Part 10

The circle closed a bit nearer, but Candia poised his sword, and they hesitated. Cristoval had regained his feet and placed himself back to the wall, panting, but undismayed. At this juncture Almagro hurried in and breaking through the crowd, demanded:--

"What is this? Our swords turned against one another? What meaneth it?" He was answered by an excited and unintelligible chorus. Pizarro started forward, his face distorted with frenzy.

"Kill him, I say, ye damned gawping sheep!" he bellowed again. "What!--will ye disobey? Fall upon him, or I'll flay you to the last man!"

"Nay!" interposed Almagro. "Stand back! All in good time and order. Peralta, thou 'rt a prisoner. Take him away, Candia."

"Out of the way, Almagro!" thundered Pizarro, struggling to pass him. "I'll have his life! Strike him down, ye dogs!"

"Away with him, Candia!" commanded Almagro, sturdily opposing the general and thrusting him back. "Fall in about him, men, and make him secure."

"Come!" said Candia, in a low voice, and seizing Cristoval by the arm, hurried him out, surrounded by a dozen pikes, leaving Almagro to quiet the infuriated Pizarro. In the hall outside Cristoval surrendered his sword.

Word of the affair spread rapidly over the town, and as prisoner and escort left the palace they encountered a throng already gathered at the door, held back by the crossed halberds of the sentinels, whom they besieged with questions. As Cristoval stepped out, still breathing heavily and disordered from the struggle, their clamor ceased, and they stared at him in silence, hardly able to believe they beheld the stanch Cristoval in arrest for having turned his sword against his general.

"_Insano_--gone mad!" muttered an old arquebusier, and his neighbors agreed to it as the only explanation. Cristoval saw them only vaguely, and scarcely heeded the groups passed on his march across the square. At the doors of the building at its lower end which had been put into service as a prison he halted mechanically, marched again at the command when the doors had been swung open, and only awoke to himself when, having traversed the patio, he was led into one of the rooms opening upon it and felt the oppression of its sudden chill and gloom. The old sergeant of the guard eyed him gravely for a few seconds, then shook his head and retired. The door swung heavily shut, and Cristoval was alone.

*CHAPTER XIII*

_*Cristoval a Prisoner*_

Cristoval stood near the door. His eyes grew accustomed to the obscurity and travelled over the room and its furnishing; but his mind, occupied by a tumultuous review of the incidents just past, received little impression. In the middle of the room stood a table, and near it two or three stools. Along the wall at the rear was a stone bench, and in a corner a small heap of straw, the bed of some former prisoner. The fragments of a water jar littered the table, with bits of mouldering corn-bread. The low, heavily timbered ceiling, with the great thickness of the walls and the little air from the two small windows, made the atmosphere chill, stifling, and oppressive as that of a cellar.

He walked to the table and stood leaning against it, the disorder of his thoughts gradually yielding to grief for the ill-fated prince whose long durance he had lightened with his companionship. He realized now that his friendship for Atahualpa had grown stronger than he had been aware, and he felt an unexpected sense of loss. Slowly his sorrow was succeeded by a storm of bitter resentment at Pizarro's perfidy, and he raged at his failure to avenge it. Every detail of the encounter presented itself to his mind--the moments when the commander's life had been almost in his hand, the interruption which had foiled him at the instant of vengeance; and he stamped fiercely, impatiently, heaping curses upon those who had baffled him, and grinding his teeth at his present helplessness. More bitter still was the memory of the sacred obligation imposed upon him by the monarch at their final interview, and his inability, now, to acquit it. The peril to Rava foreseen by Atahualpa was upon her. She was without a defender, and at the mercy of her brother's murderers. Her fate seemed certain. Cristoval sank upon a chair: sprang to his feet again, and looked about him, this time noting every feature of his surroundings, the walls of granite, the flagged floor, the small windows, high up and recently barred by Pizarro's order, and the massive door, guarded without, as he knew, by a sentinel whose life depended upon his vigilance. He made a tour of the room with rapid steps, minutely scrutinizing every detail, driven not by the sense of his own danger, but by that of the unhappy girl entrusted to his guarding. There was not a crack between the blocks of stone into which he could have forced the point of a poniard. There was no escape.

The other phase of the situation came upon him. Not only was he a prisoner, but a prisoner under sentence of death. He knew Pizarro well enough to be sure of that. He must die. Not even De Soto's power could save him. He had sought the life of his commander. He was a mutineer.

For an instant he was seized of a sudden weakness, and sank again upon a chair with a shuddering glare at vacancy. Doomed! He sat long, motionless, his faculties numbed. The air oppressed his breathing. Darkness closed about him and bore down upon his soul as if tangible. His strength was gone, and though he sat bolt upright he had the sensation of tottering. His mind ceased to act, absorbed and fascinated by the terror called death.

He was roused, long afterward, it seemed, though but minutes had flown, by the sound of footsteps and the opening door. Two halberdiers entered, followed by the sergeant and two armorer's assistants bearing manacles and fetters, a portable forge, and an anvil. The door closed, and the group surveyed the prisoner as if he were a captured lion. Cristoval rose slowly and stood regarding them with apathy. The sergeant spoke.

"_Senor Teniente_ Peralta, we have an unpleasant duty--" He hesitated, and Cristoval waited in silence.

"The armorers here," continued the sergeant, "have a few trinkets which it is ordered you are to wear--temporarily." He paused again, and Cristoval wondered vaguely why such a trifle should embarrass his speech. Fetters--what were they in the presence of the thought of death!

The sergeant resumed: "I trust you will give us no trouble, Senor. It is near supper-time, and you know what that meaneth to a man already twenty hours on guard. I had hoped this might be deferred until the new guard cometh on, but the general seemeth burdened with an anxiety to know you are secure--so here we are. Now, what say you?--shall it be done quietly, or must I have a squad of pikemen?"

For answer, Cristoval turned up his sleeves and offered his wrists.

"Ah! _Bueno!_" said the sergeant, with relief. "That is what I like to see. When a man must take his physic, why not do so gracefully? I have observed that it marketh the distinction between a _caballero_ and a yokel. You are a good soldier, Senor Cristoval: I have always said it.--Armorers, set about it.--Would you believe me, Senor--the last man I saw ironed took four to hold him! But he was a creature of base instincts. Now, men, be expeditious!"

In half an hour the irons were securely riveted to Cristoval's wrists and ankles, and the sergeant was expressing his appreciation of the prisoner's forbearance, when he broke off abruptly, clapped his hand to his forehead, and stared at a rent in Cristoval's doublet.

"Ah, _Cielo_!" he cried. "Why was I equipped with mud in the place of brains!--And you, too, ye numskulls---where are your wits? Do ye see what we've done?--left him in his mail!--and now there's no way to have it off but to undo his wristlets. Now what do you think of that?" he appealed to Cristoval.

Cristoval shrugged, but made no comment. The others stood helplessly about while the sergeant berated them until his feelings were relieved, when he exclaimed, with regained philosophy: "Well, let it stay! 'T will keep. The prisoner will be none the better for it, nor the worse; and if it worrieth the next sergeant of the guard, let him worry, or take it off. 'T is time to eat."

He led his men out without further ado, and once more the place was quiet.

For an hour Cristoval sat in a half stupor; at last, overcome by weariness, he hobbled to the bench beside the wall. He stretched himself upon it, and his torpid mind passed insensibly into slumber. Late in the evening he was awakened by the light of a lantern in his face, and found himself confronting Pedro. The two regarded one another silently, Pedro with elevated light and profound concern in his rubicund countenance.

"'T is thou, good Pedro!" said Cristoval, at length.

"Ah!" assented Pedro. "And is it thou, Cristoval? Thou, _amigo_?--thus ignominiously pickled and shorn of liberty, hoppled like a wayward barb. I scarce know thee."

Cristoval smiled gloomily. "It is I, Pedro! Would it were some other. A prisoner!--and all to no purpose."

Pedro drew a long breath, swore a little, and seating himself, placed his lantern upon the floor and stared at it in dejection. "All to no purpose!" he echoed. "The Inca is dead."

"And Pizarro liveth!" groaned Cristoval. "Oh, San Miguel! Could I have had but a moment longer with him!" He seized the cook's arm. "But, Pedro--what of the Nusta Rava?"

"Ah, the Nusta Rava!" exclaimed Pedro, his face reddening in the lamplight with indignation. "What thinkst thou, Cristoval?--but thou couldst never guess! The Nusta Rava hath been given by Pizarro to that foul bird, Mendoza, as his share of the plunder of the Inca's palace."

Cristoval sprang up and glared at the cook with an expression which reminded him of the rumor that the cavalier had gone mad. At length Cristoval hoarsely broke the silence:--

"Hath he--is she--"

Pedro met the burning scrutiny and shook his head. "No! She is safe for the present. The plunder hath not yet been divided."

"Where is she?" demanded Cristoval.

"In the palace. She is unmolested thus far, save that Mendoza payeth an occasional visit to ogle, gloat on, and leer, whilst he croaketh a few words of Quichua. But she is never alone. Her maids are always present. One of them came to me this morning, weeping, and begged that I devise means to relieve her mistress of the monster's visits. I'll do it some fine day, Cristoval, and there will be carrion to lug out of the garden. She knoweth not her fate, poor girl."

"Kill him, Pedro!"

"I will--if thou dost not."

"I, Pedro! How in the fiend's name could I kill even a rat?" demanded the cavalier, with impatience. "Look at me! Look about thee! Is this a paper house, imbecile? Am I tied with pack-threads? Another day--perhaps two--perhaps three--and I shall share the Inca's fate. Be sure of it, friend."

Pedro shrugged and glanced about. "Keep thy courage, Cristoval. Stone walls do not always make a prison. I've learned some tricks in my career besides those of the kitchen. Thou knowest I was not always a cook."

"Thou'lt need the tricks of a thaumaturge to take me out of here, old friend," said Cristoval, "and thou canst serve me better than by losing good time in the effort. Promise thou'lt kill Mendoza if need be to save the Nusta."

"I will!" replied Pedro, cheerfully. "But we will talk of it to-morrow--or when I come again. Now I must go. I've brought thee a small supper--bribed the sergeant of the guard to let me pass. No appetite at present? Then eat later. _Adios, amigo mio_."

"Wait, Pedro!" said Cristoval, urgently. "Tell me first of the Inca's death."

"Oh, an infamy of infamies!" blurted Pedro, with an oath, and reseated himself. "A devil's own deed, brought about by a devil's own device and procedure! An indictment wanting even the merit of ingenuity in its fabrication! A court presided over by Pizarro and Almagro, the Inca's prime enemies! A trial that began as a farce and ended in a quarrel over the expediency of his death--whether it would further or hinder the business of the conquest and the gathering of plunder. And it was decided on that score, Cristoval. The judgment was determined upon before the trial began. Didst know he was condemned to burn at the stake?"

"Oh, God!" gasped Cristoval. "They told me he was garroted!"

"And so he was. At the last moment, after the fagots were ablaze, Father Valverde offered him the easier death if he would accept the Faith. He assented. The fire was kicked out, and he received baptism. So he died a good Christian."

"So he died a good Christian!" repeated Cristoval, with bitterness. "He was a better man a pagan than the Christians who slew him. Well, God give him rest. But had he no defenders, Pedro? Was there no man less a criminal than Pizarro?"

"A few, but, curse me, a sparing few! Among them was Jose, and he the most vehement. He denounced the affair with an acrimony that stirred the wrath of Father Valverde, who helped to draw the indictment. Jose knoweth no discretion, Cristoval. But the Inca's friends were not many, and their protests were futile."

"How did he bear himself?"

"As a king, if ever I saw one!" returned Pedro, with emphasis. "When the sentence was made known to him he made one appeal for mercy. Pizarro feigned commiseration: turned away his head and wiped an eye--oh, accursed hypocrite!--and now he weareth mourning. Didst observe?"

"I saw it."

"But this one appeal denied," continued Pedro, "the Inca met his death like a man, begging only that his people be gently dealt with. Rest his soul in peace! He was a man!"

Both sat for a time in silence, then Pedro sighed and arose. "Well, God be with thee, Cristoval. I'll see thee to-morrow, if 't is permitted. If not, then when De Soto cometh. He will make a way. Good-night."

Cristoval pressed his hand, and leaving his lantern, the cook stumped to the door, which, after a moment's pounding, was cautiously opened from without, and he disappeared. Cristoval meditated long. Then, slowly taking up the lantern, he moved to the table and surveyed the repast left by Pedro. There was a small flask of _chicha_, and after a draught of it he attacked the supper and finished it with interest. It revived his spirits, and for the first time he examined his fetters. There was little encouragement to be found in their massiveness, and he shook his head dubiously at the recollection of Pedro's few words of reassurance. He returned to his bench, put out his light, and soon was sleeping heavily.

*CHAPTER XIV*

_*Pedro to the Rescue*_

When Cristoval awoke, stiffened and unrefreshed, the room was gray with feeble light. He stared at the heavy rafters, not yet fully roused to his dismal circumstances.

"'T is early," he thought sleepily, "or a dull morning. What hath the day? Let us see--where am I? Guamachucho? No. What pent up air is this?" He turned his head and blinked at the windows, then raised his manacled wrists. The history of the day before flashed over him. He looked a moment at his irons, then closed his eyes and set his lips. Presently he sat up, painfully, and bent his head upon his hands. "I thought I had dreamed. _Ay de mi_! No dream, Cristoval. To-morrow a court, a shrift, the garrote. Ah, _Madre_, it hath been a life not well spent! But it seemeth short--too short." He sighed heavily, once, twice, arose abruptly, and shook himself. "Enough, Peralta! Thou'lt be groaning in self-pity. No more of it! Let us look about."

He hobbled to the table. There was a jar of water and a loaf of coarse corn-bread. "Some one hath been here--not Pedro, I'll stake my head. I wonder what the hour may be. It must be late. _Bien_! The day will be the shorter. And now we'll eat, if but to kill time. Would that hope were as faithful in our extremity as appetite! We'd ne'er despair. Two good comrades, hope and appetite, and sad to lose. Pedro would say that--though belike in Latin. Good old cook! When will he come? But he'll come, God bless him! What did he mean?--he hath 'learned a trick or two besides those of the kitchen.' Can he hope to free me? Chance slight as air! Would that De Soto were here, though I see not how he can help. But he could save the Nusta Rava, and that he will do, I know. Poor girl! Her fate may be worse than mine. Now, we'll have another look at these fetters.--Strong enough, by the Faith, and strength to spare! But one of Jose's files on the rivet-heads--as well wish for the Arabian lamp!"

The day dragged slowly and wearily. He spent it in waiting, vaguely, he knew not for what, and in listening for the few slight sounds that broke upon the stillness. The steps of the sentinel, the murmur of voices when the reliefs came, the faint echo of the trumpet-calls on the plaza, were noted with painful attention. Now he sat straining his ears; now he limped haltingly round and round the apartment, filling it with the clank and scrape of his shackles, until his ankles were worn to the raw and he could walk no more. Seated on the bench, he dozed at last, and when he awoke the light was failing. This day Pedro did not come. Thrice Cristoval thought some one fumbled the bolt of the door, but it was unopened until night was on, when the new officer of the guard came in with the old. They entered in silence. A soldier held a lantern aloft while the new commander surveyed the room and the prisoner, briefly returning his nod as all went out without a word.

The night was a year, but toward dawn he slept, rousing when his food was brought. The soldier eyed him indifferently, and departed without salutation. Soon after, two of Jose's artificers came in with a pikeman of the guard, inspected the windows, and strengthened the fastenings of the door. Cristoval spoke to one of them, but the guard gruffly forbade a reply, and the prisoner said no more.

The day was maddening in its length, monotony, and stillness. Why did not Pedro come? Where was De Soto? Had all friends failed? He must communicate with De Soto concerning the Nusta, and time might be short. When should he have his trial? These questions came again and again to his tortured mind, but all remained unanswered. They troubled him more now than the thought of death, for with the loss of hope had come the blessed resignation with which the All-wise softens the approach of the inevitable hour, and he was surprised at his own indifference. His one anxiety about it was the question when it would be. He would have interrogated the soldier who brought his food, but the man did not even answer his greeting.

Another restless night, and Cristoval rose haggard and savage. Solitude had preyed upon him, and the silence even more. The taciturnity of his guards was infuriating. When the soldier entered with his breakfast he sprang up from the bench with a suddenness that caused the man to drop his burden with a crash of broken stoneware, and draw his dirk as he dashed to the door calling for help. The sentinel burst in and stood with lowered pike while Cristoval glared upon them like a madman.

"_Loco!_" whispered the attendant, with a gasp. "_Jesu Cristo!_ let me out!"

"Out, then, thou knave!" bellowed Cristoval. "Who holdeth thee? And hearken! When thou comest again, speak!--say something, or by Saint Michael, thou'lt die unshriven! Is this a tomb, that ye varlets must come and go, tiptoeing and mum like undertakers' help? Pass the time of day, ask me how I like my fare, mention the weather, or blow thy nose; but break this accursed silence if thou wouldst have thy neck unbroken!"

The soldier edged toward the door. "We are forbidden to have words with you, Senor Cristoval."

"Good! Then say that! Say it over and again! Say it backward; but ware being silent. Dost hear?"

"_Muy bien--Adios_, Senor Cristoval," and the two squeezed themselves out.

"Bring more water!" shouted Cristoval, and sat down relieved.

The day wore along. When the officers of the guard came at nightfall Cristoval was asleep. Later he was aroused and sat up. A lantern blinded him, but in a moment he recognized Pedro with a shout. He rose and clanked across the room, extending both hands.

"Pedro, thou blessed saint! Pedro at last! My life! I thought never to see thy good face again. Where hast thou been these years? Welcome, welcome as the sun! Would these bracelets permit, I'd embrace thee, old friend." His joy was unaffected and pathetic. Pedro was for a moment overwhelmed by its demonstration. Freeing himself of a burden whose savory odors told its nature, he grasped Cristoval's hands, then dropped one to dash his own hastily across his eyes.

"God ha' mercy, Cristoval! I--I--Spit, roast, and baste my carcass!--I'm glad to see thee. Wait!"

He turned hurriedly to the basket which he had deposited upon the table, fished out a loaf, and thrust it upon the prisoner. "Here!" he whispered, with great impressiveness, looking carefully toward the door, "Chew it up fine! Chew it fine--dost hear?"

Cristoval took the loaf mechanically, surveying him with astonishment. "What thinkst thou, man--that I would swallow it whole? I am hungered, but no cormorant. I'll wait, by thy leave."

"Yes, yes! Wait till I'm gone. Hide it. Eat it when alone."

Cristoval scanned his round face, now serious, and tucked the loaf into his doublet.

"Ah!" quoth Pedro, with a nod of approval. "Now I will lay out thy supper, and whilst thou dost eat I will talk. I must not tarry over long--to-night. To-morrow night I will tarry longer. Ha, ha! Stew my tripes and giblets!" and he patted Cristoval on the back, mystifying the cavalier with his uncalled-for levity. He continued rapidly: "Sit, _amigo_, and I'll tell thee a history of late events, and briefly. I have talked with De Soto."

"Then he hath returned!" said Cristoval.

"Hath returned, and would be sharing thine imprisonment could Pizarro do his inclinations. But De Soto was more discreet than thou, Cristoval. On his arrival he paid his respects to the general in full armor, whilst his troop stood to horse in the plaza in front of the palace. 'T was a bluff and blustering parley, I've been told. The captain forced Pizarro to lame defence of his execution of the Inca, and to swallow more of his own choler than he will be through with tasting for a fortnight. But he had naught else to do, for De Soto would have killed him at a word. In the end the commander threw blame upon Riquelme, Almagro, and others--a burden unloved by any of them, it would seem, for they fell upon him in full cry and rammed the accusation down his throat. The lie was bandied among them like a shuttlecock. This one appeached that, that one the other, then all of them each one in turn. Their chorus reached to the plaza. A bag of cats were not more earnest and vociferous. Swords were out, and but for Candia and Gonzalo Pizarro's blood had been spilt. Stew me! I would they had gotten well at it. What sayst thou to 't?--a rare batch of back-clawing freebooters, not so, Cristoval? Aha! De Soto stirred them well.--But what wouldst guess was the outcome of the wrangle? Scorch me if Pizarro did not shift the blame upon that scamp, Felipillo, whom he accuseth of having falsified to incriminate the Inca!"

Cristoval's comment was a laugh of disgust. Pedro added an imprecation, and resumed.

"And now to thine own business, _amigo_. De Soto spoke for thee, but with ill success. Thine offence was flagrant, dost see?--black, grave, and most flagitious! For the sake of discipline thou must come to trial. The most Pizarro would grant is a delay until the day after the morrow. But for De Soto it would have been yesterday. The moment was unfavorable for intercession."