fluttering, and trumpets sounding a spirited quickstep, marched out of
the square on its way to Guamachucho. At the end of the second day the
Spaniards entered the town. They found it a small place, unfortified,
and without a sign of the reported rising of the people.
A thorough reconnaissance of the country about occupied the next two
days, for De Soto was determined that no doubt concerning its quiet
should remain. At midnight of the second day he was seated with
Cristoval in the latter's quarters, discussing the expedition and
planning for the morrow, to be spent in reconnoitring the country
farther south,--then a day of rest, and the return march to Caxamalca.
Cristoval rose to make his rounds when they heard a hurried step in the
patio, and a soldier entered, followed by a _chasqui_. The youth was
breathing heavily, and as he entered the lamplight his body glistened
with perspiration.
"The Viracocha Cristoval?" panted the _chasqui_, looking from one to the
other and drawing a paper from his pouch.
"Here!" said Cristoval. Taking the paper, he hastily broke the seal,
reading the contents with alarm and rage. He finished and thrust it
toward De Soto, who was anxiously watching his expression.
"Read that, Soto!" he shouted, "and learn the black treachery we have
left behind!"
De Soto seized the paper. It was from Pedro.
"CRISTOVAL: The Inca hath been brought to trial. Return with all speed.
It is said that his conviction is determined, and that he is to be
burned at the stake.
"PEDRO."
De Soto looked up at his friend, their faces reflecting consternation
and anger.
"'T is for this Pizarro ordered us away--curse his perfidious heart!"
cried De Soto.
"A thousand times curse him!" exclaimed Cristoval. "By Heaven, if 'tis
true, I'll kill him! Soto, I go to Caxamalca! Juan, have my horse
saddled! _Pronto!_--quick!" he commanded, and hurried to his room. De
Soto reread the message, muttered an oath, and followed him out. He met
Cristoval buckling on his rapier.
"Hold, Peralta!" he exclaimed; "thou 'rt not going thus, without thy
harness! Wear thy corselet, at least."
"No! I'll ride light," returned Cristoval.
"Wait! come to my room," said De Soto. Hurriedly opening his
portmanteau, he drew out a package wrapped in oiled silk. He cut its
fastenings with his dagger and unrolled a shirt of chain-mail. "Here!
Off with thy doublet and on with this. It is Moorish, and of the best.
It may serve thee, as it hath many times served me."
It was on in a moment, and Cristoval quickly resumed his doublet. His
horse was already at the door, surrounded by three or four troopers,
tightening buckles and rubbing his legs, for he had been under saddle
since morning.
"_Adios_, Peralta!" said the captain, grasping his lieutenant's hand.
"Be not rash, and guard thyself until I come. I will follow at dawn."
Cristoval made no reply to the warning. "Farewell, Soto," he said, and
swung into the saddle.
Soon he was in the open country, his horse's hoofs ringing on the
pavement of the great highway in a rhythm which he knew would not vary
for miles. Shadowy trees swept by, cottages and groves were dimly seen
and left behind. The walls of a _chasqui_-post threw back a short
chorus of reverberations, and were lost again in the darkness and
silence. Presently the streets of a village clamored with the measure,
and relapsed into stillness before the startled peasant could open his
door. Onward he flew, the night breeze fanning his hot cheeks, the
words of Pedro's message repeating themselves over and over in the
cadence of the gallop: "The Inca brought to trial--Return with all
speed. The Inca brought to trial--return with all speed!"--while a
thousand thoughts mingled with the refrain, chasing one another through
his fevered mind, with a deep undertone of purposed vengeance if evil
had befallen the captive prince.
Mile after mile down the sleeping valley, and at last the gray of dawn.
Another half-league brought him to a hamlet. The people were astir, and
smoke was rising from their cottages. He halted at one and dismounted,
the villagers staring from their doors. His horse drooped his head,
nostrils wide. Cristoval surveyed him with anxiety. No help for it, he
must rest. A cottager advanced from his door with a friendly morning
greeting and offered his hospitality. The cavalier accepted with
gratitude, found grain for his horse, and an hour later was once more in
the saddle. The rest and refreshment had done much for both steed and
rider, but the leagues were covered slowly, for the animal was weary and
his flanks in lather. The halt had given a brief respite to Cristoval's
sombre thoughts, but as he looked forward down the valley they returned
with full force; and when, late in the day, he descried distant
Caxamalca, the fever of his anxiety and rage came back with double
strength. At last he was in the suburbs of the town, urging his
exhausted horse to fresh speed. He reined up before a sentinel. The
halberdier saluted, and Cristoval demanded hoarsely:--
"What of the Inca? Am I in time--doth he live?"
With exasperating deliberation the infantryman ordered his weapon;
raised his hand without a word, clutched his throat, distorted his face
into a hideous grimace, and emitting a gurgle, closed his eyes and
lopped his head to one side. Then he opened his eyes and resumed his
position, surveying the blowing steed with critical interest. Cristoval
turned pale.
"Speak, fellow!" he shouted. "What of the Inca?"
"Dead!" returned the soldier. "Garroted! Gone to join his fathers in
the mansions of the Sun, say the Indios; but 't is more like," he
continued, as Cristoval put spurs to his horse and galloped away with an
oath, "'t is more like he hath gone to hell--and mayst thou follow him!"
With jaws set, lips compressed, and oblivious of the pedestrians,
Spaniards and Indios, who barely escaped being run down, Cristoval
careered madly up the narrow street and across the plaza to the palace.
Reining up so sharply that his horse went back upon his haunches, he
threw himself from the saddle, and ordering a soldier to look after the
animal, strode into the building.
He had an indistinct impression of passing Mendoza, of an expression of
surprise on the soldiers of the guard in the great hall, of a hurried
salute from the sentinel in front of Pizarro's office as he crossed the
anteroom, and he jerked open the door and stood before the commander.
Pizarro in half-armor was seated at his table, facing the entrance. At
the end of the table on his left was his sergeant-major, Dominguez.
Both looked up in astonishment at Cristoval's precipitate intrusion, the
surprise on Pizarro's face followed quickly by a scowl of displeasure.
Surveying Cristoval coldly for a moment, he asked:--
"Well, what dost thou here, Peralta? I thought thee at Guamachucho.
Where is thy troop?"
Ignoring the question, Cristoval advanced to the table and leaned
forward.
"Is this report true that I have heard?" he demanded in a tense voice.
"Hast slain the Inca?"
Pizarro's scowl deepened at the bluntness, but after a moment, in which
he seemed to hesitate whether or not to resent it, he answered shortly,
"The Inca hath expiated his crimes."
Cristoval was fully prepared for the reply, but it came, nevertheless,
with a shock. His face paled, then flushed hotly. Unconsciously he
hitched the hilt of his sword a trifle forward. The motion was not
unnoted by Pizarro, who now watched him with the vigilance of a hawk.
Cristoval's voice shook as he returned, with suppressed vehemence:--
"Hath expiated his crimes! Then it is true!--and thou hast put upon the
arms of Spain a blot which a hundred years will not efface. Great God!
Was not the atrocity of the plaza enough to glut thee? I tell thee,
Pizarro, thou hast done foul murder!--Hath expiated his crimes, sayst
thou!--Hath received the penalty of trusting a thing so scant and
beggarly as thine honor, which, by Saint Michael, did underfit thee,
thou perjured and lying miscreant, when thou wast a swineherd!"
Pizarro had risen. He was silent, but the deathly pallor of his
countenance and the sudden cat-like contraction of the pupils of his
eyes, burning with animosity in the shadow of his scowl, spoke his rage
more plainly than an outburst. And they were more dangerously
significant. A scar across his forehead, which Cristoval had never noted
before, now showed itself in a thin line and blue, the color of his
lips. The sparse black beard seemed more than ever straggling against
the sickly yellow-white of his cheeks, and the muscles about his mouth
twitched in a ferocious semblance of a grin, as if to bare his teeth.
But he spoke no word. He grasped for his sword. It was not at his
side, and with a curse he leaped toward his chamber where it lay.
Dominguez sprang to his feet with sword half drawn. Pizarro shouted to
him in a voice of fury:--
"Call the guard! Kill him, Dominguez! Kill him!"
Dominguez dashed to the door and threw it open, calling: "Ho, the guard!
The guard!" and turned upon Cristoval with his sword. The latter sprang
forward to meet him, and engaged his blade before he had made a step.
There was a second's sharp play, and Dominguez went down with a groan,
senseless from a cut which laid open his head. The sentinel rushed in,
and stood for an instant transfixed.
"Kill him! Kill him, dolt! Why standest thou?" bellowed Pizarro,
charging from his door sword in hand. The soldier stepped back and swung
his halberd. The weapon swished viciously, narrowly avoided by a
sidestep, and before he could recover for another stroke Cristoval
closed upon him and ran him through. Then, throwing his weight against
the heavy door, he closed it with a bang and shot the bolt. Pizarro was
upon him, and he sprang back barely in time to avoid a lunge. So
impetuous was the commander's onslaught that Cristoval was forced
several paces to the rear, put to his best to ward the rapid cuts and
thrusts which followed. Pizarro, unaware of the mail beneath his
adversary's doublet, and emboldened by the security in his own armor,
threw caution to the winds. He crowded with dire impatience to avenge
the recent insult. He attacked like a demon, pressing forward in so
fierce and disorderly assault that Cristoval's defence was for a time
disorganized and wild. He strove desperately to gather himself, and to
feel and hold Pizarro's blade with his own, or to check his impetuosity
by _riposte_; but for the last there was no time, and the savage lunges
came in so swift succession that he avoided them only by giving ground,
until he was driven back almost to the wall. At last Pizarro, feinting
a cut at his head, reached him with the point full in the breast, so
heavily that the blade, catching in the links of the mail, bent nearly
double, and Cristoval was hurled by the impact bodily against the wall.
At the unlooked-for resistance encountered by his sword and its
revelation of the unsuspected armor, the commander uttered a grunt of
surprise, suddenly aware of the rashness of his attack. He paused for
the briefest instant. It was Cristoval's opportunity, and in a second he
had assumed the offensive with a vigor that caused a sudden deepening of
the lines around his opponent's mouth.
Pizarro was a good swordsman, but of a school which, in Europe, was
already passing. His guard was high, with point depressed, most
suitable for his favorite attack, the cut. Now Cristoval, abruptly
becoming the aggressor, brought into play a later skill acquired from
the French. He assaulted on a lower line, with arm partly extended, hand
at the height of his breast, and point on a level with the eyes.
Instantly the advantage became his own, and he pressed his attack with
such fierceness that Pizarro found no opportunity to regain the
offensive. Compelled to lower his guard to engage Cristoval's blade, he
was hampered by the unwonted position. The weight of his rapier counted
against him, and he was unprepared for the lightning movements of
Cristoval's more slender and swifter sword, which played before his eyes
like a thin lambent tongue of pale flame.
Cristoval in his mail, and Pizarro defended by his corselet, the only
vulnerable points offered were their throats and heads. Here, again,
the commander was at a disadvantage. With that keen, swift point
menacing and perilously near, he dared not disengage for a cut.
Repeatedly he essayed a thrust, but each time a riposte came like a
flash, barely guarded. Cristoval directed his attack wholly at his
adversary's throat, and time after time Pizarro escaped a fatal thrust
only by a hair's breadth. But at length he felt a quick sensation of
burning as he was grazed, then presently another. Goaded to
desperation, he cut heavily at Cristoval's head. Vainly, and again the
burning sting, this time deeper, and he felt the hot blood trickling
slowly to his breast. Savagely exultant, Cristoval pressed him more
closely, eager to end it before his own strength gave out, for now he
began to feel the effect of the long night in the saddle.
So intent was he that he failed to note the sounds of an effort to open
the door, but they did not escape Pizarro. Cristoval redoubled the
energy of his assaults, not free from concern regarding Dominguez, who
was but slightly wounded and now showed signs of returning animation.
Pizarro had been forced back upon a corner of his table, when the door
rattled again, and after a few seconds resounded with a crashing blow.
There were shouts outside, and the blow was repeated. Again, and this
time it was accompanied by a rending, splitting sound, and Cristoval
knew that it was being battered in. He saw Pizarro's face brighten,
then both redoubled the vigor of their blood-seeking work. Cristoval
was desperate at the thought of interruption. The commander was now
intent only upon defence until the promised rescue should reach him.
Both combatants were breathing heavily and reeking with sweat. Blow
followed blow upon the door, and now a burst of splinters succeeded
every impact.
The meaning of this. Mendoza was leaving the palace when Cristoval
rushed in. He looked after the cavalier in astonishment, surmising at
first that he had returned with important news, perhaps confirmation of
the rumors of an uprising. But Mendoza passed out, intending to return
as soon as practicable. As he crossed the square, however, he recalled
Cristoval's expression, which was one of hot passion recently aroused,
as was evident from his flushed face and blazing eyes. Half-way across
the plaza he halted, considered a moment, then returned to the palace.
Crossing the great hall, he hurried direct to Pizarro's anteroom and
looked in. The sentinel was not at his post. He hesitated briefly,
traversed the apartment, and quietly tried the door. It was fast. He
listened and heard rapidly shuffling feet, no voices, and the clash of
steel. He tried the door again, then rushed to the guard-room.
"_Hola_, soldiers!" he shouted. "Follow! There is trouble in the
general's room!" and he dashed back, followed by the guard. At the door
they halted.
"Listen!" commanded Mendoza. "Do ye hear it?--There is fighting
within!" He threw himself against the heavy door. "Furies of hell!
Lay on here, men! we must break through!"
Again and again they hurled themselves against the resisting wood
without avail, wild now with excitement. Pikes and halberds were brought
to bear, thrust into the cracks to prize it open, Mendoza urging and
swearing. In vain! That door had been built by Pizarro's direction, to
guard the treasure lying in the room beyond his office.
"Fetch a timber!" shouted Mendoza. "A beam--anything heavy! Go! Jump
about it!" He sprang at the soldiers, waving his arms, and they went
out with a rush. There were no timbers but the beams of the ceilings.
They were inaccessible. Finally Mendoza cried, "A bench-top from the
garden! _Veloz! Veloz!_"
It was brought by as many as could lay hands upon it. They hurried into
the anteroom and charged the door, Candia had rushed in, stared for a
second, and thinking a mutiny had arisen, drew his sword and collared a
soldier.
"Here!" he shouted, jerking the man around, "what's to do?"
The soldier wrenched himself free, shouting back excitedly, "Hell is to
do! Peralta is loco, and is murdering the general!"
"_Santa Maria!_" ejaculated Candia.
Now the door was tottering, and another blow brought it down. The crowd
surged through, led by Mendoza, Candia following close. Pizarro's
drawn, anxious face and labored breathing showed that he was desperately
hard pressed. Cristoval with merciless, silent determination upon his
death, was pushing him closely, but weariness clogged his movements, and
the fatal thrust was undelivered. Neither of the combatants seemed to
see the inrush of the soldiers. Cristoval's back was toward them, and
Mendoza drove at him without a word, putting all his strength and hate
into a lunge with which he meant to settle all scores. His point caught
in the links of the mail, the blade bent and snapped close at the hilt.
The lunge whirled Cristoval half around and sent him full length upon
the floor. Pizarro sank back against the wall in exhaustion, while
Mendoza drew his dagger and with an oath sprang upon his prostrate
enemy. Before he could use it Candia had seized him, hurled him back,
and stood over Cristoval, facing the circle of soldiers.
Pizarro, half inarticulate with weariness and rage, found breath enough
to gasp: "Kill him! Kill him!--In God's name!--will none of you put an
end to that accursed mutineer?"
The circle closed a bit nearer, but Candia poised his sword, and they
hesitated. Cristoval had regained his feet and placed himself back to
the wall, panting, but undismayed. At this juncture Almagro hurried in
and breaking through the crowd, demanded:--
"What is this? Our swords turned against one another? What meaneth
it?" He was answered by an excited and unintelligible chorus. Pizarro
started forward, his face distorted with frenzy.
"Kill him, I say, ye damned gawping sheep!" he bellowed again.
"What!--will ye disobey? Fall upon him, or I'll flay you to the last
man!"
"Nay!" interposed Almagro. "Stand back! All in good time and order.
Peralta, thou 'rt a prisoner. Take him away, Candia."
"Out of the way, Almagro!" thundered Pizarro, struggling to pass him.
"I'll have his life! Strike him down, ye dogs!"
"Away with him, Candia!" commanded Almagro, sturdily opposing the
general and thrusting him back. "Fall in about him, men, and make him
secure."
"Come!" said Candia, in a low voice, and seizing Cristoval by the arm,
hurried him out, surrounded by a dozen pikes, leaving Almagro to quiet
the infuriated Pizarro. In the hall outside Cristoval surrendered his
sword.
Word of the affair spread rapidly over the town, and as prisoner and
escort left the palace they encountered a throng already gathered at the
door, held back by the crossed halberds of the sentinels, whom they
besieged with questions. As Cristoval stepped out, still breathing
heavily and disordered from the struggle, their clamor ceased, and they
stared at him in silence, hardly able to believe they beheld the stanch
Cristoval in arrest for having turned his sword against his general.
"_Insano_--gone mad!" muttered an old arquebusier, and his neighbors
agreed to it as the only explanation. Cristoval saw them only vaguely,
and scarcely heeded the groups passed on his march across the square.
At the doors of the building at its lower end which had been put into
service as a prison he halted mechanically, marched again at the command
when the doors had been swung open, and only awoke to himself when,
having traversed the patio, he was led into one of the rooms opening
upon it and felt the oppression of its sudden chill and gloom. The old
sergeant of the guard eyed him gravely for a few seconds, then shook his
head and retired. The door swung heavily shut, and Cristoval was alone.
*CHAPTER XIII*
_*Cristoval a Prisoner*_
Cristoval stood near the door. His eyes grew accustomed to the
obscurity and travelled over the room and its furnishing; but his mind,
occupied by a tumultuous review of the incidents just past, received
little impression. In the middle of the room stood a table, and near it
two or three stools. Along the wall at the rear was a stone bench, and
in a corner a small heap of straw, the bed of some former prisoner. The
fragments of a water jar littered the table, with bits of mouldering
corn-bread. The low, heavily timbered ceiling, with the great thickness
of the walls and the little air from the two small windows, made the
atmosphere chill, stifling, and oppressive as that of a cellar.
He walked to the table and stood leaning against it, the disorder of his
thoughts gradually yielding to grief for the ill-fated prince whose long
durance he had lightened with his companionship. He realized now that
his friendship for Atahualpa had grown stronger than he had been aware,
and he felt an unexpected sense of loss. Slowly his sorrow was succeeded
by a storm of bitter resentment at Pizarro's perfidy, and he raged at
his failure to avenge it. Every detail of the encounter presented
itself to his mind--the moments when the commander's life had been
almost in his hand, the interruption which had foiled him at the instant
of vengeance; and he stamped fiercely, impatiently, heaping curses upon
those who had baffled him, and grinding his teeth at his present
helplessness. More bitter still was the memory of the sacred obligation
imposed upon him by the monarch at their final interview, and his
inability, now, to acquit it. The peril to Rava foreseen by Atahualpa
was upon her. She was without a defender, and at the mercy of her
brother's murderers. Her fate seemed certain. Cristoval sank upon a
chair: sprang to his feet again, and looked about him, this time noting
every feature of his surroundings, the walls of granite, the flagged
floor, the small windows, high up and recently barred by Pizarro's
order, and the massive door, guarded without, as he knew, by a sentinel
whose life depended upon his vigilance. He made a tour of the room with
rapid steps, minutely scrutinizing every detail, driven not by the sense
of his own danger, but by that of the unhappy girl entrusted to his
guarding. There was not a crack between the blocks of stone into which
he could have forced the point of a poniard. There was no escape.
The other phase of the situation came upon him. Not only was he a
prisoner, but a prisoner under sentence of death. He knew Pizarro well
enough to be sure of that. He must die. Not even De Soto's power could
save him. He had sought the life of his commander. He was a mutineer.
For an instant he was seized of a sudden weakness, and sank again upon a
chair with a shuddering glare at vacancy. Doomed! He sat long,
motionless, his faculties numbed. The air oppressed his breathing.
Darkness closed about him and bore down upon his soul as if tangible.
His strength was gone, and though he sat bolt upright he had the
sensation of tottering. His mind ceased to act, absorbed and fascinated
by the terror called death.
He was roused, long afterward, it seemed, though but minutes had flown,
by the sound of footsteps and the opening door. Two halberdiers
entered, followed by the sergeant and two armorer's assistants bearing
manacles and fetters, a portable forge, and an anvil. The door closed,
and the group surveyed the prisoner as if he were a captured lion.
Cristoval rose slowly and stood regarding them with apathy. The
sergeant spoke.
"_Senor Teniente_ Peralta, we have an unpleasant duty--" He hesitated,
and Cristoval waited in silence.
"The armorers here," continued the sergeant, "have a few trinkets which
it is ordered you are to wear--temporarily." He paused again, and
Cristoval wondered vaguely why such a trifle should embarrass his
speech. Fetters--what were they in the presence of the thought of death!
The sergeant resumed: "I trust you will give us no trouble, Senor. It
is near supper-time, and you know what that meaneth to a man already
twenty hours on guard. I had hoped this might be deferred until the new
guard cometh on, but the general seemeth burdened with an anxiety to
know you are secure--so here we are. Now, what say you?--shall it be
done quietly, or must I have a squad of pikemen?"
For answer, Cristoval turned up his sleeves and offered his wrists.
"Ah! _Bueno!_" said the sergeant, with relief. "That is what I like to
see. When a man must take his physic, why not do so gracefully? I have
observed that it marketh the distinction between a _caballero_ and a
yokel. You are a good soldier, Senor Cristoval: I have always said
it.--Armorers, set about it.--Would you believe me, Senor--the last man
I saw ironed took four to hold him! But he was a creature of base
instincts. Now, men, be expeditious!"
In half an hour the irons were securely riveted to Cristoval's wrists
and ankles, and the sergeant was expressing his appreciation of the
prisoner's forbearance, when he broke off abruptly, clapped his hand to
his forehead, and stared at a rent in Cristoval's doublet.
"Ah, _Cielo_!" he cried. "Why was I equipped with mud in the place of
brains!--And you, too, ye numskulls---where are your wits? Do ye see
what we've done?--left him in his mail!--and now there's no way to have
it off but to undo his wristlets. Now what do you think of that?" he
appealed to Cristoval.
Cristoval shrugged, but made no comment. The others stood helplessly
about while the sergeant berated them until his feelings were relieved,
when he exclaimed, with regained philosophy: "Well, let it stay! 'T
will keep. The prisoner will be none the better for it, nor the worse;
and if it worrieth the next sergeant of the guard, let him worry, or
take it off. 'T is time to eat."
He led his men out without further ado, and once more the place was
quiet.
For an hour Cristoval sat in a half stupor; at last, overcome by
weariness, he hobbled to the bench beside the wall. He stretched
himself upon it, and his torpid mind passed insensibly into slumber.
Late in the evening he was awakened by the light of a lantern in his
face, and found himself confronting Pedro. The two regarded one another
silently, Pedro with elevated light and profound concern in his rubicund
countenance.
"'T is thou, good Pedro!" said Cristoval, at length.
"Ah!" assented Pedro. "And is it thou, Cristoval? Thou, _amigo_?--thus
ignominiously pickled and shorn of liberty, hoppled like a wayward barb.
I scarce know thee."
Cristoval smiled gloomily. "It is I, Pedro! Would it were some other.
A prisoner!--and all to no purpose."
Pedro drew a long breath, swore a little, and seating himself, placed
his lantern upon the floor and stared at it in dejection. "All to no
purpose!" he echoed. "The Inca is dead."
"And Pizarro liveth!" groaned Cristoval. "Oh, San Miguel! Could I have
had but a moment longer with him!" He seized the cook's arm. "But,
Pedro--what of the Nusta Rava?"
"Ah, the Nusta Rava!" exclaimed Pedro, his face reddening in the
lamplight with indignation. "What thinkst thou, Cristoval?--but thou
couldst never guess! The Nusta Rava hath been given by Pizarro to that
foul bird, Mendoza, as his share of the plunder of the Inca's palace."
Cristoval sprang up and glared at the cook with an expression which
reminded him of the rumor that the cavalier had gone mad. At length
Cristoval hoarsely broke the silence:--
"Hath he--is she--"
Pedro met the burning scrutiny and shook his head. "No! She is safe for
the present. The plunder hath not yet been divided."
"Where is she?" demanded Cristoval.
"In the palace. She is unmolested thus far, save that Mendoza payeth an
occasional visit to ogle, gloat on, and leer, whilst he croaketh a few
words of Quichua. But she is never alone. Her maids are always present.
One of them came to me this morning, weeping, and begged that I devise
means to relieve her mistress of the monster's visits. I'll do it some
fine day, Cristoval, and there will be carrion to lug out of the garden.
She knoweth not her fate, poor girl."
"Kill him, Pedro!"
"I will--if thou dost not."
"I, Pedro! How in the fiend's name could I kill even a rat?" demanded
the cavalier, with impatience. "Look at me! Look about thee! Is this a
paper house, imbecile? Am I tied with pack-threads? Another
day--perhaps two--perhaps three--and I shall share the Inca's fate. Be
sure of it, friend."
Pedro shrugged and glanced about. "Keep thy courage, Cristoval. Stone
walls do not always make a prison. I've learned some tricks in my career
besides those of the kitchen. Thou knowest I was not always a cook."
"Thou'lt need the tricks of a thaumaturge to take me out of here, old
friend," said Cristoval, "and thou canst serve me better than by losing
good time in the effort. Promise thou'lt kill Mendoza if need be to
save the Nusta."
"I will!" replied Pedro, cheerfully. "But we will talk of it
to-morrow--or when I come again. Now I must go. I've brought thee a
small supper--bribed the sergeant of the guard to let me pass. No
appetite at present? Then eat later. _Adios, amigo mio_."
"Wait, Pedro!" said Cristoval, urgently. "Tell me first of the Inca's
death."
"Oh, an infamy of infamies!" blurted Pedro, with an oath, and reseated
himself. "A devil's own deed, brought about by a devil's own device and
procedure! An indictment wanting even the merit of ingenuity in its
fabrication! A court presided over by Pizarro and Almagro, the Inca's
prime enemies! A trial that began as a farce and ended in a quarrel
over the expediency of his death--whether it would further or hinder the
business of the conquest and the gathering of plunder. And it was
decided on that score, Cristoval. The judgment was determined upon
before the trial began. Didst know he was condemned to burn at the
stake?"
"Oh, God!" gasped Cristoval. "They told me he was garroted!"
"And so he was. At the last moment, after the fagots were ablaze,
Father Valverde offered him the easier death if he would accept the
Faith. He assented. The fire was kicked out, and he received baptism.
So he died a good Christian."
"So he died a good Christian!" repeated Cristoval, with bitterness. "He
was a better man a pagan than the Christians who slew him. Well, God
give him rest. But had he no defenders, Pedro? Was there no man less a
criminal than Pizarro?"
"A few, but, curse me, a sparing few! Among them was Jose, and he the
most vehement. He denounced the affair with an acrimony that stirred
the wrath of Father Valverde, who helped to draw the indictment. Jose
knoweth no discretion, Cristoval. But the Inca's friends were not many,
and their protests were futile."
"How did he bear himself?"
"As a king, if ever I saw one!" returned Pedro, with emphasis. "When
the sentence was made known to him he made one appeal for mercy.
Pizarro feigned commiseration: turned away his head and wiped an
eye--oh, accursed hypocrite!--and now he weareth mourning. Didst
observe?"
"I saw it."
"But this one appeal denied," continued Pedro, "the Inca met his death
like a man, begging only that his people be gently dealt with. Rest his
soul in peace! He was a man!"
Both sat for a time in silence, then Pedro sighed and arose. "Well, God
be with thee, Cristoval. I'll see thee to-morrow, if 't is permitted.
If not, then when De Soto cometh. He will make a way. Good-night."
Cristoval pressed his hand, and leaving his lantern, the cook stumped to
the door, which, after a moment's pounding, was cautiously opened from
without, and he disappeared. Cristoval meditated long. Then, slowly
taking up the lantern, he moved to the table and surveyed the repast
left by Pedro. There was a small flask of _chicha_, and after a draught
of it he attacked the supper and finished it with interest. It revived
his spirits, and for the first time he examined his fetters. There was
little encouragement to be found in their massiveness, and he shook his
head dubiously at the recollection of Pedro's few words of reassurance.
He returned to his bench, put out his light, and soon was sleeping
heavily.
*CHAPTER XIV*
_*Pedro to the Rescue*_
When Cristoval awoke, stiffened and unrefreshed, the room was gray with
feeble light. He stared at the heavy rafters, not yet fully roused to
his dismal circumstances.
"'T is early," he thought sleepily, "or a dull morning. What hath the
day? Let us see--where am I? Guamachucho? No. What pent up air is
this?" He turned his head and blinked at the windows, then raised his
manacled wrists. The history of the day before flashed over him. He
looked a moment at his irons, then closed his eyes and set his lips.
Presently he sat up, painfully, and bent his head upon his hands. "I
thought I had dreamed. _Ay de mi_! No dream, Cristoval. To-morrow a
court, a shrift, the garrote. Ah, _Madre_, it hath been a life not well
spent! But it seemeth short--too short." He sighed heavily, once,
twice, arose abruptly, and shook himself. "Enough, Peralta! Thou'lt be
groaning in self-pity. No more of it! Let us look about."
He hobbled to the table. There was a jar of water and a loaf of coarse
corn-bread. "Some one hath been here--not Pedro, I'll stake my head. I
wonder what the hour may be. It must be late. _Bien_! The day will be
the shorter. And now we'll eat, if but to kill time. Would that hope
were as faithful in our extremity as appetite! We'd ne'er despair. Two
good comrades, hope and appetite, and sad to lose. Pedro would say
that--though belike in Latin. Good old cook! When will he come? But
he'll come, God bless him! What did he mean?--he hath 'learned a trick
or two besides those of the kitchen.' Can he hope to free me? Chance
slight as air! Would that De Soto were here, though I see not how he
can help. But he could save the Nusta Rava, and that he will do, I
know. Poor girl! Her fate may be worse than mine. Now, we'll have
another look at these fetters.--Strong enough, by the Faith, and
strength to spare! But one of Jose's files on the rivet-heads--as well
wish for the Arabian lamp!"
The day dragged slowly and wearily. He spent it in waiting, vaguely, he
knew not for what, and in listening for the few slight sounds that broke
upon the stillness. The steps of the sentinel, the murmur of voices when
the reliefs came, the faint echo of the trumpet-calls on the plaza, were
noted with painful attention. Now he sat straining his ears; now he
limped haltingly round and round the apartment, filling it with the
clank and scrape of his shackles, until his ankles were worn to the raw
and he could walk no more. Seated on the bench, he dozed at last, and
when he awoke the light was failing. This day Pedro did not come.
Thrice Cristoval thought some one fumbled the bolt of the door, but it
was unopened until night was on, when the new officer of the guard came
in with the old. They entered in silence. A soldier held a lantern
aloft while the new commander surveyed the room and the prisoner,
briefly returning his nod as all went out without a word.
The night was a year, but toward dawn he slept, rousing when his food
was brought. The soldier eyed him indifferently, and departed without
salutation. Soon after, two of Jose's artificers came in with a pikeman
of the guard, inspected the windows, and strengthened the fastenings of
the door. Cristoval spoke to one of them, but the guard gruffly forbade
a reply, and the prisoner said no more.
The day was maddening in its length, monotony, and stillness. Why did
not Pedro come? Where was De Soto? Had all friends failed? He must
communicate with De Soto concerning the Nusta, and time might be short.
When should he have his trial? These questions came again and again to
his tortured mind, but all remained unanswered. They troubled him more
now than the thought of death, for with the loss of hope had come the
blessed resignation with which the All-wise softens the approach of the
inevitable hour, and he was surprised at his own indifference. His one
anxiety about it was the question when it would be. He would have
interrogated the soldier who brought his food, but the man did not even
answer his greeting.
Another restless night, and Cristoval rose haggard and savage. Solitude
had preyed upon him, and the silence even more. The taciturnity of his
guards was infuriating. When the soldier entered with his breakfast he
sprang up from the bench with a suddenness that caused the man to drop
his burden with a crash of broken stoneware, and draw his dirk as he
dashed to the door calling for help. The sentinel burst in and stood
with lowered pike while Cristoval glared upon them like a madman.
"_Loco!_" whispered the attendant, with a gasp. "_Jesu Cristo!_ let me
out!"
"Out, then, thou knave!" bellowed Cristoval. "Who holdeth thee? And
hearken! When thou comest again, speak!--say something, or by Saint
Michael, thou'lt die unshriven! Is this a tomb, that ye varlets must
come and go, tiptoeing and mum like undertakers' help? Pass the time of
day, ask me how I like my fare, mention the weather, or blow thy nose;
but break this accursed silence if thou wouldst have thy neck unbroken!"
The soldier edged toward the door. "We are forbidden to have words with
you, Senor Cristoval."
"Good! Then say that! Say it over and again! Say it backward; but ware
being silent. Dost hear?"
"_Muy bien--Adios_, Senor Cristoval," and the two squeezed themselves
out.
"Bring more water!" shouted Cristoval, and sat down relieved.
The day wore along. When the officers of the guard came at nightfall
Cristoval was asleep. Later he was aroused and sat up. A lantern
blinded him, but in a moment he recognized Pedro with a shout. He rose
and clanked across the room, extending both hands.
"Pedro, thou blessed saint! Pedro at last! My life! I thought never to
see thy good face again. Where hast thou been these years? Welcome,
welcome as the sun! Would these bracelets permit, I'd embrace thee, old
friend." His joy was unaffected and pathetic. Pedro was for a moment
overwhelmed by its demonstration. Freeing himself of a burden whose
savory odors told its nature, he grasped Cristoval's hands, then dropped
one to dash his own hastily across his eyes.
"God ha' mercy, Cristoval! I--I--Spit, roast, and baste my
carcass!--I'm glad to see thee. Wait!"
He turned hurriedly to the basket which he had deposited upon the table,
fished out a loaf, and thrust it upon the prisoner. "Here!" he
whispered, with great impressiveness, looking carefully toward the door,
"Chew it up fine! Chew it fine--dost hear?"
Cristoval took the loaf mechanically, surveying him with astonishment.
"What thinkst thou, man--that I would swallow it whole? I am hungered,
but no cormorant. I'll wait, by thy leave."
"Yes, yes! Wait till I'm gone. Hide it. Eat it when alone."
Cristoval scanned his round face, now serious, and tucked the loaf into
his doublet.
"Ah!" quoth Pedro, with a nod of approval. "Now I will lay out thy
supper, and whilst thou dost eat I will talk. I must not tarry over
long--to-night. To-morrow night I will tarry longer. Ha, ha! Stew my
tripes and giblets!" and he patted Cristoval on the back, mystifying the
cavalier with his uncalled-for levity. He continued rapidly: "Sit,
_amigo_, and I'll tell thee a history of late events, and briefly. I
have talked with De Soto."
"Then he hath returned!" said Cristoval.
"Hath returned, and would be sharing thine imprisonment could Pizarro do
his inclinations. But De Soto was more discreet than thou, Cristoval.
On his arrival he paid his respects to the general in full armor, whilst
his troop stood to horse in the plaza in front of the palace. 'T was a
bluff and blustering parley, I've been told. The captain forced Pizarro
to lame defence of his execution of the Inca, and to swallow more of his
own choler than he will be through with tasting for a fortnight. But he
had naught else to do, for De Soto would have killed him at a word. In
the end the commander threw blame upon Riquelme, Almagro, and others--a
burden unloved by any of them, it would seem, for they fell upon him in
full cry and rammed the accusation down his throat. The lie was bandied
among them like a shuttlecock. This one appeached that, that one the
other, then all of them each one in turn. Their chorus reached to the
plaza. A bag of cats were not more earnest and vociferous. Swords were
out, and but for Candia and Gonzalo Pizarro's blood had been spilt.
Stew me! I would they had gotten well at it. What sayst thou to 't?--a
rare batch of back-clawing freebooters, not so, Cristoval? Aha! De Soto
stirred them well.--But what wouldst guess was the outcome of the
wrangle? Scorch me if Pizarro did not shift the blame upon that scamp,
Felipillo, whom he accuseth of having falsified to incriminate the
Inca!"
Cristoval's comment was a laugh of disgust. Pedro added an imprecation,
and resumed.
"And now to thine own business, _amigo_. De Soto spoke for thee, but
with ill success. Thine offence was flagrant, dost see?--black, grave,
and most flagitious! For the sake of discipline thou must come to trial.
The most Pizarro would grant is a delay until the day after the morrow.
But for De Soto it would have been yesterday. The moment was unfavorable
for intercession."
Cristoval had ceased eating and sat gloomily regarding the cook.
"Useless to intercede," he said at last, "then, or at any time. My
campaign is ended, Pedro. But I must see De Soto. Thou and he must save
that unhappy girl."
"We will do so, Cristoval. But now hear me. I have talked with De
Soto. To-day he went to the general and insisted thou must have
Christian fare, and that I be allowed admittance. Pizarro demurred, but
when De Soto came away I went to the general, saying that I had been
told I should have to be thy commissary--to lug offal to the bear, as
Rogelio hath put it--and I swore a great protest that I'd not do it.
Vowed that if I was forced to it I'd put poison in thy food."
"Ho!" exclaimed Cristoval.
"I declared thou 'rt mad, as 't is said by the men, and that I feared
for my life."
"San Miguel!" growled Cristoval. "Is not my case bad enough without thy
slander?"
Pedro shrugged. "I painted thee well, _amigo_, and the general knoweth
my fears. As a consequence--"
"--I've lived on corn-bread and water, Pedro. Continue."
"--As a consequence, I'm ordered to feed thee or be thumbscrewed, and
Pizarro more than half believeth the latter would please me as well. He
knoweth, therefore, thou'lt have scant sympathy from me, thou'lt not be
overfed, and that I'll be carrying no messages from thee to friends
outside. He knoweth that I take my life in my hands in coming--I am
armed, as thou see'st, Cristoval. It is thy sword, by the way."
Cristoval looked at it with a sigh. "I would rather thou shouldst have
it than any other man. It is a good blade, Pedro. Let it keep me in
thy memory."
Pedro regarded him intently. After a pause he said in a low voice,
"Cristoval, thou'lt find a file in that loaf."
Cristoval started, and his face slowly flushed.
"Jose sent it thee," whispered Pedro, "encased thus in the loaf lest I
be searched by the guard. A wise precaution, for they did search me.
And now," Pedro hitched his stool nearer, "dost think thou canst free
thyself by to-morrow night? Good! Then listen: File the rivet-heads
nearly off--not quite--so that a moment's work will finish it. Mould a
bit of the bread in shape to simulate the bolt-heads in case thy fetters
should be inspected. Be ready to-morrow night."
Cristoval seized the cook's hand and pressed it without a word.
"Be ready," repeated Pedro. "I'll tell thee a plan when I come again.
Now, good-night."
"Hold, Pedro!--will it endanger thee? If so, I'll none of it, by--"
"It will not. I swear it. _Adios_."
Pedro pounded on the door, which was opened presently by the sentinel.
He went through with a snort and an oath, and looking back, addressed
the prisoner with well affected wrath:--
"Burnt, is it? Underdone, is it? Too salt, is it? Not warm enough,
isn't it? Thou croaking, leather-cropped kennel-forager! Thy feed will
be served hot enough presently, and not underdone, I'll take my oath
on't! Thou'lt have the devil for a cook, and he'll do things to a turn.
Bear him the compliments of Pedro with the hope that his draughts are
good, and firewood and sulphur plentiful. Underdone! Thou'lt be done
brown, my head on 't, thou--"
The door slammed, and Cristoval could hear him grumbling and swearing to
the sentinel. He smiled, sat listening for a time, then cautiously drew
out the loaf and broke it. The point of a file protruded, and in a
second it was hidden in his bosom. Shortly he extinguished the light,
sought the bench, and waiting for a period with ears alert, took out the
precious bit of steel and set to work in the darkness, first on his
shackles. But despite his utmost care his manacles rattled at every
stroke, and he spent half an hour wrapping the links with his torn-up
kerchief. At last he could work in comparative silence, though the
grating of the file seemed to cry aloud to heaven, and he paused
momentarily, breathless, to listen for an alarm. But the tool bit
gratefully, and before midnight he judged from the feeling that little
work remained.
Now for the manacles. This was another matter. Twist and strain as he
might, he could not reach the rivets with the file,--could not have done
so had his soul been at stake, as well as liberty and life. He groaned,
sweat, and raged, tried holding the tool between his teeth, and strove
ineffectually until his jaws ached. He sat near to despair. Now he
sought carefully along the wall for a crevice into which to wedge the
butt of the implement, and cursed the skill of the masons. For ages he
searched, until his finger nails were worn to the quick. Useless! He
must wait for Pedro.
Another possibility. He groped until he found a chair. Over and over
it travelled his eager fingers, and at last found a crevice into which
the file would go. In his fever he dropped the steel, and it clanged on
the pavement like a tocsin. He caught breath with a sob and knelt long
with straining ears, mouth and eyes wide open. _Gracias a Dios_, it was
unheard! Cautiously, now! The file enters and is forced to solidity by
a few gentle blows from his manacles. Now he works--awkwardly, but in a
delirium of interestedness. "Gods! The Inca had longing for freedom.
Had he such longing as this which hath come with renewed hope? Poor
devil, 'tis even likely. God rest his soul."
It seemed but a moment before he noticed with a shock that the two high
windows were staring at him with pallid light, like a pair of accusing
eyes. The morning had come. He ceased and rose from his stiffened
knees. Now to hide the evidence. A few crumbs from the loaf, water
from the jar, soot from the inside of Pedro's lantern, and the
rivet-heads were counterfeited with the loving care of an artist. Next,
the filings. They were invisible, but he did not rest until they had
been scattered to the four corners of the room. At length he lay down,
weary but sleepless, staring at the beams which already wore the
familiarity of lifelong acquaintance. After an hour the sentinel looked
in, and Cristoval snored. The door closed again.--_Madre de Dios_! Was
that a blunder--to feign sleep? Would not the soldier suspect that he
had been awake all night--working with a file--and now slept from
weariness? He sat up, pale and shaking. No! Impossible! But he would
not venture it again. After a time his breakfast came--corn-bread.
Pedro did not bring it. Was there significance in that? Had the night's
work been detected and his accessory seized? The soldier had looked at
him with suspicion--at least, with feigned indifference! Holy Mother!
What a torture of multiplied fears, now that hope had come!
And so throughout the day. Every sound startled his heart to his mouth,
clamored discovery, the plot revealed. At midday he was sleepy, and
dared not sleep,--or only in snatches, sitting up. Ten thousand times
he examined his counterfeit rivet-heads. Palpably, palpably false! To
be detected at a glance through a crack in the door! He hardly ventured
to move lest the bits of paste fall off. Ah, torment upon torment! It
was easier to be sure of death, as he had been the day before.
By nightfall his head was fevered, his hands clammily cold. At the
usual hour the officer of the guard came in. The new one was Zapato.
He was surly and irritable from a debauch of the previous night, and
said loudly as he entered the door:--
"Is this our ogre? Bah! For a _maravedi_ I would pull his teeth. Let
us have a look at his fastenings."
The other officer spoke a word in a low tone, evidently of warning, and
laid his hand upon his companion's arm. Zapato shook him off roughly.
"Furies!" he retorted. "Dost think to frighten me? _Loco_ or not, I'll
see to his irons. Here, guard, the lantern."
Cristoval's nervousness left him in an instant, and he set his teeth.
_Por Dios!_ the man who should discover his work with the file should
never live to announce it. As Zapato approached, holding the lantern
aloft, scowling with swollen eyes, Cristoval rose slowly and stood
watching his advance with still alertness. The unsteady lantern cast a
fitful light over his rugged features, and the officer looked into a
face whose haggardness was intensified by the uncertain shadows,--cheeks
sunken and drawn by confinement and anxiety, and from their dark orbits
a pair of eyes gleaming with menacing steadiness into Zapato's. The
latter hesitated, peering uncertainly through the gloom, then stepped
back a pace, his hand on his sword. The other officer seized him by the
arm and drew him without much resistance toward the door. Zapato looked
back over his shoulder.
"The man _is_ mad for a surety! We'll let some one else look after his
fetters," and he laughed uneasily and went out. Cristoval smiled grimly
and seated himself to wait for Pedro.
Four long hours,--he knew from the change of sentinels outside the door,
which was made twice. At last, the welcome voice. Pedro was apparently
in unusual spirits, for his words were pitched high and he talked
volubly, now rapidly in Spanish, now with dignity in Latin. Would he
never be done? Presently he was singing. Fiends! Will he not hurry?
But listen! His words sound thick, with pauses suspiciously like
hiccoughs. At length the door opens.
"Is--is--the (hic)--man mad, sayst thou? Say, rather, '_Faenum habet in
cornu!_' Lat--Latin, _compadre_. Meaneth, he hath hay on (hic) his
horns--P--p-- (hic) Pliny. M--more stately way of expressing it, my
dear (hic). Let us--see!"
Cristoval's heart sank in black despair as Pedro stumbled into the room,
basket in one hand and lantern in the other, and stood swaying in the
doorway, smiling idiotically at the darkness. The prisoner could have
wept in his sudden revulsion from hope to disappointment and disgust.
The sentinel seemed to hesitate about closing the door, and Pedro
blinked at him a moment, then said to Cristoval in a voice of maudlin
sympathy:--
"_Loco!_ (hic) _loco_, Cristoval? My commiseration! Sad state. _Animi
affectionem lumine mentis carentem nominaverunt_ (hic) _amentiam,
eandemque dementiam_. _Amentiam_ or _dementiam_, Cristoval--have thy
choice. Cicer--(hic) Cicero, my friend. Grand old man, Cicero, and
safe authority. But--art mad, Cristoval? Outrage! _Quos Deus perdere
vult prius dementat_. Whom God wisheth to destroy--thou knowest,
Cris(hic)toval. More Latin! Sh--shut the door, guard. I'll sit down
with Cristoval. _Loco_, Cristoval? S-s-(hic)scandalous!"
The guard closed the door with a grin, Pedro regarding him with profound
drunken wisdom. Cristoval's head was bowed upon his hands. As the
bolts were shot the cook's manner underwent a transformation. He
listened a moment, then stepped briskly to the table, deposited basket
and lantern, and when the prisoner looked up dejectedly he met
seriousness from which all ebriety had vanished.
Cristoval sprang to his feet. "San Miguel, Pedro, I thought thou hadst
failed me! Thou'rt really sober?" He studied the cook's genial face
earnestly. "_Gracias a Dios_! But 'twas well played! What news? Am I
to go?"
"_Seguramente_! Now, quickly, for we have scant time for words. That
little play was a part of our affair and will aid us later. What of
thine irons? Hast used the file? Ah, good! Now attend. This is the
plot. Pedro cometh to thee in his cups. He bringeth a bottle--here it
is. We drink. Presently Pedro sleepeth. What more simple, then, than
to bind his arms, unstrap his poor wooden leg, strap it to one of thy
good ones,--first cutting away the back of the leather socket to admit
thy bent knee,--don his cloak, sombrero, and sword, and sally forth when
the door is opened to thy knocking? The cloak hitched up by thy rapier
will conceal thy bent leg. Thine intoxication will account for thine
awkward gait on the unaccustomed peg, will excuse thy tilted sombrero to
hide thy face, and thy silence if addressed. The sentinel at the door
will be drunk shortly, for I've left him a bottle. With the one at the
entrance thou must take thy chances, but if accosted, hiccough and
tender this flask. It will be eloquent enough. Then--make the best of
thy way to the mountains, and _Dominas vobiscum_! Now, first, we must
take off that beard. Here are scissors. Sit, whilst I play the barber.
No time for words. Do as I say!"
He was at the beard in a moment. Cristoval raised his hand.
"Well, what now?" demanded Pedro, pausing.
"The Nusta Rava," said Cristoval.
"Thou must leave her to me."
"She goeth with me, Pedro. I have sworn to the Inca--"
"Oh, Murder of the Innocents! Man, 't is impossible! Thy life may pay
for it. Save thy neck if thou canst. It is thy one chance. Thy trial
is for the morrow. Encumbered with her--"
"She goeth with me, Pedro, or I go not at all."
Pedro swore vigorously, but Cristoval was obdurate. They wrangled hotly
in fierce undertone. Pedro yielded.
"Be it as thou sayst, Cristoval. Holy Mother! Why must a good man
sometimes be a fool? Well, stew me, thou 'rt not the first to be undone
by a petticoat, nor wilt be the last. As thou sayst. Tilt thy head
back."
"Good Pedro, I have given my sacred word. Should I break it, and she
come to harm,--it were dastardly, my friend, as thou knowest. By
to-morrow I can have her in the hands of her people."
Pedro clipped rapidly. "Well, I pray Heaven the effort may not cost too
dear. But--damn my kettles, Cristoval!--thou'rt a man in a million.
Now, I'll tell thee how to find her. Thou knowest the little gate in
the wall just back of the left wing of the palace. Thou'lt find it
unfastened. Go in when the sentinel is not too near. Thou canst find
the women's court? Enter it and knock at the third door on the right.
Her maids sleep there. They will know thee. Ask for Nuyalla. She will
lead thee to the Princess, who will go with thee, I doubt not, for she
knoweth now the fate in store for her. Heaven be with thee, Cristoval!
Now thou'rt done."
As he arose Cristoval demanded once more, searching the countenance of
the cook, "Pedro, dost swear this will not endanger thee?"
"On my oath, it will not. De Soto is party to it. If it is needed, I'll
have his protection."
Cristoval was satisfied. The remaining preparations were quickly made.
A few minutes' work removed the fetters. Pedro's peg was unstrapped and
fitted to Cristoval's bent leg. Then the cavalier bound his friend
securely with strips torn from his doublet. He buckled on his rapier,
threw the cloak over his shoulders, pulled the sombrero well down over
his eyes, and was ready to depart.
"Now walk across the room that I may see thy gait," said Pedro. "Ah!
Good! But stagger widely when thou 'rt outside. Tilt not thy rapier
too much, lest it disclose thy leg. The peg would spoil thy
swordsmanship, but once inside the palace walls thou canst take it off.
Thou'lt answer. Now go!"
"Farewell, Pedro, my good friend," said Cristoval, embracing him warmly.
"Heaven grant that we may meet again!"
"Farewell, Cristoval. God preserve thee!" returned Pedro, his voice
unsteady. "Curse it, I'll miss thee sorely! Take the basket--and
remember, thou 'rt drunk. Do not spare thy sword if any one hindereth;
only--avoid killing Jose, Candia, or De Soto. They're friends--almost
the only ones thou hast now, save Pedro."
"Is it so?" asked Cristoval, with surprise. "I thought there were
others."
"They are few. Pizarro hath done for that. He promiseth a division of
thy share of the plunder, and hath given out that the Inca enriched thee
for thy friendship. Not ten men in the army but would see thee roasted
with right good-will. A murrain seize them all! Now go! But hold! I
had almost forgotten. In the basket thou'lt find a pouch. Sling it
over thy shoulder. It containeth provisions. _Adios_! _Adios_,
Cristoval!"
Cristoval embraced him again, and in a second was pounding on the door.
His nerves were steady, now, as steel.
*CHAPTER XV*
_*The Flight*_
There was no response to Cristoval's blows on the door. He waited a
moment, then renewed his knocking. Still no reply but the
reverberations within the room. He pounded again and again. Silence.
Drawing his sword, he laid on with its hilt, but with no effect upon the
guard, and he turned toward Pedro who sat staring in stupefaction. Each
felt the other's dismay. Here was a condition of matters to send hearts
into boots.
"_Sanctissima Maria!_" gasped the cook. "I've been over liberal with
the _chicha_. Pound again. That accursed sentinel hath gone dead over
the bottle."
Cristoval battered with the sword hilt until the room was aroar with the
echoes. No sign without.
"They will hear it in the guard-room," muttered Pedro, "and then we
shall have the whole stew of them about, with Zapato in the middle."
"No help for it, Pedro. I must be out at once if out at all," and
Cristoval assaulted with redoubled vigor. Pedro's surmise was right
enough, for after another storm of blows a distant voice called:--
"Ho there, guard! What is doing? What is that uproar?"
The sentinel was silent, and Cristoval pounded again. Presently there
were voices and footsteps outside, the wavering light of a lantern shone
beneath the door, and some one demanded: "What is wanted within there?
Be done, prisoner! Give over thy din, and to bed."
"Let me answer," whispered Pedro, and he shouted: "Open up! Open up!
Let me out, ye blockheads. D' ye think I'm playing this door for a
kettle-drum to amuse the owls? Unbar before I raise the town."
"It is Pedro," said the voice. "Unbolt and let him out."
The door was unfastened and swung open, revealing to the group outside
the similitude of Pedro, swaying unsteadily in the gloom, sword and
basket in hand, with sombrero cocked very drunkenly over one eye.
Cristoval hiccoughed once, then lurched suddenly forward, jostling the
sergeant and extinguishing his lantern with a blow from the basket;
reeled away from him with his point describing erratic curves near the
belts of the soldiers, and broke through the circle. By good fortune
Zapato was not there. The guard scattered before the uncertain sweep of
his sword, and he zigzagged across the court toward the outer doors.
The sentinel lowered his halberd at his approach and called to the
sergeant:--
"_Hola, Sargento!_ shall I stop him?"
"No! Pass him out. He's drunk. If hindered he'll have the general,
staff, and clergy about us with his uproar. Let him go, and the fiend
take him!"
The sentinel threw open the door, and Cristoval pegged a wavering trail
out into the plaza, muttering fervent thanks to the Virgin for the smell
of the blessed air of heaven. Now he noticed a chill, driving rain, but
the coolness was grateful, and he filled his lungs, tingling to his
marrow with the sudden joy of freedom. Across the square the dark walls
of the buildings loomed through the mist, and to the right, the dim mass
of the palace with a solitary lantern glimmering faintly, its rays
reflected on the wet pavement. The hour was late, and the place
deserted. But notwithstanding its vacancy the square was uncomfortably
open, and he at once sought the nearest street leading from it. At the
second crossing from the plaza he turned to the right. This would bring
him close to the postern in the garden wall. He had but three blocks to
go, but they were long and seemed interminable.
He had gone half the length of the first when a door opened a few yards
in his front. A broad ray of light shot across the way, and he ceased
to breathe as half-a-dozen soldiers came out, laughing, and shouting
good-night to those within. They stood in the street after the door
closed, and Cristoval slunk hastily into a doorway. They were so near
that he recognized their voices. All were of the cavalry but one, and
he an officer of the foot. They had been gaming, and one was recounting
the story of his success. He finished at last and seemed about to leave
the group, starting in the direction of the prison-breaker, who now
heartily regretted the impulse which had led him to take shelter. Had
he gone forward he might have staggered past unnoticed, but discovered
lurking in a doorway he was sure to be questioned, and his first words
would reveal the masquerade, for Pedro's voice was too well known to
admit the possibility of his own passing for it without detection.
Should this man accost him he would have to be killed, and that,
perhaps, before the others were out of ear-shot. In that event they
would all be back, and handicapped by the wooden leg Cristoval's
thoughts were broken upon by the words of one of the cavaliers.
"A moment, Pablo! Hast heard of the game between Mendoza and Rogelio?
No? Then 'tis worth thy standing in the rain to listen to the story.
It is like a romance out of Italy. They played last night until the
first call this morning, Mendoza losing steadily. That greasy,
whimpering _veedor_ hath a dexterity acquired only of the foul fiend
himself--thou knowest it, I surmise, Pablo. Ha, ha! Well, Mendoza
staked and lost his last duro, then his horse, then his share in the
division of the goods of our hot-brained friend, Peralta, and was about
to quit a bankrupt. But, would Rogelio take his note of promise? Saith
Rogelio, 'Impossible, my dear comrade! He, he!'--ye know his laugh,
Senores--'I've a family at home, Mendoza. 'T is impossible!'
"'Then go to the devil!' saith Mendoza; 'thou and thy family, thy
family's family, thy posterity, and theirs!'
"'He, he!' squeaketh the _veedor_. 'Be not hasty, my dear
brother-in-arms. Wait a moment. Thou hast--he, he!--thou hast thy
honeysuckle, the Princess--or shalt have her soon. What sayst to a
thousand ducats against her? Eh, Mendoza? A thousand ducats! They are
thine if thou dost win: she is mine if thou dost lose.'
"'Done!' saith Mendoza, and they play again."
"_Santo Sacramento!_" exclaimed one of the group. "How did it end?"
"Mendoza lost," replied the cavalier. "The Senorita Nusta is a chattel
of Rogelio, and with her goeth wealth untold, for she is as rich as a
sultana. But Mendoza sweareth to win her back, or kill the _veedor_.
He hath been out all day, borrowing money to play again."
The tale was greeted with a shout of laughter, and after a few more
words the party separated. The infantryman drew his cloak about his
face against the rain and hurried toward Cristoval, the others going in
the direction of the palace. The fugitive set down the basket and
gripped his sword.
But fate and the rain were with him, for the man passed with bowed head.
In a moment Cristoval would have breathed freely but for the choking
rage stirred by the story to which he had just been listening. But now
the way was clear, and spurred to mad impatience, he pressed on. The
peg hindered his speed, and he was of half a mind to risk its removal,
but thought more wisely of it and stumbled along. At last he was at the
end of the street, and the gate was nearly opposite. He listened for
the footfalls of the sentinel and presently heard them approaching. The
soldier paced leisurely and in a moment had passed, going in the
direction of the square, which Cristoval guessed would be the end of his
post. Now for it; and he crossed the street toward the wall, moving
quietly as possible. In a moment he was in the garden and had closed
the gate.
"God bless thee, good Pedro!" he whispered, hurriedly unstrapping the
peg. He laid it down gently, picked up his sword, and hastened along
the path to the palace.
The low buildings were quite dark save for a light in the guard-room,
but he knew the way and was soon groping along the passage which led to
the women's court. Its fountain plashed quietly, and he paused for a
drink, then counted the doors and stopped at the third. He returned his
sword, rapped gently twice or thrice, and presently heard a movement
within with the voices of the women, evidently in trepidation. Then one
asked:--
"Who is there?"
Cristoval put his mouth to the crack of the door. "It is I--the
Viracocha Cristoval. I would say a word to Nuyalla. Be quick! It is
important."
"Stars of heaven!" he heard her exclaim. "The Viracocha Cristoval!
Nuyalla, Nuyalla! He would speak with thee."
A moment, then the door was unfastened and opened a finger's breadth.
"I am Nuyalla," said a low voice, trembling. "What would you, Viracocha
Cristoval?"
"Lead me to the Nusta Rava. Quickly! Quickly! Hear'st thou?"
"But, Viracocha--I will ask her."
"Then haste, Nuyalla! There is danger."
The door was closed, and he heard it barred. It seemed hours before it
was reopened, and he chafed and swore to himself in the darkness. At
last Nuyalla peered out with a lamp above her head. Cristoval had
forgotten the removal of his beard, and stepped forward that he might be
recognized. At the first glimpse the girl recoiled, and Cristoval saw
that she did not know him. She made a frantic effort to close the door,
calling to the others to assist.
"Oh, _Madre_!" groaned Cristoval, in desperation as he remembered his
disguise. He threw his weight against the door, forced it open, and
stepped inside, closing it behind him. The movement was greeted by a
scream from the frightened maids.
"Silence!" he commanded, sternly. "I am Cristoval, I tell you. Lead me
to your mistress. There is danger, and no moment to lose. Where is the
Nusta Rava?"
His only answer was a chorus of shrieks from the women, who had
stampeded into a corner. Nuyalla had dropped her lamp, leaving the room
in complete darkness, and adding to the panic. Their cries would
inevitably bring the guard, as Cristoval knew. He was stupefied as he
realized the danger of the situation and felt his own impotence to cope
with it; but at the crisis a door was suddenly flung open, and he
beheld, to his unspeakable relief, the Princess, a lamp in hand, and
pallid to her lips.
Cristoval sank upon his knee, removing his sombrero and speaking with
bowed head in the hope that his voice might be recognized before she
should behold his altered appearance.
"Will the Nusta Rava forgive a rough intrusion--and in the name of
Heaven, still these women before the guard is roused?"
She raised her hand for silence to the maids who had already crowded
about her, then turned to him with imperious dark eyes demanding
explanation.
"I have come to offer my aid, Nusta Rava," said the cavalier.
She found voice with an effort, beginning thrice before she was able to
steady it sufficiently to say, somewhat at random, in her perturbation,
"They told me you were a prisoner, Viracocha Cristoval."
"I was a prisoner an hour ago. I have broken my bonds."
He looked up, and she started, scrutinizing his face with anxiety. But
she recovered quickly, and he arose. After this no ceremony, and he went
on, speaking directly and as rapidly as his knowledge of the Quichua
would allow:--
"I am a fugitive, Nusta Rava. My aid may avail you little, but I know
your danger. There is a hope to escape it. Once clear of this unhappy
town you will be among your own people. Are you ready to flee? Will
you trust me? You must say quickly, for seconds are worth hours, and we
must lose not one."
She made no reply, but stood regarding him intently, her clenched hand
pressed to her heart. He saw that she was violently trembling, and said
quietly: "Before the dawn we can be well away. It is not yet midnight,
but we must hasten."
"Oh, Viracocha Cristoval!" she murmured, looking at him piteously,
struggling in agony between fear and hope. Should she trust him? Could
she trust one of these terrible strangers? Were they not all beasts of
prey? Yet this one seemed to have a human heart, and had been her
brother's friend. She sought the depths of his soul through his eyes.
Their expression was intensely earnest, but frank and solicitous, and
they met her own with un-reserve and quiet steadiness. Still--like the
others he was a Viracocha.
Cristoval read her thoughts. "Nusta Rava," he said gently, "I promised
to your brother that with the aid of Heaven I would guard you from harm.
I am ready to do so at the cost of life. But we are wasting precious
moments--"
He paused abruptly. The faint, quick notes of a trumpet were sounding
in the distance.
"What is that?" whispered the Nusta, turning her head.
"The alarm," replied Cristoval, quietly. "My flight is discovered." He
strode forward, and taking her by the hand, turned her toward her door.
"Go! Robe yourself warmly--and make haste!"
He urged her gently forward, but she turned, crying in anguish: "Fly,
oh, fly, while there is yet time! You have risked your life in coming
hither. Go! Save yourself!"