submitting quietly, while Rava looked on in wonder.
"_Alli!_" quoth Cristoval, as he tossed the last piece upon the heap of
armor. "Now, Nusta Rava, thy girdle, I pray thee, to bind him. No
groaning, Senor! It doth misbecome thee. Now, thy hands behind thy
back. So! Now for thy feet.--Good! Hast a kerchief? Then we'll have a
choke-pear.--Silence! Dost think I'll have thee waking mournful echoes
through the night? Thou hast shouted more than is good for thee
already. And next, whilst I make the choke-pear I'll question thee--and
see thou makest cheerful response, or-- First, hast cherished against
me any peculiar animosity? I mean before this solemn afternoon."
"No, good Cristoval," replied De Valera, with candor.
"Then why partaking this hunting holiday?" demanded Cristoval, eying him
severely.
"The reward, _amigo_. A thousand _castellanos_ to a poor man--"
"A thousand!" exclaimed Cristoval, with contempt. "Is that all Pizarro
hath offered? By the saints, he'll double it before I have done! Well,
_bastante_! Thou didst seek reward! _Bien_! But now thou 'rt unhorsed
thou canst hope for reward no longer and canst answer freely. How many
are in pursuit?"
"Nearly all have been, saving Juan and Gonzalo Pizarro, De Soto, Jose,
and a few more.--But hold, Cristoval, the Canares are out and after
thee. I give thee warning."
Cristoval drew a long breath, his face darkened, and he stood in
reflection. He threw down the choke-pear with which he had purposed
gagging his captive. "We'll not trouble thee with it. Thy news is not
welcome, Valera, but thy warning is. We will go, Nusta Rava."
"First, I will attend to your wound," she said, and tearing a strip from
her robe, soon had it bandaged. In a few minutes Cristoval was in his
enemy's armor, and taking up the lance he said: "_Adios_, Valera! Thy
comrades will find thee in the morning." He assisted Rava to the trail,
secured his sword and belt, and once more they were on their way,
leaving De Valera leaning mournfully against a rock, a prey to varied
fears.
A mile up the canyon Cristoval captured the horse, and found De Valera's
mace and buckler hanging on the saddle. The first care was to examine
the contents of the saddlebags.
"Ah!" exclaimed the cavalier, with satisfaction. "Praise Heaven, they
are well stocked. Here is _charqui_, bread, and parched maize, and
grain for our steed in the other--with discretion, some days' supply.
But I was more sure of De Valera's providence than of his honesty. Now,
we're equipped, Nusta Rava, and now we'll mount."
It was a trial of her courage, but soon she was seated upon the horse's
croup, holding her place with the aid of the cavalier's belt.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
_*The Vale of Xilcala*_
In Rava's memory, afterward, the toil, suffering, and peril of the
succeeding days remained as fragments of an anguished dream. There were
dim recollections of unmeasured hours of weariness, of journeying upward
through huge defiles, along the verge of precipices, and out upon barren
stretches of tableland which seemed, in their desolation, the abode of
Despair and Death: the moaning of the wind, their voices. Here was
infinite loneliness, the dreary solitude of a world forgotten of God.
Over these lofty wastes, gasping and dizzy in the rarified air, their
brains pierced by the fierce rays of a sun which gave no warmth, their
lips split and bleeding, their faces raw and smarting in the eager wind,
they labored on. Cristoval, silent, walked and led, his eyes rarely
lifted from the faint trail left by herdsmen and their flocks of llamas.
This once lost, there would be slight hope. Followed, it might lead to
safety.
But through all her recollections of hunger, exhaustion, and torture,
was that of the dauntless spirit who shared them with her, ever
watchful, ever solicitous, and of unfailing gentleness in the most
desperate hours. A memory of a brave, kindly face, growing haggard as
one day of struggle followed another, but with never a sign of failing
courage or resolution, never a shadow of impatience at her plaints, her
tears, or when her weakness compelled the loss of precious time. Often
she had been delirious, or in a half stupor, but never unconscious of
his presence and tender guardianship. She had a memory, too, of a
tempest, of snow and deadly cold, when they had sought shelter among the
drifts of a gorge and he had held her in his arms through the night,
wrapped in his cloak, his armor removed that she might have his warmth.
But she only half remembered the long battle through the snow of a pass
to which Providence had led their steps when they had finally lost the
trail.
After this, a descending valley, a lonely hut at last, and she came to
her senses surrounded by the warmth and frugal comforts of a herdsmen's
lodge. Here Cristoval learned from the two occupants of the hut that a
village called Xilcala lay within three days' journey through the
mountains. The younger of the herders, named Mati, would guide them;
and after tarrying for some days until food and rest should fit them to
resume their way, they set out.
In the late afternoon of the third day of travel from the hut they were
descending into the Vale of Xilcala. Since morning they had been
creeping down a canyon which broadened at last at its junction with
another, and their haven lay before them. A turn in the trail brought
it into sudden view, and they halted, struck by a scene of so rare and
tranquil beauty that even Cristoval, not easily impressed, muttered an
exclamation. Assisting Rava to dismount, he led her out upon an
overhanging ledge. Hundreds of feet below spread a rolling plain
surrounding an alpine lake of limpid emerald and blue which gleamed in
its setting of spring verdure like some fair jewel. From the water the
shores gently rose to the encircling mountains, traceried with walls and
hedges, and sparkling with the silver inlay of numberless rivulets and
miniature canals. Far up the slopes of the sheltering masses of the
Cordillera clung cultivated terraces, the _andenes_, the lines of their
retaining walls sweeping in and out with the contour of the rugged scarp
until they broke at a distant cleft in the rampart, through which flowed
the outlet of the lake. Half-way down the western shore was the village,
crowning a rocky promontory, its white walls reflected on the placid
water, and to the weary eyes of the refugees hardly more real or
permanent, in its quiet beauty, than the inverted and blended image at
its feet. Nearer were scattered cottages, a villa with its park, and
shaded lanes and groves of trees just breaking into leafage or blossom.
Over all was an atmosphere of peace that went to the heart of the girl
standing with cheeks pale and eyes darkened by the sorrow, hardship, and
dangers through which she had come. She gazed long with clasped hands.
At length in a whisper, as if loath to break the silence which like the
evening haze brooded over the tranquillity below, she said to Cristoval,
who stood leaning upon his lance beside her, "Ah, my friend, is it not
beautiful? Oh, Viracocha Cristoval, is it not too beautiful to be
real?"
"Why, God bless thee, child!" answered the cavalier, "not too beautiful
to be real, surely; but fair enough for a dream, no less! and welcome as
't is alluring."
"Most welcome! Most welcome!" she exclaimed; and after a pause, "And
now--our cares and dangers are over."
He did not reply at once, and she glanced at him inquiringly. "Thy
cares and dangers are over, Nusta Rava," he said. "I pray 'tis so."
"But," she said, with concern, "I said ours, Viracocha. Are not yours
as well?"
"No doubt, no doubt!" he replied, hastily. "The most immediate of them,
assuredly." He looked away toward the distant mountains, as if
unwilling to pursue the subject. She studied his eyes for a moment,
observing their cloud, and said gently, "The most immediate of them, but
not all?"
"Oh, belike all!--But shall we not move again? We have yet some
distance, and thou 'rt a-weary."
"Presently," she answered, with decision; "when you have told me what
you reserve in your thoughts. Why may not your care and danger be past,
as well as mine?"
He smiled at her persistence. "Why, Nusta Rava, thou dost forget! I am
a renegade from my countrymen--a traitor--with a price upon my head.
And to thine own people, what can I be but one of a band of
plunderers--an enemy?"
"Something far different, Viracocha Cristoval," she replied, earnestly.
"You are my friend." He inclined his head, but made no reply, and Rava
continued: "You have been my preserver; and that meaneth, doth it not,
that you are a friend of Tavantinsuyu? Surely, you cannot think we are
without gratitude! Not one of my people--not one! but will share mine
with me."
"Nay!" replied Cristoval, gravely, "it is not that I would doubt their
generosity, Nusta Rava; but I am a Spaniard, and Spaniards have done
your country wrongs that will not be forgotten whilst there lives a
father in Tavantinsuyu to tell them to his sons. They will do more
grievous ones, for I know them well. Their deeds will breed a hatred
for my race that will not die in a thousand years. Think not that my
blood can be overlooked."
Rava was pale. "But, Viracocha," she said faintly, after a moment, "you
had no part in those deeds--nor will have."
"I had no part in the massacre, and strove to save thy brother--but
failed."
She touched his arm timidly. "Your friendship for him, as well as for
me, shall be remembered. Be sure of it."
Cristoval shook his head. "It may be so, Nusta Rava; but to thy people
I shall always be one of the race accursed."
She looked long toward the lake and beyond. He resumed with his kindly
smile: "And now, child, I shall presently give thee into the hands of
thy friends, and thou'lt be 'child' no longer, but a Daughter of the
Sun, surrounded by a court, inaccessible to thy rusty cavalier, and with
thousands ready to do for thee more than he hath done--though not more
gladly, upon my heart!"
She turned to him quickly, her lips parted. No words were uttered, but
Cristoval saw a depth and strange lustre in her eyes that haunted his
memory. The look was brief and unfathomable. She extended her
hand--quite cold, he noted--and faltered, "Let us go, Viracocha." He
bent over it, and led her to the horse.
Cristoval walked on beside the head of the steed, striving to divine
what she had been about to say, and the meaning of the fleeting
expression. He looked back at her, but she seemed lost in reverie, and
gave him but a brief downward glance half hidden beneath the veil of her
lashes, with the faintest trace of a smile. But, he thought, the smile
had more of sadness than her expression of repose.
They had covered half the distance to the town when their guide, who was
some paces in advance, halted, faced about, and went upon his knees,
bending until his forehead touched the ground.
"Ah!" growled Cristoval to himself, "there goeth that benighted varlet
nosing the dust once more. The ten thousandth time since we left his
hut! Well, doubtless he hath, with our gracious permission, some humble
matter of information." He led up to the prostrate Peruvian and
stopped, waiting patiently for the development.
"Rise, Mati," said Rava, gently. "What wouldst thou say?"
Pointing toward the lower valley, he said diffidently: "Most illustrious
Daughter of Inti, if you will permit, yonder villa on the hill between
this and Xilcala is the home of the Palla[1] Maytalca."
[1] Palla = married woman of the blood-royal.
"Oh! Is it so, Mati?" cried Rava, eagerly. "Then, Viracocha Cristoval,
it will be ours. The Palla Maytalca is a kinswoman and was one of my
royal father's household. In my childhood I loved her well. We shall be
most welcome. Mati, do thou go forward and prepare her for our coming."
The youth dropped to the ground again, rose, and backed away for a dozen
yards, then turned and sped down the trail. They followed, and the path
shortly entered a lane between rows of willows around the margin of the
lake. Night was coming rapidly, and it was almost dark when they
arrived at the gateway of the villa. Mati met them, and Rava having
dismounted, Cristoval removed his helmet, tethered his horse, and they
followed the herdsman down an avenue of trees toward the residence. It
was a rambling building, or a group of several, and of a size comporting
with the rank of its occupant. As they drew near torches flashed toward
them, and they were presently met by the Palla Maytalca, advancing with
perturbation, attended by excited young women and torch-bearers. Rava
uttered a cry of joy and threw herself into the Palla's arms, and the
two mingled their broken exclamations of delight. Cristoval halted a few
paces back.
"Rava, Rava, my best beloved!" at last exclaimed the Palla, holding the
girl at arm's length, surveying her in surprise and fondness. "I cannot
believe it is thou. Hast come from the clouds? By what miracle of the
great Inti art thou here?"
"Oh, I hardly know, dearest Maytalca!" answered Rava, smiling and
sobbing, "and can make it seem real no more easily than thou. Nor can I
tell thee the thousand perils in our coming. Had it not been for the
bravest and best of friends--oh, Viracocha Cristoval, I pray you come
nearer!--This is he, Maytalca: my deliverer and defender--the Viracocha
Cristoval."
The lady started as his grim, warlike figure clanked out of the
obscurity and the light fell upon his steel. Observing her trepidation
the cavalier halted, saying as he bowed: "Palla Maytalca, you do not
know my joy in seeing the Nusta Rava at last in safety, and in
witnessing her affectionate welcome."
His voice and manner were reassuring, and she conquered her fears
sufficiently to extend a trembling hand and say, timidly: "One who hath
befriended the Nusta Rava, Viracocha, hath no need to be assured of a
welcome to the home of Maytalca. It is yours."
"Be sure of my gratitude," said Cristoval, as with Rava he followed
their hostess to the villa. As the Princess passed, the kneeling
attendants rose and went after, dumb with awe of the royal maiden and
her mysterious companion.
The Palla led across a terrace into a large hall, brightly lighted and
strewn with rugs. A pair of braziers were burning, for the evening was
growing chill, and Rava was soon established among the cushions of a
divan, giving a hurried though unconnected narrative of her late
adventures to the wondering Maytalca. The Palla, who, as her title
indicated, was of royal blood, though not of the reigning family, was
the widow of one of the princes of the realm. She was a stately woman,
just past middle age, with hair slightly touched with gray, and robed in
the rich costume of the women of the nobility. Her bearing was that of
a gentlewoman, and whatever disquietude she felt at her steel-clad guest
it was effectually concealed. As a matter of fact he gave an impression
of formidableness with his rust-streaked armor, his half-grown beard,
eyes burning in sockets made deep by hardship, and cheeks hollowed by
the recent toil and hunger, which his gentle comportment could only half
dispel. When he excused himself some minutes later and left the room
with a servant to look after his horse, the Palla turned to Rava and
seized her hands.
"Rava, my child," she exclaimed, in a low voice, "how hadst thou courage
to trust thyself with that terrible-appearing man? I tremble to look at
him! I shall never sleep while he is beneath the shelter of this roof."
Rava smiled up at her from her cushions. "Ah, Maytalca, thou dost not
know him! Had I been a child he could not have been more gentle.
Indeed," and the slightest pout came into her expression, "he seemeth to
hold me but a child! But oh, my dear, he is brave as he is kind! The
god Viracocha himself were not more terrible when he meeteth an enemy:
nor thou more tender than he hath been to me. He is invincible; yet
hath the heart of a woman. Sleep as thou wouldst with Inti guarding,
dearest Maytalca. Thou'lt love him."
The Palla seated herself beside the girl and placed an arm about her,
gravely studying her eyes. "Hast thou found, Rava, such traits in thy
protector?"
Rava turned her eyes upon her for an instant with a half-frightened
look, then dropped them with sudden reserve. "He was the Inca's trusted
friend, Maytalca," she replied, with womanly art, "and hath been mine.
I believe him most worthy."
The entrance of the cavalier interrupted. He tarried but a moment for a
brief but ceremonious leave-taking for the night, then followed a
servant to the apartment which the Palla said he should regard as his
own. It was in a wing forming one side of a rear court which opened
toward the lake, and he found the chamber one which might have suited a
Moorish prince. It was decorated with the richness of style which had
already become familiar, furnished with the usual cushioned chairs,
tables of polished stone, and a divan which looked more inviting than
any the weary soldier had laid eyes upon for many days. The attendant
opened a door and showed him a small court with a pool fed by a running
stream for bathing, then aided him to disarm, and with the announcement
that his supper would be sent presently, backed out with a profound
reverence. By the time Cristoval had finished his bath the repast was
served, and an hour later he was asleep.
He was aroused in the morning by a persistent rapping. Calling a summons
to enter, a youth presented himself, dropping immediately upon his knees
and bending to the floor. Weariness came into the face of the cavalier
at the obeisance, and he directed the boy to rise. He did so, backed
out of the door, and reappeared with a goblet and an armful of apparel.
The latter he laid over a chair, and approaching the couch, knelt to
tender the cup.
"Viracocha," he said, humbly, "my mistress sendeth her morning greeting
with the prayer that the Sun have you in his protection."
"It is most kind of her," said Cristoval, rising upon his elbow. "Bear
mine in return to her, and thank her for me. What is this? Ah! Hot
_chicha_ and water. It is thoughtful, boy."
"Viracocha," said the youth again, "it hath pleased my mistress to honor
me with the command to serve you."
"She is very gracious," returned Cristoval, looking the boy over with
favor. "Thank her also for this. But what was thine other burden--that
on the chair?"
"Fresh garments for you, Viracocha."
"Surely?" said the cavalier. "I thank her again, sincerely, for I had
sore need. I will rise at once."
The youth retreated backward to the door, and started to go once more
upon his knees.
"Stay!" said Cristoval, quickly interrupting the movement. "There is
one matter whereof I would speak--but what is thy name, lad? Markumi?
Good! Well, Markumi, there is, as I say, one thing I would mention--a
trifle, but as we may be thrown together for a time, it may concern our
peace of mind. It is this: I am not an Inca, Markumi, nor an idol, nor
an altar, nor yet a heathen god, nor a saint; and may never be any one
of them, though I have a namesake who is the last--San Cristoval, of
blessed memory, of whom thou mayst some day learn. But, being neither
one nor another, this excessive reverence doth not relish me. I am a
plain soldier, and love naught better than to see a man upright on his
two legs. Reserve, therefore, thy homage for the ladies, who have full
claim and title to it; and thy cramps for the Inca, who may be wonted to
it--as I am not. Dost comprehend, Markumi?"
"Not clearly, Viracocha," replied Markumi, with embarrassment.
"Why, what I mean is this. Keep off thy knees. Bow to me with
moderation, temperately, and without extravagance, and I'll like it
better. Is it plain?"
"Yes, Viracocha."
"That is a good lad. And now, is there a man in thy village who can
trim hair? Ah! Then fetch him. And Markumi--"
"Yes, Viracocha."
"Advise him about the manner of his approach." And he added to himself:
"I'll have no barber coming before me in the attitude of a cow just
rising from her bed. I weary of it."
Cristoval arose quite himself. He hummed through his bath and was
cheerful until he confronted the chair holding the apparel sent by the
Palla. Then his face grew sombre.
"_Santa Maria!_" he whispered. "Do I face the need of donning this
infidel caparison? Must I forswear the guise and earmarks of a
Christian? On my soul, 'twill stick sorely in my conscience!" He
lifted one piece after another from the pile, surveying them at arm's
length, then turned to his own sadly worn garments. "No help for it,
Cristoval," he said, as he overhauled them. "They are rent, torn,
ripped, and decrepit, to say naught of the stains of hard travel. Well,
may Heaven overlook my heathen masquerade!" He returned to the others
and gloomily began to dress.
The costume was that of a Peruvian noble: a shirt of white cotton,
another of white wool, and a loose, sleeveless tunic, handsomely woven
in rich colors and conventional design, to be belted in at the waist,
leaving its skirts falling as a kilt almost to the knees. There was a
girdle--a broad band, highly ornamental in its woven pattern, heavily
fringed with flat braids of cord, each of half the breadth of a hand,
and reaching to the bottom of the tunic. Over this was worn a belt, and
Cristoval lifted it with an exclamation. It was of soft leather, and
mounted with heavily embossed plates of alternate gold and silver.
"By the saints!" quoth he. "Should Pizarro rest his eye upon this he'd
raise my price."
A cloak, or poncho, and a pouch to be hung from the belt, equally rich
in design and color with the tunic, completed the apparel for the body.
A pair of sandals, or buskins, with broad straps highly ornate, and
provided with protecting toe-pieces and side-pieces, were beside the
chair. These laced half-way up to the knees. The costume was
picturesque, thoroughly graceful and masculine, and revealed his
strength of arm and symmetry of leg; but as he glanced downward his eyes
rested upon his bare knees and half-bare calves.
"Oh, the fighting saint!" he exclaimed, in dismay. "My knees! Stark,
gleaming, barefaced, preeminent knees! Gods! I'm _all_ knees! O, San
Miguel, clap thine eyes upon them! Didst ever see so many knees, and
knees so braggart in their nakedness? Name of a fiend!"
He tugged at the kilt to bring it lower, but vainly, and he sat down.
"A thousand curses!" he groaned, as he contemplated them. "Thrice more
flagrant in repose!" He rose and moved about, watching them narrowly.
"Flashing like the beacons of Tarragona when I walk! Ah, Blessed
Mother, can I ever lug their effrontery into the gaze of women's eyes?
Oh, would that I were Pedro! then this immodesty were reduced by half.
Blood and Misery!"
He was standing helpless when Markumi entered with his breakfast.
Cristoval eyed him closely, but the boy observed nothing unusual, merely
announcing as he set to work to arrange the table that the man would
come presently to trim his hair. His knees were bare too, of course,
and Cristoval envied their brown. _Bien_! He would sun his own
assiduously--and he sat down with a gradually returning feeling of
composure.
By the time he had breakfasted the barber arrived. Cristoval hoped to be
shaved; but learning that the Peruvians used only tweezers, gave it up,
forced to be content with the closest possible trimming. Even this he
would have forgone but for Rava, who disliked, and more than half
feared, the Viracocha beard. An hour later, with head and face reduced
to order, Cristoval strolled out in search of his hostess.
The court in the rear, as he had observed the night before, was open
toward the lake and guarded on that side by a low parapet from which
steps descended to a broad avenue through the trees, from terrace to
terrace to the shore, a few hundred yards distant. In the middle of the
patio was the usual fountain, and on each side a parterre, at one of
which a venerable servant was at work on the budding plants. Before
Cristoval could prevent, the old man prostrated himself; on being asked
for the Palla, he rose painfully and led Cristoval to the steps, saying,
"She walked toward the lake a moment ago, Viracocha, with two young
friends. No doubt you will find her on the shore."
The cavalier thanked him and looked about. The building was of the
customary massiveness and severity of style, modified somewhat by
numerous windows and niches, and by the sculptured border surrounding
each doorway. This decoration struck Cristoval forcibly as being
identical with the simpler forms of Grecian frets seen in European
architecture. Among the trees on either side were smaller buildings for
the accommodation of the Palla's servants. The site had been chosen
with the fine appreciation of natural beauty of surroundings
characteristic of the ancient Peruvians. From the foot of the hill the
lake spread out like a mirror, reflecting in perfect detail every rugged
feature of the opposite mountains, with here and there a streak of
silver where its surface was ruffled by the morning breeze. To the
right was the village of Xilcala, and ten miles or more beyond, the
narrow gorge through which the waters of the lake found exit on their
way to the distant sierra. On his left, toward the canyon he had
descended the day before, was a stretch of rolling fields with groups of
men at work, and he caught the plaintive melody of a ploughing-song. He
listened, impressed by the sense of peace which pervaded the valley, and
descended the steps to the avenue. The bank was terraced to the water's
edge, each terrace with its trees, shrubbery, winding paths, and nooks
with benches inviting idleness. At the margin of the lake was a sunny
space, or hemicycle, from which opened a charming panorama of the lake;
and surrounding it were broad, high-backed stone seats, shaded by
overhanging foliage. One bench was covered with rugs and cushions, and
bits of half-finished embroidery indicated the recent presence of the
ladies.
The cavalier turned into the path along the shore. He had not gone far
before he heard voices, and another step brought him face to face with
his hostess. She was advancing slowly, her arms encircling a maiden on
each side. They walked with hands resting affectionately on her
shoulders, bending forward and listening, the attention of all so
engaged in conversation that Cristoval had been unheard. The Palla
started slightly when she perceived her guest, but disengaged herself
and came to greet him.
"May the Sun shine kindly upon you this morning, Viracocha Cristoval,"
she said, offering her hand. "I rejoice to see that your recent
hardships have left few traces."
Her cordiality and freedom from constraint, due in part to his altered
appearance, but in a great degree also to Rava's influence, placed the
cavalier at ease, and he forgot his knees.
"The traces must be deep indeed," he replied, "not to be banished by the
gracious hospitality of the Palla Maytalca. The hardships are no longer
remembered."
"I fear you belittle them," she said, with a smile and a slight flush.
"The Nusta Rava hath already told me much of your terrible journey, and
my wonder that she endured it is only less than my thankfulness that she
had so good a guardian."
Cristoval bowed again. "The Nusta Rava hath rare spirit. I trust she
will quickly regain her strength, Palla Maytalca."
Cristoval showed his anxiety, and the lady hastened to assure him that
his ward needed only rest. "But now," she said, "let me make you known
to my young companions," and she called to the damsels a few steps away.
Their timidity at approaching a Viracocha, to them a fabulous and
dreaded being, was dissipated by his simple kindliness of manner, and
when the quartet reached the hemicycle the first reserve had gone. The
maidens were the daughters of the _curaca_ of Xilcala, the Palla
explained, and spent much of their time with her, acquiring what
accomplishments she could impart, and affording her welcome
companionship in return. They were handsome, graceful girls, and
compared favorably, Cristoval thought, with the senoritas of Castile.
All three were soon engaged with their embroidery, Maytalca often
pausing to listen breathlessly to the cavalier's details of the flight
from Caxamalca. He gave them simply, passing over incidents that
involved his own courage, and dwelling with quiet enthusiasm upon Rava's
fortitude. But his hostess had heard from the Nusta more of the former
than of the latter, and she was rapidly coming to share the estimate of
him held by his grateful _protegee_. At his mention of the Canares her
face became grave.
"I fear them, Viracocha Cristoval," she said, seriously. "They are as
wolves on the track of a wounded deer. It is a tribe which hath cost
the Incas most heavily to subdue, and their subjection hath never been
complete. They were conquered first by the Inca Tupac Yupanqui, but
revolted some years ago and were repressed at terrible sacrifice of
life. The tribe hath never taken kindly to our laws and institutions,
and hath always resisted the benevolent efforts of the Incas to lift
them from savagery. It is true, they fought with our unhappy Huascar
against Atahualpa, but they were influenced, I have always thought, less
by loyalty to Tavantinsuyu than by their native treachery, for they were
once subject to Quito. Now they hate Quito and Cuzco alike, and I
wonder not at their traitorous alliance with the invaders.--Pardon me,
Viracocha Cristoval!"
"You are not talking to an enemy of Tavantinsuyu, Palla Maytalca," said
Cristoval, quietly.
"I believe it," she returned, with a quick glance. "I think it hath
been proven. But," she resumed, after a pause, "I dread the thought of
the Canares following."
Cristoval was silent for a moment. "I should think it impossible that
we could be traced by any living creature," he said, at length.
"They will search every crevice of these mountains; and the distance
from here to Caxamalca is not great, Viracocha."
*CHAPTER XIX*
_*Hearts Perplexed*_
The ensuing days were such as had rarely entered into Peralta's
adventurous and somewhat reckless life. The enclosing mountains seemed
jealous of the intrusion even of thoughts of the outside world, and the
soft air and prevailing sense of peace cast a spell to which he fell a
willing subject. Save for a rumor that Pizarro had placed the imperial
_llautu_ upon the head of Toparca and had begun his advance upon Cuzco,
attended by his allies the Canares, ravaging as they moved, the vale was
without tidings. The last of these told of the arrival of the Spaniards
at Xauxa, some fifty leagues to the south, and of increasing resistance
from native warriors, led, it was said, by Prince Manco, Rava's full
brother and rightful heir to the throne. The devastating march of the
conquistadors had passed far to the eastward, leaving a demoralization
which interrupted all regular communication, and the secluded valley
seemed forgotten of the world.
At first Cristoval bore the inaction with uneasiness. Until he should
have placed the Nusta Rava in the protection of her brother Manco, his
duty would be unfulfilled; and although he looked forward to the
ultimate surrender of his guardianship with a reluctance only half
confessed to himself, yet his vow to Atahualpa was paramount. Very
soon, however, the impossibility of reaching Cuzco with Pizarro in the
way became apparent. For the present they must remain at Xilcala, and
the cavalier was forced to admit a feeling of relief.
So he surrendered to the dreamy quiet of Xilcala, growing daily more
compliant. Nevertheless, the unwelcome prospective forced itself upon
him with an insistence he could not always put aside. One morning he
was sitting with Rava and their hostess in the hemicycle where they
usually passed the warmer hours of the day, and the conversation turned,
as often, upon far-away Cuzco, and their prospects of reaching it.
Something called Maytalca away, and the two were left to themselves,
lapsing at once into the silence without constraint privileged to close
friendship and sympathy. Rava, engaged upon an embroidered trifle,
glanced from time to time toward the vacant lake, or at her ruminating
companion as he sat watching the intricacies of her work. At length she
spoke, using the more familiar form, and having dropped, at his request,
the appellation of Viracocha.
"Thou art thoughtful, Cristoval," she said, looking up from her work.
"I fear idleness beginneth to burden thee."
Cristoval smiled at her genially. "To burden me, child! I would I
might always bear so light a burden as this soft sunshine and thy
companionship. No, I've lived through weightier cares and kept my
spirits. I was but thinking of the day when it must end."
He was looking away when he concluded, and failed to see the tremor of
her fingers as she resumed her task. He was silent for a moment, then
continued, with a ring of sadness, "No, Nusta Rava, I could not weary of
this. But it cannot last forever. When I see thee in safety, then I
must go. I have thought of a friend whom I may trust to take me back to
Panama--whence we sailed for thy shores. Once there," he went on,
talking rather to himself than to her, "I can make my way to Spain--for
I swear never again to draw sword against the people of this western
world. There is no glory in it, and there are wars enough at home where
honor may be won as becometh a Christian."
Rava was very still, her head bent over her work, her face colorless and
dull. Alas! she thought with sudden heaviness of heart, he is but a
Viracocha, and can be naught else. No thought of love but for his
sword, no passion but for war. He is like his kind--less men than gods
of destruction; gifted with power and wisdom, but cursed with
heartlessness. But no! Surely he was not without a heart, for had he
not guarded her with a tenderness unvarying and almost womanly?
Assuredly not heartless in that sense at least! And there was affection
of some nature in every look and intonation. She was conscious of that,
for he had never striven to conceal it, and could not have done so from
her had he so striven. But, ah me! it must be that his was not a human
heart like hers. He was of another world, as her people
said--inscrutable, unknowable. She looked up once more, searching his
eyes this time with strange inquiry, and quite unconscious of her
intentness. The kindliness of Cristoval's face faded into surprise.
"Why, Heaven bless thee, child!" he exclaimed. "What is in thy thoughts?
Hast a question thou wouldst ask?"
She looked away, saying with a sigh, "Thou art a Viracocha, Cristoval!"
and left him pondering a riddle as insoluble to him as he was to her.
Soon afterward she arose to go. He escorted her to the head of the
avenue, and turned slowly back. "I am a Viracocha!" he repeated to
himself a dozen times, revolving it in perplexity. "A Viracocha! Now,
in the name of a saint, what meaneth she by that? Of course I'm a
Viracocha--to her unlettered people; but none, in saying it, ever looked
me through and through with eyes as big as if I were a genie out of a
bottle in some tale of Araby! A Viracocha, quoth she! Who was this
Viracocha? Ha! a heathen god, I've heard; which is to say, a devil!
_Madre_! Meaneth she that I am a devil? No, bless her heart, that is
far from it, I'll stake my head! H'm! I'll ask Markumi. No, I'll not!
He may give this Viracocha deity a reputation that will make me repent
the asking. These pagan gods are oft unsavory, the best of them. 'T is
better to be in doubt. But, _ay de mi_, Cristoval, thou 'rt beyond thy
depth in this business with women. It hath more of unexpectedness than
a bee-stung colt."
He wandered and pondered for an hour, then gave it up, saddled his
horse, and rode off down the valley.
However inscrutable Cristoval was to Rava, or however perplexing she was
at times to him, their separate problems did not mar the harmony of the
days in the Vale of Xilcala. They were much together, for they had
neither occupation nor preoccupation to keep them apart. There were
long walks along the lake or among the hills; and visits to the
cottagers, to whom their beloved Nusta came as a gentle spirit of
sympathy in their sorrows, or a sharer of their simple joys. There were
quiet hours in the garden, often with Maytalca and the daughters of the
_curaca_, Huallampo; but much of the time the Princess and Cristoval
were alone, strolling the shaded paths, or sitting in the hemicycle,
where Rava busied herself with some dainty fabric while Cristoval
watched and mused in the intervals of fitful conversation.
Under these conditions it is less than strange that Rava should wonder,
not without disappointment, that the cavalier should turn his thoughts
to war and its cruel glory. And it is not more than strange that his
thoughts should take this bent with growing infrequency, or that he
should look forward with more and more reluctance to the time when his
role of guardian must be resigned, and the days in Xilcala be of the
past. For, if the difference of race, of age, of culture, combined with
the brevity of their association to make difficult to each the real
nature of the other, yet the circumstances and the sentiment consequent
upon their lately shared dangers were favorable for a live and romantic
sympathy. Upon the heart of the girl, indeed, such incidents could have
but one effect.
And assuredly, if Rava was disposed to endow her champion with
attributes above the human, he was little behind in his exalted estimate
of her. He had been bred a soldier, and as such his experience with
women had been largely limited to those of the sophisticated type
accessible to men of his wandering career. His youth had been passed at
the court of the Marques of Cadiz, where he had learned more of intrigue
and feminine flexibility than of maidenly traits; and the rigid
seclusion of the unmarried daughters of Castilian families of the better
classes had inhibited anything more than contemplation of duena-fended
innocence at a distance. He had passed through his callow period of
fevers and deliriums engendered by stolen glances from senoritas' eyes;
had sighed and sung and thrummed o' nights beneath half-open lattices
and dim balconies, not always without catastrophe--once or twice with
spilt blood of his own or a rival's, and usually without better reward.
But his youth had flown with only uncertain notions of the charms of
maidenhood, and he carried these to the wars and forgot them. He had
been in love, so he had thought, many times and in many lands; but it
was love that had faded to mere memories of names, fondly enough
recalled, no doubt, but each dismissed with a sigh for one as deep as
for another. And that is to say that he had never been in love.
It is conceivable, therefore, that Rava's delicacy, ingenuousness, and
gentleness of nature, together with his consciousness of protectorship,
and of her implicit faith in him, should have stirred in his strong
heart the affection whose many evidences she had not failed to read.
The sense of guardianship alone, to a man of his stalwart and generous
temperament, would have gone far toward creating the sentiment; more
than that, in addition to the attraction of her youth and beauty, he
felt the charm of a graceful and high-bred mind. Her culture was not
Christian, but it was culture, nevertheless. The Inca civilization was
refined; more so, in many respects, than that of Spain at the period,
and the children of the sovereigns and nobles were scrupulously trained
in such knowledge and accomplishments as their rank demanded. And so,
although Rava was unaware that the earth was round, that her continent
had been discovered by one Cristoval Colon, and that Charles the Fifth
was emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, until she had been informed by
Cristoval, yet he found her a gentlewoman and quite the intellectual
equal of any he had known across the sea. She was, in fact, as he
discovered, better versed in the lore of her people than were most
Christian girls in the scanty knowledge then afloat in Europe. Learning
was not deemed an entirely desirable possession for women in the Old
World, nor were there many avenues open to them for its acquirement.
Rava's lack of information in matters familiar to the cavalier was
therefore not disturbing.
Of infinitely more concern was her paganism, and this Cristoval set
about to correct. He found her a willing and grateful listener. Her
unquestioning faith in him was broad enough to cover every word he
spoke. If she accepted the fact that the earth was a sphere, she would
have believed it flat again had he said so the next moment--or that it
was a cube, or upside-down, or inside-out. Ah, Cristoval, it was well
for this trusting heart that thine was true and chivalrous! Hadst been
the Antichrist thou wouldst have had a gentle votary ready for martyrdom
for her faith in thee!
Rava renounced her gods. She learned her Aves, Paternosters, and Credo,
and accepted Cristoval's rosary and crucifix, nevermore to be laid
aside.
"Cristoval," she said one day, "dost think my soul is saved?"
"Thy soul saved!" he replied, looking fondly down into the soft eyes.
"I would that the souls of half the Christians, or mine own, were near
as sure of Heaven as thine. Some day we must have thee baptized. If I
could but lay hands upon the good Father Tendilla! However, that will
come about. Meantime, be diligent with thy prayers, and we shall have
no fear."
As we may be sure, a new bond was thus created; and Cristoval, as
spiritual preceptor, took on new lustre for his grateful proselyte. The
good cavalier, now relieved of fear for her soul's welfare, returned
earnest thanks to the Virgin, and looked upon his ward with affection
growing perilously fast.
But, alas! Rava was paying dearly for their idyl in Xilcala. At night
she knelt with tears, his crucifix tight-clasped, and with a hundred
prayers for every one he enjoined. And her prayers were not the
litanies prescribed, but supplications such as many a maiden, borne down
by the sense of love unreturned, has made before and since. Thus,
through long hours she knelt, until weariness drove her to her pillow.
In the mornings the swollen eyelids were excused to the solicitous
Maytalca with pleas of sleeplessness. But the settled sadness was not
explained. It vanished momentarily in Cristoval's presence, to return
and be noted by him in silence. He asked no question, but there was
often questioning in his eyes, and asked thus it was hardest to bear.
Many times when she read it she turned from him with quivering lips, and
then his impulse to take her again in his arms was dangerously strong.
But he forced it down relentlessly, with a whispered prayer to San
Antonio of transcendent continence. Only once he took her hand,
tremulous and unresisting; but the quick rising of color to her cheeks
and the deepening of her eyes warned him of the frail barrier between
them and peril, and he relinquished it with the faintest pressure. But
that night Rava prayed without tears!
Stout-hearted Cristoval! It cost sorely to turn away from the light
half veiled by those drooping lashes, but the inevitable parting was
always before him. Soon he must fly Tavantinsuyu--if, by the grace of
Heaven, the way should be open. If not flight, then death in the
attempt; and in either event what would be left behind? The gentlest
breast that ever sheltered a womanly heart torn by lifelong grief. No;
he would give no further sign. The dearer the happiness now, the deeper
the wound for each to carry to the grave. And what was his vow to
Atahualpa? Ah, Blessed Virgin, lend thy strength!
So, while Rava wept and offered midnight prayer, Cristoval paced his
room and offered none. The sunlight of Xilcala had grown dim for both.
The cloud was not unnoticed by Maytalca; with a woman's intuition she
divined the cause, with a woman's delicacy forbore to speak; and pressed
the desolate girl in tacit sympathy, longing, but not daring to bid them
both to hope. They were more constantly together than before, driven by
the impulse that would not accept defeat. But alone, they walked or sat
in silence seldom broken by words.
One evening, just after sunset, they were standing on the shore of the
lake, watching the afterglow on the mountains. The valley was already
shrouded in twilight, but the distant peaks gleamed brilliant rose
against the darkening blue of the eastern sky. Alone, Cristoval would
have swept the prospect with a glance and turned away; but now, as his
eyes followed her guidance, he grew conscious of the beauty of creeping
shadows and dying light, and echoed her quiet admiration.
They turned away at length, and walked slowly toward the villa,
unconscious of the evil lurking in the growing dusk. They passed up the
avenue, and a dark form rose stealthily from the shadow, parting the
branches and leaning forward with the tense alertness of a cat to watch
their receding steps. They disappeared, and after a moment's listening
the half-naked figure skulked along the terrace, crouching to avoid the
overhanging boughs, reached the enclosing wall of the garden, and was
over, speeding away in the darkness like an apparition.
An hour later two Canares rose from their lair in a ravine half-way up
the mountain-side to receive him. He spoke a dozen words, answered by a
grunt from his companions; groped in the obscurity for his cloak, threw
it over his shoulders, and the three filed out from their concealment,
heading toward the lower end of the valley. Six days afterward they
entered Xauxa.
Spring was now well advanced, and Xilcala grew daily more fair in fresh
verdure and blossoming orchards. Stray, fragmentary rumors began to
float in, borne by herdsmen on their way to pasturage in the higher
Cordilleras. But the tales had reached them from mouth to mouth, and so
far as they concerned the Spaniards, were tangled and over-colored. One
day, however, there came news of a different order, brought by a
_chasqui_, the first to enter the valley in many weeks. The first item
was the death at Xauxa of the young Inca Toparca, and the burning at the
stake by Pizarro of Challicuchima, the Quitoan general, on the suspicion
of having poisoned the Inca. The second item, heard with greater grief
by the Xilcalans, was Pizarro's advance upon Cuzco, and the defeat of
the Auqui Manco in the Pass of Vilcaconga, where he had opposed the
invaders. The Spaniards, it was thought by the _chasqui_, were
doubtless in possession of the capital. Pizarro had left Xauxa
garrisoned by a small force of infantry and several hundred Canares to
serve as a base upon which to fall back if forced to retreat from Cuzco.
With the exception of Toparca's death there was nothing in the news
which occasioned surprise to Cristoval. He was too familiar with Spanish
prowess to doubt that Pizarro would take Cuzco. He mourned the young
prince, but there was more than the intelligence itself to cause him
uneasiness and depression. The seclusion of the valley seemed violated
by its intrusion, and he awakened to reluctant thought of the end which
must come to the half-dreamlike days, bringing uncertainties, dangers,
and the parting which had grown more and more unwelcome.
The day of the arrival of the evil tidings Rava and Maytalca spent in
retirement, and Cristoval was condemned to solitary wandering. His
rambling did not take him far from the hemicycle, and he returned
thither frequently, lingering with many a glance up the avenue; then
strolled again, or lounged where he could view a certain favored seat.
He often turned at fancied footfalls; a distant flutter of the garments
of some maid of the Palla's household was strangely suggestive of Rava;
and more than once he was deceived by a glint of bright sunlight on the
foliage. Curiously, the garden seemed haunted by dim phantasms of that
familiar, graceful form, and after the hundredth illusion he took
himself to task: "What, Cristoval! Art a boy, to go mooning along these
paths, starting at thine own conjurings? What aileth thee? Once thou
wast good companion for thyself. Now thou goest about peering and
stretching thy neck into the bushes like an unmated cock-pheasant.
Come! Go saddle up and ride. Thou 'rt in sore need of exercise,
_camarada_."
He started back with resolution. As he approached the hemicycle his
steps slowed, and he halted in front of the seat where Rava had worked.
There lay a forgotten skein of thread. He picked it up, contemplating
it with an interest disproportionate to its importance or value. Useless
to try to follow his thoughts. It was intrinsically feminine, that
trifle, and the soldier succumbed to its femininity. He drew a small
pouch from his bosom and placed the skein beside the half-dozen other
precious trinkets it contained. He closed the pouch; reopened it
hastily, removed the thread, and replaced it upon the seat where he had
found it; then sprang to his feet and walked rapidly away. A half-hour
later he was galloping along the lane toward the canyon by which they
had approached Xilcala weeks ago.
Now the valley, stirred for a moment by the _chasqui's_ tidings, sank
again into its repose. The mourning for the defeat at Vilcaconga was
mitigated by confidence in ultimate victory. What enemy of Tavantinsuyu
had ever triumphed? Soon a call to arms would come, and the nation
would respond with overwhelming potency. All in good time.
At the villa of Maytalca the days went as before. But--were they days
of growing happiness, or of more rapidly growing pain? Cristoval could
not have said, nor could Rava. He had learned to interpret the
evanescent light in the brown eyes that so often sought his own, but the
joy it gave him was for the instant, and followed at once by a deeper
pang. He turned away from the gentle face whose beauty, waxing daily
more alluring under the tender burning of the soul within, would have
shaken the knees of the resolution of one thrice more saintly than
Cristoval. But though he told himself that the parting must be only a
question of weeks, though he rode hard and invoked the good San Antonio,
Cristoval found little peace.
*CHAPTER XX*
_*Hearts Revealed and Sundered*_
Now, when two human hearts are throbbing under the mysterious influence
of the spell called Love, be it noted that the universe pauses in its
majestic routine to take a part. Our good Mother Nature lends a more
benevolent smile. The breeze touches with softer caress and gentler
whispering. The trees and herbage are greener, the flowers yield a
sweeter fragrance and wear an added loveliness. The Sun himself shines
with brighter effulgence and more generous warmth; at his setting,
paints the heavens and gray old earth in hues of unwonted brilliancy,
and gives way to twilights more tender than twilights seen at other
times. And the Moon--what splendor in her radiance then! and in the
stars! The world--the non-human part of it, for our fellowmen are often
less benignant and sometimes roughen love's pathway most lamentably--the
world takes on new charms and promises things untold; conspiring with
the insistent young archer and with a thousand circumstances to lure the
lovers on to their silently coveted happiness. Let all mankind unite in
a commanding "Nay!" yet the two hear a still voice in more urgent "Yea,
yea!" and read approval in Nature's kindly face. Be their resistance
never so strong in the beginning, it must surely be overcome by a fatal
languor at a fatal moment, and the archer triumphs.
Often, when Cristoval sat beside her in the hemicycle in meditative
silence, Rava would take up Maytalca's _tinya_[1] and sing to its
accompaniment. The melodies were simple, soft, and plaintive, and she
sang with the sympathy and sweetness of her nature, her voice quivering
from the fulness of her heart. The music was the one thing needful to
complete the agony of Cristoval's self-denial. He heard her at first
with wonder, then with unaffected ravishment.
[1] Tinya = a stringed instrument something like the guitar.
One moonlight evening--alas, a moonlight evening!--Rava had been telling
him the great Peruvian classic, "Apu-Ollanta." Ollanta, the hero of the
drama, born in obscurity, had risen by bravery and soldierly skill to
the command of the armies of the Inca Pachacutec Yupanqui, and was his
most trusted and beloved lieutenant. In an unfortunate hour he had
loved and gained the love of Cusi-Coyllur, the Inca's daughter. The
attachment, forbidden by the laws of Tavantinsuyu because of Ollanta's
ignoble birth, was punishable with death. It was the story which has
furnished a theme for poets through the ages. They loved in secret, and
when at length concealment became no longer possible, Ollanta braved the
laws and the Inca's wrath, and demanded Cusi-Coyllur in marriage. He
was denied and banished from Cuzco, and when a child was born to the
unhappy princess she was cast into prison. Ollanta hurried to his army
in one of the provinces, raised his soldiers in rebellion, and led them
to rescue his love. The war raged through ten long years, and after the
death of Pachacutec Yupanqui, was carried on by his son. At last
Ollanta, vanquished and a captive, was taken in chains to Cuzco; but the
young Inca, more generous than his father, and moved by the rebel's
constancy, pardoned him and led him to the dungeon of the princess.
Years of confinement and sorrow had aged her prematurely, but Ollanta
saw only the long-lost adored one of his youth and their child,
and--well, they were married and restored to happiness and honor.
The story was long, and Rava told it with the simple candor of
innocence, repeating with feeling and expression quite without
consciousness of self, those passages whose beauty most appealed to her,
from time to time taking up her instrument for the songs in the play.
She finished, and sat with hands clasped, looking out upon the moon-lit
lake, preoccupied and musing, apparently expecting no comment from
Cristoval. He had listened with rapt attention, leaning forward with
cheek upon his hand, less mindful of the story itself than of her low
voice and the emotion on her sensitive features. He sat contemplating
the calm beauty of the dark eyes, until, conscious of his gaze, she
turned toward him. He roused from his reverie.
"It is a beautiful story, Nusta Rava," he said, gently drawing the
_tinya_ from her lap.
There was a shadow of doubt in her look as she replied, "Didst find it
so, Cristoval? It telleth little of war."
"Little of war, to be sure," he answered, failing to notice her tone;
"but perhaps the better for that. I have heard its like before," he
went on, fingering the strings.
"Yes?" she asked, with slight surprise.
"Yes, Nusta Rava. Why not?" responded Cristoval, in turn surprised at
the slight incredulity in her voice. "Stories of hopeless love and happy
endings? Why not, my dear?"
"But do you have love-stories in Castile? I thought--"
"What didst think? We have love-stories and love-songs a-many."
"Thou hast never told me one," she said, with a shade of reproach; "nor
have I ever heard thee sing except of soldiers and horrid battles."
"Why, mayhap 't is true," said Cristoval, reflectively. "But I know more
of such than of the other, though once--" He paused, then added with
more of suppressed emphasis and resolution than seemed to be required,
"I will sing thee one now, Nusta Rava!"
He was familiar with the guitar, and the _tinya_ was therefore not so
strange that he could not, without difficulty, find the chords. He had,
moreover, taken it up when Rava was not by, and so made its
acquaintance; so that after retuning he picked out a fair accompaniment
and began. His song was one of those sweet Spanish airs which breathe
passion in every line, and he sang with true feeling, with the richness
of voice native to his race.
Rava listened to a song utterly strange and in an unknown tongue. But
music, said to be the universal language, surely is the universal
language of love, and her heart beat in response to every measure. Had
she been indifferent to the singer she could not have been unmoved; but
her unspoken longing made her doubly vibrant to his emotion, and the
close left her pale and strangely quiet.
Cristoval laid aside the _tinya_. The moon was shining full in Rava's
face as she leaned back, and he glanced into eyes from which the deep
melancholy had gone. They were no longer doubtful, but swimming with
happiness that struggled with timidity. The song was a revelation. It
had solved the riddle of this good, brave Viracocha, and had shown him a
man. He was no longer the demigod, reserved, with breast invulnerable,
but of flesh and blood. She did not need to know the meaning of his
words. Every inflection had said more than words. Her own voice was
tremulous and almost inaudible.
"It was a love-song, Cristoval?"
"A love-song," he replied, looking away.
"Then thou--then the Viracochas can love?" she faltered, after a pause.
Cristoval turned quickly. "Can love, child!" he exclaimed. "Why, what
dost think us? Men without souls?"
"But I mean _love_, Cristoval," she said, with timid earnestness. "The
love that is not cruel, and merciless, and savage, like that of the
Viracochas at Caxamalca; nor yet--" She hesitated, and dropped her
eyes.
"Nor yet?" asked Cristoval, bending forward.
She looked at him again waveringly.
"Nor yet?" he persisted. "What wouldst say?"
Her eyes fell once more. "Nor yet," she murmured, "the love that is all
unselfishness, like that of a father for his child. Oh, Cristoval, I
know not what I would say, but there was in the song what I thought the
Viracochas could not feel."
He replied impetuously: "Thou hast thought that? Thou hast dreamed we
could not love? Shall I tell thee how we can love? We can worship,
Nusta Rava, and yet, hopeless, be silent until death were happiness."
She regarded him in wonder. "Hopeless, Cristoval?" she asked, in a
voice so low that he barely heard it, and the question threw him off his
guard. He answered it quickly and desperately, and in giving voice to
the torture of his soul for weeks, forgot to be impersonal.
"Hopeless!" he repeated, turning away again. "How else? What art
thou?--a princess. And I?--" He stopped. When he looked again his
eyes met that in hers which a lover should be willing to give his life
to see. Darkened by the moonlight, they regarded him with strange,
intent abstraction, serious, gentle, and ineffably fond. This time
Cristoval did not turn away. He must have been more than human--or
less--to have turned away.
For an instant, as a drowning man reviews a lifetime, he had a hundred
thoughts of deprecation, each a stab. He spurned them. The dross of
common things faded into due perspective. The world's cares and dangers
grew shadowy. His hands sought hers. As they yielded, the deep eyes
deepened, and her lips parted with a sigh, almost a sob.
The _tinya_ had slipped to the ground at their feet. Rava unclasped her
hands from his neck and drew back her head to look into his eyes. "Ah,
Cristoval, then thou canst love?--truly, thou canst love, and dost love
me?"
Cristoval kissed the upturned lips and eyes and brow. "God knoweth I
love thee, Rava, and have loved thee long. I had not purposed to tell
thee."
"That would have been wrong and cruel," said Rava. "Why wouldst thou not
have told me?"
"I thought we must part, my own, and would have spared thee an aching
heart."
"Thou wouldst have denied me the only solace for a broken heart," she
sighed, clinging more closely. "But now, we shall never part,
Cristoval."
"Never! Never, with the help of Heaven!" he whispered.
But at length, the leave-taking for the night. A score of leave-takings
before the last wafted kiss from her doorway, and the beloved form
vanished in its shadow. Then Cristoval, alone, sought to realize his
happiness. In his room he raised his sword, and kissed its hilt--the
soldier's cross.
Ware happiness complete! Evil hath no harbinger more sure. Their
glimpse of it was fleeting, as always. Even while they dreamed it would
endure, the blow was falling. One day, a second, and a third--days with
hours like minutes, speeding on so quickly to the evening, the evening
so quickly into night, that the lovers seemed hardly met before it was
time to part again and lie in fevered longing for the dawn, each with a
thousand thoughts untold. Ah, Time! Capricious, perverse and always
cruel; swift as light when the moments are of joy; grudging and
niggardly in their measure when mortals would have them long; but
unsparing, lavish, prodigal, when thou metest hours of sorrow!
Again a moonlit evening. They had said good-night and parted. Hours
had passed; Cristoval was sitting beside his lamp, whose waning light
drew his thoughts back to earth; even while he contemplated its
struggles it sputtered and died, leaving the room in darkness. He
sighed, loath to lay aside his reverie, and stepped to the window. The
moon was nearly at the full, and he leaned against the casement, looking
across the placid lake to the silvered peaks beyond. He stood long,
enjoying the fresh beauty of the night, his eyes among the shadows of
the garden where he had crowned his life. While he mused a cloud
drifted across the moon, leaving the garden a moment in obscurity. When
it passed and the light returned, he was startled out of his dreaming.
The details of shade and illumination had come back, but now there was
something more. Near the edge of the shrubbery, half a hundred yards
below, was a formless shadow not there before. Cristoval leaned forward,
studying intently a curious blot on the sward, suggestive of some
lurking beast, yet different. It moved, ever so slightly, and the
confused outline became suddenly clear. There was the head of a
warrior, stretched alertly forward, and wearing the high, conical helm
of a Canare. There was the line of his crouched back. One hand and a
knee were on the ground. Now there was a sparkle just above--a javelin
head!--and at the same instant an arm was raised in signal. At once
other shadows appeared here and there, and they slunk, half running,
toward the villa.
Cristoval watched no longer. In a second he was groping for his armor.
His hands were shaking, but soon corselet was on, and helmet: no time
for more. Now, sword and buckler. He threw the empty scabbard on the
couch as he rushed to the door. In the anteroom slept Markumi.
"Markumi! Markumi!" Cristoval whispered, shaking him.
"Yes, Viracocha," said the youth, sleepily.
"Up, Markumi! Make no sound. Quick--thy weapons, and follow!"
Markumi needed no second word. Electrified by the cavalier's voice, he
was on his feet at a bound. Cristoval had not reached the door leading
into the court, which he must cross to gain Rava's apartment, before the
boy was beside him, grunting as he slipped the loop of the bow-string
into its notch. Cristoval halted, listening. Without were movement and
suppressed voices. As he put hand to the bar to open, the fastenings
creaked with the weight of some one trying. Across the court came the
crash of blows upon another door.