On the second day of his imprisonment Molina stood on the ramparts
looking down on the beautiful valley of Caxamalca through which a river
wound its way, a silver thread in a carpet of rich green.
He had just seen a division of the Inca’s army cross the valley and
march up the trail leading across the _cordillera_. Beyond doubt
the movement was the result of Pizarro’s advance.
He wondered where his gallant countrymen had pitched their tents. If
reports of their number were true they were marching into a death trap
unless they came as peaceful colonists. Spain was not sending peaceful
colonists to the New World or any other world in this, the age of her
wide dominions. After seven hundred years of struggle she had thrown
off the yoke of the Moor, and her soldiers, trained in the wars of
seven centuries, had gone forth to conquer the earth. The audacity of
these men passed belief. Everywhere their dreams were coming true.
Cortez had just added the empire of Mexico to the domain of Charles.
Yet no enterprise in the new world had thus far been directed against
a kingdom so vast, so rich, so densely populated, as the realm of the
Incas. Under the leadership of Atahualpa, they had just fought bloody
battles and won great victories. Ill-equipped as they were, their
hosts, armed with stones and clubs, could crush a handful of Spaniards
in the end.
Molina would find a way to reach Pizarro and tell him the truth. That
the commander was advancing into the heart of these all but impassable
mountains with but two hundred men was, of course, incredible. The two
hundred men were of the advance guard; the real army was slowly moving
somewhere in the rear.
His jaw closed in decision. He descended to his room and found the
razor which he had kept against such an emergency, tested its edge and
placed it where he could find it in the dark.
When Yma served his dinner at sunset she found him unusually gay and
friendly. Her heart leaped. She had not possessed him, and yet....
“My Lord will have music to-night?” she gayly asked him when he had
completed his meal.
The cavalier yawned.
“Thanks, my dear Yma, no. I’m tired.”
The moment he found himself alone he hurried to remove his beard. He
took his place inside the door, waited the approach of the guard,
sprang on him with the quick leap of a tiger, bore him into his room,
bound and gagged the astonished soldier and then, piece by piece,
exchanged clothes with him. He assured the terrified fellow that he
meant no harm, his only purpose being to escape as quickly as possible.
The girl had warned him solemnly that the Inca had given orders to
kill him on sight if found outside the fortress. He would take his
chances. He would reach Pizarro in time to warn him of his danger. He
felt pain when he thought of Yma, and he wondered at his emotion. But
the pain passed when he thought of the men of his own race marching
steadily to empire, and his heart leaped at the thought that they would
bring word of Teresa.
Once clothed in the complete outfit of the guard, he tied the man
securely and made his way out without difficulty. The loss of beard and
a brown stain on his face had completely transformed his appearance.
Carrying the bronze spear of the Inca’s army he hurried down the steep
steps of the cliff, crossed the river and followed the narrow road up
the sides of the _cordillera_ which he had seen the army take.
The trail was clearly marked by lines of stragglers still bringing up
the rear of the advancing division which had just begun to pitch their
tents for the night.
He mingled with the men and had no trouble in passing as one of
them. His mastering of their language stood him in good stead in the
adventure.
It was past sunrise before Yma received word of his escape. The guard
on duty was not relieved till dawn.
Her face blanched with terror at the news. She arrayed herself
in the guise of one of her maids, flew down the mountainside and
followed with unerring instinct. He had seen the army move. He
guessed their destination was to meet the advance of the Spaniards.
He had followed, hoping to find a way to slip through the lines and
reach his countrymen. There was no fear of her own punishment in her
pursuit--only the anguish of losing the god-man she worshiped.
She passed Molina, loitering with the soldiers as they slowly began the
advance, all unconscious of his presence. It had never occurred to the
girl that he could have dispensed with his beard. That he should pluck
it out hair by hair was unthinkable. That he should possess a piece of
steel so hard and fine of edge that he could remove it clear to the
skin was equally incredible.
Yma marveled at his escape. Yet she knew instinctively that by some
miracle he had made his beard invisible and had mingled with the
soldiers. There was no other way out. She knew that his life would be
lost if he attempted to leave the trail and cross the snow-clad cliffs
alone without a guide. She also knew that he would not be so foolhardy
as to try it. His one chance of escape was to conceal himself among
the troops and wait the meeting with the Spaniards. Then a single leap
across the lines and he might reach his people.
Her heart jumped at the thought. She began a patient search among the
men. The front line of marchers she would first inspect. At the end
of the first hour’s keen search she saw a soldier climbing the stone
stairs with an awkward movement which she had seen Molina use on the
first trip up the long stone stairway to the fortress. She could not be
mistaken. She slipped close to his side, looked into his brown eyes
and whispered:
“Dear god-man, I have come to rescue you from certain death. The men
from the fortress are on the way. They will be here any moment. They
will find and kill you.”
He started at sight of her. For a moment he could only stare. His eyes
filled with apprehension and tenderness. Finally he spoke, but his
purpose was unswayed.
“I’ll take my chances,” he said in low tones. “Go--” and again he felt
an odd pain--“I’ll find you when my people come.”
“It will be too late then.” She wept. “They will kill me unless you
return.”
Molina caught his breath. He had an almost overwhelming desire to take
her in his arms and shelter her.
He stared at her, bewildered. The rumor had swept the men that they
would not meet the Spaniards. They were the reserves. Two other
divisions were ahead. His hopes had been sinking. And Yma would be
executed for his vain act! He shuddered.... Once more she spoke.
“Unless you return with me, beloved, I will not live the day. If my
dying would serve you I would gladly offer myself. But you will be
taken surely and die also. You will not go, beloved?”
He stopped and held her gaze a moment. And she returned his look with
brimming eyes. His own eyes filled as he stood, and impulsively he drew
her to him. He kissed her and she clung to him, sobbing. And it struck
him that he would never be able to fathom the profound depths of her
beautiful emotions. Then, abruptly, he released her.
“Quick!” he ordered tersely. “I’ll go down the mountain as a courier
with a message for the rear guard. They are going down every hour. I’ve
heard their password to-day. Follow me.”
At a sharp bend in the trail Molina found his chance to turn and
retrace his steps, repeating the courier’s password when challenged.
He did not look back to see if he were followed. The girl was close on
his heels. He heard her quick joyous play of wit with the soldiers.
Passing the rear guard at last he dropped to a bowlder by the roadway
and waited.
She looked at him with a puzzled expression as she approached him and
studied his cleanly shaven face.
“How did you do it?” she whispered in awe.
He showed her his razor.
“I have wondered how you would look as one of our men, without the
beard. I had never dreamed that you could be so fair and beautiful. And
now we shall hurry or I shall surely be killed.”
Within half an hour they met the squad of armed men from the fortress
sent to secure his arrest. Yma refused to allow it.
“I am responsible,” she protested. “My life will pay for his escape. He
returns because I have asked him.”
The guard fell in respectfully behind them and the cavalier marched to
the fortress, and calmly surrendered. The _curaca_ of Caxamalca
ordered him in chains and saw that he was securely manacled in spite of
Yma’s furious protests.
Molina soothed her anger.
“It’s all in the fortunes of war, dear Yma. The _curaca_ is right
to take precautions. It’s my fault. We’ll make the best of it.”
To Congo’s terror they brought a set of chains for him. His eyes fairly
popped from their sockets. In spite of his pleading he was securely
manacled, and fastened to the wall.
Yma found the Dowager and pleaded desperately that the chains be
removed from Molina.
The Mother Queen slowly shook her head:
“I cannot interfere in such a dangerous issue,” was her firm reply.
“The Inca gave orders for his death if he should attempt escape.”
“But, dear gracious Mother,” the girl pleaded, “he returned at my
request. I am responsible. My life will pay the forfeit if he goes.”
“Your life may even now be forfeited. See that you hold him.”
The girl returned to Molina with faltering steps, her heart slowly
hardening into a grim resolution. She would use these chains now for
her own purposes.