro, leaning back. "He hath the look! He hath the manner;

and for one not a clerical he is a learned man--too learned for a good

Christian, Cristoval. He saith,"--here Pedro laid his hand upon, the

table with great impressiveness--"he saith, and sweareth by it, that the

earth revolveth on an axis, like an orange twirled on a skewer!"

"Holy San Miguel!" exclaimed Cristoval.

Pedro nodded with solemnity. "And what is more--not to say worse," he

continued, "he holdeth that the earth circleth about the sun!"

"Gods!" said Cristoval, with redoubled incredulity.

Pedro nodded again, then shook his head. "This," said he, "is a pagan

teaching, and Jose were better without it. 'T was held by Pythagoras,

by Philolaus, by Hicetas, and later by Cicero. Saith Cicero of Hicetas,

'_Hicetas Syracusius, ut ait Theophrastus, coelum, solem, lunam,

stellas,_'--"

Cristoval brought his fist down upon the table with a crash: "Ten

thousand demons and goblins, man! Be done! Hath the day not been

trying enough without thy jabbering? Contain thy Latin, or I'll forget

thy goodness!" He glowered at the cook, who smiled blandly.

"It is of no importance, _amigo_," said he. "Let it pass. I was but

going to say that Jose hath pagan beliefs. But what is more serious,

Cristoval, Fray Mauricio seemeth to have suspicion of them, and some

knowledge of the armorer's past. Once he questioned me. I evaded a

direct reply."

"Thou didst, Pedro! How?"

"Why, I asked him if he had ever tried swallowing toasted rags for his

liver."

"Ho!" blurted Cristoval, and Pedro grew red from a fit of wheezy

laughter until his chair creaked accompaniment.

"Didst ever take a setting hen from her nest and hold her under a pump,

Cristoval, then release her?"

"Name of a saint! Of course I never did, thou unaccountable cook! Why

should I?"

"Only to observe her state of mind--her indignation. Make trial of it

some day, and thou'lt have Mauricio when he gave over questioning.

Unctuous knave! Stew me! He should have no word from me against Jose,

were I put to the rack for it!"

Pedro resumed his supper, and Cristoval studied him for a time with

interest. At last he said abruptly: "Pedro, thou 'rt an uncommon man--a

most singular and unexampled cook, by the faith! How comest thou by thy

learning--thy Latin and curious lore? And having these, how comest thou

a cook? What the fiend doth a cook with Pythagoras, and Cicero, and

Caesar?"

Pedro flushed, and leaned back, regarding the cavalier soberly. "Why,

Cristoval," he said slowly, "'t is a long story--and one I do not tell."

"Oh, thy pardon, Pedro! I thought not to pry, believe me! Prithee,

forget that I asked!"

"Nay!" said Pedro, reflectively. "It is natural, and I begrudge thee

not an answer." He turned to his boy, who was sitting near: "Pedrillo,

seek the sergeant of the guard, and ask him to explain to thee the

theory of fortifications. Thou mayest some day find it useful."

Pedrillo's chin dropped, and he retired slowly. Pedro continued: "It is

a long story, Cristoval, but I will make it brief.--I was not always a

cook, as I have said to thee before. I--I have a name. It is not

Pedro. I am Luis de Cardenas--of a family as ancient as thine, Peralta.

_Bien_! I am a younger son, and, if thou wilt, an _indigno_--a

worthless one. I was intended for the priesthood, and partly prepared

for it. It was a mistake. I studied by day to the satisfaction of my

instructors, but one night they found my bed arranged with the pillows

lengthwise in a simulacrum of my form. I was elsewhere. Thus they found

it the next night, and many following. I had learned to scale a wall,

to sing a serenade, and mount to a balcony in a most unclerical way,

Cristoval. My superiors held council. I was disciplined. Grew weary of

bread-and-water, and escaped. Followed a regiment, and became a

soldier. Was disowned by my family. Lost a leg at Pavia. Could

soldier no longer, and so turned _cantinero_--sutler. Came across the

sea, first to Cuba, then heard of Peru, and here I am--no priest, no

soldier, and only five-sevenths of a cook. 'T is all. I am Pedro, _el

cocinero_--Pedro, the cook. Know me thus, _amigo_ and not otherwise."

Pedro sighed almost inaudibly, and toyed with his knife. Cristoval

extended his hand.

"I thank thee for thy confidence," he said gravely. "Thy name shall not

pass me, but I am glad to know it. Thou hast been a friend, and if

thou'lt believe me, hast made one."

Pedro accepted the hand without a word. Cristoval poured the _chicha_,

they touched their cups and drank. After that, little was said, and, the

supper finished, Pedro arose. "Now," said he, "I must go. I have been

made lord chamberlain to the Inca until he shall be better provided, and

must be up betimes. _Adios_, Cristoval."

"Wait!" said Cristoval. "I will escort thee, my Lord Chamberlain. I've

need to go to my quarters."

"It will be a knightly courtesy," answered Pedro, "for I have no gizzard

in me for crossing that square unattended. Not that I am afraid, look

thou, Cristoval; but that boy is as whole-souled a coward as ever looked

behind in the dark, and he maketh me nervous with his gasps and snorts.

I have no superstition, but they do say that the souls of infidels

wander in eternal restlessness."

"The souls of all men dead by violence wander until masses be said in

their behalf," replied Cristoval, "and hence the souls of infidels must

wander eternally. But have no uneasiness, amigo. Ghosts fear a sword

as a live Italian the evil eye, and dread the sign of the cross even

more. Come!"

They set out with Pedrillo carrying a lantern, and took a street leading

toward the plaza. Just before they reached it Cristoval halted at a

small door and pushed it open. "Come this way, Pedro," he said, "and we

can avoid the barricade of dead at the end of the street."

"Heaven be praised!" responded Pedro. "On my way to the guard-house I

thought never to pass it with my heart in my body. 'T is not as if

these people were slain in battle, Cristoval. I fear not a

battlefield."

"This is thrice more grewsome," assented Cristoval. "But come! Enter!"

"Thou first, prithee, my friend! 'T is villanously dark--and thou hast

two good legs for running!"

"_Bien_! Then follow!" and Cristoval entered the building. The door

opened into a passage leading to the patio. They traversed the latter,

and crossing an apartment, found themselves at the doors opening upon

the plaza. Cristoval swung one of them open. Pedro took a step forward,

then recoiled with a suddenness that sent a quick chill down the back of

the redoubtable Cristoval, who was not without dread of the

supernatural.

"_Nombre de Dios_! What is that?" gasped the cook, peering out into the

darkness and clutching his companion's arm.

"What is what? Where?" demanded Cristoval.

"There--in the plaza!" whispered Pedro, making signs of the cross by the

score.

The place was faintly illumined by the starlight. On the farther side

the buildings rose dim and silent. Between, the area was ridged and

strewn with formless heaps, from which rose the moans and low wails of

anguish of the few unfortunates to whom merciful death had not come. For

a moment Cristoval failed to perceive a cause for Pedro's sudden fear.

But while he looked a vague form rose from among the shadows, moved

forward a few skulking paces, stooped, and was occupied with something

on the ground. Farther away, Cristoval saw another, then a third and a

fourth, slinking and bending over the fallen Peruvians, and their

occupation came to him in a flash. They were robbers of the dead--foul

carrion-birds whose greed even the satiety and weariness of the day's

slaughter could not restrain. With an exclamation of disgust and rage

Cristoval went quickly forward, unnoticed by the ghoul, who, knife in

hand, was tearing at the precious decorations of the victims. As

Cristoval approached, he heard a groan, then a faint, pleading voice,

and saw the knife raised to silence it. He was upon the murderous

soldier at a bound, and his hand closed upon the uplifted arm. The

startled soldier turned with an oath, seized the knife in his free hand,

and struck savagely at his captor, the blow ringing harmless upon the

latter's corselet. Before he could strike again Cristoval's mailed fist

crashed into his face, and he rolled senseless upon the pavement. His

companions heard the disturbance, and hurried to aid their mate. They

drew at once, and fell upon the disturber of their hideous business with

one accord. Cristoval drove among them with his sword, and the sudden

clash of their weapons resounded in the square. They gave way before

his first rush, but closed round him immediately, bent upon his death,

when Pedro, perceiving that they were not unearthly and that his friend

was in danger, charged, stumping across the intervening ground, sword in

hand, awakening the night with vehement imprecations. Meanwhile Pedrillo

had likewise found his voice, and was clamoring at its highest pitch:

"The guard! Ho, the guard! The guard! _Santiago a nosotros_! The

guard!"

Doors flew open, and half-asleep soldiers broke into the square.

Lanterns flitted, an arquebusier on the redoubt fired his piece, and in

a moment the town was roused. The ghouls promptly saw their danger, and

fled. The encounter had been of brief duration, but one of them was

badly bitten by Cristoval's point, and another bleeding from a cut by

Pedro, who had himself received a scratch outside his ribs. In a moment

an excited crowd had gathered, and presently Pizarro came up.

"What now?" he demanded. "Another affray? By the faith, our brawling

will not cease until I have made an example to be remembered! Who is

this?" He snatched a lantern from a soldier and held it to Cristoval's

face. "What! Thou again, Peralta--and wiping thy sword? And who is this

behind thee? Thou, Pedro?"

"Ah! Pedro!" replied the latter, smarting from his wound. "A cook! A

punctured cook, and no less! Here, you pikeman, help me to peel my

doublet, for I have a hurt--_vulnusculum in latere_--a little one in the

side;--_neque acu pundum_--not a needle-prick, I'll swear;--and damn the

man who made it!"

Pizarro turned away impatiently, irritated by the cook's garrulity.

"Explain this matter, Peralta!" he commanded sharply. Cristoval

explained in a few words.

"Soto, have the companies formed!" ordered Pizarro. "We will learn who

is out. Some of these dogs are plundering for themselves. It shall go

hard with them! Peralta, I will send thee an additional detail. Post

sentinels about the square until daylight.--Ha! Whom have we here?"

The man who had struck at Cristoval had regained his senses and was

sitting up, spitting out teeth.

"He is one of them, General," remarked Cristoval.

A soldier jerked him to his feet. "Put him in double irons!" commanded

Pizarro, and walked away.

The call was blowing for assembly, and the crowd of soldiers dispersed.

Cristoval gave his attention to Pedro, who was already being examined by

Jose. He found the wound slight, and it was soon bandaged. Cristoval

set about searching for the injured Peruvian whom he had saved from the

soldier's knife. He found him presently, and called to Jose, who had a

lantern. The three gathered round him.

"Look him over, Jose," said Cristoval. "He is badly hurt, I think--and

a youth!"

"A noble!" exclaimed Pedro, inspecting him. "Santa Maria! The gold on

his tunic, and in his ears! Our friend whom thou gavest a sore face

would have found him rich scraping, Cristoval."

"Ah!" assented Cristoval. "Now, let us get him out of this. Take thou

the lantern, Pedro. Jose, help me with him to my quarters."

The wounded Peruvian was carried from the square. They laid him upon

Cristoval's couch, and leaving him in Jose's care, the former went about

his duties. About dawn he returned and found the Indio fully conscious,

with his wounds bandaged. Cristoval greeted him in a few words of

Quichua. The young noble started at the sound, and regarding the

cavalier eagerly, demanded:--

"Do you speak my tongue, Viracocha? Then, in the name of the great

luminary who shineth upon us both, tell me what hath become of my

brother, the Inca!"

"Thy brother?" exclaimed Cristoval. "God save us! Thy brother--if thou

meanest the Inca--is alive and unharmed."

"Oh, thou great God, I thank thee!" murmured the Indio fervently, and

closed his eyes, overcome. Presently, looking up again, he asked, "Is

he free, Viracocha?"