"Devilry!" answered Cristoval. "The house is surrounded. Canares, I
think." The words were not uttered before the room reverberated with a
rain of strokes upon the panels before them.
"Set an arrow!" said Cristoval, in Markumi's ear. "Stand clear of the
door when I throw it open. Do not follow. Keep in the darkness, and
shoot low."
Markumi hurriedly set his arrow, grateful that the darkness hid his
shaking legs. The cavalier released the bar and sprang back. The door
flew wide, letting in a sudden flare of torches, and two half-naked
forms plunged in headlong. The first ran full upon Cristoval's point.
The second was shot through by Markumi. With a shout a throng filled
the doorway. A javelin whizzed past Cristoval's ear; another, and
another. Markumi's bow twanged, a _Canare_ fell, and the cavalier
dashed forward, his buckler ringing with the quick thrusts of spears,
his sword playing swift and deadly. A gasp or moan followed every lunge
at the unarmored bodies. Shielding his head he pressed close upon the
group, cut through, and was in the open. A pause of half a second, and
he found himself the centre of a confused surging of warriors, their
limbs and dark, ferocious faces illumined by the dancing light of
torches. The court seemed full, resounding with the uproar from savage
throats. Now a fiercer yell, and they closed. So dense the mass none
dared hurl his javelin, but they pressed from all sides, and for an
instant Cristoval staggered under the impact of their weapons upon his
shield and mail. As they rushed, shriek upon shriek, half smothered by
the walls of the opposite wing of the villa, cut to his heart with a
sudden deadly chill--Rava!
The chill was followed by a flame more quick, and Cristoval became a
demon. He charged into the thickest, thrusting from beneath his
upraised buckler, the thin, glimmering steel finding flesh at every
stroke. It flashed low, reaching its mark under lifted arms: a dull ray
of light, with the velocity of light itself; a chameleon's tongue, its
gleam barely seen for its fatal quickness. For a moment he seemed to
struggle hopelessly. Hedged about, he labored heavily, impeded by mere
weight of numbers, lacerated from elbow to shoulder by their spears, the
grip of his weapon slippery with his own blood. Hands clutched to
wrench his buckler from his grasp. Once it was swept aside, and he
looked into the eyes of a Canare in the head-gear of a chieftain: saw
the glitter of a falling axe. It fell, glanced from his helmet, and
struck with stunning force upon his shoulder--by the grace of Heaven,
not upon his right! The chief went down, his naked body run through,
and the circle widened. A javelin glanced from the shield, and impaled
a Canare beyond. Another, thrown with terrific force, shivered against
his breastplate.
But for his mail the cavalier would not have lived through a dozen
paces. He was breathing in gasps, his arm stiffening with its wounds.
Warriors whirled around him, yielding here before the lightning blade;
closing there and forcing him to fight to the rear. From the doorway
Markumi had sped his last arrow and fled. Every shaft had carried
death. Cristoval fought, not with hope, not in despair, but in madness
to reach and save his love; in a frenzy to kill, kill, kill, while a man
lived to interpose. All at once he became conscious of a growing light.
The villa was afire! A torch had been set to the roof of the main
building, and the thatch blazed high, a column of rosy smoke curling
toward the quiet stars. Half across the court his eye caught the gleam
of a morion. A Spaniard dashed from a door, followed by two others
bearing a senseless form. For the first time Cristoval gave voice, and
his roar overtopped the din. The first Spaniard stopped, glanced toward
the struggle, then rushed forward with a shout, followed by one of the
others, leaving their burden to the third. Straight to thy doom, Juan
Lopez!
He sprang through the mob, sweeping the Canares from his path, and
whirling aloft his halberd. Cristoval rushed upon him. The axe fell,
was caught upon the buckler, and Cristoval drove his sword into the
Spaniard's throat, jerked it out, and while the other tottered, drove it
home again with all the force lent his arm by hate.
It was the end. While he strove to disengage his blade the Canares
swept upon him. He was down. On his knees he still fought, creeping a
few inches toward his beloved, then sank beneath a war club whose force
even his helmet could not ward. While his brain reeled he heard the
yell of triumph, growing distant to his ears, and the world ceased to
be. A score of hands clutched to tear him to pieces, struck back by the
second halberdier.
"Off, dogs! He is mine.--_Hola_, Duero! We have him!--A thousand
_castellanos_!"
He stopped. A Canare reeled against him in a spasm of coughing, tugging
at the shaft of an arrow in his chest. In another moment the Spaniard
had been forced away from Cristoval by a rush of the tribesmen, and
arrows and javelins whistled about him from the darkness outside the
court. He heard Duero calling and swearing, a fierce yell from the
gloom surrounding the villa, and a storm of missiles swept the court,
whose tumult became a pandemonium.
Xilcala had been roused. One of the household had given alarm, and the
flames brought the villagers on wings. The conflagration wrought its own
punishment: every Canare in the court revealed by the mounting flames,
the garden in blackness. A merciless hail assailed the ravagers from
the obscurity, and they were seized with panic--a mere tossing herd,
stampeded by a foe unseen, dropping by twos and threes beneath the
deadly rain. Yells, the crackling flames, and the shouts of the
invisible assailants made the garden a horror.
The halberdier fought his way to Duero's side, and they stood in
consternation. The still unconscious Rava had been drawn into the
doorway. With a motion to his companion Duero picked her up, and they
groped through the smoke-filled building into the shrubbery in front,
and were away.
Clear of the garden, they made a detour to pass the village, halting
once to bind and gag the Nusta as they hurried toward the gorge. A mile
beyond the town they joined a small party of Spaniards and Canares in
concealment beside the road. Duero replied to their questions with a
comprehensive curse. "Move, blockheads!" he roared. "Fetch the litter.
Before ye finish gawping they will be upon us. Hell is uncovered, d' ye
hear? Fetch the litter."
A _hamaca_ was brought, Rava thrust into it, and the curtains drawn.
Two Canares took it up, and the party hurried away.
At the entrance of the gorge they crossed the stream by a bridge of
twisted osiers. On the farther side they hacked with their halberds
until the structure hung, a wreck, from its opposite anchorage. It
would cut off the retreat of their allies, but would delay pursuit, for
the torrent was unfordable. Their route was down the gorge. Toward
morning they crossed and destroyed another bridge, then proceeded in
security.
The conflict raged about the villa until the Canares retreated to the
mountains, leaving their wounded and dead. The villagers turned to the
flames, tore away the thatch, and saved the wings of the house, but of
the main portion only blackened walls remained. Until Maytalca was
found, imprisoned with her maids in a room remote from the flames, the
capture of Rava was unknown, and Duero's party had gained several miles
the start. Pursuit, delayed at the first bridge, was balked completely
at the second, and forced into a circuitous mountain path before it
could come again upon the raiders' trail. The flight was toward Xauxa,
but by the third day the pursuers found themselves impeded by prowling
Canares. Forced again to the mountain trails, the chase was hopeless.
Markumi found Cristoval, and with assistance bore him, almost lifeless,
to Huallampo's villa. For the second time he was hovering upon the
brink, and for days the aged healer summoned by the _curaca_ answered
the villagers with a dubious shake of his head.
*CHAPTER XXI*
_*The Senora Descends upon Pedro*_
We go forward to find ourselves at Xauxa, a week subsequent to the
catastrophe at Xilcala, months after Pizarro's march to Cuzco.
The town lies on the river Xauxa, a branch of the great Apurimac, in one
of the many fertile valleys, or _bolsons_, that break the arid
desolation of the Sierra. Pizarro had found it well defended by the
immense fortress on the steeps of an adjacent mountain. He left it with
a small garrison, as has appeared. With this remained the sick and
incapacitated, and most of the non-combatants. Among these were Pedro,
who, since the escape of Peralta, was no longer _persona grata_, and
felt more secure away from the commander; Jose remained invalided by an
attack of the fever; Father Tendilla, as missionary to the natives; and
Rogelio, the _veedor_, who tarried for reasons best known to himself.
Rogelio, however, pleaded an indisposition which, as a civil officer of
the Crown and a man with a family, he could not conscientiously neglect;
and from his couch in his quarters within the fortress, bade farewell in
a voice of feebleness and suffering. When assured that the last company
had marched he rolled out of bed and dressed in time to watch the
command from the rampart as it trailed down to the town below. He shook
a fist at the distant figure he knew to be Mendoza's, rubbed his hands,
snuffled, and emitted a chuckle of mingled glee, triumph, and malice.
An hour afterward he was haggling with Duero and Mani-mani, a sub-chief
of the Canares.
For several days the garrison remained within the fortress. A fortnight
later word came that Prince Manco had met Pizarro peaceably at
Xaquixaguana, and had presented his claim to the throne. His right had
been formally recognized, and the prince was proceeding with the
Spaniards to Cuzco, where the coronation would take place straightway.
Accompanying the news was his command that all hostility should cease,
and soon natives and garrison were on friendly terms. Those Spaniards
privileged to do so took quarters in the town, and among them was Pedro.
Pedro established his _cantina_ near the square. One afternoon he was
leaning idly beside his door, watching the passers-by, with an
occasional glance down the thoroughfare toward the north. A _chasqui_
had announced the day before that a small company of Viracochas was
approaching, newly arrived from Panama, on the way to join Pizarro. The
_cantina_ was prepared, and a roast of llama on Pedrillo's spit divided
the attention which the proprietor paid to the street. The latter was
interesting, for the day was a festival of some sort and the town was
full of the country people, gayly clad, and notwithstanding recent
calamities, in full holiday spirits. As Pedro stood he noted that the
crowd was growing. By and by he observed that his establishment was
drawing a deal of persistent attention. No one had stopped in front of
it, but a number had passed and repassed, and one Indio, conspicuous for
his dignity of bearing, had already grown familiar. He was a tall old
man, wrapped in a long, colored poncho of unusual elegance, its heavy
folds falling to his knees and decorated with a profusion of
conventionalized forms of birds and beasts. The object of particular
interest to Pedro, however, was his suite. Following close as he
stalked past for the sixth or seventh time, was his wife; and in her
train a numerous family ranging in age from five to eighteen years or
thereabout, the eldest a maiden of comely face and figure who glanced at
the cook with shy but unmistakable curiosity. The old man seemed never
to see him, apparently disdaining show of interest; but his family were
less scrupulous, and favored him with stares undisguised. This group
was but one of many, but it was notable to Pedro by the presence of the
shy though curious eighteen-year-old of the comeliness mentioned. Pedro
was not unsusceptible. Having once or twice caught her eyes, he
straightway experienced a responding interest.
"Ho!" thought he. "How now? Have thy charms survived thy years, Pedro,
my boy? Are there yet lines of grace in thy portliness? That was a
wistful, surreptitious, yearning contemplation, or there's some mistake.
It swept thy traits and fair proportions most lingeringly.--Ha! She
cometh again! Stew me if she cometh not again! Hold! Guard thine
eyes, admired cook. Bank their fires, lest they startle with too much
ardour. I'll look at the sky till she is near. Ah! Fair sky! Ample,
roomy, easy-fitting vault of blue! Large, capacious dome! Dome with
space enough for stars to knock about in, and space to spare-- But she
is here! Now look! Oh, hot kettles, Pedro, how comfortable thou art!
Was there not warmth in that stolen glance? O, my patron saint!-- But
who is she--and where abideth? That patrolling image in her lead must be
her papa. I'll inquire."
With his jovial countenance glowing pleasantly he cast about for a
possible source of information, and his eyes lighted upon a youth across
the street who was surveying him with unmitigated wonder, his eyes and
mouth equally broad open. Pedro motioned him, and the boy started
hesitatingly across the street. At once the interest of the crowd was
fixed, and they formed a respectful circle, across which the lad
advanced with evident trepidation. Pedro had acquaintance with the
Quichua, and hailed him cordially.
"May the day bring thee good fortune, and the night better, my lad.
Come hither. There is something I would ask. This seemeth a gala day,
is it not?
"The Feast of the Full Moon, Viracocha," replied the boy, respectfully.
"The Feast of the Full Moon! Good! Dost live in Xauxa?"
"No, Viracocha. I am here but for the day. I live yonder, up the
valley," indicating the direction by turning and pursing out his lips, a
gesture habitual with the Peruvians, and surviving to this day.
"Yonder, up the valley!" said Pedro, imitating his grimace. "Hum! Thou
'rt a good boy, I take it from thy face. Sleepest at home, and early?"
"Why, where else, Viracocha?" asked the other innocently.
"Ah! Where else, to be sure! But in my country o' nights, the boys oft
go chasing nightingales--a bird which I have not yet seen in
Tavantinsuyu. 'T is quite as well. But what I would ask is this: The
folks seem curious. Now, what draweth their attention hereabout? What
held thy lower jaw away from its fellow a moment since?"
"Viracocha?" asked the boy, puzzled.
"I observed thee looking this way. What is the interest which hath
brought this crowd?"
"Oh!" exclaimed the youth, enlightened. "Why, you are one of the
Viracochas--your pardon."
"No offence," answered Pedro. "A mere chance which hath befallen others
of my race. Is that all?"
The boy hesitated. "No, not all. The bare bone of your leg,
Viracocha--"
"Oho!" shouted Pedro. "The bare bone of my leg! God bless my soul! The
bare bone of my leg, for a surety! Why, stew me! Now, 't is a sight, is
it not--to see a man with a part of his skeleton sticking out into the
glare of day! But, lad, what if I were to show thee my ribs? Nay!" he
added, as the boy drew back aghast. "I'll not do it in the presence of
ladies, never fear. Ha! The bare bone of-- But is that all?" He
lowered his voice. "Yonder damsel, for instance, just now passing--do
not look too quickly--hath she been drawn by my leg, thinkst thou?"
The boy looked round cautiously at the girl lingering at the edge of the
circle. "I cannot say for her," he said, "but if the Viracocha wisheth,
I will ask her," and full of accommodation, he started in her direction.
"Stay!" cried Pedro, seizing him. "_Santa Maria_, no! Let it pass.
I'll endure the doubt.--The bare bone of my leg, saith he! Oh, pots and
skillets!" Pedro exhibited some symptoms of a coming laugh, but the
attack did not develop, and he went on: "A marvel, in truth! But if it
hath merited so much attention I'll show it worthy of more."
Steadying himself upon the boy's shoulder, Pedro unscrewed his peg from
its socket, and as an exclamation of amazement and dismay arose from the
crowd, tossed it high in the air, caught it, and set it whirling in his
nimble fingers. The circle spread abruptly. The old Indio forgot his
dignity and watched in stupefaction while the cook juggled his member
with the skill of a mountebank. Transforming it into a weapon, he
attacked a fancied enemy, hopping about, striking, and guarding, until
the foe was laid low by one last fell stroke. From the role of a weapon
it passed to that of a flute, and as Pedro's fingers ran over imaginary
keys he whistled a Spanish air, then one of their own, to their infinite
wonder and delight. He finished with a bow to the old Indio, and
tendered the peg for inspection. It was taken gingerly, and the ice was
broken.
The old man examined it with profound solemnity, while his daughter
looked upon the gracious cook with a round-eyed fascination most
grateful to his complacent soul. It ended with an invitation into the
_cantina_, and, having screwed his peg back into place, Pedro ushered in
the entire family and served a luncheon, at the end of which he was
asked to their _huasi_, six miles out beyond the fortress. The Indio,
Municancha, was a master-mason engaged upon the uncompleted
fortifications. Thus the cook opened an acquaintance which he afterward
found of value.
Pedro bade his guests farewell, bestowing a significant squeeze upon the
hand of the daughter, Coriampa, and was pleasantly reviewing the
circumstance, when a shout from his boy at the door hurried him to the
street. His expected countrymen were approaching. A distant flutter of
pennons and the gleam of steel showed above the heads of the crowd, and
soon Pedro was cheering lustily as the company passed. In the lead rode
Sotelo, the commander of the company, with Saavedra, commandant of the
fortress, his travel-stained accoutrements contrasting with the latter's
burnished armor. Following, and escorted by Father Tendilla, were
half-a-dozen priests and friars, a few on mules and jaded horses, but
most of them on foot. As they passed, Pedro suddenly ceased his
greetings.
"Aha! Thou back, Fray Mauricio!" he muttered. "Hast renewed thy courage
and venom, my small, liver-colored brother? I'd exchange thee for the
devil himself, my friend, and so would Jose, had he his choice. Would
thou wert back in Spain--or farther! I'll warn the armorer, be sure of
it. And now, the cavaliers--two, four, six, eight. Not bad! But,
father of famine, what a hungry lot! _Hola_!" he shouted. "What fare
on the way, _compadres_? Saddle-leather and surcingles, I'll be bound.
Cheer up! There's better beyond. Come, smile thou, my empty
_caballero_ in the rear! In a week thy waistband will renew
acquaintance with thy pansiere. There's that in Peru to fill it, and
some to be left over for the infantry. Oho! Here they are--our honest
lads of the foot! Twenty in all--and that is to say, twenty larcenies
the more for each day of the calendar. _Bien_! Were there no thieves
we'd have no love for honest men. What cheer, pikemen? Did ye ever see
a cold boiled ham? Ah, see them drool! They're blest with powers of
memory, 't is sure. What, ho! A civilian! A leech, _amigo_? No? A
barber!--next of kin. _Gracias a Dios_, a barber! Fall out, my friend;
thy journey endeth here."
A weary individual in civil garb, his legs bare to the knees but for the
fringe of rags that fell below them, turned out of the column.
"_Nombre de Dios_! Is this an inn?" he asked in astonishment, peering
through the open door and sniffing the fragrance.
"An inn, and no less. An inn, and no more," replied Pedro. "Enter.
Thou 'rt as welcome to it as the smell of it seemeth to be to thee."