Molina found himself in a house whose appointments were amazing. Built
of cement, high on the side of a cliff, its comforts exceeded anything
he had known in the new world. Its walls were dry, the furnishings
adequate for every want, and the view from the terrace on which his
room opened, one of entrancing beauty. Below lay the city of Quito, its
huge palaces and fortresses of stone flashing in the tropic sun, and
beyond in the distance the snowy peaks of the Andes.
The only thing he missed was the use of glass. The windows were closed
by wooden shutters or were merely open spaces through which light and
ventilation passed. The even temperature of the altitude at which the
city was built made this but a slight inconvenience.
The beds were of bamboo slat that yielded as a spring. A heavy mattress
of wool was covered by clean cotton sheets finely spun and woven.
The best wool blankets were on every bed. The table service--plates,
cups, knives, bowls and pitchers--was of gold. The food served under
Yma’s watchful eye was deliciously cooked, the bread of corn meal most
palatable and satisfying. The llama mutton was done to please the
palate of a king. Large, white potatoes roasted through and through
were dry and mealy and to him a thing unseen or tasted before on any
table in the outside world.
A golden bowl was filled with bananas, pineapples, plums, cocoanuts and
mangoes.
The swift feet of voiceless serving maids scarcely made a sound as they
moved through the halls and rooms at their tasks.
As the shadows of evening fell, Yma led her new master into the court
about which the house was built. A fountain splashed in the center.
In huge earthen pots dazzling flowers bloomed and an orchestra of
soft-stringed instruments made weird music.
The table for the evening meal was set beside the fountain. Yma took
her place at its head and presided with simple grace. Her orders
were silently and swiftly obeyed. She watched Molina with keen eyes,
anticipating his every want. And when he sighed with satisfaction at
the close, she smiled and asked through his interpreter:
“My Lord is pleased?”
“Delighted, dear Virgin of the Sun. You work wonders.”
“And I have another--”
She waved her bare arm and from a room opening on the court, swept a
chorus of dancing girls who circled the table in number after number of
graceful dances. Their lithe young bodies seemed the incarnation of the
soft strains of the hidden music.
The Sun Virgin watched the effect on the Spaniard with an interest
that was half pain and half joy. The girls were dressed exactly as
the chorus of five hundred at his royal reception, except that the
skirt of silver spangles was a little shorter and the dancers had been
selected with more care, each one a marvel of sensuous beauty. Each one
a smiling challenge to the man before whom they swept.
But there was no look of jealousy in Yma’s lustrous eyes. To her simple
mind she was celebrating a festival of love. Her Lord was worthy of
the best the Sun God could give. She had selected these girls with the
pride of an expert.
A look of care clouded her brow at Molina’s lack of interest. Not
exactly bored, yet he lifted his eyes to the stars sometimes with a
far-off expression as if his mind were in another world.
“My Lord is not happy?” she asked plaintively.
“Oh, yes,” he responded cordially, “but I was just wondering if your
people dance all the time?”
“They work sometimes, but they manage to dance every night--”
“Every night?”
“And why not? They are carefree. They are happy. Their feet rejoice.”
“I see!” he laughed.
The table cleared, and the last dance ended, Molina bade his charming
hostess good-night and retired to his room.
He opened the window, blew out the taper and sat watching the full moon
flood the valley with the glory of its tropic light.
The rich delicate food, the splash of water, the sigh of music and
the swaying of the beautiful bodies had found him at last. It thrilled
him and he tingled with the delight its sensuous effect produced. He
thought of Yma and he caught his breath.
Yet he was sick for the girl he loved in Panama. He wondered if she
missed him with the sharp pain that he felt to-night? How little he
had dreamed at their parting how long it would be before he saw her
again. The waiting now might be an eternity. He regretted his carrying
her back to her home. Suppose his captain failed to build his fleet
and recruit his army? Then he was trapped for life. The way across
the trackless wilderness and mountain barriers could not be made
alone. Only a madman would dream of taking it. A sense of intolerable
loneliness caught his heart.
A soft footfall echoed within the room and he turned in amazement to
see a vision of unearthly beauty standing before him. The moon’s rays
lighted her white robe with a shimmer of silk. She came close and her
dark eyes glowed with flaming tenderness.
She stretched toward him her bare arms. He stood, rooted and
fascinated. The lithe arms encircled him and drew him to her, against
firm breasts. His senses swam. For one red instant he crushed her to
him. Teresa--! He broke away, his brow cold with starting sweat. Then
he led her to her room and closed the door.
But she returned with the interpreter, her face flushed, her eyes dim
with tears.
“Surely my Lord understands that I am his wife by command of the Inca,
whose word is the law of God?”
“I--I can’t quite understand. I--”
“But I adore you, my god-man. I am all yours, soul and body--”
Molina turned away, avoiding her gaze. He was silent. Yma spoke again.
“Am I ugly?”
“You are very beautiful, dear Virgin of the Sun.”
“But you dislike me?”
“No.” The cavalier turned, faced her and said slowly, “I love another
in Panama.”
Yma stared a moment in surprise and laughed happily.
“Then I can be second. You will love us both!”
The Spaniard shook his head.
“But the Inca has many wives,” the soft voice pleaded. “The three
thousand Virgins of the Sun are called his brides. You are surely a
god-man--even greater than our Lord--you are fairer than the sky at
dawn. Surely you may have as many brides as you like?”
Again, her nearness set him trembling. But he set his jaw.
“It is not permitted to a Christian, dear Yma.”
She looked at him in hurt amazement, turned slowly and left him, her
shoulders drooping.
For an hour the cavalier stood before his open window and watched the
moonlit valley shimmering below. He had spoken his vows and he loved
the girl he left behind in Panama, and yet the beauty he had just
denied himself half maddened him. He turned and started for the door
Yma had closed behind her. And then he thought again of the high-strung
Spanish girl to whom he had given his word. He had spoken his vows. He
was yet a Cavalier of Spain.
He walked back to the window and stood, his head bowed in the moonlight.