It was brought in a second, and he threw it over Rava's shoulders. The
maids were kneeling about her, weeping, clasping her knees, frantically
pressing her hands, their lamentations threatening to rise again to the
danger point. She stood like a statue, seeing none of them nor hearing
their words.
"Come!" said Cristoval. "We have yet time."
She cast a glance at his masterful, serious face, extended her hands
impulsively to her women, then tore herself from their embraces with a
sob, and followed him to the door. The cavalier turned.
"If you value the life of your Princess, see that you be silent. Make
fast behind us, and open to no one before the morning." He stepped out
into the darkness, followed by his ward.
He led rapidly across the patio, sword in hand. They felt their way
through the blackness of the corridor, and halted at its entrance upon
the outer court while Cristoval listened. There was a confusion of
men's voices in the guard-room, but the great court was vacant, and save
for the drip and patter of the rain, was silent.
Cristoval took her hand, and they hurried toward the garden. Here he
drew her from the walk into the shrubbery, picking his way under the low
branches of the trees, which showered them with icy drops at every step.
They were a few paces from the postern when the heavy report of one of
the falconets on the redoubt stopped them with a shock, and startled a
faint scream from the girl. The alarm gun! Rava pressed the folds of
her cloak over her lips, and Cristoval shook her hand warningly, then
hastened on in silence.
They reached the postern, and with the utmost caution he set it ajar and
looked out. From the direction of the square came the tread of the
sentinel, moving away. Cristoval turned to Rava. "Now, we go.
Courage!" he whispered, and led her faltering into the street.
Sounds came from the square; lights were flitting, horsemen galloping.
They hurried across to the nearest corner, turned into the side-street,
then again to the right in the direction of the suburbs.
"Can you run?" he whispered. "Then we must do so." At every corner he
halted, listening. The town was up. Several parties passed on nearby
streets, hurrying toward the outskirts. "They will guard the ways,"
muttered Cristoval. "_Bien_! We shall see!" A door opened--but behind
them--and a belated soldier hastened toward the square, buckling as he
ran, while the two stood against a wall until he was well away. They
pressed on.
At a corner they almost ran upon a squad of soldiers just entering the
street they were following. But the party was going toward the suburbs,
and the fugitives shrank back into the shadow unobserved, starting on
again warily when the footfalls had died away. Soon the houses grew
meaner, with vacant spaces between, fences of rough wicker enclosing
gardens, and here and there a quinuar tree. They were in the purlieus
of the town, and presently turned into a lane which wound among the
scattered cottages and led off somewhat to the right, less directly
toward the fields. Here they left the pavement and travelled with
greater difficulty, splashing into puddles and occasionally stumbling
into a fence or wall at a turn in the way, but evidently getting into a
more and more thinly peopled quarter. It was an obscure thoroughfare,
and as Cristoval surmised, not so likely to be guarded, so they went
with less caution. Suddenly his feet struck a pavement, and he knew
they were on another street.
"Halt!"
The command burst fiercely through the gloom, from what direction the
startled cavalier could not tell, and he dashed forward, dragging the
Nusta, vainly hoping to evade the challenger.
"Halt!" was shouted again, more sharply, this time almost in his face,
and he staggered back from a terrific thrust of a pike full in the
chest. Rava's shriek answered the rough summons, and Cristoval lost her
hand. The soldier sprang forward, thrust again, and missed. Down the
street toward the town was a shout, the quick, confused uproar of the
hoofs of horses suddenly spurred, then the rhythm of the gallop. The
soldier lunged wildly in the darkness, and now Cristoval's blade engaged
his pike. It was over in a second. The fellow thrust a few times with
ferocity, instantly aware of dangerous skill in front of him, ceased
abruptly, and went down with a choking cry. Cristoval whirled away from
him.
"Rava!" he shouted.
An answer came faintly from the roadside, and striding in the direction
of her voice, Cristoval found her leaning, half swooning, against the
wall. "Quick!" he cried, seizing her hand. "We must run. For your
life, run!"
The fierce energy of his tone gave her vigor. Behind was the clamor of
horsemen, and fear winged her feet. Cristoval's strength seemed to lift
her from the ground, and as she sped beside him, seeing nothing, barely
touching the earth, and blindly confident of his guidance, there were a
few brief minutes of exhilaration.
They ran until Cristoval heard the horses reined up at the wounded
soldier, then he turned to the right of the road. Here was a low wall,
surmounted in a moment, and the cavalry roared past outside.
They found themselves surrounded by shrubbery and trees which rendered
the night more inky black than it had been in the streets. A few paces,
however, brought them to an open of some extent, and beyond rose another
shadowy mass of foliage. They were in the garden of one of the numerous
villas by which the town was surrounded, and they crossed the sward at a
run. A few yards farther, and they came to the villa, quite deserted
and dark. They passed it close and saw the doors were down. Cristoval
remembered that it had been plundered months ago by the soldiery. The
place served to give him his bearings, and he knew they were not far
from the fields. As they stumbled through the garden in the rear they
heard shouts and the gallop of the horsemen returning. They had lost the
scent.
A few hundred yards brought them to the rear wall of the garden. They
were as quickly over as at the other, and in the open. Now they paused
a moment to listen, but save for the wind and rain the night was silent.
There was no sign of pursuit, though once they heard a shout and answer,
far in the rear, probably on the road where they had encountered the
sentinel.
They pushed on. Vacant, sodden fields were all about, very low and
level, as if the land had once been the bed of an ancient lake. This
was the ground swept by the enclosing lines of the Inca's army on the
day of the massacre.
*CHAPTER XVI*
_*Pedro in the Thumbscrews*_
Cristoval's escape was promptly uncovered in this wise. After he had
staggered away, the guard found the sentinel in a corner, comfortably
asleep with Pedro's bottle. Half an hour's work and several bucketfuls
of water brought him on his feet and aware of his transgression,
impressed upon him by the sergeant by a vigorous train of invective. He
was taken to the guard-room and put in irons.
When Zapato returned the sergeant reported a man drunk, and the need for
a substitute. He promptly received his quota of invective for having a
man drunk, and Zapato went to his office to meditate upon the
circumstance of having a sergeant who had a man drunk on guard, and on
the raking-over which he in turn would receive. He had settled himself
to reflect upon the hardships and chagrins in the life of a soldier,
when he was assailed by a thought. He threw open the door, and
demanded:--
"Sergeant, where was this man when he became drunk?"
"On his post, _Senor Teniente_."
"What post?"
"In front of Peralta's door."
Zapato paled, seized a lantern, and rushed across the patio to
Cristoval's door, followed by the sergeant. Two or three of the guard
rose and sauntered after. Zapato entered the hastily opened door,
raising his lantern and glancing about. He muttered his relief. On the
bench lay a form, apparently sleeping. Pedro moved slightly, clinking
the manacles, and Zapato was satisfied. He turned to go; was at the
door when a fresh doubt seized him, and he went back. Pedro lay quite
still, face to the wall; but Zapato espied his pinioned hands. He
looked closer, swinging the light upon the face, and raised a howl of
rage and consternation.
"Furies! This is not Peralta! It's Pedro! Look, Sergeant--look, thou
idiot! Oh, thou doubly, triply accursed model of witlings! Thou
unspeakable effigy of imbecility! It's Pedro, dost hear? Pedro! Oh,
saints and devils, we're skinned alive already!"
He rolled the cook over while the sergeant stood silently making
crosses. Others hurried in and gathered round the cook, who snored,
bulky and peaceful. They hauled him off the bench, every man shouting,
but Pedro slept calmly on, gurgling gently when some one prodded his
ribs, but giving no other sign of consciousness. There was his stump of
a leg, its peg gone, vanished, evaporated. But Peralta--alas, no
Peralta!
"Ho, the trumpeter!--the alarm!" roared Zapato, collaring the sergeant
and running him to the door. The sergeant disappeared, and in a moment
the call sounded which Cristoval had heard in the Nusta's apartment.
Its first notes were ragged and discordant, telling the musician's
disorder of mind. Then it rose clear and stirring, startling many a
Spaniard out of dreams. A soldier scurried across the plaza to the
redoubt, carrying a lighted gunner's match, and presently the flash and
bang of the falconet split the mist. Now individuals and groups came
running to the square, some half-dressed, others buckling and buttoning,
all pale, tousled, and breathless.
Pizarro was one of the first out of doors. A messenger stammered the
news, and withered in the general's blast of fury. Commands followed
quickly. Guards to every exit from the town. Patrols for every street.
Cavalry for the suburbs and roads. A thousand _castellanos_ reward for
the recapture. Squads formed and went flying down dark streets, halting
every moving man and woman. Soon, horsemen in twos, fours, and
half-dozens left the square at the gallop in all directions. Groups of
natives gathered, silent and wondering, their impassive faces dimly seen
in the light of passing lanterns. Caxamalca had no more sleep--unless
Pedro's. He apparently slept on, untroubled, under the eyes of one of
the guard who swore ever afterward that he had seen him disembodied on
that gusty Peruvian night.
Toward the eighth hour of the morning Pizarro, accompanied by his
secretary, with Almagro, Riquelme, Rogelio, and Father Valverde, entered
the prison. Pedro heard the clatter of thumbscrews as they were set
upon the floor by the squad of halberdiers who followed. The cook was
sitting with bowed head, absorbed in misery. He glanced up as the party
came in, saw that De Soto was not with it, and his heart sank. The
captain had been ordered out with the rest in search of the fugitive.
He had gone willingly enough, and had succeeded in tactfully reducing
the chances of discovery by leading his men in what he guessed was the
wrong direction. But at that moment he would have been a welcome sight
to Pedro. The cook, however, gave no sign, but invoked the aid of the
Virgin in consuming time until De Soto might return.
The court--for it was a court, duly organized and sworn, albeit
summarily--first examined the apartment with minuteness and
deliberation. The secretary recorded its findings. The fetters were
inspected, and the conclusion was arrived at, agreed to, and set down,
that they had been undone by a file or similar instrument. Thereupon
the tribunal proceeded to interrogate those suspected of complicity.
First came Pedro. After him would come the sentinel found drunk on
post, the two artificers who had been at work on the fastenings of the
door, and others. Thus far the process had been carried on with dignity
and order. Now Rogelio, who, with Riquelme, was to conduct the
examination, prepared to begin, swelling himself pompously, pursing his
lips, puffing his cheeks, and rolling his eyes from one to another of
the court, until Riquelme exclaimed impatiently: "_Infierno_! Commence,
_Veedor_, before the morning is spent!"
Rogelio opened his mouth at him, then turned to Pedro. "Prisoner," he
piped. Pedro made no sign of hearing him.
"Prisoner!" he repeated, and Pedro looked up, scowling.
"Ho! Art addressing me, _Veedor_? Then change my title. I am a cook.
A cook, look thou! A cook bereft, plundered, despoiled, and ravished of
a leg! Pray, hast seen it--my missing member?"
Rogelio hesitated, snuffled, and with dignity began again.
"Prisoner--"
"Cook, I tell thee!" Pedro interrupted, explosively. "Thy prisoner hath
flown--flown with three legs, one a stolen, and that one mine--not my
best, in truth, only my second best; but nevertheless most grievously
wanted. Hast seen it, Veedor?"
Rogelio's mind was not alert. It could pursue a single line of thought
with a sort of porcine tenacity, but the intrusion of a second idea
produced derangement requiring time to readjust. His attention, now
drawn to Pedro's lost peg and his uncanny-looking stump, was not readily
disengaged. He stood surveying the cook's maimed member with
fascination until in the slow revolution of his thoughts they should
come back to their former connection. This achieved, he began again.
"Prisoner--"
"Cook!" shouted Pedro, jerking himself erect and glaring at the
_veedor_. The latter stopped, and Pizarro interfered.
"Be done, Pedro!" he commanded, angrily. "Cease interruptions and allow
the _veedor_ to proceed. Continue, _Veedor_."
"Prisoner!" squeaked the _veedor_.
"Cook!" roared Pedro, savagely.
"Oh, in the devil's name, let him have his way!" Almagro broke in.
"Call him cook--anything--but begin, Rogelio!"
"Well--cook," said Rogelio, wiping his forehead, "thou art charged with
having guilty knowledge of the means whereby the late prisoner,
Cristoval de Peralta, hath effected his escape."
Pedro nodded gloomily. "So I have!" he assented. "'T is, alas, true!
Unhappily I have such knowledge, _Veedor_. I know that he effected his
escape on three legs, as I have said. May the third help him into hell!
It was mine, I tell thee, and I want it back. What! Am I a centipede,
thinkest thou, to go sloughing legs here and yon, all my days on earth?
I've lost three, already--one of them mine inheritance of flesh and
bone, the other twain hewn from good oak of Aragon. All gone! Stew me,
I sicken of losing legs!"
The response produced a new tangle in Rogelio's thread, and before he
had it straightened Riquelme growled and took up the questioning.
"Here, Pedro," he said sternly, "Peralta had a file wherewith he filed
his fetters. Thou wast the only man save the guard and the artificers
who had access to him. How came he by it?"
"Ah, a file had he!" returned Pedro, with irritation. "Well, curse it!
let him have his file--or files, or rasps, or grindstones! May he chew
them! But he filed not my leg off, I tell thee that, Senor Treasurer!
He took it all--peg, socket, straps, and buckles. May it stick in his
gullet! But look at me, thou who hast two good legs! Am I in a
condition of mind or legs to sing to thee of files? Am I a newsmonger of
files? A murrain on all files and filers! I want my leg!"
Riquelme grew red, and Almagro grinned maliciously; but Pizarro was
angry. "Answer the question, thou eternal babbler!" he commanded. "How
came Peralta by that file? Thou knowest, and we'll have it out of thee.
Answer!"
Pedro turned from him. "Oh, a curse upon Peralta and his file! What
care I who gave him his file? Have I not mine own peculiar grief? And
is it not grief enough but that I must be assailed with scare-devil
bellowings by madmen who have lost a file? A surceasance of it! Ye
have talked enough to grow me another leg. Ye rasp my nerves with your
bully-ragging about a file. I've lost a leg!"
Pizarro stamped with fury and ordered the screws. Almagro protested, and
was ignored. The instrument was brought forward, and the general
demanded: "Once more, cook, and finally--wilt give information?"
Pedro had braced himself for what he had known was inevitable, though he
had hoped that delay might bring De Soto. No word escaped him. He took
the torture, a hero, with hardly a groan. Thrice he fainted, and at the
end of an atrocious hour, Almagro interfered.
"Faugh, Pizarro! Enough! Enough! For the sake of Heaven, give over!
It groweth sickening. Pass him and take another. Curse me! he is
entitled to be let go for his fortitude, whether he knoweth aught or
naught! Put it to the drunken sentinel. He is the man to be squeezed,
if any--and the two artificers. If thou canst narrow the matter down to
this crackle-pated cook, then come back to him and rack him, or hang him
if 't is worth thy while. But now, have done. Off with those screws,
men! I'm a thief if I'll see more of it! Off with them!"
Pedro had fainted for the third time. The soldiers looked to Pizarro.
He glanced surlily at his partner, whose single eye met his own with an
expression which he had seen it wear before. It promised a quarrel.
Father Valverde joined Almagro's protest. The _veedor_ alone yelped an
objection, and it decided the question in Pedro's favor. Pizarro
hesitated and said coldly:--
"_Bien_! So be it! Release him, soldiers. We can come to him again;
and by the Eternal, do we find him guilty I'll draw-and-quarter him in
the square! Take off the screws."
Within the hour the sentinel was haled before the court, followed by the
two artificers and several of the guard. All swore willingly against
Pedro,--too willingly, said Almagro, with vehemence; but for the cook
the affair looked grave.
He was left in prison, horribly sick from the ordeal, but determined not
to betray the man who had sent the file,--the rack, fire itself, could
not have forced it from him.
De Soto returned late in the afternoon. Jose sought him while he was
disarming, and shocked him with the news that Pedro had been tortured,
and was in danger of worse. The captain had taken off his helmet, but
he replaced it, buckled on his sword, and started toward the door. The
old Morisco halted him with a hand upon his arm.
"Hold, Soto!" he said. "What dost intend?"
"To have Pedro released. I promised to protect him, and by my soul, I
will do so! Pizarro hath gotten ahead of me, but he shall go no
farther, or I'll--"
"Wait!" urged Jose, detaining him. "Be not rash, young man, or thou'lt
draw suspicion upon thyself. Hear me! I will claim the blame if need
be, and flee into the mountains. But first, do thou see Almagro. He
did not favor the torture, and together you may be able to prevent by
persuasion what thou canst easily precipitate by heat and defiance. If
you fail, then accuse me, who sent the file."
"No sooner thee than myself, who am equally involved, Jose!" responded
De Soto, stoutly. "I'll make no accusation."
"Then see Almagro, and keep me informed."
"Very well. I will do so." De Soto hurried out. He found the bluff
Almagro a ready ally. Pedro had won his soldierly admiration, and he
swore that the cook was far too good a man to be sacrificed for a matter
largely personal with the commander. He went straightway with De Soto
to Pizarro.
The interview was prolonged. At times it grew stormy, even threatened
the division in the army which the general dreaded more than external
foes; but in the end he permitted the cook's release on De Soto's
responsibility, with the latter's promise to produce him for trial when
called upon. Pedro was removed at once to De Soto's quarters to be
nursed back to himself and guarded against Pizarro until, in the
preparations for the march to Cuzco, his suspected offence was
overlooked. But the General was fairly satisfied of the cook's guilt,
and only the resolute and avowed interest of Almagro and De Soto
prevented summary vengeance. Pizarro raged under the necessity of
biding his time.
The day following Cristoval's flight had passed without discovery of his
trail, though every soldier not on other duty joined the search,
stimulated by the offered reward. It was exhilarating sport, this
man-hunt with so much in store for the captor, and the zest was
heightened by bets whether he would be taken; if so, whether alive; or
whether he would be compelled by hunger or native hostility to
surrender. The sole trace of the escape was with the sentinel run
through by Cristoval's sword. Brought in unconscious, he was still too
weak to impart such information as he might possess. Rain had
obliterated every footprint, and the flight was as clean as if made on
wings. The Nusta Rava's absence had not been discovered. The report
that a woman's scream had been heard when the sentinel was assaulted
received no attention.
Early in the evening, however, it was recalled, and the excitement
freshened. Pizarro sat with Almagro, Riquelme, and others, receiving
officers as they straggled in from the day's ineffectual hunt. Mendoza,
most indefatigable of all and last to give it up, had just been talking.
He was leaning against the table, weary, rain-soaked, mud-spattered from
head to foot, his corselet streaked with rust, and his face begrimed and
surly. He had just finished when the door flung open abruptly, and the
_veedor_, blowing as if from a run, his face purple and perspiring,
burst into the room. He halted, gasped, strove to speak, and choked,
stared wildly about, bolted to a chair, and sat down. Riquelme rose,
aghast at his colleague's grotesque symptoms of distress.
"What the devil is the matter with the man?" he cried. "Holy Mother, he
hath a fit coming! Bleed him, somebody!"
Rogelio rolled his eyes at him and raised his hand, shaking his head in
violent negation. Twice he gasped again, then managed to pipe faintly,
"Oh--my stars!--the Nusta!"
"The Nusta!" repeated Riquelme. "Well, what of the Nusta? Speak, thou
puffing symbol of calamities unknown! What of her?"
"Flown!" whispered the _veedor_, grasping the arms of his chair in the
effort to catch breath.
"What sayst thou? Hath flown!" shouted Mendoza, jerking him backward to
see his face. "The Nusta hath flown! Whither? Whither, I say!" and
Mendoza shook out of him his little remaining breath.
"Come, Mendoza, unhand him," said Almagro. "Let him have his wind or
he'll perish undelivered of his information."
Mendoza scowled about the room and dashed out, leaving Rogelio with his
eyes rolled to the rafters, swinging his head slowly from side to side
and waving his arms, apparently in the last stage of asphyxiation.
Pizarro ordered his secretary to investigate. Xerez soon returned with
confirmation. Shortly Mendoza strode in, his black looks leaving no
doubt. The Nusta had vanished.
"Hath the garden been searched?" asked Pizarro.
"The guard hath hunted every nook of grounds and buildings," replied the
secretary. "Doubtless she went last night with Peralta."
"When didst learn of it, Rogelio?" demanded Pizarro, after a moment of
silence.
The _veedor_ passed his sleeve across his forehead and snuffled, "Just
now--just came from her room."
Mendoza was upon him again. "Just came from her room!" he thundered.
"What devil's business hadst thou in her room? Didst not swear to keep
away until we had played once more? What business, thou lizard?"
Rogelio sidled from his seat precipitately and took refuge behind
Pizarro before replying. "She's mine!" he squeaked. "I won her at
dice. Pizarro, I claim your protection as a civil officer of the
Crown."
"With a wife and five small children at home!" added Almagro, with a
disagreeable laugh. "Fie, Rogelio!"
Rogelio blinked at him viciously, and Pizarro ended the discussion.
"You will settle your affairs elsewhere, Senores. This is no place for
it." He bowed significantly, and both left the room, the _veedor_
tarrying uncomfortably until Mendoza should be out of the palace.
The _veedor_ was quartered with Riquelme a few squares from the plaza.
Leaving the palace, he went directly to his house, half expecting
Mendoza's blade between his civil-official ribs at almost any moment.
He reached it safely, and sat the greater part of the evening blinking
at the light, laboring with a thought. He heard Riquelme come in with
companions, and going to the rear of the patio later, roused one of his
servants and beckoned him out.
"Vilpalca," he said, "dost know Felipillo? Good! Go fetch him."
He returned and sat again blinking at the light, slowly rubbing his
hands, now chuckling without mirth, now communing with himself in
emphatic whispers with many a sniffle interspersed. Within an hour his
servant returned, leading Felipillo. The young renegade entered
sulkily, twirling his plumed cap and looking shiftily at Rogelio, who
greeted him with effusive condescension.
"Ah, Felipillo," he twittered; "I am glad to see thee, Felipillo. How
hath it gone with thee? Sit, boy, and I'll pour thee a bit of _chicha_.
Here."
Felipillo seated himself on the edge of a chair, glanced contemptuously
at the very small drink, and tossed it off at a gulp.
"Well, how hast prospered?" continued the _veedor_. "Hast played in
luck? Not in excessive luck, eh, chico! Thou 'rt a bit seedy, not so?
He, he! But we all have varied fortunes at play, Felipillo, now high,
now low. But I would rejoice to see thee in better feather, my young
friend. I would, on my soul!"
Felipillo regarded him with suspicious surprise, and the _veedor_ went
on: "I've sent for thee on a little matter of business, my boy. A
matter, in fact, of--he, he!--diplomacy. We Spaniards, as thou knowest,
are great in diplomacy. I hope thy coming did not incommode thee!"
"I was going to bed," grunted Felipillo, with bad grace.
"To bed so early? Wise boy! But 'tis a sign of a thin purse, is it
not?--or want of favor among the ladies--or both, eh? Sometimes they go
together. Too bad, too bad!"
The _veedor_ grinned upon him, meeting a sour glance in reply, then
resumed.
"Now, Felipillo, what dost think I had in mind in sending for thee? Eh,
boy? What dost imagine? Suppose I should say it was to offer
thee--say, a hundred _castellanos_!"
Felipillo looked as if he would consider the statement a lie if made,
but did not say so.
"A hundred _castellanos_, or maybe a hundred and fifty," continued
Rogelio, rubbing his hands and peering into the face of the interpreter.
The youth gave him a brief, searching glance, and looked away.
"I really think of it," said the _veedor_. "Upon my honor I do! A
hundred and fifty _castellanos_--but not more, understand--not more. Of
course, my young friend, thou wouldst naturally hope to make some return
for it, now wouldst thou not? He, he! Beyond a doubt, beyond a doubt!
I see it in thy generous eye. _Bien_! Now, this is what I have to say.
The Nusta Rava--my Nusta Rava!--hath fled, as thou knowest, with that
bullying, swearing, blood-drinking scoundrel, Peralta. I want her back.
Mendoza wants her back. I won her fairly at play, and she is mine; but
I see that it grateth him to give her up. If he taketh her, he may not
give her up. May the plague torture him a thousand years! Now, seest
thou, I am not a man of arms. If I were, I would pursue her myself.
But I am a civilian--an officer of the Crown, with a wife and--that is
to say, Felipillo, I must not endanger myself in the hardship of a
pursuit. I am not inured to it. I am too old--at least, my life and
services are too valuable." The _veedor_ paused here to inflate his
cheeks while he leaned back and surveyed the youth with dignity. But
the dignity was marred somewhat by the snuffle with which he ended.
"Dost follow me? Good! Now, what I want of thee is this. Go to the
camp of the Canares, over the river, and set a pack of them on the scent
of the runaways. What sayst thou? Mind thee--a hundred and fifty
_castellanos_, good yellow gold!"
Felipillo had kept his eyes upon him with unusual steadiness. Now he
looked aside, weighed the proposition, and shook his head. "Impossible,
Senor."
"Impossible! Why impossible?" demanded the _veedor_; leaning eagerly
forward. "One hundred and fifty _castellanos_ for thine own purse, boy!
Why not?"
"Because one hundred and fifty _castellanos_ would not pay me and hire
them. A thousand _castellanos_ would not hire them, Senor, for they
care not for gold. They know not its worth."
"H'm! True!" said Rogelio, his jaw suddenly dropping in disappointment.
"But--well, what would hire them? _Chicha_?"
"_Chicha_ might, but they can get it more easily."
"Then what would?" snapped the _veedor_. "Beastly savages, not to know
the worth of money!"
Felipillo was silent. Rogelio watched him anxiously for a time, then
sat in a study. Finally he exclaimed: "Boy, I have it! These Canares
chafe under the yoke of Tavantinsuyu, not so?"
Felipillo nodded.
"Aha! _Bueno_! _Bueno_!" said the _veedor_, rubbing his hands. "We'll
offer them freedom."
"We, Senor?"
"I, dolt; I, myself! I'll promise it them."
"Thou, Senor! They will know better."
"Bah! We can lie a little. But why not I?" Rogelio became suddenly
pompous. "Thou knowest not my standing at home, boy. A letter from me
to the Colonial Council, or to his Majesty, would have weight, let me
tell thee. But as I say, we can promise."
"It will not answer," said Felipillo, positively. "Moreover, they are
like to be free, now, without anybody's leave."
The _veedor's_ jaw sagged again. He studied heavily, and presently
looked up. "Felipillo, I'll tell thee what will effect it,--license of
rapine!--liberty to plunder the natives hereabouts after we have
marched! By the sacrament, I can promise them they shall have that, for
a surety!"
"They will have it anyway," replied Felipillo.
"_Demonio!_" retorted Rogelio, testily. "But they will value a formal
permit. I'll give it. Bring hither their chiefs to-morrow night.
Smuggle them in, dost understand? and I'll wag a parchment before their
eyes with a seal and ribbons on it. Thou'lt see! A liberality with
_chicha_ will make the bargain easy. What sayst thou? Wilt deal with
them for me? I know not the language."
Felipillo considered long, to the _veedor's_ impatience, and said at
last, "It would do it, Senor, that is certain, but--"
"Well, but what?" demanded Rogelio.
The youth shook his head. "One hundred and fifty _castellanos_,
Senor--"
The _veedor_ wrenched himself about in his chair. "Oh, _infierno_! 'T
is princely--princely, I tell thee! It would brush thee up, stake thy
games, reinstate thee among the ladies! It might be thy making."
Again Felipillo shook his head.
"Murder and arson!" yelped the _veedor_, beginning to perspire. "Thou
'rt grasping, boy! One hundred and fifty _castellanos_! Oh, _Madre_!
Then make it two hundred."
Felipillo arose with a shrug, one of his acquirements from the
Spaniards. It enraged the _veedor_.
"Then go to the devil!" he piped. "'T is all thou'lt get. Two hundred
not enough! Oh, my stars!"
Felipillo moved toward the door. Rogelio mopped his neck and jowls
vigorously. "Wait, thou varlet!--say two hundred and fifty! Two
hundred and fifty, gold!"
Felipillo shrugged again, still moving, and the _veedor_ broke into a
stream of squeaky oaths. When the youth reached the door he sprang up.
"Hold, thou tanned son of Belial! Here! Wait! Three hundred, and not a
_maravedi_ more!"
"_Buenos noches!_" said Felipillo, with a grin, and went out. Rogelio
stood for a second, choking, then rushed after, collared him in the
patio, and dragged him back. He thrust him into a chair, hurried to a
chest, unlocked it feverishly, whispering curses the while, and drew out
a bag. Waddling to the table, he thrust in his hand, withdrew it full
of coin, and counted. Another handful counted, and he cried: "There,
knave, three hundred! Wilt do it?"
Felipillo hesitated, and Rogelio swept them together to return them to
the bag.
"_Si, Senor_," said the youth.
The _veedor_ sank into his chair, scrubbing his reddened countenance,
while Felipillo gathered up the gold. "I will go to-morrow, Senor,"
said the boy.
"See thou dost!" returned the _veedor_ with a snarl. "Fool me now, and
it will be the worse for thee."
He watched the youth to the door, saw it closed, and sprang to his feet,
shaking his two fists after him. "Aha! Thou wouldst jew me, thou
renegade imp!" he shrilled. "Thou wouldst, thou terra cotta rascal! By
the Crucifix, thou shalt hang for thy cunning, so help me Saint Peter!
Thou shalt hang for it--hang--hang--_hang_! Three hundred good
_castellanos_! Oh, my soul and body!"
But three days later a band of half a hundred of the fierce mountain
Canares were nosing for the trail of Cristoval and his _protegee_.
*CHAPTER XVII*
_*The Fugitives in the Wilderness*_
Once more to the fugitives. The town left well behind, and the
immediate danger of pursuit now past, the stimulus of live fear was
removed, and Rava's spirit began to flag. She was feeling the weary
length of the night with its never-ending plash, plash, plash, through
the darkness, pelted by the rain, belabored by the wind, and seemingly
going nowhere. There were few landmarks but ghostly trees and the
innumerable small ditches, each, in the murk, so like those left behind
that there seemed to her distressed and overwrought mind but a single
one, presenting itself over and over again by some enchantment, to be
crossed and recrossed until despair should bring them to earth. Her
sodden garments clung to her, impeding every step. Her cloak, weighted
by the rain, thrashed about by the gale, bore upon her as if made of
lead, staggering her with its buffetings. The struggle was exhausting,
and she already felt its effects. They rested frequently, Cristoval
striving to stay the ebbing of her courage, but noting with grave
concern her waning strength. At last, to his complete dismay, she gave
up, weeping.
"Oh, Viracocha Cristoval," she sobbed, "I can go no farther! Leave me
and save yourself. Alone, you can escape, but I can only be a fatal
hindrance. Go, I pray you!"
The cavalier would have been less disturbed had a dozen soldiers sprung
up before him, and would have known better what to do. "Oh, Holy
Mother!" he groaned to himself, "look upon a helpless sinner and aid him
now! A weeping girl in the middle of a heathen cornfield in the middle
of a heathen rainy night, and not another woman within a league to run
for!" He contemplated the dim, quivering form with an embarrassment
exceeded only by his compassion.
"Go, Viracocha!" she urged, with a moan whose piteousness brought him to
his senses.
"Why, God help me, child!" he exclaimed, impetuously. "I would as
quickly think of leaving thee as of pulling the nose of the Pope! Come,
now, _chiquita mia_, do not weep! Thou 'rt weary, I know--and cold.
Well, I'll tell thee--we must be moving, thou knowest--and I'll carry
thee for a space. Presently thou'lt be rested, then we'll walk again.
Hush, now, little one!"
Without heeding her protests he lifted her and strode on with her in his
arms. For some distance the girl wept quietly on his shoulder while he
strove to soothe. The good Cristoval was as fatherly as if she had been
his own, and before long her tears had subsided. But he was less
cheerful than his words were cheering. There was importunate need of
speed, and speed was impossible.
They kept on to the southward until an hour before the dawn. Their
halts were infrequent now, but often the cavalier took his ward into his
arms and carried her until she was able to struggle along beside him,
half supported. At last they turned to the west, and within an hour were
on the great road, going toward Guamachucho. They pushed on more
rapidly and in silence, Cristoval preoccupied with the immediate future.
He was debating, in the main, the policy of at once making themselves
and the situation known to the natives of the valley, to secure their
aid. He finally decided against it. He had no doubt of their
willingness and loyalty, but danger lay in the nearness of Caxamalca. A
suspicion on the part of the Spaniards that these people had knowledge
of the fugitives would be warrant for an effort to extort it, and
Cristoval was too well acquainted with Spanish methods to feel sure that
the effort would be unsuccessful. Pizarro would not hesitate at any
cruelty to gain the information, and the safest plan would be to leave
no traces. Before twenty-four hours he had reason to be thankful for
that decision.
The morning was now so near that the highway was no longer safe, and he
had resolved to gain the foothills, when he became aware of a small
group of buildings. The principal one, he observed, was a small _tambo_
for herdsmen. They passed it cautiously, and were again in the open,
unconscious of having been seen by an early riser. The man, a Spaniard,
peered through the darkness at their shadowy forms, stood listening for
a moment, then stepped after them on tiptoe. Shortly he paused and
hearkened again. The sound of their steps ceased as they left the
roadway, and with a grunt and grin he returned to the _tambo_.
Here several comrades were moving about, and he told his tale, remarking
that the pair had left the road for the fields. His account brought
slight comment, and he dropped the matter until, later in the morning,
he found an audience with a pronounced interest in his observations, the
significance of which his absence from Caxamalca for a few days had made
him unable to measure. He was informed by the first search party met
coming from the town, and the squad left him at a gallop.
By the first gray of daybreak the fugitives had gained the crest of a
range of foothills. The ridge stretched away to the south with many a
rise and dip, finally dropping into a distant valley. In front, almost
at their feet, but with two or three smaller ranges between, lay the
plain of Caxamalca, half veiled by the morning mist and nearly a
thousand feet below. Just over the farthest of the foothills they could
descry the road with its fringe of trees, and the group of flat-looking
buildings of the _tambo_. Nearer was a cottage and garden, close to
their path into the hills, but which they had not seen. To the west was
a ridge higher than theirs, backed by the gray silhouette of the
Cordillera. They saw in the fair valley nothing of hostility, to be
revealed perhaps at any moment, and strained their eyes to the northward
for signs of pursuit. The only life, however, was in a few specks of
figures moving about the _tambo_, the cottager already at work in his
garden, and a solitary wayfarer on the road to Caxamalca.
The cavalier turned away satisfied from his scrutiny, and spread his
cloak at the foot of an outcropping rock. Soon they were busy with a
frugal breakfast, Cristoval eating sparingly, talking little, and
keeping a vigilant eye on the valley. Rava, too weary to talk, was
quite ready to stretch herself upon his cloak under the sheltering
ledge. He wrapped her well in its folds, and had hardly turned away
before she was sleeping.
How long she slept she could not have said, but it seemed only a moment
before she was roused by Cristoval's touch. She looked up with
bewildered eyes. "What is it, Viracocha Cristoval? Oh, where am I? I
dreamed--but, are we pursued?" Terrified by his expression, her voice
sank into a whisper.
"We must go," he replied, giving her his hand. She rose painfully, and
he drew her back from the crest of the hill. A misty rain was falling,
obscuring all but the fields immediately below. As she looked, she
gasped and clutched his arm. Towering before her, seemingly but a few
yards away, was a white, curling column of smoke, writhing heavily as it
rose, and drifting off down the valley.
"Oh, what is that, Viracocha?" she cried, cowering at his side. "What
is it--what is it?"
"Nothing to fear," said Cristoval, drawing her farther away. "The
cottage hath been fired. They have found our trail, Heaven only knoweth
how!"
Cristoval threw her cloak around her, secured his own, and hurried her
away. The thatch of the cottage was blazing fiercely. Outside of the
garden wall stood a group of horses, and trotting in the direction of
the hills, a squad of three troopers, one of them in the lead, bending
over his saddle-bow in scrutiny of the ground.
Cristoval had seen the cavalcade nearly an hour before; saw them halt at
the _tambo_, leave the road, gallop to the cottage, and surround it.
Not long afterward it burst into flames, and he had little doubt that
the unfortunate native, and perhaps his family, were being put to
torture. He watched until the three troopers left the others and started
toward the hills. Then he had awakened Rava.
As they left the spot she was weeping and frantically wringing her
hands. "Oh, Viracocha Cristoval," she sobbed; "are they burning and
killing because of our flight? Let me go back! Oh, let me go back! My
return may stay their cruelty."
"No, no!" he replied, quickly. "They are not killing, and now that they
have found our traces they will probably burn no more. Your return
would not help, Nusta Rava. Compose yourself, I pray you."
"Ah, my poor people!" she wailed. "My unhappy country! The Sun hath
indeed turned away his face! Ah me, ah me!"
Cristoval crossed himself at the mention of her pagan deity, and
whispered a prayer for her soul. She turned to him earnestly.
"Viracocha, we will not seek aid until beyond the reach of those cruel
men. We must endanger none of my father's children. We will flee
alone--die alone, if need be."
Cristoval nodded assent, but thought of Pedro's pouch, which was none
too heavy. How to replenish it without the help of men would be a
question. "By the saints!" he thought; "this lady's escape is attended
by difficulties, and now she setteth up problems of generalship that are
unfamiliar. Ah, well, we'll see what can be done." Then he said aloud,
"We will consider it later, Nusta Rava. For the present, it is better
not to talk, for breath may grow precious later on."
They pressed forward. The cottage was smouldering now, and left by the
soldiery, who had apparently gone into the lower hills, for none was in
sight. The top of the ridge was fairly smooth, though occasionally
strewn with rock; but toward midday it developed into a succession of
deep gullies, and their progress became labored, with halts of growing
frequency. Before the afternoon was half gone Rava showed serious
exhaustion, and they stopped in a thicket. Cristoval again spread his
cloak, and once more she slept. In an hour he regretfully awakened her,
and they took up their march. The sky was clearing, and presently
Cristoval saw the expected. Far to the eastward, creeping over the
first foothills, was a small, dark column of horsemen, sparkling here
and there as the afternoon sun struck upon burnished helm and corselet,
and deploying at last into a widely-extended line. Another column was
moving to the southward along the highway, almost imperceptibly, as it
appeared to Rava, but in reality at a gallop, as Cristoval knew. He
watched for a time without comment, then led on. When darkness fell
they rested again; then up with the rising moon and wearily onward.
The night was far spent when they were brought to a halt at the verge of
a cliff, and looked into a valley half a league in breadth, roughly
semicircular, and opening to the east. Its floor held many a hillock
and hollow, and here and there the white walls of a cottage glimmered in
the moonlight. At the foot of the declivity flowed a stream, showing
silvery where it rippled past a shoal, black in the quiet pools, finally
losing itself in the distant plain to which the vale descended. To the
west the hills closed in gradually, forming the head of the amphitheatre
and softening into the semiluminous mist which filled a great rift in
the wall of the Cordillera looming beyond. Through this dim moonlit
canyon the stream found its way into the valley from the fastnesses of
its source.
The dale was one of those rare spots of the arid Sierra made fertile by
an ample supply of water, and every available foot, as Cristoval could
see, was under cultivation. From the edge of the cliff the long sinuous
lines of terraces on the opposite hills were distinctly visible in the
moonlight, following the contour of the valley-wall far to the east and
west.
They stood for several minutes, Rava gazing longingly upon the peaceful
cottages of her people, their shelter so near, yet denied. Cristoval,
strongly tempted to take the risk of entrusting themselves to some of
the denizens, was about to make the suggestion when both were startled
by the neighing of a horse. It came, apparently, from a point just
below, and was answered immediately by another, more remote. Rava
clutched his arm with a quick catching of breath.
"_Santa Maria!_" interjected he, in an undertone. "So they are here
before us!" His faint hope of aid was dashed. While Rava clung,
trembling, to his arm, he debated. The plain was occupied. To cross it
in this brilliant moonlight would be fatal. Even the hills were no
longer safe; parties would be scouring them with the earliest dawn, and
in their last march darkness had made it impossible not to leave traces.
Cristoval glanced at the dark eyes turned anxiously to his.
"There is but one thing left for us to do, Nusta Rava. We must trust
ourselves to yonder mountains."
"Oh, my good friend," she whispered, in terror; "in those mountains we
are lost! We shall starve--go mad! They are most dreadful. You know
not, Viracocha."
"Less to be dreaded than the wolves around us," he replied, sombrely.
"There is naught else. We can hide there until the hunt is given over.
How is your strength. Are you very tired?"
"I can go," she said, with a brave effort to conceal the tremor in her
voice.
"Then come. If need be, I can carry you; but we must make speed."
They followed the encircling hills, and descried presently the
smouldering fire of a bivouac, far out in the valley. An hour late,
nearing the mouth of the canyon, they found new danger. It was
picketed. Fortunately they were warned by the live embers of the
campfire left by an indiscretion for which Cristoval returned fervent
thanks, and they passed by a detour well up the mountainside. Safely
beyond, they crept down to the bank of the torrent foaming noisily
through the gulch, and while Rava waited Cristoval went on his knees in
search of the trail which he knew instinctively would be there. He
found it presently, a mere trace left by herdsmen in years of going and
coming to and from the mountain pastures, and to be followed with
difficulty in the shadow of the canyon. It was rough, and grew rougher
as they proceeded, but in its rockiness lay safety, for it held no
tell-tale tracks. They stumbled on in fevered haste, Rava heedless of
weariness and the bruising stones alike. Cristoval gave what aid he
could, supporting her weight when possible, guiding her steps among the
bowlders, and she struggled on without complaint.
Momentarily the stream grew wilder, plunging and tearing over the rocks
and filling the canyon with its roar. Now they blundered along its
brink, now toiled up a steep ascent to pass a spur, then down, slipping,
floundering, and lacerating their hands on the thorny bushes clutched to
save a fatal pitch headlong into the howling waters below. The pace
could not endure. Again and again Rava fell, to be raised gently by the
cavalier and carried in his arms until he staggered,--but on and on,
though he groaned at the torture she endured at every step.
Morning came, and revealed such a scene of savage grandeur as he had
never before beheld. They were well within the mountains. On either
hand they rose in ragged slope or dizzy precipice, buttressed,
pinnacled, piled crag upon crag until their heights pierced the heavens.
In front loomed greater steeps, with gloomy malevolence in every seam
and scar. Around them, a madness of shattered rock, strewn and riven as
if hurled down by an angry god. Over these raged and thundered the
stream, here a white, leaping cataract, there a black, whirling pool,
and sinister everywhere.
They labored onward, in their stupendous surroundings mere pygmies on a
threadlike trail, bending beneath exhaustion as if crushed by the enmity
of the wilderness. Often, turning to lift the half-fainting girl,
Cristoval found the tears streaming over her pallid cheeks, and at last
he saw her sandals were stained with blood. In his arms she clung in
the complete abandonment of weariness, and when he was compelled to
lower her to her feet she reeled, too benumbed to follow. But he
pressed forward, relentless under the driving necessity, though with
aching heart for every evidence of her suffering. No halt possible now,
for day had come, and he knew they would be followed. At the first light
he scrutinized the trail in the hope of finding marks of horses' hoofs
in indication that the canyon had been explored the day before. The
signs were absent, and he knew the hunt would soon be upon them. From
time to time he left Rava to rest while he clambered up the
mountain-side for a cautious look back down the valley, returning to
rouse and gently urge her forward. Frequently she pleaded, begging to
be left to die; but his face was stern, and his words, though kindly,
grew peremptory in answer to her tears. More often he took her in his
arms and strode on without a word.
Thus through hours which seemed to Rava to be life-long; over a path of
eternal length; driven by a being who at one moment was a monster of
cruelty, urging her on to endless torture, at the next, a spirit of
benevolence, on whose shoulder she wept her anguish. And the poor
cavalier, wrung by every fresh pang he forced her to undergo, cruciated
even by his conscience for bringing such torment upon her, could only
toil onward, reeling with fatigue and harrowed by uncertainty while he
muttered incoherencies vainly meant to cheer.
At last, having left her beside the path, a mere bedraggled, almost
inanimate heap, he returned from a reconnaissance in mad haste.
"Quick!" he whispered, as he bent to raise her from the ground.
"Up--up! They are upon us! We must hide--God knoweth where!"
His urgency gave her life, and she staggered to her feet, clinging to
him and looking back in terror. A few paces forward, her pain
forgotten; then down toward the stream, from rock to rock, to a bowlder
behind which they crouched at the edge of a pool. He pressed her down
and knelt, his hand one of iron upon her arm.
It seemed an hour before her ears caught the sound of hoofs, and she
closed her eyes. They neared slowly, until she heard the subdued voices
of the riders. They halted a moment, scanning the mountain-sides, and
moved on. They were opposite the bowlder, so close that she could hear
the creaking saddles; an age in passing; finally past. Cristoval relaxed
his grip upon her arm, and she heard his deep-drawn breath. He half
arose and looked warily after them. A gallant party, surely, with the
sunlight glancing from their steel, but Cristoval whispered a fervent
curse upon them as they wound along the trail--upon each by name, for
they were near enough for easy recognition. They rode slowly, searching
the sides of the defile with careful scrutiny; halted at a point a
hundred yards up the canyon, and dismounted to lead their horses, over
the narrow path where an outcropping ledge crowded toward a dangerous
slope, falling away abruptly to the stream twenty feet below. Beyond
this they mounted again and shortly disappeared beyond a jutting crag.
Cristoval turned to Rava. She was crouched with half-closed eyes, her
hands tight-pressed upon her bosom. Startled by her pallor and the drawn
lines about her mouth, he hastily opened the pouch and drew forth the
flask of _chicha_. "Here!" he whispered, unstopping it and pressing it
to her lips. "Swallow this. It will help thy strength. They have
gone.--Rava! Dost hear? Swallow!"
She obeyed mechanically. He bathed her forehead with the icy water, and
presently she revived.
"Ah! _Gracias a Dios_!" he murmured, as she opened her eyes. "Thou'rt
better? Another sip, and thou'lt be thyself. They have gone, but we
must find better shelter before they return.--Poor little one, thou 'rt
worn to death--and, _Madre_!--thy feet! Oh, _miserere Domine_!"
He looked cautiously about. Beyond was a larger bowlder, rising almost
from the water's edge, a few small bushes growing near. It would afford
better hiding--the only one as far as he could see. He bore her
thither. Seating her against the rock with his folded cloak for cushion,
he hastened to unlace her sandals and bathe and bandage her cuts. Her
head was drooping, and he quickly cleared the narrow strip of sand, and
eased her upon it. She was sleeping heavily almost before he had drawn
her cloak around her.
Cristoval seated himself to await the return of the cavalcade, lines of
anxiety on his face as he looked upon the motionless form, wan cheeks,
and darkened eyelids, and pondered the gloomy prospects. She was at the
limit of her strength. "Ah, _miserere nobis, Domine_!"
It was late afternoon when he was roused by sounds of the returning
horsemen. He rose to his knees, silently unsheathing his sword. The
movement awakened Rava, and he raised a warning hand. He heard them
halt to dismount, and soon they were passing, riding carelessly, the
search of the canyon evidently given over. He looked furtively out as
they straggled by.
"Curses, a thousand curses upon you, Gutiero, De Vera, Almar, Cueva--but
wait! One is wanting! There were nine, or I miscounted. Ah!--De
Valera!"
At that moment he heard a shout, faint and distant, up the canyon, and
saw Cueva draw rein. "Shall we wait for him?" Cristoval heard him ask.
"No!" replied one, with an oath. "Let him follow as he can. He's
always behind, the pig, and we've wasted time enough for his lagging.
He'll not wander far off this highway, I'll venture a peso. Give him an
answer, then come."
"Give him answer with thine own wind, if thou hast wind to spare, I'll
not," retorted the other, and gave spur. They moved on. Another distant
hallo, and Cristoval's eyes suddenly fired. He glanced at Rava, and his
resolution formed. There was one chance, and only one, of saving her.
She could never survive another day of torture. Maimed and exhausted, a
league farther would be beyond her powers. They must have a horse.
Cristoval unbuckled his belt. His lips were compressed, and there was a
light in his eyes which Rava had never seen. Laying down belt and
scabbard, he picked up his naked blade, gave it quick scrutiny, and
looked after the retreating cavalcade. It moved slowly, and it was long
before he turned from scowling down the valley. From the other direction
came shouts, growing more distinct. He looked again at Rava, who had
risen upon her elbow and was watching his eyes in alarm.
"Make no sound!" he whispered, gently touched her hand, and was gone.
A rapid climb brought him to the trail. He glanced once more down the
canyon. The horsemen had disappeared beyond a turn, and he ran to the
abutting rock where they had dismounted. Here he stepped off the path,
and placed himself against the rock. The shouts from the upper valley
were near enough now to betray De Valera's anxiety. Minutes passed,
then came the ring of the horse's hoofs. They ceased, and a grunt close
by told him the laggard trooper had dismounted. De Valera emitted
another bellowing wail, and Cristoval heard his puffing approach.
"Come along, thou lazy--ambling--lop-eared--bedeviled--misbegotten--and
wholly damned son--of a cow!" De Valera was addressing his languid
steed.
Cristoval grinned and laid aside his sword. "Bah! Why kill the wretch?"
he thought, but loosed his dagger and gathered for a spring, his alert
eyes upon the trail. De Valera appeared, lance over his shoulder, his
face purple with irritation and shouting, tugging his reluctant horse.
Cristoval was upon him like an avalanche.
"Whoof!" blurted De Valera, with sudden aspiration as he received the
charge. Cristoval grappled, and he dropped his lance, slipped, clutched
the neck of his assailant's mail, and both rolled down the face of the
rock. The horse reared and turned, lost his footing and regained it,
and tore back up the canyon at a run.
Rava heard the brief struggle with palpitating heart: the crash of the
fall of the armored man, the mad gallop of the horse, and then only the
roaring of the torrent. She rose from her knees. There was no sign of
Cristoval or his adversary, and only distant hoof-beats to vary the
monotonous din of the stream. She leaned against the rock, weak and
shaking. For a moment she stood with straining ears. The gallop had
died away, and she was alone. Minute after minute fled, and at last she
could endure no longer. Unheeding the pain of every step, she sped to
the trail. No slightest evidence of life. She ran a few steps down the
canyon, halted trembling, and turned to the jutting rock. Here she
stopped and looked down, transfixed. There lay a man in armor,
inanimate; beside him the form of Cristoval, face upward and marred by a
stream of blood from his forehead. She tottered, and parted her lips to
scream, but her voice failed. How she descended from the path she never
knew; but in a moment she was kneeling with his head in her lap, calling
his name in agony, and wiping away the crimson stream. She thought of
the water, and in a second was carrying it in her hands and bathing his
face, praying, praying for a sign of animation. Tears blinded her while
she worked, hurrying to and from the edge of the torrent, dashing the
too meagre handfuls into the still face, chafing his wrists, beating the
nerveless hands, sobbing and moaning his name. He lay without a quiver.
She thought she looked upon death, and her fear became wild, frenzied
despair. She cast a shuddering look of horror at the grim desolation
surrounding her, and threw herself upon him, her hands at his throat, on
his cheeks, in his hair, wailing his name in the extremity of mortal
anguish.
He sighed. Ah, merciful Sun!--most beneficent Inti! She stifled her
sobs and brushed away her tears that she might see. His eyelids
trembled, and now a moan, most faint, barely audible, but--he lived!
More water, and more, and when she came again his eyes were open,
blankly at the sky at first, then at her. She wept for joy, pressing
his hands to her bosom, while he regarded her vaguely, striving to
arrange his muddled thoughts.
"Courage!" murmured Cristoval, and closed his eyes again, to be startled
to his senses by a shriek from the girl. De Valera had moved, and was
feebly groaning. Cristoval turned his head at the sound, and the sight
of his fallen enemy aroused him.
"_Cielo!_" he gasped. "He had slipped my mind." He crawled to the
trooper, found his dagger, and tossed it out of reach. De Valera moved
again, but Cristoval rose unsteadily and seated himself upon his
adversary's chest. "Water, _carita_!" he whispered, and bowed his
reeling head upon his hands. Rava brought her hands full and dashed it
into his face. "Ah! _Bueno_!" he muttered, and looked down upon De
Valera. The visor of the helmet was thrown back, and the prostrate
soldier was staring up at him. Cristoval glowered, rubbing an aching
head, and the two Spaniards regarded one another for a time in silence,
neither in full possession of his faculties. At last De Valera moaned
faintly, "Mercy, Cristoval!"
Cristoval made no reply, scowling blackly at the pallid face and wiping
away the blood which still trickled into his own eyes from the gash in
his forehead.
"Mercy, Cristoval! Give me time for a prayer."
The words brought Cristoval more fully to consciousness, and he replied,
angrily: "Time for a prayer! Time for a prayer! What dost think?--that
I will murder thee, lying on thy back and hands down? If thou hast the
thought, dismiss it, or I'll have it out of thee roughly."
The soldier faltered weakly: "What! Thou wilt spare me, good Cristoval?
Oh, blessed Virgin!" and tears of gratitude filled his eyes. "But I
might have known it of thee, Cristoval."
"Ah!" replied Cristoval, scornfully. "But see thou liest still, lest I
lose the whim." He rubbed his head again, struggling to order his
thoughts. De Valera lay motionless, and at length Cristoval said
sternly:--
"Now attend, thou unfortunate--I am going to plunder thee. I've need of
thy horse, which is up yonder--and of thy harness. Thou'lt be wise to
make no hindrance. Dost comprehend? _Bien_! Then sit up whilst I
unhelm thee. Ware, now!--no sudden movement!"