I
As the liner steamed into Callao Roads, and long before it had
anchored, it was surrounded by a flotilla of small boats. A moment
later, deck, saloons and cabins were invaded by a host of gesticulating
and strong-minded boatmen, whose badges attested that they were duly
licensed to carry off what passengers and luggage they could. They raged
impotently, however, round Francis Montgomery, F.R.S., who sat enthroned
on a pile of securely locked boxes in which were stored his cherished
manuscripts and books.
It was in vain that they told him it would be two full hours before the
ship came alongside the Darsena dock. Nothing would part him from his
treasures, nothing induce him to allow these half-crazed foreigners to
hurl his precious luggage overside into those frail-looking skiffs.
When this was suggested to him by a tall young man who called him uncle,
the irascible scientist explained with fluency and point that the idea
was an utterly ridiculous one. So Dick Montgomery shrugged his broad
shoulders, and with a “See you presently,” that hardly interrupted his
uncle’s flow of words, beckoned to a boatman.
A moment later he had left the ship’s side and was nearing the
shore--the Eldorado of his young ambition, the land of gold and legends,
the Peru of Pizarro and the Incas. Then the thought of a young girl’s
face blotted out those dreams to make way for new ones.
The monotonous outline of the waterfront brought no disappointment.
Little did he care that the city stretched out there before his eyes was
little more than a narrow, unbeautiful blur along the sea coast, that
there were none of those towers, steeples or minarets with which our
ancient ports beckon out to sea that the traveler is welcome. Even when
his boat had passed the Mole, and they drew level with the modern works
of the Muelle Darsena, well calculated to excite the interest of a
younger engineer, he remained indifferent.
He had asked the boatman where the Calle de Lima lay, and his eyes
hardly left the part of the city which had been pointed out to him in
reply. At the landing stage he threw a hand-full of centavos to his man,
and shouldered his way through the press of guides, interpreters, hotel
touts and other waterside parasites.
Soon he was before the Calle de Lima, a thoroughfare which seemed to be
the boundary line between the old city and the new. Above, to the east,
was the business section--streets broad or narrow fronted with big,
modern buildings that were the homes of English, French, German, Italian
and Spanish firms without number. Below, to the west, a network of
tortuous rows and alleys, full of color, with colonnades and verandahs
encroaching on every available space.
Dick plunged into this labyrinth, shouldered by muscular Chinamen
carrying huge loads, and by lazy Indians. Here and there was to be seen
a sailor leaving or entering one of the many cafés which opened their
doors into the cool bustle of the narrow streets. Though it was his
first visit to Callao, the young man hardly hesitated in his way. Then
he stopped short against a decrepit old wall close to a verandah from
which came the sound of a fresh young voice, young but very assured.
“Just as you like, señor,” it said in Spanish. “But at that price your
fertilizer can only be of an inferior quality.”
For a few minutes the argument went on within. Then there was an
exchange of courteous farewells and a door was closed. Dick approached
the balcony and looked into the room. Seated before an enormous ledger
was a young girl, busily engaged in transcribing figures into a little
note-book attached by a gold chain to the daintiest of waists. Her
face, a strikingly beautiful one, was a little set under its crown of
coal-black hair as she bent over her task. It was not the head of
a languorous Southern belle--rather the curls of Carmen helmeting a
blue-eyed Minerva, a little goddess of reason of today and a thorough
business-woman. At last she lifted her head.
“Maria-Teresa?...”
“Dick!”
The heavy green ledger slipped and crashed to the floor, as she ran
toward him both hands outstretched.
“Well, and how is business?”
“So, so.... And how are you?... But we did not expect you till
to-morrow.”
“We made rather a good passage.”
“And how is May?”
“She’s a very grown-up person now. I suppose you’ve heard? Her second
baby was born just before we left.”
“And dear smoky old London?”
“It was raining hard when last I saw it.”
“But where is your uncle?”
“Still on board. He won’t leave his collection.... Does nothing all
day but take notes for his next book.... Wait a minute, I’ll come in.
Where’s the door? I suppose it would be bad form to climb in through the
window? Won’t I be in the way, though? You seem awfully busy.”
“I am, but you may come in. Round the corner there, and the first door
on your right.”
He followed her indications and found an archway leading into a huge
courtyard crowded with Chinese coolies and Quichua Indians. A huge dray,
coming from the direction of the harbor, rumbled under the archway, and
wheeled in the court to let an empty one pass out. People and things
seemed to unite in making as much dust and noise as possible.
“So she manages all this,” he reflected as he made his way toward a door
at which she had appeared.
“You may kiss me,” she said as she closed the door behind them.
He took her in his arms and held her to him, by far the more troubled of
the two. Again it was she who spoke first.
“So you really have not forgotten?”
“Could you believe it, dear?”
“Well, you were so long in coming.”
“But I wrote, and...”
“Well, never mind now. It is not too late. I have just refused my fourth
suitor, Don Alonso de Cuelar. And father, I think, is furious with me
for refusing the most eligible young man in Lima.... Well, why don’t you
say something?”
“Forgive me, dear.... How is your father? and the kiddies?... I hardly
know what I am saying, I am so glad.”
“Father is very well, and very glad to hear that you were coming. To
tell the truth though, he is far more interested in your uncle’s visit.
He has arranged a meeting at the Geographical Society for him. And
for the past month he has been thinking and talking of nothing but
archaeology. They have been digging up all sorts of things.”
“And so he has been angry with you?”
“He seems to think he has every reason to be. I am twenty-three and he
already sees me an old maid.... It’s awfully funny! Do you know what
they call me in Lima now? The Virgin of the Sun!”
“What does that mean?”
“Aunt Agnes and Aunt Irene will explain better than I can. It’s
something like one of the Vestals--an old Inca legend.”
“H’m, some superstitious rot.... But look here, Maria-Teresa, I’m an
awful coward. Do you think your father...”
“Of course! He’ll do anything I like if he is asked at the right moment
We’ll be married in three months’ time from San Domingo. Truly we will!”
“You dear!... But I’m only a poor devil of an engineer, and he may not
think me much of a son-in-law for the Marquis de la Torre.”
“Nonsense, you’re clever, and I make you a gift of the whole of Peru.
There’s plenty to do there for an engineer.”
“I can hardly believe my luck, Maria-Teresa! That I--I.... But, tell me,
how did it all happen?”
“The old, old way. First you are neighbors, or meet by accident. Then
you are friends... just friends, nothing else.... And then...?”
Their hands joined, and they remained thus for a moment, in silence.
Suddenly, a burst of noise came from the courtyard, and a moment later
a hurried knock announced the entrance of an excited employee. At the
sight of the stranger, he stopped short, but Maria-Teresa told him to
speak. Dick, who both understood and spoke Spanish well, listened.
“The Indians are back from the Islands, señorita. There has been trouble
between them and the Chinamen. One coolie was killed and three were
badly wounded.”
Maria-Teresa showed no outward sign of emotion. Her voice hardened as
she asked:--
“Where did it happen... in the Northern Islands?”
“No, at Chincha.”
“Then Huascar was there?”
“Yes, señorita. He came back with them, and is outside.”
“Send him in to me.”
II
The man went out, signing as he went to a stalwart Indian who walked
quietly into the office. Maria-Teresa, back at her desk, hardly raised
her eyes. The newcomer, who took off his straw sombrero with a sweep
worthy of a hidalgo of Castille, was a Trigullo Indian. These
are perhaps the finest tribe of their race and claim descent from
Manco-Capac, first king of the Incas. A mass of black hair, falling
nearly to his shoulders, framed a profile which might have been copied
from a bronze medallion. His eyes, strangely soft as he looked at the
young girl before him, provoked immediate antagonism from Dick. He was
wrapped in a bright-colored poncho, and a heavy sheath-knife hung from
his belt.
“Tell me how it happened,” ordered Maria-Teresa without returning the
Indian’s salute.
Under his rigid demeanor, it was evident that he resented this tone
before a stranger. Then he began to speak in Quichua, only to be
interrupted and told to use Spanish. The Indian frowned and glanced
haughtily at the listening engineer.
“I am waiting,” said Maria-Teresa. “So your Indians have killed one of
my coolies?”
“The shameless ones laughed because our Indians fired cohetes in honor
of the first quarter of the moon.”
“I do not pay your Indians to pass their time in setting off fireworks.”
“It was the occasion of the Noble Feast of the Moon.”
“Yes, I know! The moon, and the stars, and the sun, and every Catholic
festival as well! Your Indians do nothing but celebrate. They are lazy,
and drunkards. I have stood them, so far because they were your friends,
and you have always been a good servant, but this is too much.”
“The shameless sons of the West are not your servants. They do not love
you....”
“No, but they work.”
“For nothing... They have no pride.
“They are the sons of dogs.”
“They earn their wages.... Your men, I keep out of charity!”
“Charity!” The Indian stepped back as if struck, and his hand, swung
clear of the poncho, was lifted over his head as if in menace. Then it
dropped and he strode to the door. But before opening it, he turned and
spoke rapidly in Quichua, his eyes flaming. Then, throwing his poncho
oyer his shoulder, he went out.
Maria-Teresa sat silent for a while, toying with her pencil.
“What did he say?” asked Dick.
“That he was going, and that I should never see him again.”
“He looked furious.”
“Oh, he is not dangerous. It is a way they have. He says he did
everything he could to prevent the trouble.... He is a good man himself,
but his gang are hopeless. You have no idea what a nuisance these
Indians are. Proud as Lucifer, and as lazy as drones.... I shall never
employ another one.”
“Wouldn’t that make trouble?”
“It might! But what else can I do? I can’t have all my coolies killed
off like that.”
“And what of Huascar?”
“He will do as he pleases.... He was brought up in the place, and was
devoted to my mother.”
“It must be hard for him to leave.”
“I suppose so.”
“And you wouldn’t do anything to keep him?”
“No.... Goodness, we are forgetting all about your uncle!” She rang,
and a man came in. “Order the motor.... By the way, what are the Indians
doing?”
“They’ve left with Huascar.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, señorita.”
“Without saying a word?”
“Not a word, señorita.”
“Who paid them off?”
“They refused to take any money. Huascar ordered them to.”
“And what of the Island coolies?”
“They have not been near the place.”
“But the dead man... and the wounded?”
“The Chinamen take them back to their own quarters.”
“Funny people.... Tell them to bring the motor round.”
While speaking she had put on a bonnet, and now drew on her gloves.
“I shall drive,” she said to the liveried negro boy who brought round
the car.
As they shot toward the Muelle Darsena, Dick admired the coolness
with which she took the machine through the twisting streets. The boy,
crouching at their feet, was evidently used to the speed, and showed no
terror as they grazed walls and corners.
“Do you do a great deal of motoring out here?”
“No, not very much. The roads are too bad. I always use this to get from
Callao to Lima, and there are one or two runs to the seaside, to places
like Ancon or Carillos--just a minute, Dick.”
She stopped the car, and waved her hand to a curly gray head which had
appeared at a window, between two flower pots. This head reappeared at
a low door, on the shoulders of a gallant old gentleman in sumptuous
uniform. Maria-Teresa jumped out of the motor, exchanged a few sentences
with him, and then rejoined Dick again.
“That was the Chief of Police,” she explained. “I told him about
that affair. There will be no trouble unless the Chinamen take legal
proceedings, which is not likely.”
They reached the steamers’ landing stage in time. The tugs had only just
brought alongside the Pacific Steam Navigation Company’s liner, on board
which Uncle Francis was still taking notes:--“On entering the port of
Callao, one is struck, etc., etc.” He lost precious material by not
being with Maria-Teresa as she enthusiastically described “her harbor”
to Dick.... Sixty millions spent in improvements... 50,000 square
meters of docks.... How she loved it all for its commercial bustle, for
its constant coming and going of ships, for its intense life, and all
it meant--the riches that would flow through it after the opening of the
Panama Canal... the renascence of Peru.... Chili conquered and Santiago
crushed... the defeat of 1878 avenged... and San Francisco yonder had
best look to itself!
Dick, listening to the girl at his side, was amazed to hear her give
figures with as much authority as an engineer, estimate profits as
surely as, a shipowner. What a splendid little brain it was, and how
much better than that imaginative, dreaming type which he deplored both
in men and women, a type exemplified by his uncle with all his chimeric
hypotheses.
“It would all be so splendid,” she added, frowning, “if we only stopped
making fools of ourselves. But we are always doing it.”
“In what way?”
“With our revolutions!”
They were now standing on the quay, while the liner gradually swung in.
“Oh, are they at it here as well? We found one on in Venezuela, and then
another at Guayaquil. The city was under martial law, and some general
or other who had been in power for about forty-eight hours was preparing
to march on Quito and wipe out the government.”
“Yes, it is like an epidemic,” went on the young girl, “an epidemic
which is sweeping the Andes just now. The news from Boloisa is worrying
me, too. Things are bad round Lake Titicaca.”
“Not really! That’s a nuisance... not a cheerful outlook for my business
in the Cuzco.” Dick was evidently put out by the news.
“I had not intended telling you about it until to-morrow. You must not
think of unpleasant things to-day... all that district is in the hands
of Garcia’s men now.”
“Who is Garcia?”
“Oh, one of my old suitors.”
“Has everybody in the country been in love with you, Maria-Teresa?”
“Well, I had the attraction of having been brought up abroad... at the
first presidential ball I went to after mother’s death there was no
getting rid of them.... Garcia was there. And now he has raised the
revolt among the Arequipa and Cuzco Indians.... He wants Vointemilla’s
place as president.”
“I suppose they have sent troops against them?”
“Oh, yes, the two armies are out there... but, of course, they are not
fighting.”
“Why?”
“Because of the festival of the Interaymi.”
“And what on earth is that?”
“The Festival of the Sun.... You see, three quarters, of the troops on
both sides are Indian.... So, of course, they get drunk together during
the fêtes.... In the end, Garcia will be driven over the Boloisan
border, but in the meantime he is playing the very mischief with
fertilizer rates.”
She turned toward the liner again, and, catching sight of Uncle Francis,
raised her hand in reply to the frantic waving of a notebook.
“How are you, Mr. Montgomery?” she cried. “Did you enjoy the crossing?”
The gangways were run out, and they went on board.
Mr. Montgomery’s first question was the same as had been his nephew’s.
“Well, and how is business?”
For all those who knew her in Europe had marveled at the change which
had come over the “little girl” at her mother’s death, and her sudden
determination to return to Peru and herself take charge of the family’s
fertilizer business and concessions. She had also been influenced in
this decision by the fact that there were her little brother and sister,
Isabella and Christobal, who needed her care. And finally there was her
father, perhaps the greatest child of the three, who had always royally
spent the money which his wife’s business brought in.
Maria-Teresa’s mother, the daughter of a big Liverpool shipowner, met
the handsome Marquis de la Torre one summer when he was an attaché at
the Peruvian legation in London. The following winter she went back to
Peru with him. Inheriting a great deal of her father’s business acumen,
she made a great success of a guano concession which her husband had
hitherto left unexploited.
At first the marquis protested vigorously that the wife of Christobal de
la Torre should not work, but when he found that he could draw almost to
any extent on an ever-replenishing exchequer, he forgave her for making
him so wealthy. Yet on his wife’s death did he find it surprising
that Maria-Teresa should have inherited her abilities, and allowed the
daughter to take over all the duties which had been the mother’s.
“And where is your father, my dear?” asked Uncle Francis, still with a
wary eye on his luggage.
“He did not expect to see you until to-morrow. They are going to give
you such a reception! The whole Geographical Society is turning out in
your honor.”
When his luggage had been taken to the station, and he had personally
supervised its registration for Lima, Uncle Francis at last consented
to take a seat in the motor, and Maria-Teresa put on full speed, for she
wished to reach home before the early tropical nightfall.
After passing a line of adobe houses and a few comfortable villas,
they came to a long stretch of marshy ground, overgrown with reeds and
willows, and spotted with clumps of banana trees and tamarisks,
with here and there an eucalyptus or an araucaria pine. The whole
countryside was burnt yellow by the sun, by a drought hardly ever
relieved by a drop of rain, and which makes the campo round Lima and
Callao anything but enchanting. A little further along they passed some
scattered bamboo and adobe huts.
This parched landscape would have been infinitely desolate had it not
been relieved at intervals by the luxuriant growth surrounding some
hacienda--sugar-cane, maize and rice plantations, making a brilliant
green oasis round the white farm buildings. The badly-built clay roads
which crossed the highway were peopled by droves of cattle, heavy carts,
and flocks of sheep which mounted shepherds were bringing back to the
farms. And all this animation formed a strange contrast to the arid
aspect of the surrounding country. In spite of the jolting shaking of
the car over a poorly kept road, Uncle Francis kept taking notes, and
even more notes. Soon, with the lower spurs of the Cordilleras, they saw
on the horizon the spires and domes which make Lima look almost like a
Mussulman city.
They were now running alongside the Rimac, a stream infested by
crayfish. Negro fishermen were to be seen every few yards dragging
behind them in the water sacks attached to their belts, and in which
they threw their catch to keep it alive. Turning to comment on them,
Dick noticed Maria-Teresa’s preoccupied air, and asked her the cause.
“It is very strange,” she said, “we have not met a single Indian.”
The motor was almost in Lima now, having reached the famous Ciudad de
los Reyes, the City of Kings founded by the Conquistador. Maria-Teresa,
who loved her Lima, and wished to show it off, made a detour, swerving
from the road and running a short distance along the stony bed of
dried-up Rimac, careless of the risk to her tires.
Certainly the picturesque corner to which she brought them was worth the
detour. The walls of the houses could hardly be seen, overgrown, as it
were, with wooden galleries and balconies. Some of them were for all
the world like finely carved boxes, adorned with a hundred
arabesques--little rooms suspended in mid-air, with mysterious bars and
trellised shutters, and strongly reminiscent of Peru or Bagdad. Only
here it was not rare to see women’s faces half hidden in the shadows,
though in no way hiding. For the ladies of Lima are famed for their
beauty and coquetry. They were to be seen here in the streets, wearing
the manta, that fine black shawl which is wrapped round the head and
shoulders and which no woman in South America uses with so much grace as
the girl of Lima. Like the haik of the Mor, the manta hides all but two
great dark eyes, but its wearer can, when she wishes, throw it aside
just enough to give a sweet glimpse of harmonious features and a
complexion made even more white by the provoking shadow of the veil.
Dick had this amply proved to him, and seemed so interested that
Maria-Teresa began to scold.
“They are far too attractive in those mantas,” she said. “I shall show
you some Europeans now.”
She turned the car up an adjoining street, which brought them to the
new city, to broad roads and avenues opening up splendid vistas of the
distant Andes. They crossed the Paseo Amancaes, which is the heart of
the Mayfair of Lima, and Maria-Teresa several times exchanged bows with
friends and acquaintances. Here the black manta was replaced by Paris
hats overdressed from the rue de la Paix, for its discreet shadow is
too discreet to be correct at nightfall. It was the hour at which all
fashionable Lima was driving or walking, or gossiping in the tearooms,
where one loiters happily over helados in an atmosphere of chiffons,
flirting and politics. When they reached the Plaza Mayor, the first
stars had risen on the horizon. The crowd was dense, and carriages
advanced only at a walking pace. Women dressed as for the ball, with
flowers in their dark curls, passed in open carriages. Young men grouped
round a fountain in the center of the square, raised their hats and
smiled into passing victorias.
“It really is strange,” murmured Maria-Teresa, “not an Indian in sight!”
“Do they generally come to this part of the city, then?”
“Yes, there are always some who come to watch the people come past....”
Standing in front of a café was a group of half-breeds, talking
politics. One could distinctly hear the names of Garcia and Vointemilla,
the president, neither of them treated over gently. One of the group,
evidently a shopkeeper, was moaning his fears of a return to the era of
pronunciamentos.
The car turned at the corner of the cathedral, and entered a rather
narrow street. Seeing the way clear, Maria-Teresa put on speed only to
pull up sharply a second later, just in time to avoid running down a man
wrapped in a poncho, who stood motionless in the middle of the street.
Both young people recognized him.
“Huascar!” exclaimed Maria-Teresa.
“Huascar, señorita, who begs you to take another road.”
“The road is free to all, Huascar. Stand aside.”
“Huascar has nothing more to say to the señorita. To pass, she must pass
over Huascar.”
Dick half rose in his seat, as if to intervene, but Maria-Teresa put a
hand on his sleeve.
“You behave very strangely, Huascar,” she said. “Why are there no
Indians in the town to-day?”
“Huascar’s brethren do as they please, they are free men.”
She shrugged her shoulders, thought a moment, and began to turn the car
round.
Before starting again, however, she spoke to the Indian, who had not
moved.
“Are you always my friend, Huascar?”
For an answer, the Indian slowly raised his sombrero, and looked up to
the early stars, as if calling them to witness. With a brief “Adios!”
Maria-Teresa drove on.
When the motor stopped again, it was before a big house, the door-keeper
of which rushed out to help his young mistress to alight. He was
forestalled, however, by the Marquis de la Torre himself, who had just
driven up, and who greeted the two Montgomerys with delight. “Enter,
señor. This house is yours,” he said grandly to Uncle Francis.
The Marquis was a slim little gentleman of excessive smartness, dressed
almost like a young man. When he moved and he was hardly ever still, he
seemed to radiate brilliancy: from his eyes, his clothes, his jewels.
But for all that, he was never undignified, and kept his grand manner
without losing his vivacity in circumstances when others would have
had to arm themselves with severity. Outside his club and the study of
geographical questions he cared for nothing so much as romping with his
son Christobal, a sturdy youngster of seven. At times one might have
taken them for playmates on a holiday from the same school, filling the
house with their noise, while little Isabella, who was nearly six, and
loved ceremony, scolded them pompously, after the manner of an Infanta.
III
The Marquis de la Torre’s residence was half modern, half historical,
with here and there quaint old-fashioned rooms and corners. Don
Christobal was something of a collector, and had adorned his home with
ancient paneling, carved galleries several centuries old, rude furniture
dating back to before the conquest, faded tapestry--all so many relics
of the various towns of old Peru which his ancestors had first sacked
and then peopled. And each object recalled some anecdote or Story which
the host detailed at length to all willing listeners.
It was in one of these historical corners that Mr. Montgomery and his
nephew were presented to two old ladies--two Velasquez canvases brought
to life, yet striving to retain all their pictorial dignity. Attired
after a fashion long since forgotten, Aunt Agnes and her duenna might
almost have been taken for antiques of Don Christobal’s collection: they
lived altogether in another age, and their happiest moments were those
passed in telling fear-inspiring legends. All the tales of old Peru
had a home in this ancient room of theirs, and many an evening had been
whiled away there by these narratives--the two Christobals, father
and son, and little Infanta Isabella listening in one corner, while
Maria-Teresa, at the other end of the room, went over her accounts and
wrote her letters in a great splash of yellow lamplight.
Uncle Francis was delighted to meet in real life two such perfect types
of the New Spain of yore, set in the very frame they needed. They were
great friends at once, and the savant, taken to his own room, changed
his clothes hurriedly to be able to rejoin them. At dinner, installed
between the two, he begged for more legends, more stories. Maria-Teresa,
thinking it time to talk of more serious matters, interrupted by telling
her father of the trouble between the Indians and coolies.
When they heard that Maria-Teresa had discharged the Indians, Aunt Agnes
shook her head doubtfully, and Irene openly expressed her disapproval.
Both agreed that the young girl had acted imprudently, and particularly
so on the eve of the Interaymi festival. This view was also taken by
the Marquis, whose protest took an even more active form when he learned
that Huascar had also left. Huascar had always been a very faithful
servant, he argued, and his brusk departure was strange. Maria-Teresa
explained shortly that for some time past Huascar’s manner had
displeased her, and that she had let him know it.
“That is another matter,” said the Marquis.
“But I am no more comfortable about it... there is something in the
air... the Indians are not behaving normally.... The other day, in
the Plaza Mayor, I heard extraordinary remarks being made by some
half-breeds to a couple of Quichua chiefs.”
“Yes, we did not meet a single Indian on the way from Callao, and I have
not seen one in the city,” said Dick. “Why is that, I wonder?”
“Because of the festival,” interjected Aunt Agnes. “They have their
secret meetings. They disappear into the mountains, or some warren of
theirs--catacombs like the Early Christians. One day, the order comes
from some corner of the Andes, and they vanish like shadows, to reappear
a few days later like a swarm of locusts.”
“My sister exaggerates a little,” said the Marquis, smiling. “They are
not so very dangerous, after all.”
“But you yourself are worried, Christobal. You have just said so.”
“Only because there might be some rioting....”
“Have they got it in them?” asked Mr. Montgomery. “They seem so
nerveless....”
“They are not all like that.... Yes, we have had one or two native
rebellions, but it was never anything very serious.”
“How many of them are there in the country?” put in Dick.
“About two-thirds of the population,” answered Maria-Teresa. “But
they are no more capable of really rebelling than they are of working
properly. It is the Garcia business that has unsettled them, coming
after a long period of quiet.” She turned to her father. “What does the
President think of it all?”
“He does not seem to worry a great deal. This Indian unrest recurs every
ten years.”
“Why every ten years?” demanded Uncle Francis.
“Because of the Sun Festival,” said old Irene. “The Quichuas hold it
every ten years.”
“Where?” Dick took a sudden interest. “Nobody knows,” replied Aunt
Agnes, in a nervously strangled voice. “There are sacrifices... and the
ashes of the victims are thrown into rivers and streams... to carry away
the sins of the nation, the Indians believe.”
“That is really very interesting!” exclaimed Uncle Francis.
“Some of the sacrifices are human,” half groaned the old lady, dropping
her head to her plate.
“Human sacrifices!”
“Oh, Auntie!” laughed Maria-Teresa.
“Curious,” remarked the savant. “And there may be some truth in it.
I know that they were customary at the Festival of the Sun among the
Incas. And Prescott makes it clear that the Quichuas have kept not only
the language of their ancestors, but also many of the ancient customs.”
“Yes, but they became Christians when the Spaniards conquered their
country,” suggested Dick.
“Not that that affects them much,” commented the Marquis. “It gives
them two religions instead of one, and they have mixed up the rites and
beliefs of the two in a most amazing fashion.”
“What do they want to do, then? Re-build the Empire of the Incas?”
“They don’t know what they want,” replied Maria-Teresa. “In the days of
the Incas every living being in the Empire had to work, were practically
the slaves of the Sons of Sun. When that iron discipline was removed
they gradually learned to do nothing but sleep. Of course, that meant
poverty and misery, which they attribute, not to their laziness, but to
the fact that they are no longer ruled by the descendants of Mono-Capac!
From what Huascar told me, they still hope for a return of the old
kings.”
“And they still go in for human sacrifice?” asked Dick.
“Of course not! What absolute nonsense!” Aunt Agnes and Irene both
turned to Uncle Francis.
“Maria-Teresa was brought up abroad, and does not know.... She cannot
know.... But she is wrong to laugh at what she calls ‘all these old
stories.’... There is plenty of proof, and we are sure of it.... Every
ten years--all great events were decennial among the Incas--every ten
years, the Quichua Indians offer a bride to the Sun.”
“A bride to the Sun?” exclaimed Uncle Francis, half horrified, half
incredulous.
“Yes... they sacrifice a young girl in one of those horrible Inca
temples of theirs, where no stranger has ever gone!... It is terrible,
but it is true.”
“Really... it is so difficult to believe.... Do you mean to say that
they kill her?”
“They do... as a sacrifice to the Sun.”
“But how? By fire?”
“No, it is even more horrible than that. Death by fire is only for far
more unimportant ceremonies. At the Interaymi, they wall up their
victim alive.... And it is always a Spanish girl.... They kidnap one, as
beautiful and of as good family as possible. It is vengeance against the
race that destroyed theirs.”
Maria-Teresa was frankly laughing at her aunt’s intense seriousness,
only equaled by gravity with which Uncle Francis listened. The savant
looked at her smiling face half disapprovingly, and brought his
scientific knowledge to the defense of the old ladies. Everything they
said corresponded perfectly with what well-known writers and explorers
had been able to discover about the Virgins of the Sun. There was no
doubt that human sacrifice had been rife among the Incas, both in honor
of the Sun and for the King himself, many of the victim» going to the
altar of their own free will. This was particularly the case when an
Inca died--it was like Suttee of the East.
“Prescott and Wiener, the greatest authorities on the subject, are
agreed,” said Uncle Francis. “Prescott tells us that at one royal
burial, more than a thousand people, wives, maids and servants of the
Inca, were sacrificed on his tomb.”
Aunt Agnes shuddered, while Irene, bending her head, made the sign of
the Cross.
“All this is very true, my dear sir,” said Don Christobal, carrying on
the conversation, “and I see that our Geographical Society here will be
able to give you very little that is new to you. Would it interest you
to visit our latest excavations at Ancon to-morrow? There is ample proof
there that Suttee was practised among the Incas.”
“What exactly were these Virgins of the Sun?” asked Dick, turning to his
uncle, who, delighted to be able to show his erudition, at once launched
into an explanation.
“The Virgins of the Sun, or the ‘elected ones,’ as they were called,
were young girls, vowed to the service of the divinity. They were taken
from their families as children, and put into convents where they were
placed under the care of women called mammaconas,--girls who had grown
old in these monasteries. Under the guidance of these venerable matrons,
the virgins were taught their religious duties, weaving and embroidery
were their chief occupations, and it was they who made the fine vicuna
wool for the hangings of the temples and the Inca’s home and attire.”
“Yes,” said gray-haired Irene, “but their chief duty was to guard the
sacred fire acquired anew by the temple at each Raymi festival.”
“That is so,” replied the savant. “They lived absolutely alone. From
the moment they entered the home, they were entirely cut off from their
families and friends. The Inca alone, and his queen, the Coya, were
allowed within the sacred precincts. The most rigid discipline and
supervision were exercised over them.”
“And woe to the girl who transgressed,” added Aunt Irene. “By Inca law
she was buried alive, while the town or village from which she came was
razed to the ground and ‘sown with stones,’ so that all memory of it
should be lost.”
“You are perfectly right, madam,” agreed Uncle Francis.
“Sweet country!” Dick exclaimed.
“What an amazing civilization they must have possessed,” continued Uncle
Francis. “The ceremonies of their temples are almost identical with
those of ancient Rome.... Little did Christopher Columbus think, when he
saw a few painted savages, that on the other seaboard, behind this belt
of primitive land and tribes, there was a whole world with its customs,
monuments, laws and conquests. Two empires, sir: that of the Aztecs in
Mexico, that of the Incas in Peru. And with civilizations rivaling
that of the Mediterranean. It is as if an Eastern prince, reaching the
steppes of Scythia, had claimed the discovery of Europe, returning to
his States without knowing that Rome existed, and convinced that the
rest of the world was a howling waste!”
“He must have been a bit of a fool,” hazarded Dick. “A true conqueror
guesses there are new lands to conquer even before he sees them.”
“Like Pizarro and Cortes!” exclaimed the Marquis.
“Who came to destroy everything...” began Uncle Francis. Fortunately,
Don Christobal did not hear him, and he stopped in time. Maria-Teresa,
seated opposite the savant, had trodden on his foot, and he bit his lip,
remembering that de la Torre, the Marquis’ ancestor, had been one of
Pizarro’s “destroyers.”
Both old ladies, however, had heard, and opened their eyes at this
denunciation of a cause which to them was that of the true faith against
the infidel. Maria-Teresa, anxious to smooth matters over, quickly
brought them back to their Inca legends.
“All this is very fine,” she said, “but there is nothing to show that
the Indians still sacrifice human brings.”
“How can you say that!” they exclaimed in chorus.
“Well, has anybody ever had definite proof of it?”
Aunt Agnes was not to be shaken in her convictions.
“When I was a little girl,” she declared, “I had an old nurse who
belonged to one of the Lake Titicaca tribes of Quichuas. She told me
that she herself had seen three Spanish girls walled up alive at three
successive Interaymi fêtes.”
“Where did the girls come from?” asked Dick.
“They were Lima girls.”
“But then, any number of people must have known of it,” he answered,
secretly amused by the grave airs of the two old ladies.
“It was, and is, common property,” retorted Aunt Agnes. “The names of
their last two victims were known to everybody. One vanished ten years
ago, and the other ten years before that.”
“Yes, yes, common property!” laughed Don Christobal.
“There is nothing to laugh about, Christobal,” said Aunt Agnes drily.
And the duenna repeated in a low voice, “No, no, nothing to laugh
about.”
The Marquis was determined to have his laugh.
“Let us mourn the poor children,” he said, groaning. “Cut off from the
affection of their parents at so early an age! How terrible!”
“Christobal, can you tell me what became of Amelia de Vargas and Marie
Cristina de Orellana?”
“Yes, what became of them?” urged Irene.
“There we are!... the old story! I expected it!” exclaimed the Marquis.
“You might speak seriously! You knew Amelia de Vargas....”
“A charming girl... the sweetest smile in the city!... That was twenty
years ago.... How time flies!... Yes, she disappeared... with a poor
cousin.”
“I heard the other day that it was a toreador,” interjected
Maria-Teresa. “They revive that old story every ten years, at the time
of the Interaymi.”
“She disappeared outside the bull-ring,” explained Aunt Agnes. “There
was a fight in the crowd, and she was separated from her parents. Nobody
ever saw her again. Afterwards, some people remembered catching sight of
her surrounded by a group of Indians. She died at their hands, walled up
alive.”
“What a gorgeous imagination crowds have! But the fact remains that that
poor cousin of hers disappeared about the same time.”
“So you are pleased to say, Christobal. But what of Maria Cristina de
Orellana?”
“Oh, that was another matter... a very sad case. She was out for a walk
with her father round the Cuzco, and went into one of the caves, never
to reappear. She lost her way in the old subterranean passages, of
course. The government had all the entrances blocked up after that.”
“And since then,” commented Aunt Agnes, “her poor father has been a
madman. For the past ten years, he has haunted the Cuzco ruins, calling
in vain to his daughter. He, at all events, will not believe that she
was not carried off by the Indians.”
“But you yourself say he is mad.”
“He lost his reason when he acquired the certitude that she had
perished in their temple. A few days before she vanished, Maria-Cristina
mysteriously received a very old and very heavy gold bracelet. That
bracelet had a center plaque representing the sun....”
“My dear Agnes, you know that in this country jewelers stick the sun in
wherever and whenever they can.”
“That bracelet was the real one... the same one that was sent to
Amelia.”
“Are you not exaggerating, Agnes? Really, really!... And with stories
like these running about, they expect poor historians to be accurate!...
I hope you are not taking notes of all this, Mr. Montgomery.”
“I am exaggerating nothing,” retorted Aunt Agnes obstinately. “It was
the real Golden Sun bracelet.... Every ten years since Atahualpa, the
last Inca king, was burned alive by Pizarro, the Inca priests have sent
it to a Spanish girl they had chosen to be the Bride of the Sun. And
every one of them has been walled up alive.... I remember that poor
Orellana girl laughing and joking about the Golden Sun bracelet! The
whole town knew about it.”
“The whole town always does have a pretty lively imagination at the time
of the Interaymi,” insisted the Marquis. He turned to Mr. Montgomery.
“You have no idea, my dear sir, how hard it is for our Society to get
away from all these weird legends.”
“Legends are not things to be despised in research work,” disagreed
Uncle Francis. “For my part, I am delighted to have found a country
where they are still so living.”
At this moment a servant came in with a small parcel on a silver tray.
“A registered package, señorita,” he said. “Will the señorita sign
here?”
Maria-Teresa, having signed, was turning the box over in her fingers.
“It is from Cajamarca,” she remarked. “Who from, I wonder? I know nobody
there. ... Will you excuse me?”
The young girl cut the string, broke the seals and opened the little
wooden box.
“A bracelet!” she exclaimed, and laughed a little nervously. “What an
extraordinary coincidence!... Why, it is the Golden Sun bracelet! It is,
really! The bracelet of the Bride of the Sun!”
Every person in the room had risen, with the exception of the two
old ladies, who sat as if stunned. All eyes were turned on the heavy
bracelet in darkened old gold, with its sun-adorned center plaque on
which the rays seemed blurred out by the dust of centuries.
“Well, that is funny!” laughed Maria-Teresa.
“Of course!” exclaimed the Marquis, whose voice had changed a little.
“Evidently a joke by Alonso de Cuelar. You refused him, my dear, and he
has invented rather a pretty revenge. His little vengeance on the Bride
of the Sun.... All the young men of the town call you that because you
refuse to marry.... Well, what are we looking so blue about over there?
Surely, Agnes, you are not going to make yourself ill over a harmless
joke like this?”
Maria-Teresa was showing the bracelet to Uncle Francis and Dick.
“Father!” she exclaimed. “I think I shall keep it! Tell Don Alonso I
shall wear it as a token of friendship.... It really is a beauty!...
What do you think of it, Mr. Montgomery?”
“It seems to me at least three or four hundred years old.”
“Pieces like that are still occasionally found in excavations round
royal tombs, but they are rare,” said the Marquis. “I am not surprised
Don Alonso had to go to Cajamarca for that one.”
“Where is Cajamarca?” asked Dick.
“Cajamarca,” said the savant, horrified at his nephew’s ignorance, “is
the Caxamarxa of the Incas, their second capital in Pizarro’s day....”
“And the city where their last king was burned at the stake!” groaned
Aunt Agnes.
They rushed to her side, for she was on the point of fainting and had
to be carried to her room. The old duenna followed them, as white as her
lace, and crossing herself tremulously.
IV
On the day after his arrival, Uncle Francis was solemnly and officially
received by the Geographical Society of Lima, the fine archeological,
statistical and hydrographical work of which keenly interested him. With
so much scientific enthusiasm did he express himself, that he conquered
all hearts. By far the proudest and happiest man present, however, was
Don Christobal, basking in the reflected glory of his distinguished
guest. As they were all leaving after the ceremony--Maria-Teresa wearing
her bracelet despite the protests of her aunt and the duenna--the
Marquis met Don Alonso de Cuelar.
“Why, Cuelar,” he exclaimed, “I thought you were at Cajamarca!”
Don Alonso opened his eyes in surprise, evidently not understanding.
“Come, come, Cuelar, you may confess. I shall not be angry. Both
Maria-Teresa and I agree that your little revenge was a very neat one.”
“My revenge?...”
“Of course! The bracelet!”
“What bracelet?”
At this moment Maria-Teresa and Dick joined the group. Maria-Teresa,
seeing her father laughing as he talked, felt quite sure that the
mystery of the bracelet had already been cleared up.
“Thank you ever so much,” she said, holding out the slim hand adorned by
the heavy bracelet “You see, I wear it as a token of friendship.”
“But I should never have permitted myself such a liberty,” protested the
young man, looking in amazement from one to the other.
“Are you serious?... It really was not you?”
“No!... But what does it all mean?... And what a peculiar bracelet.”
“Do you not recognize it?” laughed Maria-Teresa, still unconvinced. “It
is, apparently, the Golden Sun bracelet which the Indian priests
always send to the Bride of the Sun at the Interaymi.... And as you,
I understand, were the originator of my nickname, I naturally supposed
that, in spite of everything you heard, you bore no malice to the Virgin
of the Sun.”
“What a charming idea! I am only sorry,” he added, “that it was not
mine. I shall never forgive myself for not having thought of it. You
must attribute it, señorita, to one of those other unfortunates who,
like myself, have worshiped in vain.... There is Pedro Ribera.... He
looks dark enough to have done it.... Ribera!”
But Ribera knew no more of the bracelet than Don Alonso. He also admired
the strange jewel, and was equally sorry he had not sent it.
Don Christobal was becoming irritated, and was sorry now that he
had mentioned the matter to them. He could not, without appearing
ridiculous, ask them not to speak of it, and he knew very well that
within two hours every tea-table in the Plaza Mayor would be discussing
the new topic. Maria-Teresa guessed his thoughts.
“As our guess was wrong, the whole thing rather loses point So we must
wait until the generous donor comes and confesses. In the meantime, let
it be forgotten.” And, slipping off the bracelet, she put it into her
reticule.
“I wonder if it was Huascar,” suggested Dick, as the two young men left
them.
“Huascar? Why Huascar?” asked the Marquis.
“Well, it’s an old Indian bracelet.... He’s the only Indian I know
of, and I know he is very devoted to the family. Suppose he found the
bracelet in some old ruin and didn’t know what to do with it...
“Oh, let us not talk of it any more,” interrupted Maria-Teresa, slightly
troubled. “What does it matter!... Besides, we are bound to know, sooner
or later.... Some day a friend of father’s, back from the Sierra, will
ask me why I am not wearing his present. That is sure to happen.”
“Of course it is,” affirmed Dick.
The Marquis, far from satisfied, and still seeking a possible
explanation, suddenly turned on Dick.
“You sent it!” he exclaimed, triumphant.
“I? Why, I have only just arrived in the country....”
“But you could very well have bought it when the liner put in at
Guayaquil, and then sent it to some agent or other at Gajamarca to have
it forwarded here.... You must have read the legend of the bracelet in
one of your uncle’s books.”
“Really, Father!” protested Maria-Teresa. “Mr. Montgomery is an
engineer....”
“Yes, yes, I know. Very hard-working.... Come here to try experiments
with some new pump to clear the Cuzco gold-mines of water.... I know all
that.... But that is no reason why he should not send you a bracelet.”
“But why should he, Father?”
“Is there not a reason why he should, my daughter?”
This time, Maria-Teresa blushed deeply and Dick tried to look
unconcerned, while Don Christobal smiled at them quizzically.
“So you thought your old father was blind, eh?... You thought he guessed
nothing... that he did not understand what you had left behind you in
London?... Well, Dick?”
“Really, sir... I... I... hardly dared hope....”
“Didn’t you?... There, there, that’s enough.... You may put the bracelet
on her arm again.... Pair of young fools.” Maria-Teresa slipped her arm
through her father’s, and squeezed it.
“Dear Father!”
Then, turning to Dick and opening her reticule, she whispered rapidly:
“Say you sent it. What can it matter?” Dick, completely taken aback,
clasped the bracelet on Maria-Teresa’s wrist without protest. He
scarcely heard a word said by the Marquis, who was delighted to have
solved the mystery.
“Well, young man, you can flatter yourself that you thoroughly mystified
everybody.” And with that he hurried after Uncle Francis, who had been
carried off to drink champagne by a group of admirers.
Dick and Maria-Teresa, left alone, exchanged looks. A moment later,
they were brought to earth again by the advent of a horde of excited
scientists.
“But what will your father say when he finds out who really sent the
bracelet?”
“He will forgive you. I only made you tell the story to reassure him....
Between you and me, those old tales told by Aunt Agnes and Irene were
worrying him a little.... He is rather a child in some ways.”
Carriages and motors were rapidly filling with people starting for the
excavations outside the town, and then on by rail to Ancon, where Uncle
Francis was to be shown the latest Inca discoveries. The Marquis and
Mr. Montgomery passed them in one motor. Maria-Teresa waved to them, and
walked on towards the town with Dick.
They were all to meet again that evening to dine and pass the night at
the Marquis’ sea-side villa between Lima and Ancon. Uncle Francis would
thus be able to begin his researches the very next morning, for Don
Christobal’s villa, itself a treasure-house of antiques, stood in the
very center of the excavations.
Meanwhile, the young people, less interested in things of death than the
members of the Geographical and Archaeological Society, went to explore
Lima. It was only after a long walk in the Pascos de Amancaes that they
in their turn started by motor over an execrable road.
The approach of night could already be felt, and the great plain over
which they were speeding was made even more desolate by the presence
of the slow-flying gallinazos, or black vultures, overhead. These
scavengers, half-starved in appearance, are the common adjuncts of
scenery in Peru, tolerated and even respected, as they are, by a
grateful municipality.
Here and there were haciendas, each with its group of pastures and
grazing horses, kept from galloping into the surrounding waste by the
four-foot mud walls. Otherwise, it was a sandy desert, at some points
dotted with skeletons of a long-dead race dug up by curious scientists
and then left to bleach in the sun.
“Not exactly cheerful,” commented Dick.
Maria-Teresa, intent on her driving, did not answer, but pointed with
one gauntleted hand at a group of half-breeds playing bowls with human
skulls at the corner of a hacienda.
They were soon in the outskirts of Ancon, and found the Marquis, Uncle
Francis, and their fellow-scientists busily arguing in the center of an
Inca cemetery. On all sides were opened tombs, each containing a mummy
rudely drawn from its thousand-year sleep by the pick of the excavator.
Dick and Maria-Teresa had left their motor, but did not join the others.
Instead, they wandered silently, almost sadly, in another direction, and
the car had started off again in the care of the negro chauffeur, to be
garaged at Ancon.
“It is horrible,” said Maria-Teresa, pressing Dick’s hand. “Why cannot
they leave them in peace?”
Seated on a little mound well out of sight of the others, they forgot
their surroundings. And it was in this horrible burial-ground they
exchanged their first true lovers’ kiss.
The sound of voices brought them back to reality. The president of the
Society, followed by an interested retinue, was explaining the most
interesting tombs.
“Walking through this necropolis,” he said, “it is no effort to evoke
the shades of the Incas, and to feel for a minute as if one were living
among them.... Here, six feet below ground, we first found a dog which
had been sacrificed on its master’s tomb.... The dead man’s wife and
chief servants also followed him to the next world.... We next found the
wife’s body.... Like the dog, she had been strangled, probably because
she had not had the courage to take her own life.... Finally, we heard
the Indian workman cry ont, ‘Aqui esta el muerto.’ (Here is the dead
one)... for to the native mind, the only body worthy of notice is that
of the master.... When we cut the thongs and unrolled the wrappings
about him--the man had evidently been a great chief--we found the
mummy in an extraordinary state of preservation,--the head was almost
intact.... Gentlemen, the ancient Egyptians did no better.”
At this moment, excited ones from another part of the cemetery attracted
their attention, and a workman ran up to tell them that a sensational
discovery had been made--the tomb of three Inca chiefs with
strange-shaped skulls. Dick and Maria-Teresa followed the others to the
spot indicated.
When they reached the newly-discovered tomb, workmen were passing up
to the surface little sacks full of corn, jars which had once
contained chicha--all the things necessary for a long voyage. Then came
golden-vases, silver amphora, goblets, hammered statuettes, jewels:--a
veritable treasure brought to light by one stroke of the pick. Finally,
the three mummies were brought to the surface and unrolled with every
precaution. One of the scientists present bent down to uncover the
faces, and there was a murmur of horror from those present.
To understand what Dick and Maria-Teresa had been among the first to
see, it is necessary for the reader to know that it was customary among
the Incas to shape living skulls to any form they wished. This strange
custom exists even in modern days, though in a far lesser degree, among
the Basque inhabitants of the Pyrenees. The skulls of babies, set in
vices or bound into various molds, were gradually deformed till they
took the shape of a sugar-loaf, of a squarish box, of an enormous lime,
and so forth. Phrenology was evidently a science known to the Incas,
who, precursors of Gall and Spezhurn, thus sought to develop abnormally
the intellectual or warlike qualities of a child by compressing or
enlarging such and such a part of the brain. It has been proved, though,
that this practise was allowed only in the case of children of the Inca
himself, called upon in afterlife to take high position in the State.
The common people kept their normal skulls and normal brains.
Of the three heads just brought to light, one was cuneiform--a monstrous
sugar-loaf. It was horrible to see this nightmare face, like the head
of a beast of the Apocalypse, framed in locks which seemed to be still
living as they gently moved in the sea breeze. The second head was
flattened out, cap-like, with a huge bump at the back.. The third was
almost square, resembling nothing so much as a small valise.
Maria-Teresa shrank before this triple horror and, despite his evident
curiosity, drew her fiancé away from the violated sepulchre. They
strolled down to the beach, where the Pacific murmured gently as it
came to rest on the sands. So peaceful is the sea at Ancon, so free
from currents and gales, that it has become the great resort of the
inhabitants of Lima. At this season, however, it was still deserted, so
that Dick and Maria-Teresa met nobody during their walk to the Marquis’
villa.
It was dusk when they reached it, still under the depressing influence
of the three strange heads, and vainly trying to joke the impression
away. As the sun disappeared on the horizon, the wind rose and conjured
up in the half-light pale sand-whorls which might have been so many
phantoms dancing up from the huacas to reproach them for impiety and
sacrilege. Though they were neither of them over-imaginative, the young
people were glad to see the fat major-domo who came forward to announce
that the Marquis and Uncle Francis had already arrived. He, at all
events, was solid flesh and blood.
As Maria-Teresa entered the house, a little Quichua maid, Concha,
literally threw herself at her mistress’ feet, protesting that she had
been dead in the señorita’s absence, and had been brought to life again
by her return.
“See what devotion we get here for eight soles a month!” she laughed,
completely cured of her fears by the sight of the familiar objects
about her. “Into the bargain, she cooks puchero, our native stew, to
perfection. You must try it some day.”
“Señorita,” interjected the maid, her broad lips parting in an enormous
smile, “I have prepared locro for to-night.”
Dinner was not a very long meal. Everybody was tired, and Uncle Francis
was anxious to be up early in the morning. Dick and Maria-Teresa
prosaically enjoyed their locro--a maize cooked with meat, spiced and
served with the chicha which still further heightens the taste of all
popular dishes in Peru--and, when they parted at the doors of their
rooms on the first floor, were quite ready to laugh over the incidents
of the afternoon. Maria-Teresa’s hand lingered in Dick’s.
“Good night, little Bride of the Sun,” he said, and bending down,
kissed the disk on the bracelet. “But surely you are not going to keep
that thing on?... A bracelet from the Lord knows where and the Lord
knows whom?”
“It is dear to me now, Dick.... Now that you have kissed it, it shall
never leave me.... Good night.”
She disappeared into her room, and the young engineer had turned toward
his when a shriek was heard, and Maria-Teresa rushed to the landing, in
a panic of fear.
“They are in there! They are in there!” she gasped, her teeth
chattering.
“What? What?... what is the matter?”
“The three living skulls!”
“Maria-Teresa!”
“I tell you they are! All three of them, staring in through the
window!... They looked at me with such eyes... horrible, living eyes....
No, no!... Dick!... Don’t go in!”
Taking the light from her trembling hand, Dick went into the room. There
was nothing to be seen. He crossed to the balcony, and threw open the
French windows: on one side was the sea, on the other a panorama over
the flat country and the Inca burial-ground. Everything was perfectly
normal.
“Come, dear.... You must have imagined....”
“Dick, I tell you I saw them!”
“What did you see?”
“There, on the balcony, staring through the panes.... Those three Inca
chiefs with their hideous heads.”
“But, Maria-Teresa, be reasonable. They are dead.... You yourself saw
them dug up.... Surely you cannot believe in ghosts....”
“Those I saw were not ghosts. They were living.”
Thinking to reassure her, he began to laugh heartily.
“Don’t, Dick, don’t!... I did see them... they were exactly like those
in the grave... the sugar-loaf, the cap, and the valise.... Exactly the
same!... But what did they come here for?”
Don Christobal, drawn from the smoking-room by the noise, jeered at his
daughter’s fears. Uncle Francis, too, appeared in a night-cap, which
started everybody laughing except Maria-Teresa. To quieten her, the
major-domo was sent round the house and explored the grounds. He
returned to report that he had found nothing.
“You are worried by what you saw this afternoon, my child,” said the
Marquis.
But Maria-Teresa would not reenter the room, and ordered another on the
opposite side of the villa to be prepared for her. Dick, using every
argument he could think of, finally convinced her that she had been the
victim of a hallucination. Half ashamed of herself, she made him go out
to the first-floor balcony with her, trying, in her turn, to efface any
unfavorable impression she might have made.
The balcony on which they were was almost directly over the sea, for on
this side the beach reached right up to the walls of the villa. After a
time, the immense peace of the night completed Dick’s work, and the girl
was perfectly quiet when she took off her bracelet.
“I think this is what has been worrying me,” she said. “I never before
imagined that I saw a ghost....” And she threw the bracelet into the
sea.
“A very good place for it,” agreed Dick. “A ring will do ever so much
better. You do at all events know where that comes from.”
Before long the whole house was at rest, and the remainder of the night
passed by quietly. But at seven o’clock, when people were beginning
to stir again, an agonized scream from Maria-Teresa’s room sent the
servants rushing to her aid. When they entered the room, they
found their mistress sitting up in bed, staring at her wrist with
horror-stricken eyes. The Golden Sun bracelet had returned during the
night!