I
Dick rubbed his eyes. What had become of that crowd? Who had hailed the
god of Day? Now that the sun was high on the horizon, and that things
had taken on their true shapes again, he could see only ruined palaces
and solitude.
Orellana had driven his pirogue to the shore, and jumped onto the
beach, signing to the young man to follow. As they neared the cliffs, he
stopped him; the pious throng had vanished, but not in a dream, for the
sound of chanting could still be heard from within the rock.
“Come with me,” said the old man. “They have gone to the Temple of
Death, but we shall be there before them.”
They entered a grotto. Dick had no will but Orellana’s, and no hope.
He was convinced that Maria-Teresa must die, and regarded that last
greeting of theirs as the supreme one. Once certain that she had passed
to the realms of night, he would follow her there. He had been told she
was to end her life in the Temple of Death, and this old man, who ten
years before had lost his daughter in the same way, said he knew where
it was. Well, he would follow him.
The grotto was a deep one. After walking for a few seconds over sand
and shells, the old man lit a resinous torch, and the spluttering flame
showed the dark entrance of a passage. Before entering it, however, he
bent down in a corner and picked something up. Dick saw that it was a
pick.
“What are you going to do with that?”
“Save my daughter, of course! Just come with me, and I’ll show you. I
shan’t let those devils choke her as they did ten years ago. They wall
them up alive, you see. All we need do is to wait until they have
gone, and then take her out again. Clear enough, isn’t it?... When I
discovered the Temple of Death and saw all the slabs on the wall, I said
to myself: ‘It would have been easy enough to save her if I had been
there.’ It was too late then. And of course, I didn’t know which stone
she was behind. This time, though, I shall watch them.... We’ll get the
best of them yet. See if we don’t!”
There was hope, then! Dick took a long breath, and steadied himself.
Madmen with their set ideas are sometimes nearer the truth than sane men
with their set reason. Dick took the pick, and followed Orellana down
the winding passage, the torch in the old man’s trembling hand throwing
weird lights and shadows on their path. There was not a foreign sound to
be heard. The earth had choked all noise as it might yet choke them.
Hacked through the stone, their corridor opened at intervals onto little
square rooms, probably the burial-places of long-forgotten priests and
dignitaries, slumbering there as their brethren of ancient Egypt slumber
in the Pyramids. In the last of these rooms, Orellana put out the torch,
and fell on his knees, for the narrow gut which they now entered was far
too low for a man to stand upright in. A few yards further on, they came
to a spacious niche, and stood up again.
“We are there,” said the old man, stopping Dick.
It was far less dark here, and Dick, his eyes growing used to the
obscurity, realized that a diffused light was reaching them from
somewhere. The shadowy outline of columns and cornices gradually took
shape, and he realized that he was looking down from a height of several
feet into a vast hall.
“That is the Temple of Death,” said Orellana. “Listen!”
From the distance came the sound of rhythmic chanting, and suddenly
a blinding stream of light descended into the chamber before them.
Instinctively, they threw themselves back into the darkest corner of
their niche. Above them, at the summit of the vast subterranean hall, a
stone had been removed, letting in the golden sunlight. In the heart of
the vault was a kind of truncated cone, so fashioned that the sunbeams,
sliding along its surface, were thrown into the farthest corner of the
mysterious temple.
Altars, altar-steps, and niches were heavy with gold, the plaques of the
precious metal being bound together by a wonderful cement, to make
which liquid gold had been used. This hidden temple was, in a word, a
veritable goldmine.
On the eastern wall was an image of the divinity, wrought in massive
gold, and representing a human head surrounded by shafts of light. So
the old world has also represented the sun. The heavy plaque was studded
with emeralds and other precious stones. The rays of the rising sun fell
full upon it, filling the whole temple with a light that seemed almost
supernatural, and flashing back from the gold ornaments with which walls
and vault were incrusted. Gold, in the poetic language of the country,
is “the tears shed by the Sun,” and the Temple blazed with the precious
metal. The cornices crowning the sanctuary walls were also of gold, and
a frieze of gold, hammered into the stone, ran right round the hall.
Dick and Orellana, from their coign of vantage, could see a number of
chapels placed symmetrically round the great central chamber. One of
them was sacred to the Moon, mother of the Incas. Her effigy was almost
identical with that of the Sun, but the plaque was of silver, recalling
the soft glow of that gentle planet. Another chapel was dedicated to the
Armies of the Heavens, which are the stars and the brilliant court of
the sister of the Sun; a third, to thunder and lightning, the terrible
ministers of her wrath; yet another, to the rainbow. And in all these
chapels, as in the temple, all that was not silver was gold, gold, gold.
The young engineer’s eyes gradually took in all the details of the
temple. First, the central altar, several steps above the floor, on
which were golden vases brimming over with maize, incense-burners, ewers
for the blood of the sacrifice, and a great golden knife on a tray of
gold. Then he realized that something living was moving in the hall,
which he had thought deserted. The Guardians of the Temple, like three
hideous gnomes, glided from altar to altar, while the one with the
cap skull, given the taste for blood from his earliest years by this
deformation of the cranium, urged the others to hasten, and every little
while went to the main altar to pat the great knife waiting there.
Behind the altar, and rising above it, was a kind of golden pyramid,
crowned with a golden throne. “That is for the King,” said Orellana. On
each side of the altar, and before it, were three other pyramids. But
they were not so high, and were not of gold. They were of wood. “The
pyres,” explained Orellana.
“The pyres! What do you mean, man?”
“Steady, steady! They’re not going to burn her. She’s the Bride of the
Sun, and they wall her up. Burn her, indeed! It’s not done, I tell you.
Every Aïmara child knows that. Little children don’t see the Temple of
Death unless they are to die in it, but they know that much. Burn my
daughter, indeed! As if I would allow it! What do you think I brought
this pick for? You do just as well not to answer. Much better remain
silent than talk nonsense like that. If you look at the walls out there
you’ll see a big porphyry slab between each gold panel. There are just
a hundred of them, and behind each one is one of the Sun’s brides. If
I only knew which tomb my daughter was in, I would have had her out a
long time ago. But the slabs are all just alike, and there is nothing to
help a poor father in his search. This time, though, I’m watching, and
as soon as they’ve gone, I shall save her.”
“She may be dead, smothered alive, when you get her out.” Dick, thinking
hard while the old man babbled on in whispers, was hoping against hope.
“That just shows how little you know about it. They are deep tombs, like
cupboards, and you can sit in them. Don’t you know the Indians always
bury people sitting? There’s air enough in there to keep her alive for
an hour, or even two. And I shall have her out in ten minutes!”
Dick stared blindly at the porphyry slabs before him.
“But if there are a hundred of them in there already, there isn’t room
for another. Are you sure?”
“Of course I am. You needn’t worry, boy. The pyres are for the two
mammaconas who go before the Bride to prepare her chamber in the
Enchanted Realms of the Sun.”
“There are three pyres, though.”
“Naturally. They have to take out the oldest bride to make room for my
daughter. Then they burn her. What else should they do?”
“Burn her? Then they do burn her!”
Dick had almost lost control of his mind.
“The old one, you fool!” retorted Orellana testily. “Didn’t I tell
you there were a hundred there? The Sun is given a new bride every ten
years. Can you count, or can’t you? That makes one of them a thousand
years old.... There’s no harm in burning a wife who is a thousand years
old. The Sun has got tired of her by then. Doesn’t he set fire to her
pyre himself? That proves it.... Listen. Here they come!”
The chanting grew louder, and soon the priests appeared. Behind them
walked the nobles, recognizable by the heavy ear-rings which only
descendants of an Inca may wear; they were dressed in sleeveless red
tunics, and each man bore a banner on which was embroidered a rainbow,
its brilliant hues varying to mark the coat-armor of each house. Next
came young girls of noble family, who in the old days would have become
Virgins of the Sun, ending their lives on the altars of the deity, or
as the wives of the Inca. They were followed by their adult brothers,
wearing the white robes, crosses embroidered on the breast, which were
the traditional costume of men of their caste about to enter the order
of knighthood. After them, the curacas, chiefs of the races conquered
by the Incas and of all the tribes which had taken the oath of fealty.
These men wore multi-colored tunics, unadorned with gold.
The cortège had advanced to the center of the temple, and suddenly,
as the chanting ceased, all turned toward the door by which they
had entered. A strange silence succeeded the rhythmic throbbing of
canticles. Then a terrible scream tore the air. Dick gripped Orellana’s
arm.
“What was that?” he asked hoarsely.
“Nothing to do with us. They’re sacrificing a child in the Black Chapel
of Pacahuamac, the Pure Spirit.”
II
The devils!” Dick wrenched ont his revolver, but the old man gripped
his wrist.
“Quiet, you fool! We can’t save the child now, and if you make a sign we
shan’t save her either. If you can’t stand it, get out!”
The young engineer controlled himself.
“It’s too horrible! Poor little Christobal! My God, why can’t they kill
us all and have done with it!”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, talking like that,” said the madman.
“When a man has nerves like a woman he shouldn’t come to the Temple of
Death.”
After that one terrible cry, all was silence again. Nobles, virgins,
young men and curacas continued their slow progress round the Temple.
Behind them entered the amautas, sages who teach the children of the
Incas; the Red Ponchos, who surrounded the altar like a sacred guard.
None of them carried visible arms. The high dignitaries of the court
followed, wearing the blanchana, a flowing tunic of light bark, painted
in vivid colors. Each man carried a barbaric emblem with wide-open jaws,
designed to frighten away all evil spirits.
Dick thought that Maria-Teresa was entering, but then saw that the
litter borne on the shoulders of nobles was occupied by a figure which
he did not at first recognize. His robe and sandals seemed of solid
gold, and his ears were weighted down with enormous ear-rings, reaching
almost to the shoulders. About his head was the royal llantu, a
multi-colored turban of delicate tissue, and his forehead was further
adorned by the kingly borla, the heavy scarlet and gold fringe of which
partly hid his eyes. Two coraquenque plumes towered above the crown.
As he descended from his litter, aided by two pages, and slowly mounted
the steps of the golden pyramid, the assembly bent to its knees. At the
summit of the pyramid, he paused gravely, took his seat on the golden
throne, and gave the Aimara greeting:--“Dios anki tiourata.”
Then all rose to their feet, while he sat motionless, like a graven
image.
“The bank-clerk!” exclaimed Dick, as he faced toward the hidden
watchers.
They had before them Huayna Gapac Runtu, King of the Incas.
“The god is seated in all his light!” chanted the assembly in unison,
repeating the words three times. Then the wail of the quenias filled
the air, and the religious cortège entered the temple, led by the four
Guards of the Sacrifice, their heads erect now, for the sacred bonnets
hid no secret. Behind them walked another Red Poncho, bearing in
his hands a mass of knotted cords. Dick recognized the Preacher of
Cajamarca, head of the quipucamyas, or Keepers of the Historic Word.
Then came Huascar, in the saffron-colored vestments of the high-priest,
preceded by lesser dignitaries of the church, while four curacas held
over him a canopy of brilliant-hued plumes. All bowed before Huascar;
the Inca alone was above him.
From the high-priest’s stern face and somber eyes, Dick looked to his
hands, to see if they were red with the blood of sacrifice. He felt a
wild desire to shoot him down there, to kill him like a mad dog among
his priests and servitors.
The mammaconas advanced, chanting. He could not at first see
Maria-Teresa, hidden from view by black veils, rhythmically waved about
her. The movement ceased and the women parted, leaving the way clear
for the two among them who were to die and who advanced with uncovered
faces, smiling like happy children.
The quenias ceased their song, and the second litter was brought forward
in solemn silence. Dick shivered. Was Maria-Teresa dead or alive? He
hoped vainly that her litter might pass close to him, as had Huascar’s
canopy. From where he was, she seemed as inert and lifeless as the mummy
monarch beside her, and little Christobal was no longer in her arms.
That part of her face left uncovered by the golden robe and head-dress
was tomb-like in its pallor, and her eyes were closed.
The double throne was set down between the altar and the pyres;
Huascar took his seat on the right of the altar, and the chief of the
qui-pucamyas on the left; the mammaconas stood on the altar-steps. The
two who were to die, their black veils discarded for dainty holiday
attire, with flowers in their tresses, knelt at Maria-Teresa’s feet. The
nobles and the curacas were ranged round the temple with the virgins and
young men. The three Guardians of the Temple closed the doors. No
others might enter, for the common people, forbidden the sight of these
mysteries, waited far away, in the Corridors of Night, until the priests
should return to lead them back through the labyrinth to the light of
day.
Huascar rose, and his sonorous voice opened the ceremony.
“At the beginning was Pacahuamac, the Pure Spirit, who reigned in the
darkness; then came his son, the Sun, and his daughter, the Moon; and
Paeahuamac gave them armies, which are the Stars.
“Unto the Sun and Moon were born children. First were the Pirhuas,
king-pontiffs; then the Amautas, pontiff-kings; and then the Incas,
kings of kings, sent on earth to rule mankind.”
The assembly repeated Huascar’s words like a litany. When it was ended,
young men brought a llama to the altar, and the Guardians of the Temple
offered up the sacrifice. Huascar bent over the entrails.
“The gods are propitious,” he announced to the King.
At a sign from the throne, the chief of the quipucamyas rose to his
feet, and in a few verses recalled the chief terrestrial episodes of the
history of the Incas, the assembly chanting other verses in reply in the
same monotonous rhythm, while the priest slipped the knots of the quipus
through his fingers like a monk telling his beads.
When he reached the verse recounting Atahualpa’s martyrdom, a great
shout went up in the temple. The King, from his throne, raised a
sceptered hand, and spoke. The end of the bondage placed upon his people
by the gods was near; he, Huayna Gapac Runtu, had been chosen by the Sun
to drive out the strangers; and as a gage of his reconciliation with
the faithful, the god had permitted them to offer him in sacrifice the
noblest and most beautiful virgin of the hated race, a descendant of one
of those who had murdered Atahualpa.
At the King’s words, all eyes were carried to Maria-Teresa, and a roar
of “Muera la Coya!” beat round her. Was she not already dead, then?
The savage cries did not even make her eyelids quiver. If she was still
alive, she must be unconscious. Dick, falling to his knees, thanked
heaven for that.
Again the King’s voice rose, telling the people that the day of
deliverance was near; that their empire would be re-born in all its
splendor. The altars of their god, served for centuries in the darkness,
would soon smoke anew in his light. Once again would they be the Free
Children of the Sun.
“Let the Children of the Sun advance!”
The young men approached the royal throne. For thirty days they had
gone through the tests of yore; they had fasted, fought, displayed their
skill in wrestling and with arms; they had worn coarse clothing, walked
barefoot, and slept on the hard floor. Now they advanced in their white
robes, the cross on their breasts, like young knights of the Middle Ages
in the Gothic cathedrals of another faith and land.
They surrounded the golden pyramid and
Huascar, taking evergreen branches from a golden vase held by two
virgins, bound them in their hair as a sign that the virtues they had
acquired must last for all time. Then, one by one, he called their names
to the King, who, as each young man knelt before him, pierced his ears
with a golden awl. They descended, their white robes smeared with blood,
while Huascar, from another vase, took heavy ear-rings, with which he
adorned them. Nothing in the young faces betrayed their suffering. Then
all raised their hands and took the oath of bravery and of fealty to the
Inca.
“That is well,” said the King. “Let them now put on their sandals.”
This part of the ceremony was performed by the quipucamyas, the most
venerable among them strapping on the young men’s feet the sandals of
the Order of the Incas.
“That is well,” repeated the King. “Let them be given their girdles.”
Again the old men passed down the ranks, buckling on the heavy
war-belts.
“That is well,” said the King for the third time. “And I say unto you
before the dead King and the Goya who is to die, that they may repeat it
to your ancestors, that our race is still the first of all living races,
for you are the pure Children of the Sun, without earthly leaven, the
brother having always drunk the blood of the sister!”
The virgins advanced, taking the places of the young men on the steps
of the throne, while fathers and brothers intoned the Aïmara Song of
Triumph.
“The savages! The savages!” raged Dick, thinking only of vengeance now
that he thought Maria-Teresa was dead. He balanced the revolver in his
palm, hesitating. There were at all events Huascar and the King he could
bring down; that would be some satisfaction. But suppose Maria-Teresa
was not dead after all? He might still save her. For a moment he thought
she had moved. He questioned Orellana in a whisper. “My daughter is very
tired, and must be sleeping,” replied the madman.
Meanwhile the cap-skulled Guardian of the Temple had made a little
incision on the throat of each virgin, gathering their blood in a gold
ewer. When the cup was full, he touched it with his lips and handed
it to the young men, among whom it passed from hand to hand, while the
girls, proud of their light wounds, cried, “Glory to the Children of the
Sun!”
“The cup is empty,” announced Huascar.
At his words the King rose, and holding up both arms to the heavens,
implored the Sun to give the signal for the sacrifice.
Clouds of pungent incense rose from the burners, and gradually hid from
view the azure disc overhead. The mammaconas who were to die, obeying
the ritual, ran forward to the King’s feet.
“We implore you, O King, to stop all the smokes of the earth. They hide
his face, and the Sun cannot give the signal for the sacrifice.”
At a sign from the figure on the golden pyramid, the burners were
extinguished, and the spot of blue gradually reappeared. The Guardians
of the Temple, by the pyres, held in their hands metal mirrors, drawing
the sun to a little heap of cotton in the center of each resinous pile.
Thus did the god, of his own will, give the signal for the sacrifice!
There were no stakes on the pyres, no chains; the victims must die
willingly.
While the throng about them chanted prayers, the two mammaconas watched
the pyres. They feared that the god might reject them; then they would
live, shunned by all, until they disappeared. Their eyes, large with
hope in the mercy of the divinity, anxiously awaited the first flicker
of flame.
If the pyre destined to the thousand-year-old Coya did not take fire,
it did not mean that the new one was distasteful to the god. It meant
merely that the old one had not known how to please him, that she was
not worthy of the sepulcher of fire, and that her body must be thrown to
the black vultures in the mountains.
On this day, the first pyre to blaze up was that of the long-dead Coya.
She was waiting. Songs rang out in her honor, and a purple veil which
Dick had not yet noticed fell to the ground. A black gap showed in
the wall, and in it could be seen the shadowy figure of the
thousand-year-old queen, stiff in her scented wrappings.
III
Dick’s head swam. There, before him, was the narrow tomb into which
Maria-Teresa would be plunged living. But was she still living? She must
have died when the child was torn from her arms, or when she had heard
his terrible cry.
The priests had lifted the dead Coya from her tomb, and carried her to
the pyre. She sat severely erect, as Coyas should sit, even when slowly
done to death in a living tomb. So she must sit, and that is why the
tomb is made so narrow that she can only remain motionless on her
throne.
Erect and calm, she vanished in the flames of the pyre, while the two
living mammaconas watched her enviously.
Dick did not even glance at the pyres. His eyes were fixed on the hole
in the wall. She could not live long in there, and they must lose no
time if she was to be saved. One hand gripped Orellana’s pick, while the
other, armed with a revolver, still hesitated. Perhaps Maria-Teresa was
not dead yet! But, if so why did she not open her eyes?
Still the two other pyres did not take fire, and the mammaconas prayed
passionately to the Sun. They must die before Maria-Teresa, to prepare
her chamber in the Enchanted Realms of the Sun, and if they did not
hasten they would never reach them first. “Have pity, O Sun! Send us
your flames, Ejma of the Heavens! We are women; give us courage.”
“Have pity! Send us your flames!” chanted the throng in unison.
But the Sun did not send his flame until the first pyre had nearly
died down, its end hastened by the perfumes heavy with spirit which the
Guards of the Sacrifice poured over the blazing logs.
Dropping their festive garments from them, the two mammaconas ran to the
pyres with cries of joy, and waited, their eyes turned heavenwards in
ecstasy. Diabolical music burst out about them, and a savage frenzy
seemed to seize the other mammaconas as they whirled round the fires.
The greedy flames climbed upwards and reached the victims. One of them
leapt down with a terrible cry.
“Return to the flames! Return to the flames!” chanted the others,
surrounding her. She writhed on the ground, calling for the knife, and
a Guardian of the Temple went toward her. The black veils of the
mammaconas were spotted with blood, but they danced on, singing. The
hideous dwarfs lifted up a body, which disappeared in the fire.
The other mammacona, heroically erect, had cried out only once, and when
she in her turn vanished in the scarlet chariot which the Sun had sent
to take her to his Enchanted Realms, hymns of glory thundered through
the temple.
Maddened by the songs, the flames, the incense, and the acrid smoke
of the pyres, three more mammaconas followed their sisters. It is
impossible to guess how far this delirium of sacrifice would have gone
had not Huascar stopped it. At a sign from him, the diabolical music
ceased, and the Guardians of the Temple choked the glowing pyres with
sand.
It was Maria-Teresa’s turn. Dick, half fainting, opened his eyes again
at Orellana’s words. He saw the mammaconas strip her of the jewels with
which she was literally covered from head to foot. From her hair, ears,
cheeks, breast, shoulders, from her beautiful arms and shapely ankles,
the “tears of the Sun” fell one by one, and were placed preciously in a
golden basin. Last of all they removed the fatal Golden Sun bracelet All
these jewels were to be hidden again until the day, ten years thence,
when the Inca would demand another bride for the Sun.
As she was rapidly divested of her golden sheath as well, Maria-Teresa
appeared swathed in bands of soft material. Her eyes were closed, and
externally at all events, she was already a mummy. Her arms were bound
to her sides, and all that remained to be done was to lift her into her
tomb. Dick’s eyes did not leave what could still be seen of the
beloved face under the bands of perfumed linen which bound her chin
and forehead. Her lips were parted, but motionless, as if she had just
breathed her last sigh.
Again he told himself that she must be dead. It was better so, for then
she could not feel the hands of the horrible Guardians of the Temple
lift her to the death-throne and then slide her into the hole where she
was to wait a thousand years before being burned in her turn.
At that moment the rays of the Sun, as if to make a golden ladder for
the woman whom the Incas, in their cruel piety, were sending to his
realms, fell on Maria-Teresa, and lit up the narrow tomb, so that Dick
saw every detail of the atrocious ceremony.
The three porphyry slabs, fitting perfectly one into the other, had
now to be adjusted, and the tomb would be closed. It was done in
terrible-silence, and all eyes were fixed on workers and victim.
Bending under its weight, the Guardians of the Temple slipped the first
into position, hiding Maria-Teresa up to the knees. The second, brought
to the right level on a rolling platform, covered her to the shoulders.
All that could now be seen was her head, swathed and bound up for the
thousand-year sleep, with a face that was that of a dead woman. Then
a shiver ran through the throng, though it had witnessed the sacred
horrors preceding it without a quiver. Maria-Teresa had opened her
eyes....
They had opened wide and stared out from the depths of the tomb which
was closing on her. They were terribly living, terribly wide open,
staring, staring, at all she would see of life before the eternal Shadow
took her to its bosom. And those eyes traveled slowly over the throng
in gala attire which was there to see her die, then rested for the last
time on the golden sunlight, on the beautiful light of day.
The superhuman agony forced those eyes even wider, those eyes which were
never to see again. Her lips moved, as if about to utter a supreme cry
of appeal to life, a cry of horror at the living night of the tomb.
Then they closed again on a poor, weak little groan, while the last slab
blotted out the look of those great eyes.
She belonged to the god now.
IV
Huascar raised his hand, and the temple began to empty in silence.
There was not a song, not a murmur, only the slip of innumerable sandals
on the stone slabs of the floor. Huascar and his priests, the nobles,
young men, virgins, curacas and mammaconas crossed the threshold of the
golden doors.
Huayna Capac Runtu had descended from his throne and taken his seat
beside the dead King, on the seat left vacant by Maria-Teresa; the Red
Ponchos lifted the two monarchs, the dead, and the living, to their
shoulders, and in their turn vanished into the Corridor of Night.
There remained in the hall only the Guardians of the Temple and the
ashes of the first victims.
Hardly had the three gnomes closed the doors to carry out their horrible
duties in peace than a shadow rose up before them. Squeaking with
terror, they fled into the Chapel of the Moon, but vengeance followed
them there, and it was at the foot of its altar that they were shot down
like loathsome beasts. White as Maria-Teresa had been, but icy-cool in
the moment of action, Dick fired only one shot into each hideous skull.
Then he turned and ran into the temple, where Orellana was already
raining blows on the tomb with his pick. Dick wrenched the tool from
his hands, and set to work. But the stones did not move. His forehead
covered with icy perspiration, he forced himself to think, to reason,
trying to forget Maria-Teresa in her tomb and bring his engineer’s
knowledge to bear on the problem. Those stones could not be very heavy.
Orellana and he could lift them easily if the three dwarfs could. They
were evidently made light so that they could be readily removed by the
priests at certain ceremonies. But what, was their secret? What was
their secret?
Quelling the moral storm that would have sent him raging impotently
against this rampart, he compelled himself to look for the jointing
of the stones. His hands were trembling, so he stopped for a minute to
control himself, and then tried again. Again he failed. How were they
moved?
He had seen them put back into position before his eyes, so there
_must_ be a way. But where was he to press, where strike? And meanwhile
Maria-Teresa was dying behind those stones! Dying!
Again he raised the pick, whirled it over his head, and struck at
random, on the left side of the stone. Every ounce of his strength,
doubled by despair, had been put into that blow, and the slab turned
slightly on itself, to the right. The socket in which the stones rested
was so made that they could swing and slip out of their frame on that
side.
With a shout of triumph, he swung the pick over his head.
“Maria-Teresa! Maria-Teresa!”
Behind him, the madman was calling too.
“Maria Cristina! Maria Cristina!”
Dick was still raining blows on the slab. Soon it had turned so far that
he could catch hold of it with his hands, and tore them in a vain effort
to hasten. With the handle of the pick he pushed on the left again, and
the stone came half out of its socket.
This time, both he and Orellana could get firm hold and put their
strength into it. The stone yielded, came toward them. “Maria-Teresa!
Maria-Teresa!” One more effort and she would be free.
A prodigious heave, a struggle with teeth set and breath whistling, and
the slab came away altogether, thundered on the floor as Dick hurled it
from off his shoulder.
“Maria-Teresa!”
There was no answer from the tightly-bound head dimly visible in the
darkness. He leaned forward.
“My God. It’s not Maria-Teresa!”
V
Turning from the century-dead Coya with an inarticulate cry of rage,
Dick seized Orellana by the throat as if he would have strangled the
poor madman, who had started work on the wrong tomb. And he, thrice
accursed fool that he was, had followed the madman’s lead, made a
mistake when every minute might mean Maria-Teresa’s life!
And now, which was it? The tomb on the right or that on the left? Or
neither?
Loosing the old man, he controlled himself again by a superhuman effort
and looked round the temple. No, there could be no mistake this time.
It must be the one on the right. He looked for the angle from their
hiding-place to the altar. Yes, this was the one!
The pick thundered on another slab, while Orellana, a raving maniac
now, danced and gibbered behind him, grunting with every blow as if he
himself had delivered it.
At last the stone turned.... It moved... slid into their arms... fell to
the ground.
“Maria-Teresa! It is I, Dick! For God’s sake, speak!”
Again he bent oyer the rigid face of a long-forgotten Coya.
Dick fell to the ground as if stunned. But Orellana was already at work
again, setting him the example, and the young engineer was on his feet
in a moment. It must be that other one on the left, then! Once again he
wrenched the pick from the old man’s feeble hands and hammered on the
granite.... The minutes are flying... flying. And She may be dying
behind that slab, struggling for breath!... The thunder of blows echoed
through the hall... the stone moved... slipped... fell.... At last....
No!... Another dead woman.... Another, another!... Not Maria-Teresa!
“Maria Cristina! My daughter! Dearest, I am coming! Your father is
here!”
While Dick staggered to the wall, staring before him with blind eyes,
the old man, peering into the tomb, had recognized his child.
“Maria Cristina! Dearest! Wait, wait! Only one more stone, and you will
be out of your prison!”
Sobbing and laughing in turn, Orellana worked desperately, finding the
strength of his youth anew.
Then Dick fell on him.
“Give me that pick. You’re wasting time on a dead woman. Give it to me,
I say!”
There was a terrible struggle between the two, and Dick, triumphant,
whirled the tool over his head at another tomb, while Orellana, by the
last effort of his life, tore the second stone from its socket, drew the
dead body of his daughter to him and covered it with kisses and tears.
Old madman and dead girl fell to the floor together.
Orellana was dead, but he had found his daughter.
Dick saw and heard nothing. Another tomb open... and another dead Coya
of long ago.... The gods of the Temple of Death were ready to give up
their dead, but not the living bride....
Crying, calling, driving his nails into his bleeding palms; ready to
offer himself up to the ferocious spirit that guarded those tombs, Dick
staggered, fell, and got up again, dragging behind him the pick, which
he no longer knew where to use, striving to reason and understand.
There was nothing here to help him! His eyes wandered hopelessly round
the circular temple, trying to find a guiding point. Nothing! Perhaps
chance would give him what his reasoning had failed to secure.... Yes,
that was it... why not try here?... It might be this tomb as well as any
other.... He set to work again, but heavily... oh, so heavily... and the
pick weighed down his hands terribly.
... Exhausted, he dropped it.... He could do no more.... And she was
dying... dying... while the dead, torn from their eternal sleep, stared
back at him with unseeing eyes.
How many hours had he been toiling? He did not know. The oblique rays of
the sun had gradually risen on the walls, then vanished. Then the light
which succeeded them faded in its turn.... Twilight had fallen... then
darkness had come.
Stretched out on the altar steps, whither he had dragged himself with
his last remaining strength, he closed his eyes and waited... waited for
sleep or death. What did it matter, since Maria-Teresa was dead?
VI
_In which it is seen that lovers should never despair of Providence_
One morning, as the little steamboat which runs between the Island of
Titicaca and the mainland, was plowing its way through the waters of the
lake, it was hailed by a tall Quichua Indian, standing upright in his
pirogue. In the bottom of the frail craft lay a white man, and the
captain, seeing the prostrate figure, hove to for a moment to pick it
up. Thus did Dick Montgomery return to civilization.
Among the passengers of the _Yavari_ was a good-hearted alpaca merchant
of Punho who took pity on the fever-stricken stranger and had him
removed to his own home, where the whole household devoted itself to
nursing the young man back to life. The Indian who brought him to the
steamer explained that he had found the stranger, probably some tourist,
unconscious among the ruins of the sacred island. He had therefore dosed
him with pink water for the fever, and had brought him back to people
of his own race. The Indian refused all reward, and the captain was the
more surprised at this when, on searching Dick, he found a considerable
sum of money in his pockets. For a Quichua not to strip a helpless man
was indeed remarkable.
When Dick had sufficiently recovered to understand what was being said,
he immediately recognized the Indian described to him as Huascar. In
his quality as high-priest, Huascar had probably returned to the temple
late at night, and had there found Dick, surrounded by gaping tombs, and
the corpses of Orellana and the three Guardians of the Temple. Coldly
calculating in his hatred, the Indian had decided to inflict the
worst possible torture on Dick, leaving him to live after the death of
Maria-Teresa.
That torture would not last long, the young man decided. The idea that
he might have saved Maria-Teresa had he not lost his head, and that her
death lay at his door, tormented him without ceasing. He realized that
he would never be able to free himself of this obsession and that it
would finally drive him mad. Better to end it all at once.
Only he did not wish to die among these awful mountains, mute witnesses
of the horrors that had cost him his self-respect and happiness. The
Maria-Teresa who was constantly before his mind’s eye was not the
terrible mummy-like figure he had last seen, but the dainty silhouette
in the homely surroundings of the office at Callao, among the big green
registers, where they had met again after so long an absence and where
they had exchanged words of love. He would go there to rejoin her.
Once this decision was taken, he grew rapidly better, and one day, after
warmly thanking his host and showering presents on the whole family, he
took the train to Mollendo, where he would join some ship for Callao.
The voyage seemed an interminable one. At Arequipa, he visited the
little adobe house by the rio de Chili, and thought of the vain appeal
they had made to that scoundrel Garcia. There also, for the first time
since his illness, he thought of his traveling companions.
What had happened to Uncle Francis, Don Christobal and Natividad?
Perhaps their bones were then bleaching in some inaccessible corner of
the Corridors of Night. The Marquis, at all events, had not endured the
torture of impotently witnessing the murder of his two children.
When Dick reached Mollendo there was a howling gale on, but he at once
went down to the harbor. It was deserted save for two shadows,
which rushed toward him with cries of joy. Yes, they were alive and
breathing:--Uncle Francis and Natividad! Though white and sad-looking,
they did not seem to have suffered a great deal. Dick clasped their
hands, and they, seeing him so pale and thin, said no word.
Together they walked along for a few minutes, deep in thoughts. At last
Mr. Montgomery turned to his nephew:
“What happened to Don Christobal? Do you know?”
“I thought he was with you.” Dick’s voice was toneless, detached from
all things of this world.
It was only then that Natividad, without being asked, explained how
he and Uncle Francis, after the frustrated attempt in the House of the
Serpent, had been thrown into a dungeon in which they passed four days,
and in which the illustrious scientist had at last become convinced of
the reality of their adventure. At the end of those four days, finding
the prison doors open and unguarded, they had fled.
Apparently all the Indians were bolting to the mountains from Cuzco, and
the explanation for this they had found on reaching Sicuani. President
Veintemilla, risking his all on one bold stroke, had surprised Garcia’s
forces in the middle of the Interaymi fêtes, and the four squadrons of
his escort which remained faithful had cut up and routed the thousands
of Quichua riflemen. Barely five hundred in all, but of Spanish blood,
they had repeated Pizarro’s exploit on those same plains of Xauxa, while
the same ancient walls, with the impassability of immortal things, again
stared down on the struggle of the races.
Garcia had escaped over the Bolivian frontier, and was on the point of
blowing out his brains when he heard of a revolution in Paraguay which
made life worth living again. So he crossed into Paraguay with his
lawless “cabinet,” to the great satisfaction of the President of
Bolivia.
Prom Sicuani, Uncle Francis and Natividad had gone straight to Mollendo,
hoping to find the Marquis there, if the new fortunes of the republic
had also opened the doors of his prison. As to Dick, they had not
expected to see him until Lima, “after he had done everything to save
Maria-Teresa.”
It was the first time that they had pronounced her name before him, and
Dick saw a very real and very great sympathy in their faces.
“She is dead,” he said, gripping his uncle’s shoulder.
“Poor boy!”
They paced up and down again, silently, before the raging breakers of
the Pacific, which had already kept two of them prisoners in Mollendo
for the past ten days. Dick would not say another word, and his
companions, ignorant of what had happened, could not even try to give
him hope.
Eight more days passed by, and the elements still held them prisoners at
Mollendo. His uncle and Natividad watched Dick closely, but his outward
calm finally dispelled their fears, and once aboard a ship for Callao,
they even questioned him. He told them what he had seen in the Temple
of Death, while they listened in horror to the simply-worded narrative,
made in a singularly quiet voice. Afterwards, Uncle Francis locked
himself in his cabin and sat for a long time with his head between his
hands, staring at an unopened note-book.
Dick, leaning over the ship’s side, was now gazing idly at the rapidly
approaching coast on which he had landed with so much hope and joy. The
Peru of Pizarro and the Incas, the fabulous land of gold and legends,
the Eldorado of his young ambition and of his love! Dead were his
love and his ambition. There lived only the legends, at which they had
laughed, which had killed all their dreams and which was to kill him
after sending Maria-Teresa to a living tomb! And they had laughed,
laughed at the warning of those two stately old ladies, Velasquez
canvases brought to life and striving to retain all their pictorial
dignity!
As on that first day, he was the first man off the liner, dropping over
the side into the swaying craft of a noisy boatman. This time, though,
he did not need to ask where the Galle de Lima lay, and his eyes hardly
left the part of the city to which he had hastened so full of hope,
where Maria-Teresa had waited for him.
He did not hurry on reaching land. Walking slowly he entered the network
of tortuous streets, passed through the labyrinth of alleys, and finally
reached the point whence he could see the verandah.... There he had come
to greet her every night, there he had come one night to find her gone.
Never again would he see that dear face, that dainty figure bent over
the big green books, while the slim fingers toyed with a golden pencil
attached to her supple waist with a long gold chain.
Suddenly Dick stopped, staggered, and put his hand to his side with a
choking intake of breath.... It hurt, that hallucinating apparition
on the verandah.... Or perhaps it is true that the shades of the dear
departed come back to people the spots they loved best, that they
have the power of showing themselves to those they loved.... For
Maria-Teresa is there, leaning out as she used to, turning her
sweet face as she used to.... How pale she is, how diaphanous;
her well-remembered gestures are no more than the ghosts of those
gestures!...
He hardly dared breathe, fearing that the vision would vanish at the
sound of his voice-... He advanced cautiously, stealthily, like a child
stalking a butterfly.
“Dick!”
“Maria-Teresa!”
They are in each other’s arms. The cry which has come from those pale
lips is a living one. They clung to each other, trembling, laughing,
crying, and would have fallen in their weakness had not other shadows
come to their aid.
Aunt Agnes and her duenna, Irene, held up Maria-Teresa, while Don
Christobal, running out into the street, caught the young engineer under
the arm, and led him slowly in.
Little Christobal, dancing at the door of the office, shouted with glee
and clapped his hands together.
“I told you so, Maria-Teresa! I told you he wasn’t dead!... Now you’ll
get better, Maria-Teresa!”
Maria-Teresa, in Dick’s arms again, was sobbing.
“I knew you would come back here if you were still alive.... But is it
really you, Dick?... Really you?”
“Maria-Teresa has been awfully ill,” explained the child, while the two
old ladies cried. “But we cured her by telling her you were _not_
dead. Of course I _knew_ Huascar had saved you too.... Huascar saved us
all, you know.... He took us away from all those nasty Indians....
And father said that we should all be dead but for him. Didn’t you,
Father?... But now you mustn’t die any more, must you?”
“I was there, Maria-Teresa. I saw them put you into the tomb.”
“You _were_ there, then! I knew it. I felt your eyes on mine, and that’s
why I looked. I knew you were watching... somewhere.... When they took
Christobal away from me I thought I should die... Huascar had told me
he would be quite safe, but I couldn’t believe it.... Then that horrible
cry!... I didn’t open my eyes again until I felt yours on them.... I
knew you were there, dear.”
The two old ladies and the Marquis were making desperate signs to him,
and Dick tried to stop her, but she went on:--
“I knew you wouldn’t leave me there to die, and so I waited, waited....
It was terribly long.... And then I began to choke.... I couldn’t move;
only sit there and wait... What does it matter, Father, now that we’re
all alive and happy?... Then I heard somebody thundering blows on the
wall, and thought you were coming.... Only just in time, for I was
choking.... There was such funny music in my ears.... Then I heard the
stone torn away, and felt myself being lifted out.... When I opened my
eyes, Dick, it was not you, but Huascar.... He carried me into a dark
little room, with a torch burning in it, and untied my arms and head....
Then he slipped on that horrible bat-skin dress again.... I couldn’t
believe I was saved, though he told me so....”
She paused for a moment, choking, and continued:
“He left me where I was, and started working. First he lifted a mummy
into my place. ‘There is no sacrilege,’ he said, ‘for the god now has
the number of wives he needs.’... He had evidently prepared everything,
and dug an opening as deep into the back of my tomb as he dared....
I was horribly afraid, because he said he had done it all for love of
me... and I screamed when he tried to pick me up.... I was ever so much
more afraid than in the tomb.... He laughed, and said I was lucky to
have had him for a friend.... You, he said, had nearly spoiled his
plans, and he had had to trap you all to save me.
“When I told him that he had only saved me for a worse fate, he laughed
again.... Then he picked me up, for I was too weak to move, and carried
me miles and miles through the darkness.... When he stopped, it was
before a low door.... He pushed it open, and there were father and
Christobal.... While they were kissing me, Huascar went to the door....
He looked awful.... Then he said to father: ‘Señor, I promised to return
your son and daughter to you. Here they both are. You will find nothing
to prevent your departure. An Inca, señor, never breaks his word.’... We
have not seen him since.... I had to tell you, Dick, so that if ever you
meet that man again, you will know what we owe him.”
At her last words, the young engineer shivered and pressed her hand.
“He need not be afraid. I remember what I owe him. He saved both of you
and us, dear, and I promised him that if he saved you....”
“I know, I know! Father has told me....”
“He considered: your promise an insult,” interrupted the Marquis. “After
my capture, they took me to the Island, and he came to see me in my
dungeon. I thought my last hour had come, and did not spare him with my
tongue. He let me finish, and then explained what he had done, his whole
plan of action. When Maria-Teresa and Christobal were brought to me, the
two Indians guarding my door, who were his absolute slaves, would take
us both to the mainland in a pirogue. He told me, too, of your interview
at Arequipa, and gave me a message for you. Here it is:
“‘Tell that young man, whom I do not know, that the señorita will be as
free as her heart, which is mine neither to take, to buy nor to sell.
He must know that. I have done him no harm, and he has insulted me. I
forgive him.’
“Then, as he was about to go, he turned again:--
“Do not thank me, señor. Thank the one who is now in heaven, and who
was the señora de la Torre. I ask for only one thing in exchange for my
services, and that is for you never to speak of them. The memory of the
High Priest of the Incas must not be dishonored.’
“That is Huascar’s message, Dick. There is no reason why you should not
marry Maria-Teresa.”
At this moment Uncle Francis and Natividad dashed into the room. On
their way from the harbor, they had learned of the Marquis’ miraculous
return to Lima with his two children, and hearing that the whole family
had come to Callao that day--Maria-Teresa to see her dear old office
for the last time!--they had come there running. Aunt Agnes and Irene,
anxious for their charge’s health, would have taken her away, but
the young girl insisted that this storm of still shaky laughter and
interjections was the best medicine for her malady.
“It’s all a bad dream,” she said. “That is how we must take it.”
Don Christobal took up the cue.
“Exactly. I have had a long talk with Veintemilla, and that is the
way he asks us to treat it, for patriotic reasons. In exchange, he has
promised to help me wind up the business here and sell our concessions.
Dick and Maria-Teresa will be married in England, if nobody objects.”
Natividad alone had objections to make, and waved his arms
disconsolately above his head.
“The same old story!” he groaned. “If I had my way, we should soon get
to the bottom of those Corridor of Night mysteries.... But no!... the
same old game of shut your eyes and see nothing.... Here’s Veintemilla
now, instead of settling with those Indians once and for all, asking us
to call it a bad dream!... Bad dream indeed!”
“My dear Natividad,” said the Marquis. “I fear you are a troublous
spirit. By the way, I have sad news for you. You are no longer inspector
superior of Callao.”
Natividad fell into a chair, his mouth wide open, struggling for
words to qualify the airy attitude of this man, for whom he had risked
everything. He was so comical that they all burst into laughter, while
the little old gentleman, purple with fury, strode toward the door.
“Not so quick, Natividad, not so quick!” called the Marquis after him.
“There is also some good news for you. You have been appointed inspector
superior at Lima.”
Again Natividad fell into a chair, but beaming, stuttering with joy and
gratitude.
“It’s a dream.... the dream of my life.... I might have been dead
though!”
“The appointment, which I saw President Veintemilla sign, is, of course,
only valid in the event of your being living,” smiled the Marquis. “As
those Indians of yours haven’t eaten you alive, you can keep an eye on
them again.”
“Hush! We must not talk about it,” replied Natividad, the magistrate’s
toga weighing on his shoulders again.
“And neither shall we,” whispered Dick, bending over Maria-Teresa’s pale
face.
She nodded slowly. “Do you know, Dick, looking round me and seeing the
same old chairs and books again, the same dear faces, and when I think
of the Temple of Death, it really does only seem like an ugly dream.”
Natividad, having said good-by to all, was talking to the Marquis by the
door. He opened it and fell back with a muffled exclamation.
A corpse, until then held upright by the closed door, fell into the
room. Maria-Teresa, first to realize what it was, fell on her knees
beside the body.
It was Huascar, whom she had driven out of that door and who had dragged
himself there to die, a dagger in his heart.
EPILOGUE
This story must have an epilogue, for I have not yet had occasion to
speak again of Oviedo Runtu, bank-clerk and last King of the Incas.
After a thousand adventures in the Andes, which I may describe to you
some day, Oviedo Runtu and his lieutenants in the revolt with Garcia
were tracked down by Natividad’s police.
Oviedo Runtu surrendered and saved his life by promising to quench
the last embers of revolt. Tried by court-martial, he was sentenced to
perpetual exile, but Natividad subsequently interceded and obtained his
pardon. It was, moreover, the new Chief of Police of Lima who secured
him a post at Punho, in a branch of the Franco-Belgian bank. There
Natividad could watch him, and finally convinced himself that the
bank-clerk King did nothing to resuscitate the marvelous fêtes of the
Interaymi.
Oviedo Runtu died very prosaically, after marrying a lady of Lima who
had made the trip to Lake Titicaca specially to see the last King of the
Incas. Of that journey was born a romance, and in after years travelers
passing through Punho would have the royal couple pointed out to them.
They were always very much amused when they heard that the King, working
daily in a bank, earned just one hundred’ and fifty soles a month.
One day, when some charitable souls were chaffing the King’s widow about
the mediocre state in which she lived, the Coya, as she was derisively
called, retorted that had she and her husband so wished, they could have
been the wealthiest couple on earth. But the treasures of the Incas, she
added, belonged to the gods and the dead, and none might touch them.
Asked if she had ever seen those treasures, the Coya asserted that her
husband had shown them to her once, and she told fabulous stories of the
riches hidden in the Temple of Death. * Naturally, nobody believed her.
* The anonymous author of the MS. “_Antiy y monumentos del
Peru_” says:--
“It Is widely known, and generally admitted, that there
exists in the ancient fortress of the Cuzco a secret room In
which is hidden a vast treasure, consisting chiefly of
golden statues of all the Incas. A lady who has been in this
room is still living. This is Doña Maria de Esquivel, wife
of the last Inca. I have heard her tell how she was taken
there.
“Don Carlos, husband of this lady, did not live in a manner
suited to his rank, and she often upbraided him, saying that
she had been cozened into marrying a poor Indian under the
pompous style of ‘Lord of the Incas.9 She said this so often
that Don Carlos grew angry, and one day retorted: ‘Madam, I
will show you whether I am rich or poor. Too will see that
no lord, no monarch on this earth, has a greater treasure
than I.’ Taking her to the ruined fortress, he bound her
eyes, and led her only a few steps before removing the
bandage again.
“She was in a great quadrangular hall, and ranged all about
it were the statues of the Incas, each about the size of a
twelve-year-old child, and all of massive gold. She saw also
many vases of gold and silver, the whole making one of the
most magnificent treasures in the world.”
Even so, none believed the soldiers of Pizarro when they said that in
Peru their horses had been shod with silver!
THE END