I
Dick was nearly as frightened as Maria-Teresa when he found what
had happened. On the previous night he himself had seen her throw the
bracelet into the sea, and yet it was there on her arm again when she
woke up. What could it all mean? He could find nothing to say, and in
spite of himself began to go over the terrible legend told by the two
old ladies. It was preposterous, impossible, but he could not help
believing in it now.
The Marquis and Uncle Francis, brought out by the noise, joined the
others in the young girl’s room. Don Christobal’s sharp voice drove the
servants from the room and brought out the whole story. Dick confessed
his duplicity in the matter of the bracelet, and told how the jewel had
been thrown away.
Maria-Teresa was shaking with fever, and her father took her in his
arms. He was less worried by the strange story told him than by the
state in which his daughter was. He had always seen her so calm, so
sure of herself, that her terror shook all his own matter-of-fact
convictions.
As to Uncle Francis, half-pleased with this striking story for his
next book, he could only repeat:--“But it’s impossible, you know. Quite
impossible.”
And then it was all explained in the most absurdly obvious way. Little
Concha, back from marketing at Ancon, hurried to her mistress’ room
and brought the solution of the mystery with her. Childishly naive, she
explained that, on going out onto the beach in the morning, she had seen
something glitter in the sand. She picked the object up, and found that
it was a bracelet, which she recognized as one worn by her mistress on
the previous day. Thinking that it had been lost from the balcony, and
rushing to give Maria-Teresa a pleasant surprise, she had put it on her
arm again without waking her. A huge burst of laughter from them all
greeted the end of her simple story and Concha, terribly vexed, ran out
of the room.
“It seems to me we are all getting a little mad,” said the Marquis.
“That infernal bracelet is enough to drive one to a lunatic asylum,”
added Dick. “We must get rid of it at all costs.”
“No! If it ever came back a second time, I could not answer for my
reason.” And Maria-Teresa joined nervously in the laughter. “What we all
need,” she added, “is a change of air, of scenery.... We ought to go for
a little trip in the mountains, Father, and show a little of our country
to Mr. Montgomery and Dick.... Suppose we start to-night?... Back to
Lima first, and not a word to Aunt Agnes or Irene, for it would make
them both ill.... I shall go into Callao with Dick to give a few orders,
and in the evening we take the boat.”
“To get to the mountains?”
“Of course, Father... to get to Pacasmayo.”
“Pacasmayo!” groaned the scientist “A horrible place. I know it. Our
liner put in there for four hours. There’s nothing interesting in that
part of the world, is there?”
“Nothing interesting! Why, do you know where one goes to from Pacasmayo?
To Cajamarca, Mr. Montgomery!”
Uncle Francis straightened himself up:--“Cajamarca!... the Caxamarxa of
the Incas!”
“The very place.”
“Cajamarca... the dream of my life, my dear!”
“There is nothing to prevent it becoming a reality.... And at the same
time, Father, we can find out the name of the mysterious sender of this
thing. It was sent from Cajamarca, you remember.”
“An excellent idea,” agreed Don Christobal. “We really must find a
solution to that mystery as well.”
“And whoever the joker is, he will pay for it,” said Maria-Teresa, who
was now toying with the bracelet. “He laughs best who laughs last!”
With which she drove them all out of her room and called for Concha,
who, when she came to dress her mistress, received a masterly box on the
ears to teach her to wake people up next time she brought back a lost
bracelet. Concha, unused to such treatment, burst into tears, and
Maria-Teresa, ashamed of herself, filled the little maid’s hands with
chocolates to make her smile again. Do what she would, Maria-Teresa
could not regain her calm. Every movement she made betrayed the inward
storm, and she stamped whenever she thought of the cowardice she had
shown....
Broadly speaking, all roads in Peru are little more than mule-paths.
The only exception is in favor of the great paved highways built by the
Incas, which link the wilds of Bolivia to the capital of Ecuador, and in
comparison with which the finest monuments of the Gallo-Roman period are
not so very remarkable, after all. It is for this reason that travelers
wishing to reach the interior must take boat along the coast to one of
the harbor towns which are the termini of the railways leading into the
ever-delightful Sierra.
For Peru may be divided into three great parallel bands of country.
First the Costa, or coast district, which rises gradually from the
sea-board to an altitude of from 1,500 to 2,000 meters on the western
slopes of the Andes. Then the Sierra, half mountain and half plateau,
with altitudes varying between 2,000 and 4,000 meters. Finally the
Montaña, with its forests, which sweeps down to the east of the
Cordilleras, stretching toward the Amazon in long slopes which, from
2,000 meters, gradually drop to only 500. Landscape, climate and
products are all different in these three zones. The Costa is rich; the
Sierra has smiling valleys and a relatively warm climate; the Montaña is
a veritable ocean of verdure.
Perhaps the most curious thing in this curious country is the variety of
its landscape in a relatively small region, for to reach the Sierra one
is obliged to scale some of the highest mountains in the world, and that
in an equatorial country. In a few hours, one travels through districts
where trees of all latitudes and plants of all climates grow and are
cultivated side by side. Walnut-trees neighbor with waving palms;
beetroot and sugar-cane grow in adjoining plantations; here, an orchard
full of splendid apples; there a group of banana-trees spreading their
broad leaves to the sun. In this amazing country, landowners can offer
their guests drinks cooled with ice from the hills just above and made
with sweet limes picked in the tropical gardens around the house.
Uncle Francis was in raptures, brimful of enthusiasm, and so
schoolboyish in his delight that his companions could not help laughing.
They teased the old gentleman constantly, and once the hiding of his
fountain-pen at a moment when the taking of notes was urgent made him
nearly frantic. All, in short, were in the best of spirits, and seemed
to have completely forgotten the Golden Sun bracelet. This had been
left in the care of Aunt Agnes and Irene, who immediately took it to
the church of San Domingo and left it as an offering on the altar of the
Lady Chapel.
There was an exciting landing for the travelers at Pacasmayo. They got
ashore with the aid of an enormous raft, rising and falling with the
waves alongside the liner. This raft they reached by means of a cradle
swung out on a small crane. All one had to do was to wait until the raft
rose to within jumping distance of the cradle.
Maria-Teresa led the way, and landed very neatly on her feet; the
Marquis, used to such gymnastics, followed suit; and Dick reached the
raft with his hands still in his pockets. Uncle Francis, thinking hard
of something else, arranged his own descent so badly that raft and
cradle met with a crash which nearly jerked him into the sea. The shock
was forgotten in a wave of enthusiasm over the novelty of it all, and
he even retained his equanimity when the jerk of the grounding raft sent
him rolling onto the wet sand of the beach.
It was not until the following morning that the party left Pacasmayo,
without any untoward incident to disturb the peace of a journey
commenced under the most favorable auspices.
Dick was the only one to think twice of the advent of a coppery-colored
gentleman who seemed to have attached himself to their party. Had he not
worn European dress, the stranger might well have passed for a typical
Trujillo--that Indian race of which Huascar was certainly the finest
representative. On the other hand, he wore his lounge suit with ease,
and during the voyage evidenced his civilized upbringing by rendering
to Maria-Teresa several of those little services which a man may allow
himself to do when traveling, even to a woman he does not know. The
stranger had embarked at Callao, had landed by the same raft as they,
had stopped at the same inn in Pacasmayo, and, the following morning,
took the same train for Cajamarca.
They were so engrossed with the landscape of the lower ranges of the
Andes that they did not at first notice his presence in their own
carriage. He drew their notice to himself in such an unexpected manner
that all, without knowing exactly why, experienced a strange feeling of
discomfort.
There had been a chorus of exclamations and interjections over the
variety of the panorama before them, and they had just entered the
wildest gorge imaginable, when the stranger said in a grave voice:
“Do you see that camp, señores? That is where Pizarro’s first messengers
reached the last King of the Incas.”
All turned at the words. The stranger, standing at the back of the
observation platform, seemed to see nobody; with arms crossed, he
stared out toward the rocky fastnesses at the foot of which the world’s
greatest adventurer rested for a moment before starting on the conquest
of an Empire.
“One of my ancestors was there!” exclaimed the Marquis involuntarily.
“We know it! We know it!” said the stranger, without turning, and
in such a voice that the others exchanged astonished glances. His
statuesque immobility also had its effect on them. Then after a moment’s
silence, he continued:
“No, we have not forgotten that a Christobal de la Torre was with
Pizarro. We know the whole story, sir. When Pizarro left the Spanish
colony of Panama, vaguely guessing that before him was an empire even
greater than the one which Cortes had just given to Charles V.; when,
after a thousand dangers, he saw himself on the point of being deserted
by all, he drew his sword and with the point drew a line in the sand,
from east to west. Then, turning toward the south, he said: ‘Comrades,
on this side are danger, privation, hunger, nakedness, ruin and death;
behind us, comfort and mediocrity. But to the south are also Peru and
its riches, glory and immortality. Let each one decide for himself which
is best for a hidalgo of Castille!’ And with those words, he crossed the
line. He was followed by Ruiz, his brave pilot, then by Pedro de Candia,
a knight born, as his name shows, in one of the Greek islands. Eleven
others crossed that line, ready to follow their chief to the world’s
end. And among those eleven was Juan-Christobal de la Torre. We know it!
Señor, we know it!”
“And, pray, who are you, señor?” demanded the Marquis brutally,
exasperated by the stranger’s manner, though he had in truth remained
studiously polite.
As if not hearing, as if intent on doing homage to the exploits of those
dead Conquistadors, the stranger continued:
“Is there not, señores, is there not, señorita, something gigantic in
this spectacle? This little handful of men confidently starting on
an expedition as wild as the wildest deeds of their knights-errant, a
handful of men, señores, without clothes or food, almost without arms,
left by their comrades on a deserted mountain-side to start on the
conquest of one of the most powerful empires ever known.
“And among those men there was a Christobal de la Torre.... señor Don
Marques, it is a glorious descent to claim.... And allow me to
present myself: your servant Huayna Capac Buntu, head clerk of the
Franco-Belgian Bank of Lima.... But we may fittingly travel in company,
señor, for I am of royal blood. Huayna Capac, King of the Incas, who
succeeded his father at the age of sixteen, married first Pillan Huaco,
by whom he had no children. He then took two other wives, Bava-Bello and
his cousin Mama-Buntu. I am the descendant of that Huayna Capac and that
Mama-Buntu!”
“Now on leave from your bank?” queried the Marquis, almost insolently.
There was a flash in the Indian’s eyes as he answered somberly:
“Yes, on leave, for the Interaymi.”
Dick started at these words, already repeated so often in connection
with the Golden Sun bracelet. He glanced at Maria-Teresa, who was
evidently ill at ease at the turn taken by the conversation between her
father and the stranger. She now remembered him quite clearly as a clerk
with whom she had had dealings over a consignment of phosphates for
Antwerp. An insignificant little body, she had thought--not at all
the haughty Indian of to-day, discarding the disguise of his European
clothes and proclaiming himself for what he was. Knowing by experience
how susceptible Trujillos are, and fearing that a careless word from her
father might provoke a storm, she intervened:
“The Interaymi! Of course, your great festival. Is it to be particularly
celebrated at Cajamarca?”
“This year, señorita, it will be particularly celebrated throughout the
Andes.”
“But you do not admit outsiders? What a pity.... I should so like to
see.... One hears so many things....”
“Old wives’ tales, señorita,” rejoined the Indian, with a complete
change of manner. He smiled, disclosing a line of teeth which Dick
mentally compared to those of a wild animal, and added in a slightly
lisping voice: “There is a lot of nonsense talked.... Human sacrifices,
and so forth.... Do I look as if I were going to such a ceremony?... I
and my clothes by Zarate?... No, señorita, just a few little ceremonies
to keep alive the memory of our lost glories... a few pious invocations
to the God of Day, a few prayers for poor Atahualpa, our last King, and
that is all.... At the end of the month, señorita, I shall be back at my
bank in Lima.”
Reassured by the matter-of-fact level reached by these words, Dick
growled at his own absurd fears. A smile from Maria-Teresa and a
grumbled comment on kings and bank clerks from Uncle Francis completely
dispelled the cloud raised by the mention of the Interaymi.
Their train was now traveling along the bed of a ravine, closed in by
dizzying heights. High up above, in a band of blazing blue sky, giant
condors could be seen winging their way in heavy circles.
“To think of Pizarro facing country like this!” exclaimed Dick. “How on
earth was it that they were not simply wiped out by the Incas?”
“They came as friends, señor,” answered the Indian.
“That is all very fine, but still does not explain it How many men were
there with Pizarro when he marched on Cajamarca?”
“He had received reenforcements,” interjected the Marquis, twisting his
mustache, “and there were then a hundred and seventy-seven of them.”
“Minus nine,” corrected the Indian.
“That is, unless I am mistaken, only a hundred and sixty-eight,” put in
Uncle Francis, busy with his note-book.
“Why minus nine?” questioned Maria-Teresa.
“Because, señorita,” replied the descendant of Mama-Buntu, who seemed
to know the history of the conquest of New Spain better than the
descendants of the conquerors themselves, “because Pizarro gave his new
followers the same chance to draw back that the others had received.
He had halted in the mountains to rest his band and make a careful
inspection. As you have said, señor, they were then only a hundred
and seventy-seven, including sixty-seven horse. There were only three
arquebusiers, and a few crossbowmen--not more than twenty altogether.
And with this band Pizarro was marching against an army of 50,000 men
and against a nation of twenty millions! For, under the Incas, Peru
included what are to-day called Peru, Ecuador, Bolivia and Chili. At
this point, señores, he decided that his soldiers were still too many.
He had noticed that some faces were dissatisfied, and, fearing that the
discontent might spread, he decided to cut away the weak limbs before
the gangrene reached the main body. Marshalling his men, he told them
that they had reached a crisis in their fortunes--not a man must go on
who doubted its ultimate success. It was still not too late for waverers
to return to San Miguel, where he had already left some of his
companions. He was prepared to risk all with those who still wished to
follow him. Nine men took advantage of Pizarro’s offer--four infantrymen
and five from the cavalry. The others stopped with their general.”
“And cheered him to the echo at the call of Christobal de la Torre, who
served the Conquistador like a brother!” exclaimed the Marquis.
“We know, we know!” repeated the clerk. His tone roused the Marquis
again.
“And might I ask why you are pleased to recall all these things?”
demanded Don Christobal haughtily.
“To prove to you, señor, that the vanquished know the history of
their country even better than the conquerors,” retorted Runtu with an
emphasis not a little ridiculous in a man of his dress and calling.
“Look! How beautiful!” exclaimed Maria-Teresa, anxious to divert their
attention to the landscape.
Their train was passing over a bridge from which a panorama of
unparalleled beauty could be obtained. Before them stretched the giant
chain of the Andes, peak heaped on peak. On one side, a rent in the
ridges opened onto green forests, broken by little cultivated plateaus,
each with its rustic cottage clinging to the rugged mountain-side And
there, above, snowy crests sparkling in the sun--a chaos of savage
magnificence and serene beauty to be found in no other mountain
landscape of the world.
It was almost more terrible than beautiful, and as the train crossed
abyss after abyss over quivering bridges, Maria-Teresa, clinging to
Dick’s arm, could not help murmuring: “And even this did not daunt
Pizarro.”
Unfortunately, she was overheard by the stranger, who took up the broken
conversation with evident hostility:
“We could have crushed them easily, could we not?”
The Marquis, turning superciliously, flicked the questioner’s shoulder
with his glove:
“And, pray, why did you not do so, then?”
“Because we, sir, were not traitors!”
Dick had only just time to stop the Marquis, who was on the point of
rushing at the insolent Indian. Maria-Teresa, knowing her father’s
pride, calmed him in a moment by urging in an undertone that it would
be ridiculous for a man of his rank and age to pay more attention to an
Indian bank-clerk.
“You are quite right,” said Don Christobal with a gesture of contempt
under which the Indian stood motionless as a statue. He had not been
without guessing the sense of Maria-Teresa’s remarks, and might have
said more had not the stopping of the train definitely closed the
incident.
The railway line, then still in course of construction, went no farther.
The remaining thirty miles to Cajamarca had to be covered on mule-back,
for they were still in the heart of the mountains, and the defiles were
steep.
It was too long a journey, however, for the tired travelers to undertake
until the following morning. Clinging to the flanks of the rocks were
a few rude sheds in which were lodged the men working on the line. Near
by, surrounding a canteen, stood a dozen fairly comfortable tents, in
which they themselves were to pass the night In a meager pasture just
beyond, some thirty mules wandered at liberty, grazing. Above, the
omnipresent galinagas flew in circles against a purple sky.
Dinner, served on the brink of a chasm from which rose the mutter of the
racing stream, was a gay meal. Buntu had vanished, and did not reappear
until after nightfall, when Maria-Teresa met him near her tent. He was
very apologetic, and, hat in hand, excused himself for the incident in
the train. He had had no intention of being rude, and knowing that the
Marquis was a great friend of the manager of the Franco-Belgian bank, he
hoped that he would not carry the matter further.
Maria-Teresa, conquering a strong desire to laugh, promised the
descendant of the Incas that he would not lose his clerkship through
them. When he had bowed himself out of sight, she carried the story to
her father and Dick, who were vastly amused. Then they all went to bed,
with the exception of Uncle Francis, who passed the greater part of the
night putting his notes in order and writing an article for a reverend
monthly in which he re-told the story of the conquest of Peru, with the
aid of the Last of the Incas. This Indian he sketched as a gloriously
picturesque character, carefully omitting to say that he wore European
clothes!
As every night since the appearance of the three strange heads on her
balcony Maria-Teresa found sleep with difficulty. To-night, though tired
by the journey, she tossed restlessly on her narrow camp-bed. Suddenly,
in the dead of night, she sat up, listening. A familiar voice seemed
to be speaking. She slipped noiselessly to the canvas flap covering the
entrance to the tent, and peeped out.
There were two shadows out there, moving away in the moonlight One she
recognized immediately for the Indian bank-clerk. Who was the other?
They stopped, and half turned toward the tent. It was Huascar!
What was Huascar doing there, at that time of night, with that strange
Indian? Why were they pointing at her tent? What did it all mean?...
The two shadows were walking again.... Then the peace of the night was
broken by a neigh, and the young girl saw a picketed horse stamping in
the shadow beyond. Huascar vaulted into the saddle, while his companion
loosed the picket-rope, still talking and occasionally nodding toward
the tent. Then both disappeared, and silence descended again on the
sleeping camp.
Maria-Teresa could not sleep all night. Huascar’s unexpected
reappearance was in no way calculated to calm the half-expressed terror
which haunted her, and which she refused to acknowledge, stifling what
she called her cowardice.
Had she anything to fear from Huascar? She could not believe it. She
knew quite well that the Indian loved her, but as a faithful dog does,
she thought; and she felt certain that she could count on his devotion
were she in any danger.
And yet! And yet!... And yet what? What danger could there be? It was
too absurd! She was becoming as ridiculous as those two old ladies with
their crazy legends! With that, she decided not to say a word to either
Dick or her father. She was not going to be taken for a child afraid of
every shadow it saw at night. But she would question Huayna Gapac Runtu
on the very first occasion.
This occasion presented itself during the first stage of the next day’s
journey. Maria-Teresa, the Marquis, Dick and old Montgomery led the way.
Uncle Francis, at first delighted with the prospect of a mule-ride, soon
determined to get off again. Riding along the very edge of precipices,
his mount felt ten times too high, and he was sure that he would be
safer on foot and, at certain times, on all-fours. He gradually became
convinced that his mule would slip, and determined to dismount, at a
point where two riders could not pass abreast.
The whole cavalcade was thus stopped, while those behind called on the
scientist to go ahead, and he vowed that he would do nothing of the
kind, twisting in his saddle and trying to discover the best way to get
off. Immediate action of the Indian bank-clerk saved the situation, and
probably Uncle Francis’ neck. Getting off his own mule, Runtu squeezed
down the line, and catching Mr. Montgomery’s mount by the bridle, led
it on to a broader path and safety. Dick, the Marquis and Maria-Teresa
could not do less than thank him.
When they moved on, Maria-Teresa and the Indian were riding side by
side.
“Well, señor Huayna Capae Runtu?” she smiled at him.
“Oh, señorita, let us forget all those illustrious names, which died
with my ancestors. The only one I have a right to now is that by which I
am known at the bank--just plain Oviedo, like everybody else.”
“Yes, I remember now. That is what you called yourself when you came to
me from the bank.... Well, señor Oviedo, can you tell me now what you
were doing outside my tent last night with Huascar, my former servant?”
Oviedo Huayna Capac Runtu did not budge, but his mule swerved slightly.
He reined it in.
“So you saw Huascar, señorita? An old friend of mine. He arrived late
at night, on his way to Cajamarca, and knowing I was at the camp, halted
here a minute to see me. I remember now, we did stop outside your tents.
When I told him you were there, he asked me to keep watch over you....
He went on immediately afterwards.”
“Do I need somebody to keep watch over me, then? Am I in any danger?”
“The ordinary dangers of a journey like this. A mule may miss its
footing, or a saddle may slip off. In either case, it spells death.
That is what Huascar meant, and that is why I myself chose your mule and
girthed it up this morning.”
“You are too kind,” said Maria-Teresa drily.
At this moment, Uncle Francis drew level with them. He had recovered his
equanimity with the wider path, and spoke casually of mountain dangers.
“All the same,” he added, “I wonder how Pizarro managed to bring his
little army through here.”
Maria-Teresa threw him a look which, had he seen it, would have toppled
the clumsy scientist into a ravine, mule and all. But he remained
serenely unconscious.
“It is extraordinary,” acquiesced Oviedo. “I have made rather a study
of it. At some points, the road was so steep that the horsemen had to
dismount and almost drag their chargers after them. A single false step
would have hurled them thousands of feet below. The defiles were then
just practicable for the half-naked Indians, and think what it must have
been for armored men, with the menace of an unknown enemy above them.”
“But what were the Indians doing all this time?” asked Dick, approaching
in his turn.
“Nothing, señor... they were awaiting a visitor, not a foe.... Messages
had been exchanged which....”
“One question,” put in the Marquis’ voice. “Do you suppose that if King
Atahualpa had for one minute imagined his 50,000 men were incapable of
defending him against a hundred and fifty Spaniards, that he would have
behaved as he did? No, he merely felt contempt for their weakness. And
he was wrong!”
“Yes, señor, he was wrong.” The bank-clerk bent his head humbly over
his saddle-bow. Then, straightening himself again, he pointed to a peak
towering above. “He should have appeared in those defiles, like the
horseman yonder, and all would have been finished. The Sun our God would
still be reigning over the Empire of the Incas!”
As he said these words, the clerk seemed to have grown to a giant. His
sweeping gesture took in the whole huge mass of the Andes, making of it
a pedestal for the Indian above them, sitting motionless on his horse,
and watching their caravan.
“Huascar!” exclaimed Maria-Teresa.
All recognized Huascar. From that moment, until they had left the
first chain of the Andes behind them, that silhouette of horse and man
dominated and haunted them--sometimes behind, sometimes before, but
always above them:--a promise of protection, or a menace.
II
After another night in camp, the travelers came in sight of the
beautiful valley of Cajamarca, smiling below them in striking contrast
to the somber mountains around. Thus did this happy valley appear to the
astonished eyes of Pizarro’s men. It was inhabited in the days of the
Conquistador by a race far superior to those with which the Spaniards
had met on the other side of the mountains, as was clearly shown by the
taste of their clothes, the cleanliness and comfort of their homes. As
far as the eye could reach was a prosperous plain, watered by a wide
river, abundantly irrigated by canals and subterranean aqueducts, broken
up by green hedges and well-cultivated fields; for the ground was rich,
and the temperate climate favorable to farming. Immediately below the
adventurers lay the little city of Cajamarca, its white houses twinkling
in the sunlight, like a precious stone shining in the dark girdle of the
Sierra.
About a league beyond, in the valley, Pizarro could see columns of steam
rising to the sky, and showing the position of the famous hot baths of
the princes of Peru.
There was also a spectacle far less pleasing to the Spaniards. The lower
mountain slopes disappeared under a cloud of white tents, covering an
area of several miles. “We were amazed,” wrote one of the conquerors,
“to find the Indians holding so proud a position, and this sight threw
confusion, and even fear, into the staunchest hearts. But it was too
late to turn, or to show the slightest weakness, and after carefully
exploring the ground, we put on the best faces that we could, and
prepared to enter Caxamarxa.”
Flowing over with such memories, and wild with excitement at finding
himself in a land which he knew so well by hearsay, Uncle Francis stood
up in his stirrups, and held forth interminably on the Cajamarca of his
dreams. Instructed by Oviedo Runtu, he showed them the exact spot where
Atahualpa and his 50,000 warriors had awaited Pizarro. Uncle Francis
himself felt no fear of this huge army, massed in the hidden fastnesses
of a continent discovered by Christopher Columbus just forty years
before Pizarro’s wild venture. He felt like a hero of antiquity, and was
quite ready to give the order to charge.
There was nobody there to tell them, though, what were the feelings of
the Peruvian monarch when he saw the warlike band of Christians, banners
flying, corselets and morions gleaming, debouch from the dark defile and
advance into the rolling domains which until then no white man had ever
seen.
Suddenly, Uncle Francis’ mule bolted, and a burst of laughter went up
from the whole party. Excited by the shouts and cries, the other mules
followed their leader, helter-skelter down the incline. The obvious
dénouement was not long in coming. Uncle Francis’ mount, in a desperate
effort to get away from the noise behind, rolled over, and the
unfortunate scientist described a neat somersault. He was on his feet
again almost at once, and soon set his anxious companions at rest.
“Thus it was,” he laughed, “that Pizarro won his first battle.”
Maria-Teresa and Dick appearing disposed to listen, he explained that in
the Conquistador’s first fight with Incas, before he crossed the Andes,
the little band of Spaniards, hard pressed, was saved by one hidalgo
being unhorsed. The Incas, knowing nothing of horses or horsemanship,
were so frightened that they fled, not daring to face this extraordinary
animal which became two and still went on fighting.
Naturally, nobody believed him, though he was in no way drawing on his
imagination. The whole story of the conquest of Peru is so extraordinary
that one must forgive incredulity.
These facts, however, are vouched for by well-authenticated documents
in the Royal Archives at Madrid, which Uncle Francis had taken care to
study before starting for the Americas with his nephew. They were still
laughing at his adventure and his story when their cavalcade reached the
walls of Cajamarca.
It was nightfall as they entered the city. The first thing to arrest
their attention was the enormous number of Indians in the streets, and
their silence. Cajamarca, with a normal population of between twelve and
thirteen thousand, certainly sheltered twice as many souls that night.
And still more people were coming.
On the highroad, the Marquis’ party had successively passed file after
file of Indians, plodding in the direction of their Sacred City. For
Cajamarca may be called the necropolis of the Incas, and one can hardly
take a step in its streets or avenues without meeting with some reminder
of the splendor of a vanished empire.
It was easy to see, by the manner of the Quichuas crowding the historic
roadways, that a religious pilgrimage had brought together this mass.
The amazement of the travelers, however, was as nothing to that of the
inhabitants themselves, who had never before witnessed such an invasion.
In the memory of living man, the Interaymi had never visibly moved the
multitude in this manner. Even the great decennial fête had been rather
the occasion for a general disappearance of Indians than for their
appearance.
What did it all mean? The authorities were distinctly ill at ease, and
the few troops massed at Cajamarca when the news came in of Garcia’s
Indian revolt at the other end of the country had been put under arms.
The doors of the city’s eight churches were militarily guarded, for
each one of these buildings might have made a fortress. The rest of the
troops had been gathered in the main square, not far from the ruined
palace in which stands the stone on which Atahualpa, last King of the
Incas, was burned alive.
These ruins were the goal of the Indians’ long pilgrimage over the
mountains, the visit to that stone being the religious and outward
pretext for this mute manifestation by a conquered race.
Don Christobal, amazed at what he saw, nervously remembered that the
great Indian revolt of 1818 had been preceded by just such happenings.
Were the Interaymi festivals which began next day really to be the
signal for one of those revolts which the governments of Peru had long
decided were no more to be feared?
As he was putting this question to himself, the Marquis caught sight
of the post-office, and immediately dismounted. Dick and Maria-Teresa
exchanged a smile. They were at last to know the name of the facetious
sender of the Golden Sun bracelet.
They pulled up their mules, and waited with an indifferent air that was
perhaps a little affected. Ten minutes later the Marquis came out.
“I have the name and address,” he said in a puzzled voice.
“And what is the name?” questioned Maria-Teresa.
“Atahualpa,” replied her father, mounting.
“So the jest continues.”--Maria-Teresa’s voice had changed a little.
“Apparently so. The clerk who received the parcel says it was brought in
by an Indian, who said his name really was Atahualpa. That, after all,
is possible.”
“Well, as you have the address, we might pay him a little call,”
suggested Dick.
“Exactly what I was going to say.” And Don Christobal turned his mule.
Uncle Francis brought up the rear, vigorously taking notes, with his
book resting on the pommel of the saddle.
They crossed a rivulet racing towards an affluent of the upper Maranon,
passed San Francisco, the first Christian church built in Peru, and,
after the Marquis had asked his way several times, finally reached a
square teeming with Indians.
On one side of this square still stood ancient palace walls. There
had been the last home of the last Inca King. There he had lived
in splendor, and there he died a martyr. There had been the home of
Atahualpa, and there had the post-office clerk directed Don Christobal
de la Torre!
III
Taken in the swirl of the crowd, the little cavalcade was gradually
headed toward the ruined palace, and forced through its huge gates
almost before the Marquis’ party knew what had happened.
They were now in a vast courtyard packed with Indians. Some of them,
standing erect, showed the proud foreheads of chiefs, but the great
majority were prostrate round a stone in the center--the stone of the
martyrdom of Atahualpa.
On the far side of this stone, standing on a rude bench, was a man
draped in a poncho of vivid red.... He was speaking in Quichua, while
the crowd listened in reverent silence.
As the party of strangers rode into the courtyard, a sharp voice behind
them interrupted the psalm-like recitation of the man in the red poncho.
“Speak Spanish, and everybody will understand,” it said.
The Marquis and Maria-Teresa turned. Behind them was their bank-clerk
traveling companion, bowing as if to make them understand that he
had intervened to do them a favor. Extraordinarily enough, this
interruption, almost sacrilegious as it was, did not stir a man. The
Indian in the red poncho paused for a moment, and continued in Spanish.
“In those days,” he said, “the Inca was all-powerful, and a vast army
bowed to his will. The city was surrounded by a triple wall of stone, in
the heart of which stood the citadel and the home of the Virgins of the
Sun. The Inca, knowing no fear, and ignorant of all treason, allowed the
white men to enter the city and received them as friends, as envoys from
that other great emperor beyond the seas.
“But the leader of the Strangers, doubting the generous heart of the
Inca, had divided his army into three bands, marching toward the city in
battle array. Then the Inca said, ‘Since they fear our hospitality, let
us all leave the city, so that peace may enter their hearts.’ Thus it
was that when the Conquistador rode through our streets, he met not
a living soul, and heard no sound but the stamp of his own warriors’
feet.” Here the speaker stopped, as if to gather his thoughts, and
continued:
“This was at a late hour in the afternoon. The Stranger then sent an
ambassador to the Inca’s camp. He sent his brother, Fernando, and twenty
horsemen. The Inca received Fernando on his throne, his forehead adorned
with the royal borla. He was surrounded by his officers and wives.
“The Strangers came with words of honey, and the Inca replied: ‘Tell
your leader that I am fasting until to-morrow. Then will I and my chiefs
visit him. Until then, I allow him to occupy the public buildings on the
square, but no others. I will decide to-morrow what is meet.’
“Now it happened that after these good words, a Spaniard, to thank the
Inca, put his horse through its paces, for the prince who had never seen
such an animal. And several of those present having shown fear, while
the Inca himself remained impassible, the Inca ordered them to be put
to death, as was just. Then the ambassadors drank chicha in golden vases
brought to them by the Virgins of the Sun, and returned to Cajamarca.
“When they told their leader of what they had seen, the splendor of the
Inca’s camp, the number of his troops, despair entered the soldiers’
hearts. At night they saw the Inca’s camp-fires lighting up the
mountain-sides, and blazing in the darkness like a multitude of stars.”
The Indian paused again, then went on:
“But the Stranger, intent on evil, went among his men spreading the
shameful words which gave them new courage. The next day, at noon, the
Inca’s bodyguard advanced toward the city. The King could be seen above
the multitude, carried on the shoulders of his princes. Behind him, the
ranks of his own soldiers stretched as far as the eye could reach. The
city was silent, save for the cry of the sentinels on the citadel walls,
reporting the movements of the Inca’s army.
“First there entered into the city three hundred servitors, chanting
songs of triumph to the glory of the Inca. Then came warriors, guards,
lords adorned with silver, copper, and gold. Our Atahualpa, Son of
the Sun, was borne above all on a throne of massive gold. Now, when
Atahualpa, with six thousand men, had reached the great square without
seeing a single white man, he asked: ‘Where are the strangers?’ And a
monk, whom none had seen until then, approached the Inca, a cross in his
hand. With the monk was an interpreter of our race. The Inca listened
while the priest told him of his religion and urged him to abandon the
faith of his fathers for that of the Christian. Atahualpa replied: ‘Your
God was put to death by the men to whom he gave life. But mine lives
still in the Heavens, and shines upon his children.”
At these words, the Indians surrounding the little band of Europeans
turned toward the sun, just about to vanish behind the Andes, uttering
a strange cry, a cry of mingled farewell and hope handed down by
generations as the salutation of their faith to the God of Day. Above
the reverently bowed throng, a purple sky awaited the coming of night.
The scene was so grandiose that Dick and Maria-Teresa could not restrain
a movement of admiration. There could be no doubt of it: the Sun god
still had his true worshipers, as in the tragic days of Atahualpa. To
know it, one had only to look at this trembling mass of men, who had
kept their language and their traditions through so many centuries. They
had been vanquished, but not conquered. Perhaps it was true after
all that back there in the mountains, in some city unknown to all but
themselves, guarded by the rampart of the Andes and the eternal snows,
there lived priests who passed their lives feeding the sacred fires.
After their salutation to the Sun, the Indians resumed their kneeling
posture, many, strangely enough, making the sign of the cross as they
bent to the ground. Where did that sign come from? Was it only another
instance of the extraordinary mingling of cults and creeds so often
seen, or did it go even further back? Historians there are who say
that the conquerors found it already used by the Incas. Did some early
Christian adventurers, then, found the twin empires of the Americas?
While Uncle Francis dreamed on, lost in such conjectures, the priest in
the red poncho, took up the broken thread of his narration:
“Pizarro and his men, armed for battle, were hiding in the halls of the
vast palace surrounding the square. There the monk who had spoken to
Atahualpa rejoined the Stranger, and said to him: ‘Do you not see that
we wrestle in vain with this dog’s pride? His troops are coming up by
the thousand. Strike while it is not too late!”’
The silence became, if possible, more intense. The man in red, about to
tell of what he called the Crime of the Stranger, straightened himself
on his pedestal till he dominated the whole assembly.
“‘St. James and at them!’ With that accursed battle-cry, Pizarro’s men
hurled themselves on the Inca and his guard. Horse and foot charged
out of the palace in which they had been hidden, smashing in the indian
ranks. A terrible panic seized Atahut and his followers, who fled in
all directions. Nobles and servants, princes and guards, fled before the
terrible horsemen, who trampled down all before them.
“They made no resistance. They could not, for they were unarmed. Nor
could they flee, for all the doors and streets were barred by the
corpses of those trampled to death in a vain effort to escape. So
terrible was the press, the whirling swords driving our people ever
further back, that one wall of the square fell. Hundreds fled through
this opening and scattered in all directions, the Spanish horse in
pursuit.
“Atahualpa’s throne, borne hither and thither in the crowd, was finally
reached by the Spaniards. He would have been killed there and then had
not Pizarro intervened. In doing so, he was wounded in the hand by one
of his own men. The nobles carrying the royal litter were cut down, and
the Inca was seized by Pizarro. A soldier named Estete tore the borla
from his forehead, and the captured monarch was conducted to a hall near
by.
“With the capture of the Inca, all resistance ceased. The news spread
through the country like wildfire, and all thought of real resistance
was gone. Even the thousands of soldiers encamped round the city took
fright, and scattered.
“The only being which might have kept the Indians united was cut.
“That night, the Inca supped with Pizarro. He showed surprising courage,
and remained impassible throughout the meal.
“The next day, the sack of the city began. Never had the Spaniards seen
so much gold and silver. Atahualpa, quick to see their greed, offered
Pizarro to buy his liberty by covering with gold the floor of the room
in which they were. Finally, he declared that he would not only cover
the floor, but also fill the room as high as he could reach.
“With that, he made a mark on the wall with his fingertip; and Pizarro,
accepting, ordered a red line to be drawn round the room at that height.
The room was seventeen feet by twenty-two long, and the line was drawn
nine feet from the ground.”
At this point, the red priest stopped and walked slowly to a ruined
wall. “Here,” he said, pointing to a still faintly visible line, “was
the mark of the ransom.
“Atahualpa, moreover, promised to fill a neighboring room with silver,
and asked for two months in which to fulfil the task. His messengers,
chosen among the Spaniards’ prisoners, were despatched into all the
provinces of the Empire.
“Meanwhile, the Inca was closely watched, for his captivity meant not
only Pizarro’s security, but also fabulous riches for the Conquistadors.
The room filled gradually, Indians arriving daily with golden goblets,
platters, vases and bar gold to lay at the feet of their prisoned ruler.
On some days, we are told, as much as 60,000 pesos of booty was brought
in.
“To hasten the gathering of the ransom, Pizarro sent his brother
Fernando to Cuzco, the greatest city of the Incas. With them went a
messenger from Atahualpa, at whose orders the priests stripped the
Temple of the Sun, and the inhabitants gave up every scrap of precious
metal in their possession. Fernando brought back with him, besides a
mass of silver, 200 full loads of gold.
“Now faced with the problem of taking his plunder from the country,
Pizarro ordered the melting-down of the hundreds of objects massed in
the treasure-room. The finest pieces sent from temples and palaces were
set aside for Charles V., to show the Emperor what a wonderful land had
been added to his possession--all the rest was to be reduced to ingots.
“The native jewelers, obeying Atahualpa, worked night and day for
a month to carry out this task. When the ingots were weighed, the
Spaniards found that they had gold to the value of 1,326,539 pesos de
oro. This would mean, in modern currency, and taking into consideration
the altered value of money, more than three and a half millions
sterling, or close on fifteen and a half million dollars.
“But now that the ransom had been paid, Atahualpa was not set at
liberty. His captors accused him of fomenting a rebellion against
Charles V., and threatened him with death. Atahualpa replied: “‘Am I not
a poor prisoner in your hands? Why should I do so, knowing that I should
be the first to suffer if my people rose? And unless I give the order,
none will raise a hand against you. Even the birds in my states hardly
dare fly against my will.
“But his protestations of innocence had little effect. Pizarro’s men
were convinced that a general rising was being prepared. Patrols were
doubled, and every man of the little army slept under arms.
“Pizarro did all he could, or pretended to do all he could, to save
the Inca’s life, but in vain. His followers demanded it, and Atahualpa,
brought to trial, was found guilty and sentenced to be burned alive. On
the 29th of August, 1533, his fate was proclaimed in the great square of
the city to the sound of bugles, and two hours after sunset he was taken
to the stake.
“Atahualpa left this hall loaded with chains! He passed through this
door on his way to martyrdom!”
Once again the red priest left his rude rostrum, walking here and there
through the crowd, evoking by deed as well as word the last hours of the
last Inca. The silence was intense, and his voice, alternately grave and
impassioned, rang out like a clarion note.
In the sad story, the Indian orator had omitted all that showed, the
immense courage of the Conquistadors and the cowardice of the Inca’s
followers. Everything was attributed to the treachery of the Spaniards.
“So Atahualpa died at the stake!”
Menacing and prophetic, the priest turned toward the spot where
Christobal de la Torre and his companions, hemmed in by the crowd, had
listened, as motionless as any of the faithful present.
“And I say unto you, cursed be all the sons of those who came to us
with a lie in their hearts! They shall die like dogs, and never know the
blessed palaces of the Sun. They shall die unblessed, the liars who say
that Atahualpa abjured his faith! The Son of the Sun remained true to
the God of Day!”
There was a threatening murmur in the crowd. Round the Sacred Stone,
it grew to a roar. How dared those strangers come there at such a time?
Centuries of slavery can never bend backs so low that they will not
straighten at certain hours. The descendant of Christobal de la Torre
had met one of those hours.
IV
Men, women and children began to press toward the group of riders.
Dick, first to realize the change in the humor of the mob, spurred
alongside Maria-Teresa.
“We must get out of this! Steady, and forward all!”
The Marquis, superbly cool, followed as if reluctant to show his back to
any horde of Indians. The menace in the voices grew clearer. He looked
round him, and drove his spurs home, till his mount reared and plunged
into the crowd, clearing a space around it.
The mob was howling now, and knives were being drawn on all sides, when
a giant Indian pushed his way toward the Spaniards. Maria-Teresa, Don
Christobal and Dick recognized Huascar, before whom his countrymen made
way with evident respect and dread.
“Back!” he shouted, taking the young girl’s mule by the bridle. “Who
touches the Virgin of the Sun is a dead man!”
At these words, the crowd parted. Silence succeeded the tumult of a
moment before.
“Let the strangers pass,” ordered Huascar, and himself escorted them to
the ancient palace gates.
Outside, on the plaza, they met a police patrol. The sergeant, in
undertaking to escort them to the inn, was eloquent on their imprudence
in coming into a quarter peopled by fanatical Indians on the eve of the
Interaymi.
The Marquis wished to thank Huascar, but the Indian had vanished.
Maria-Teresa and Dick, both very white, had not a word to say. Uncle
Francis was also dumb, and did not take a single note.
At the inn they found only one vacant room, in which they all gathered.
Dick was the first to utter the thought which was worrying them all.
“Suppose it was true!”
“Yes, suppose it was true!” repeated Maria-Teresa,
“What? Suppose what was true?” demanded the Marquis, refusing to
understand.
“The Virgin of the Sun!”
They were all silent for a moment, bent under the weight of one amazing,
absurd, monstrous thought. And they exchanged anxious, frightened looks,
like children who are being told some terrifying fairy-tale. Dick broke
the spell:
“You heard what Huascar said. ‘Who touches the Virgin of the Sun is a
dead man!’ Those were his own words!”
“Just a manner of speech,” hesitated Uncle Francis. “It cannot be
anything else.”
“Anything else? What do you mean?” demanded the Marquis violently.
“Well, it could not be... the other thing. If Maria-Teresa was... was
the Virgin of the Sun, they would not have let her pass out.”
“Are we all going mad! After all, we are masters here!” burst out Don
Christobal. “There are the police, and the troops. All those rascals out
there are our slaves. ‘Pon my soul, we are all raving!”
“Of course!” exclaimed Maria-Teresa.
“All the same, I think we ought to get out of Cajamarca as soon as we
can,” said Dick, going to the window and looking out. Night had fallen,
and with it silence. The square outside was deserted.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and a servant brought in
a letter addressed to Maria-Teresa. She tore it open and read
aloud:--“Return to Lima at once. Leave Cajamarca tonight.”
“It is not signed,” she said, “but this warning comes from Huascar.”
“And we should follow his advice,” said Dick. There was another knock
at the door. This time, it announced the arrival of the Chief of Police,
who was anxious to know what had happened.
He had heard of the incident at Atahualpa’s palace, and had moreover
been warned by an Indian, an employee at the Franco-Belgian bank at
Lima, that it might be dangerous for the Marquis and his companions to
show themselves in the streets on the following day.
It was obvious that the man feared trouble, and would have given
anything to see the party a hundred miles away. When he learned that
they were ready to leave at once, he busied himself about finding them
fresh mules and a guide, and furthermore detailed four troopers to
escort the party as far as the railway.
Cajamarca was left at eleven o’clock that night, and the return journey
was made at double the speed at which they had come. Dick would let
nobody rest, and forced the pace throughout. It was not until the
following night, safe in the train for Pascamayo, that they realized
the ridicule that attached to their hasty flight. “Just like a pack
of children frightened out of their lives by Agnes’ stories,” said the
Marquis.
Back in civilized life again, they were all surprised at their panic.
After all, the whole thing could be so naturally explained--fanatics
resenting the presence of strangers at a religious festival, and nothing
more. The best thing they could do was to forget it as soon as possible.
Uncle Francis restored the party’s gaiety by going through the same
performance which he had rehearsed on landing.
Forty-eight hours in Lima completely dispelled the cobwebs. Maria-Teresa
found a great deal of work awaiting her, and forgot her fears in a maze
of figures which took her to Callao early, and kept her busy at the
offices until late in the afternoon, when Dick came to fetch her.
One afternoon, about eight days after the adventure at Cajamarca, the
tap at her window which announced Dick’s arrival came earlier than
usual. Maria-Teresa got up, and threw open the shutters. Dick was
not there.... Then she retreated with a half-strangled scream. Was it
possible? In the rapidly gathering darkness, she could not be sure, and
leaned out of the window to see better.... That thing, swaying in the
darkness, looked just like the sugar-loaf skull.... She retreated into
the room, trembling in every limb, and turned round. From the dark
corners of the chamber two other shadows, the valise and cap skulls,
were advancing slowly, swaying as they came.
For a moment, Maria-Teresa thought she had lost her reason. Then she
made a violent effort to regain control of herself. Dead skulls could
not come to life like this. And yet, they were coming toward her,
swaying horribly, above shadowy bodies! A desperate scream for help
was choked in her throat. “Dick!...” and nothing more. The three living
skulls had hurled themselves upon her, gagged her, and now, throwing the
inanimate girl over their shoulders, hurried through the black hole of
the open window. Maria-Teresa’s own motor was waiting there, her negro
boy at the wheel, smiling strangely.
Their mummy hands, horribly living, lifted the girl into the tonneau,
and the three monsters, like three larvae, climbed in after her. Then
the car shot down the street.