I
Arequipa was _en fête_; the entire population of the city and its
campina (suburbs) was packed in the main square and the adjacent streets
to witness the triumphal return of the victor of the Cuzco--brave
General Garcia, who had already been christened “the good Dictator,” and
who had promised his partizans that within a fortnight he would sweep
out of the country President Veintemilla, the two Chambers, and the
whole parliamentary system which, he declared, had ruined Peru.
This was language the Arequipinos loved and understood. Politics had
always flourished in that part of the country, and all revolutions began
there. And the turbulent inhabitants of Arequipa felt that it was a
terribly long time since they had had a “savior” to cheer.
Now they had one; a particularly picturesque one, who was to appear on
horseback. So they had all donned their Sunday clothes, and the women
had flowers in their hair and more flowers in their arms to scatter
before the hero.
The Indian population, having sold its hens and vegetables in the
market-place, joined the throng.
The square, for the occasion, seemed to have straightened out its
tumble-down arcades, badly shaken by the last earthquake. The illusion
was aided by brilliant-hued carpets, flags, banners and festoons which
blazed in all directions and gave new life to the dilapidated walls.
The cracked old towers of the church, the carved wooden balconies,
flower-adorned galleries, and decorated windows were black with people.
Above the city rose the Misti, one of the world’s highest volcanoes,
wearing a fresh cap, glistening with the snows of the night.
Bells chimed and cannons roared out. Then came silence, broken again by
the sound of bugles and the roar of a thousand voices. The procession of
the troops had begun. Contrary to European custom, it commenced with all
the impedimenta of the camp. It was like a rout:--Indians leading mules
loaded down with baggage, provisions, and kitchen utensils; then a
regiment of women bent under the weight of knapsacks, babies, and sacks
of food.
The crowd cheered everything wildly, from the llamas loaded with
captured Federal arms to the women, the rabonas, as they are called out
there. These rabonas are a precious institution from the point of view
of the Peruvian soldier; each man has his own, and she carries his
baggage, buys all his food, and prepares his meals.
Then came the troops, Garcia, leading. Mounted on a splendid horse,
wearing a brilliant uniform, he appeared like a star of the first
magnitude in the constellation of his staff. A tall man, he showed head
and shoulders above the generals and colonels prancing around him. His
tri-color plumes waved splendidly in the wind, and the deafening rant
of bugles accompanied him. Handsome, radiant, happy was he, nonchalantly
curling his black mustache and smiling on all with brilliant white
teeth.
Garcia smiled to the ladies as he passed under their balconies, and the
ladies, showering down rose-leaves over horse and rider, called him by
his Christian name, Pedro. In this triumphal fashion, he slowly rode
round the square twice, and then came to a halt in the middle of it,
between two guns, his staff behind him and, before him, two Indians
bearing a standard, a quaint patch-work quilt of a flag, which was the
token of submission of all the tribes to the new government. These men
wore hats covered with variegated plumes, and had over their shoulders
surplice-like tunics.
Five hundred infantrymen and two hundred horse had formed round the
square. Young girls, clad in floating tunics and wearing Garcia’s
colors, advanced toward the general, their hands heavy with floral
crowns. One of them made a little speech, while Garcia continued curling
his mustache and showing his teeth. The speech over, he gallantly bent
down and took all the crowns, passing them over his arm. Then he lifted
a hand to command silence.
“Long live Liberty!” he shouted. A hurricane of cheers arose. Again he
lifted up the crown-charged arm, and again there was silence.
He told them the program of the new Government meant “Liberty for
all, except for evil-doers! With such a program, is there any need for
parliaments?”
“No! No! No!” roared the crowd deliriously. “Long live Garcia! Death
to, Veintemilla! Muera! Muera! Muera el larron de salitre! (Death to
the saltpetre thief! ),” for Veintemilla was popularly supposed to have
largely profited by some recent concessions.
Garcia was an orator, and, wishing to show it once again, told in a
few words the history of the campaign that had ended in the rout of the
“saltpetre thieves” on the Cuzco plains. To be seen and heard by all, he
stood erect in his stirrups.
Then an incredible thing happened. The powers above actually dared spoil
this splendid _fête_--it began to rain! There was a general rush for
shelter in the crowd. Even the infantrymen lining the square broke
their ranks, while the cavalrymen dismounted, took off their saddles and
loaded them on their heads in guise of umbrellas. As to those soldierly
ladies, the rabonas, they calmly threw their bell-shaped petticoats over
their heads.
Garcia alone did not move. Furious at this spoiling of his triumph, he
threatened his officers with immediate death if they dared leave his
side. He did not even fall back into his saddle, but stood erect there,
his crown-charged arm menacing the heavens.
Then the Chief of Staff approached the Dictator, saluted thrice, and
said:
“Excellency, it is not the fault of the sky. The sky would not have
dared! The roar of your guns compelled the clouds, Excellency.”
“You are right,” replied Garcia. “And since the guns did the harm, let
them repair it.”
With which, a battery was rolled out into the square, and opened fire on
the clouds. They thundered on until the short tropical storm had passed.
Then Garcia, triumphant, shouted: “I have had the last word with the
heavens!” The review was over.
II
Watching the proceedings from a window at the “Jockey Club Hotel” were
the Marquis de la Torre and Natividad, both wild with impatience, for
their only hope now lay in Garcia.
At Pisco, they had ended by discovering that the Bride of the Sun’s
escort had embarked in the very steam-tug used to tow the Marquis’ own
barges from the Chincha Islands to Callao. This once again proved that
the scheme had been well thought out and prepared long in advance, the
Indians about Maria-Teresa being in the plot.
Securing a boat in their turn, the pursuers followed to Mollendo. There
they took the train, and reached Arequipa only a few hours after the
Red Ponchos--Uncle Francis still supernaturally calm, and Natividad
beginning to despair of everything.
Chance favored them when they landed in this city of mad people, who
would not even trouble to answer questions. Dick recognized Huascar
strolling through the streets, and tracked him to the house where
Maria-Teresa and her brother were kept prisoners. This was a low adobe
building on the edge of the suburbs, and quite close to the Rio de
Chili. It was openly guarded by a dozen armed Indians in red ponchos.
Dick and the Marquis soon found, however, that they could not even get
as near as that line of guards. Fifty yards away from the house, Civil
Guards stopped them, and ordered them back. Garcia’s own troops were
guarding the Virgin of the Sun!
“Of course, Garcia cannot know,” said the Marquis. “I know him, and
though he has faults, he is not a savage. He once wanted to marry
Maria-Teresa. Let us go and find him.”
But Dick refused to lose sight of the adobe house. Had they listened to
him, they would have forced their way to it at once. It was only after
long arguing that Natividad convinced him such a step would be absurd.
Lives are cheap during revolutions, and two or three corpses more or
less in the Rio de Chili would not make it overflow its banks. Nor
would they contribute greatly to the freeing of Maria-Teresa and little
Christobal.
He promised to be reasonable, but would not go with them when they
returned to the inn for a meal; instead, he took up his post in a boat
on the river, and thence watched his fiancée’s prison and the armed men
walking up and down before.
The Marquis and Natividad therefore, witnessed Garcia’s triumph alone.
Uncle Francis had been lost, or rather, had been left alone in the
middle of the street, staring up at the Misti. He was now doubtless in
the crowd somewhere, taking notes.
Garcia in all his glory was a sight which did not please the Marquis.
“I never thought he was that kind of man,” he commented, “though I
always suspected he had negro blood in his veins.”
“Drunk with success,” replied Natividad drily.
After the review, they followed the Dictator and his staff only to find
their way barred by troops at the road leading down to the headquarters.
Here the Marquis ordered the men out of the way with such insolence, and
spoke with such assurance of “his friend Garcia,” that he was allowed to
pass, Natividad clinging to his sleeve.
The subaltern in command at the guard-room took the Marquis’ card, and a
moment later they were ushered upstairs. There were soldiers everywhere,
some of them fast asleep on the staircase, their guns between their
knees, so that the visitors had to pick their way upstairs over
prostrate bodies.
Finally, their guide pushed open a door and ushered them into a
bedroom, where Garcia was presiding over a meeting of the Cabinet he had
appointed the previous day. Some of these high functionaries were seated
on the Dictator’s bed, others on the table, and one on a bundle of
soiled linen.
They were received more than courteously. Garcia, who was in his
shirt-sleeves, and shaving, ran toward the Marquis with both hands
outstretched, scattering white flakes from his shaving-brush as he came.
“Forgive me, señor,” he said. “Antique simplicity! Antique
simplicity!... I receive you as I would a friend... for I trust you come
as a friend, as a friend of the new Government. Let me introduce you.”
He began with the Minister of War, who was astride the bolster, and
finished up with the Minister for Posts and Telegraphs, a hideous
half-breed chewing cocoa-nut leaves.
“No fuss, you see,” babbled on Garcia. “Antique simplicity. Cato, and
all that sort of thing.... Nothing like antiquity, sir, to make men....
The good padres taught us that, and I took the lesson to heart.” He
laughed. “All that show is for outside... the crowds like it. You must
amuse the crowd!... Did you see my review? Splendid, wasn’t it?...
Magnificent soldiers.... And the rain., Did you see what I did?
Effective, eh?”
Daring all this verbiage, Garcia was thinking hard, and watching the
new-comers’ faces. He was far from being a fool. Were they, or were they
not, ambassadors from Veintemilla? Would he accept a compromise, if they
came to offer it? In a moment his mind was made up; he would refuse,
and risk everything on the result of this rising, his large fortune and
his life included.
At last the Marquis was able to speak.
“I have come to ask the assistance of the master of Peru.”
At these words the Dictator, who was washing the soap from his face,
looked up in surprise over a towel. He knew that the Marquis was a
personal friend of Veintemilla. Natividad looked away uneasily, for he
was compromising himself horribly.
“The master of Peru,” repeated the Marquis, “whose motto is ‘Liberty for
all.’ I want him to restore to me my two children, who have been
stolen.”
“Stolen! What do you mean, señor? Those who have done this thing shall
be punished. I swear it by my ancestor, Pedro de la Vega, who gave his
life for the True Faith, and was killed by the infidels in the year of
grace 1537 at the Battle of Xauxa, in which he received seventeen wounds
while fighting at the side of the illustrious Christobal de la Torre!”
The Marquis had always said that Garcia was in no way descended from
Pedro de la Vega, and Garcia knew it.
“Those same infidels have now carried off my daughter, Excellency.”
“The beautiful señorita! But what do you mean by infidels? What
infidels?”
“She has been kidnaped from Callao by the Quichuas... as a sacrifice to
their gods during the Interaymi.”
“Sacrifice!... Interaymi... but that cannot be, señor.”
“I am sure of what I say, Excellency, and she has certainly been carried
off. Let me introduce señor Perez, the inspector superior of the police
of Callao. Like myself, he is devoted to your cause. He will tell you
the same thing. Speak, Natividad.”
Horrified at the form of the Marquis’ introduction, Natividad stammered
a corroboration. If Garcia did not win now, all that was left for him to
do was to cross the Bolivian frontier.
The change in Garcia’s manner was immediate. He did not want trouble
with the Quichuas, his partisans and allies.
“But I can do nothing for you, señor. All this happened in Callao.
Veintemilla is still master there, and you must go to him.”
“They are now in this very city, imprisoned in a house which is guarded
by your own troops.”
“That is not possible. I should have known it. But if by some
extraordinary fact this is so, you have not done wrong in coming to me.”
“I knew I would not appeal to you in vain. As long as I live, I shall
not forget this service. I have friends in Lima, señor! And this
gentleman also,” he pointed to Natividad. “The police of Callao is
yours.... Only accompany us to the gates of the city, and set my
children free, and my life and my fortune are yours.”
“I am afraid I cannot come myself, for I am expecting the British
Consul. But I will send my Minister for War with you. You will find
him just as useful.” Garcia turned and whistled for the dignitary
in question, who seemed in no hurry to move. “Go and see what is
happening,” he ordered, “and let me know.... I believe you are in error,
gentlemen, but I will do what I can for you.”
Don Christobal and Natividad went out, followed by the Minister, whose
enormous spurs made the hall and staircase echo. Garcia closed the door.
“I wonder what it all means,” he mused aloud, evidently much put out.
“Ten to one, Oviedo Runtu is in it. If he really has carried off
señorita de la Torre, the outlook for us at Lima is bad.”
The door opened, and an officer announced the British Consul.
This official was a big tradesman of the town, who had secured the
commissariat contracts to Garcia’s army by promising him the support of
Great Britain.
Garcia began to speak of his soldiers, and the consul put in that the
worth of an army resided more in the general who commanded it than in
the men themselves. His compliment provoked a self-satisfied bow from
Garcia, but he made the mistake of trying to improve it, and added:
“For, between you and me, Excellency, those troops of yours are not
worth much, and if you had not been there to...”
“Not worth much! What the devil do you mean! Do you know what kind of
fighting they have been doing in the mountains? Not worth much, indeed!
Did you see a single laggard...”
“No, but the guard are all sound asleep now.”
“Asleep!” Garcia swore, and ran to the door.
III
Garcia opened the door, and looked down the staircase, where he both
heard and saw his guards sleeping. Pale with anger, the Dictator woke
them, and ordered the officer to muster his men on the landing.
“My soldiers never sleep!” he declared to the consul. “Look at them. Do
they look as if they wanted sleep?... Come, my lads, a little exercise
to keep you fit. Out of that window with you all!”
His outstretched arm pointed to the bedroom window, nearly five yards
above the ground. The poor hussars looked at him, hesitated, and jumped.
Remained only the officer.
“Well, and what are you waiting for, major? You should be with your
men.”
Then, as the officer did not move, he seized him round the waist, and
threw him out of the window. The watching ministers and the consul,
anxious not to take the same route, laughed heartily at the jest, and
went to look into the courtyard. Those of the soldiers who had landed
more or less safely were picking up three comrades with broken legs. The
officer was being carried off, his skull fractured.
Just as this interlude ended, the Minister for War returned, still
followed by the Marquis and Natividad.
“Well?” asked Garcia, closing the window.
“The Red Ponchos,” replied the Minister, looking meaningly at his
illustrious chief. “Oviedo Runtu quartered them there, and added a few
soldiers to the guard. They leave to-morrow night for the Cuzco.”
“What else?” Garcia was nervously twisting his mustache.
“They know nothing of the young lady and the little boy.”
“Excellency,” burst in the Marquis, who could contain himself no longer,
“you must have that house searched. I know they are in it. You cannot
allow those scoundrels to go free! Your name would be tarnished for
ever if you did such a thing! It would make you the accomplice of
murderers!....On you depend the life of my son, the only heir of a great
name which in the past has always fought for civilization, side by side
with yours, and of my daughter, whom you once loved.”
The latter consideration might have had little effect on the Dictator,
who did not believe in confusing love and politics, but the sentence
before, appealing to his sentiments as the representative of “a great
name” moved him powerfully. He turned bruskly to his Minister for War.
“But you must have seen something. I presume you searched the house?”
“If I forced that house, Excellency, every one of our Quichua soldiers
would rise. Runtu has only to make a sign, and they cut all our throats.
That house is sacred, for the Red Ponchos and the mammaconas are
escorting the ‘sacred imprints from Cajamarca to the Cuzco for the
Interaymi fêtes. It is impossible, Excellency.” One look from the
Dictator drove all his ministers from the room. When the door had closed
on the last one, he turned to the Marquis.
“If your children are in that house, señor, it is terrible... but I can
do nothing for you.” Don Christobal staggered under the blow, and leaned
against the wall.
“Listen, Garcia,” he said in a strangled voice, “if this horrible crime
is allowed, I shall make you personally responsible for it before the
civilized world.”
He reeled, almost on the point of fainting. Garcia ran to his side, and
held him up, but Don Christobal seemed to regain his forces at once.
“Hands off, you general of murderers!” he shouted.
Garcia went white, while the Marquis walked toward the door, turning his
back on the Dictator though he expected to be stabbed at any moment. But
Garcia controlled himself, and his lisping voice checked Don Christobal
in surprise.
“Do not go yet, señor. I can do nothing for you, but I can at all events
give you some advice.”
Don Christobal turned, but ignored the hand which waved to a chair, and
waited. He had already wasted too much time here.
“Speak, sir,” he said; “time passes.”
“Have you any money?” asked Garcia bruskly.
“Money? What for? To...” He was on the point of saying “to bribe
you,” but stopped at a suppliant look from Natividad, who was signing
desperately to him from behind the Dictator’s back.
Garcia, remembering there was somebody else in the room, took Natividad
by the arm, and put him out of the room without a word. Then he sat down
at a little table loaded with papers, rested his head in his hands, and
began to speak in an undertone, without looking at the Marquis, still
standing and suspicious.
“I can do nothing for you against the Red Ponchos and the mammaconas.
Their house, or their temporary quarters, must be sacred, for they have
the relics of Atahualpa with them. You say your children are in that
house as well. That may be, but I am helpless to prove or disprove it.
It is horrible, I agree, but I am powerless. You say that my soldiers
are guarding the house? That is not true. I am nobody in all this. Who
put them there? Oviedo Runtu. They are Oviedo Runtu’s soldiers.”
He paused for a moment.
“Who is Oviedo Runtu? A bank-clerk whom you may have had dealings with
at Lima? Yes, and no. He is a bank clerk, but he is also the master of
every Quichua in the country. Yes, he dresses like a European, and
earns a humble living among us, but meanwhile he is studying all our
institutions, our financial methods, all our secrets. He earns two
hundred soles a month behind a counter, and he is perhaps a king. I
don’t know.
“King or not, all the Quichua and Aimara chiefs are his slaves. Huascar,
your former servant, is his right hand.... If you ask me, a man who has
dreamed the regeneration of his race! That’s what he is.... When I was
preparing this revolt at Arequipa, Huascar came and offered me Oviedo
Runtu’s aid, and I accepted the alliance because I could not do
otherwise. Do you understand now? It is not I, but Oviedo Runtu.... He
is in your way, as he is in mine.... And, believe me, I am as sorry for
you as for myself.”
“That’s the man. I can see his hand in it all.”
“As I said before, force is out of the question. But though I cannot
fight the Red Ponchos, _you_ can bribe them. They are Quichuas, and any
Indian can be bought. That is why I asked if you had any money.”
“No, I have none,” replied the Marquis, who had been listening to the
Dictator eagerly. “We left in a hurry, and I had not time to think of
it.”
“Fortunately, though, I have.”
Garcia whistled in a certain manner, and the Minister for Finance came
in.
“Where is the war chest?”
“Under the Red, Excellency.” The Minister went down on his knees, and
dragged an iron-bound box to Garcia’s side.
“You may go now.”
When they were alone again, Garcia took a little key from his pocket,
opened the box, and took out a bundle of bank-notes, which he threw on
the table. Locking the box, he pushed it under the bed again, picked up
the notes, and handed them to the Marquis.
“Count them afterwards, and pay me back in Lima, when I am President.
There is enough there to bleach every Red Poncho in existence. They are
gentlemen who know the value of those little pieces of paper. Oviedo
Runtu himself probably taught them. Good-by, señor, and good luck.”
“Excellency,” said the Marquis, forgetting that a moment before he had
called this man a murderer, “I do not thank you... but if I succeed...”
“Yes, yes, I know... your life and fortune are mine.”
“One word more. I shall try to bribe your troopers with the rest.”
“By all means! By all means!”
“And if we fail, Excellency, I warn you that weak as we are, desperate
as the venture may be, we shall attack those priests and their escort.
Can we count on your neutrality?”
“Most certainly. And if by chance you injure Oviedo, I shall not have
you hauled up before a court-martial!”
They shook hands, and the Marquis ran out. As he crossed the threshold,
Garcia shrugged his shoulders.
“His daughter is lost, but he, the fool, has been bought by me. All this
would not have happened if she had married me.”
At the bottom of the staircase, the Marquis found Natividad waiting
anxiously. In the street, they met Dick, who had come to look for them.
He was pale and agitated, and it was evident that some extraordinary
event had made him leave his post.
“What has happened?” asked the Marquis.
“Back to the inn, quick! We must decide on some course of action. What
did Garcia say?”
“That he could do nothing for us. But he gave me money and a piece of
advice that may save them. But what made you leave your post? Are they
still there?”
“Yes. Only one person has left the house. Huascar. I followed,
determined to corner him, and kill him like a dog, if need he. He went
straight to our inn, and asked for you. They told him you had gone out,
but were returning. He then said he would wait, so I came to fetch you.”
“They are saved!” exclaimed Don Christobal. “Why else should Huascar
come to see me?”
“I don’t like the man, and don’t believe in him. You must not forget
that you have to do with a fanatic, and one who owes Maria-Teresa a
grudge.”
“My wife found him starving in the street, and gave him shelter. I
cannot believe he has altogether forgotten that.... I have always
thought he was in the whole business against his will, and determined to
save Maria-Teresa sooner or later. Hurry!”
“I hope you’re right, but I don’t believe it,” replied Dick. “We’ll
have him cornered in a minute, and if he doesn’t answer my questions
properly, he’ll be sorry.”
“You must not forget, Dick, that they have hostages.”
“Hostages which they will massacre even if we let Huascar go free, sir!
I would give anything to wring his neck!”
“And I, boy, would give anything to save my children.”
The Marquis’ tone was so icy that Dick refrained from further comment.
Just before they reached the inn, Natividad noticed on the opposite
pavement a tall old man leaning on a shepherd’s crook, and watching the
door through which Huascar had entered. A ragged cloak hung over his
thin shoulders, and a straggling white beard framed a face so white that
it was deathlike. Natividad stopped, and looked at him hard.
“I know that face,” he muttered. “Who is it? Who is it?”
Don Christobal, entering the inn, told Dick that he was going to their
room, and asked him to bring Huascar there. The stairs leading up to the
first floor were just inside the archway, and the Marquis, putting his
foot on the first step, noticed Natividad staring across the road. His
eye followed, and he also was struck by a sudden vague memory.
“Who on earth is that?” he wondered. “I have seen that man before.”
IV
Hardly had the Marquis entered the room than Huascar made his
appearance, followed by Dick and Natividad, like a prisoner with his
two guards. The Indian swept off his hat, with a grave “_Dios anki
tiourata,_” To wish a white man good-day thus, in the sacred Aimara
language, was a sign of great respect. Then, seeing that the Marquis did
not respond to the greeting, Huascar began to speak in Spanish.
“Señor, I bring you news of the señorita and your son. If the God of the
Christians, whom the benefactress worshiped, aids me, they will both be
restored to you.”
Don Christobal, though seething within, forced himself to the same calm
as the Indian.
“Why have you and yours committed this crime?” he questioned, crossing
his arms.
“Why did you and yours commit the crime of not watching over them?
Had you not been warned? Huascar, for your sake, twice betrayed his
brethren, his god, and his country. He remembered that the mother of
the señorita once befriended a naked child in Callao. That is why he
has sworn to save her daughter from the terrible honor of entering the
Enchanted Realms of the Sun.”
Don Christobal half held out his hand, but the Indian did not take it,
smiling sadly.
“Gracias, señor.”
“And my son, Huascar?”
“Your son is in no danger. Huascar watches over him.”
“You say you watch over them! But to-morrow I may have neither son nor
daughter.”
“Neither son nor daughter will you have if you do not obey Huascar.” The
man’s tone had become somber and menacing. “But if you obey, I swear by
the head of Atahualpa, who awaits your daughter should I betray her, I
swear by my eternal soul, that the señorita will be saved!”
“What must we do?”
“Nothing. You must abstain from all action. Do not pursue the Red
Ponchos and put them on their guard. I will do everything if you and
yours promise not to come near that house again. They know you, and when
you appear, the mammaconas form the black chain round the Bride of the
Sun. If a stranger appeared, they would offer her up to Atahualpa dead,
rather than see her escape. Be warned, and do not leave this inn. If you
promise me that, I swear that I will bring your son here, unharmed, at
midnight. For your daughter, you must wait.”
Don Christobal took down a little crucifix from a nail over the bed, and
came toward Huascar.
“The señora brought you up in our holy faith,” he said. “Swear upon this
that you will do as you say.”
Huascar held out his hand and took the oath.
“I have sworn,” he said proudly, “but for me, your word is enough.”
“You have it,” replied Don Christobal. “We await you here at midnight.
Gentlemen,” he added, as Huascar’s steps rang on the staircase without,
“I have given my word, and you must help me keep it. I believe in
Huascar.”
“So do I,” added Natividad.
Dick was silent. He had been watching the Indian, and was unconvinced.
“What do you think, Dick?”
“I don’t like it. Perhaps I am mistaken, though. I feel that Huascar
hates me, and I do not love him particularly. We are not in a position
to judge one another. Midnight will show.”
Natividad, going to the window, had opened it, and was leaning out into
the street.
“I tell you I have seen that face somewhere before,” he reiterated.
“So have I,” added the Marquis, going to the window as well.
Dick joined them, and watched the skeletonlike old man across the
street He was tracking Huascar, like a little boy playing at brigands,
childishly taking ineffective cover behind carts, pedestrians and trees.
The Indian had noticed him, and turned once or twice; then continued on
his way openly, quite unconcerned.
Suddenly, the Marquis, pensively leaning against the window,
straightened himself with an exclamation.
“That is Orellana! The father of Maria-Cristina de Orellana!”
Natividad started.
“You are right. That’s who it is.... I remember him well now.”
They remained as if stunned by this apparition from the terrible past;
this ghost come to remind them that he too had had a beautiful daughter;
that she had vanished ten years before, during the Interaymi, and that
he would never see her again. The Marquis, crushed by a flood of old
memories, sat inert in an armchair, deaf to Natividad’s reassuring
words, and refused to touch a mouthful of the meal prepared for them.
Dick, at the Marquis’ exclamation, had dashed down into the street,
caught up with the mysterious old man at the corner of the square, and
put a hand on his shoulder. The stranger turned, looking at the young
man fixedly.
“What do you desire, señor?” he asked in a toneless voice.
“I want to know why you are following that man.” Dick pointed to
Huascar, just disappearing at another corner.
“Do you not know, then? The great day of the Interaymi is near. I am
following that man because he commands the Red Ponchos, who are taking
my daughter to the Cuzco. She is the Bride of the Sun, you know. But
this time I shall not let her die! I shall save her, and we will return
together to Lima, where her fiancée is waiting. Adios señor!”
He stalked away on his long legs, leaning on the crook.
“Mad!” said Dick aloud. Then he clenched his fists as if to hold his own
reason. This inaction would drive him insane! To think that in the very
heart of a supposedly civilized city there was nothing to do but to wait
And wait for what? Huascar’s good pleasure; his good pleasure to keep
his word or break it. Could he force that house alone? He could at all
events try, and fight his way to Maria-Teresa’s feet, even if he was
killed the minute afterwards.
He stopped, and pulled himself together.
What good purpose would that serve? No, he must wait; wait until
midnight, when Huascar would return. That was the only thing to do; ruse
for ruse, and the golden voice of money to talk to those Indians. But
midnight was a long way off. Ten times the young man paced round
the square, wondering and raging. Surely there were behind all these
beflagged and festooned windows a legion of Christian men who would rise
like a hurricane if they knew the abominable truth!
Dick’s thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a dancing,
singing, howling mob at the end of the neighboring calle. This, then,
was the populace which he would have raised against Garcia, and which
obeyed Garcia, while the Dictator, like Pilate, washed his hands of it.
The mob approached, to the thunder of drums and bugles, while flaming
torches and swaying paper lanterns lit up the scene, for night had now
fallen. Overhead fluttered banners adorned with crosses and strange
symbols perhaps two thousand years old. Christians, this crowd? Perhaps!
Not a man of the upper classes was to be seen, not even a high-caste
Indian. Here were only the dregs of the city; a mass of howling maniacs,
whirling and whooping round a huge bonfire which had flared up in the
center of the square, their wild yells punctuated by salvas of cohetes
(crackers). On one side of the square they were singing hymns; on the
other they were drinking, smoking, swearing. One group of natives swept
into a church, still dancing; another entered the theater and became
religiously silent, awaiting the arrival of Garcia, for whom a gala was
being given.
Dick, arms crossed and brows knit, glared at the passing groups. There
was nothing to be done with such brutes as these! Then he took a sudden
resolution. To the four winds with Huascar and his promises! He would go
to that little adobe house! Feeling to see if his revolver was safe in
his pocket, he turned, only to be confronted by Huascar.
“Señor, where go you?”
He put a hand on the engineer’s arm, restraining him. Dick roughly
shouldered the man away.
“You know where I am going.”
Again the Indian intervened.
“Return to the inn, señor,” he advised calmly. “I will be there in two
hours’ time with the little lord. But if you make another step I cannot
answer for the safety of your betrothed.” Huascar’s voice had changed as
he said “your betrothed.” Dick, looking up quickly, saw nothing but
hatred in the Indian’s eyes. Maria-Teresa is lost, he thought
despairingly. Then a flash of light seemed to illumine the abyss into
which he felt himself rolling with her.
“Huascar,” he said abruptly, “if you save Don Christobal’s daughter...”
He stopped a moment, for his heart was beating as if it would burst.
In those few seconds of silence, which seemed an eternity, the barbaric
picture of that scene became imprinted on his brain for all time--this
dark archway under which they had instinctively drawn, the somber and
deserted street before them, the intermittent uproar from the plaza
mayor, and, in the adjacent streets, the banging of cohetes thrown by
mischievous boys under the feet of all that passed. Just opposite, at
a window on the first floor, half-a-dozen globules of colored fire
flickered in the darkness; a family of royal Arequipenos had been
illuminating in honor of Garcia before going to see the torchlight
procession, or to the gala at the Municipal Theater.
Dick waited until an Indian, loaded down with horse-cloths, had passed
and vanished; perhaps, sub-consciously, he was awaiting the miracle
which would render unnecessary what he was about to say. The Indian
waited, motionless as a statue.
“If you save her, I swear to you by my God that she shall never be my
wife.”
Huascar did not answer at once. He was evidently taken by surprise.
“I shall save her,” he said at last. “Return to the inn, señor. I shall
be there at midnight.” He turned and walked toward the river without
another look at Dick, who made his way back to the plaza mayor, his ears
buzzing, convinced that he had delivered Maria-Teresa.
V
Absorbed by his thoughts, shaken by the mental storm through which he
had just passed, Dick did not notice what was happening about him, and
was nearly ridden down by a detachment of hussars clearing a way to
the theater. The hussars were escorting an open carriage drawn by four
splendidly caparisoned horses, and seated in the carriage were two men:
General Garcia, in all the glory of the fullest of full uniforms, and
beside him, in immaculate evening-dress, Oviedo Runtu.
When he saw the Indian, Dick made as if to rush after the carriage,
but he was swept away in a swirl of the crowd and, hardly knowing how,
carried right into the theater on that human flood. He at once tried
to escape, but could not battle his way back to the door. Garcia,
surrounded by a glittering staff, was bowing to the cheering crowd from
the front of the presidential box. Dick was so placed that he could
not see Oviedo Runtu. The Indian, modestly hidden behind a column, left
Garcia to wrestle with his glory alone.
A French actress, “of the Comédie Française,” if the bills were to be
believed, came before the footlights and recited Spanish verse, in which
Garcia was hailed as “the Savior of the country.”
Then the curtain rose, revealing a pedestal, on which was the bust of a
general. It had served several times before for a like purpose, but this
time it was supposed to represent Garcia. Round it was grouped the whole
company, which intoned a triumphal chorus. Then, one by one, the actors
filed past the bust, each with his little speech and a wreath.
The bust was almost buried in flowers when an Indian girl appeared. She
was wearing the Quichua costume:--a little tunic open at the neck, and
a dozen skirts of various colors worn one on the other; over her
shoulders, a woolen mantlet, secured at the throat by a spoon-shaped
brooch.
She was greeted with a roar of delight by the Indian part of the
audience. And she, in her turn, that nothing might be lacking in
Garcia’s triumph, sang something in Indian, something by which the
Indians also put all their hope and trust in the Savior of the Country.
At the last verse she shouted, as was only meet, “Long live Garcia!” the
crowd taking up the echo. There were other voices, however, shouting,
“Huayna Capac Runtu!”
A gorgeous din followed. Every Indian in the theater jumped up,
cheering, joined by scores of half-breeds who suddenly remembered their
descent and, tired of being treated with contempt by the whites, joined
in the roar of “Long live Huayna Capac Runtu!” The purely Peruvian
element sat motionless in stalls and boxes.
Meanwhile, in the presidential box, Garcia had drawn to his constellated
bosom the resplendent shirt-front of the bank-clerk, embracing
before all the illustrious descendant of the Inca kings. The house,
enthusiastic before, became delirious.
The gala was over, and Dick was carried out of the theater as he had
been swept in. He had seen enough to realize how useless had been the
Marquis’ visit to the Dictator. Garcia was helpless without the Indians,
and the real master of the situation was Oviedo. Dick had now no hope
but in Huascar. It was eleven o’clock, and he hurried back to the inn.
There he found Natividad and the Marquis equally anxious at his
protracted absence. As to Uncle Francis, nobody had seen him since the
arrival at Arequipa, and nobody worried about him. Dick told them of his
meeting with Huascar; he was convinced now of the Indian’s good faith.
They did not exchange another word until midnight, anxiously peering out
of the windows for some sign to confirm their hopes. Natividad was as
anxious as his two companions. He was a kind-hearted man, and had gone
so far into the adventure that he could no longer withdraw without
loss of self-esteem. Moreover, he was so compromised, administratively
speaking, that, all things taken into consideration, he could not do
better than stand by the Marquis to the end. Whatever the result, he was
sure that Don Christobal would not let him starve.
Midnight came, and the twelve strokes rang out from the church tower.
The theater had long since given up its last enthusiasts, and the square
was now more or less deserted. All the paper lanterns had gone out, but
the night was a clear one, and they could easily distinguish the shadows
moving homewards under the arcades. None of them, though, came toward
the inn. A quarter past twelve. Not one of the three men in the room
dared say a word!
At half-past twelve, still nothing! The Marquis heaved a strangled sigh.
At a quarter to one, Dick went over to the little lamp smoking on the
table, took out his revolver, and opened it to see that it was loaded
and working properly.
“Huascar has fooled us like children,” he said, vainly striving to
control his voice. “He came here in broad daylight, with the knowledge
of his accomplices, and threw sand in our eyes. He has kept us quiet for
hours that were priceless to them, and might have been to us. I have no
hope left. Maria-Teresa is lost, but I shall see her again if I die for
it.”
He left the room. Don Christobal, catching up his cloak and arming
himself as well, followed, Natividad in his wake. They crossed the
square in silence. At the top of the alley leading down to the adobe
house, Natividad asked the Marquis what he intended to do against fifty
armed men.
“The first man we see will be offered a thousand soles to speak. If he
refuses, a knife in the ribs. Then we shall see.”
When they reached the point where they had been stopped by Civil Guards
earlier in the day, they were astonished to find the sentry gone. For a
moment, there was a flicker of hope in their hearts, but when they had
advanced another twenty yards and saw the house unguarded, they realized
the truth. They ran forward and entered the open door. All the rooms
were deserted. In one of them they found the same pungent odor as at
the hacienda on the Chorillos road. “They are lost,” muttered Natividad,
while the Marquis, breaking down at last, called his children’s names
aloud through the deserted house.
Dick, exploring the place, fell over a crouching figure, and put all his
pent-up rage into throwing the man. Half strangled and trembling with
fear, the captured half-breed explained that he was the owner of the
house. He had been roistering in the city, but the threat of death
sobered him and loosened his tongue.
Just after eleven o’clock, a closed carriage had driven up to the door.
He did not know who had entered it, but it had been escorted to the
station by all the women and the Red Ponchos. This he knew for certain,
because he had followed them out of curiosity. At the station, the man
they called Huascar had given him some money, telling him to go away
and not to return to the house before daylight “The blackguard!” growled
Dick. “He knew we would come here when he didn’t turn up! Come on! To
the station, quick!”
When they reached it, it was with the greatest difficulty that they
finally unearthed an employee asleep on a bench. He made no secret
of the fact that a large number of Indians had left at a quarter past
eleven, in a special train ordered by Oviedo Runtu “for his servants.”
No, they could not get another special train that night for all the
money in the world. If they wanted to get to Sicuapi as well, they
would have to wait until the morning. This said, he returned to his
interrupted nap.
That night was a terrible one for the three men. They made another vain
attempt to reach Garcia, and then wandered through the streets until
dawn. Don Christobal was beginning to talk incoherently, and showed all
the signs of approaching dementia. Again and again Dick led them back to
the adobe house and wandered through the empty rooms. The half-breed had
taken to his heels.
Natividad was not in a much better condition than his companions, and
when the first morning train started, it carried three specters in one
compartment. Other travelers, hesitating at the door, literally bolted
when they saw their wild eyes.
The train went as far as Sicuani, but they did not reach it the same
day, being obliged to pass a night at Juliaca, nearly ten thousand feet
above sea-level, where they again found the trace of the Red Ponchos.
It was intensely cold, and all three were taken with mountain sickness,
which made them so weak that they were forced to take some rest. They
only partially recovered next day, at Sicuani. There was a motor service
between Sicuani and Cuzco, which was working despite the revolution, but
the Marquis, unwilling to trust anybody or anything, bought a car for
himself at a fabulous price. He was also moved by the thought that it
might prove useful later on.
Just as they were leaving the station road in their motor, they met
Uncle Francis, cool, unperturbed, and fresh as a daisy. An avalanche of
questions did not ruffle his calm.
“Well, I lost you at Arequipa and did not know what to do. Then I said
to myself; ‘They are sure to be somewhere near the Red Ponchos.’ We are
following them, are we not? So when I saw one, I stuck to him like
a leech. I followed him to a little house near the river, which was
guarded by soldiers. That, said I to myself, must be where these dear
children are being kept prisoners. You did not appear, and I thought
you had gone ahead. Everybody knows where these ceremonies take place,
I suppose. But I did not, so I stuck to my Red Poncho. When they went to
the station, I followed. Somebody told me it was a special train and I
couldn’t get in, but I gave the guard two soles and slept in his van.
When we arrived, I couldn’t see you anywhere. I went on to Cuzco, but
you were not there either. So I came back to meet this morning’s train.
And here I am!”
Uncle Francis does not realize to this day how near he came to being
strangled by his dutiful nephew, or stabbed by the Marquis. His superb
calm nearly drove them frantic.
“Where did they take Maria-Teresa?” demanded Dick, roughly, though he
owed the unconscious tracker more thanks than blame.
“You know well enough! To the House of the Serpent.”
“The House of the Serpent!” Dick turned, to Natividad, gripping his
sleeve. “I have heard you say something about that place. What does it
mean?”
“It means that they are in the Antechamber of Death.”