Part 15

In the late afternoon of the third day of travel from the hut they were descending into the Vale of Xilcala. Since morning they had been creeping down a canyon which broadened at last at its junction with another, and their haven lay before them. A turn in the trail brought it into sudden view, and they halted, struck by a scene of so rare and tranquil beauty that even Cristoval, not easily impressed, muttered an exclamation. Assisting Rava to dismount, he led her out upon an overhanging ledge. Hundreds of feet below spread a rolling plain surrounding an alpine lake of limpid emerald and blue which gleamed in its setting of spring verdure like some fair jewel. From the water the shores gently rose to the encircling mountains, traceried with walls and hedges, and sparkling with the silver inlay of numberless rivulets and miniature canals. Far up the slopes of the sheltering masses of the Cordillera clung cultivated terraces, the _andenes_, the lines of their retaining walls sweeping in and out with the contour of the rugged scarp until they broke at a distant cleft in the rampart, through which flowed the outlet of the lake. Half-way down the western shore was the village, crowning a rocky promontory, its white walls reflected on the placid water, and to the weary eyes of the refugees hardly more real or permanent, in its quiet beauty, than the inverted and blended image at its feet. Nearer were scattered cottages, a villa with its park, and shaded lanes and groves of trees just breaking into leafage or blossom.

Over all was an atmosphere of peace that went to the heart of the girl standing with cheeks pale and eyes darkened by the sorrow, hardship, and dangers through which she had come. She gazed long with clasped hands. At length in a whisper, as if loath to break the silence which like the evening haze brooded over the tranquillity below, she said to Cristoval, who stood leaning upon his lance beside her, "Ah, my friend, is it not beautiful? Oh, Viracocha Cristoval, is it not too beautiful to be real?"

"Why, God bless thee, child!" answered the cavalier, "not too beautiful to be real, surely; but fair enough for a dream, no less! and welcome as 't is alluring."

"Most welcome! Most welcome!" she exclaimed; and after a pause, "And now--our cares and dangers are over."

He did not reply at once, and she glanced at him inquiringly. "Thy cares and dangers are over, Nusta Rava," he said. "I pray 'tis so."

"But," she said, with concern, "I said ours, Viracocha. Are not yours as well?"

"No doubt, no doubt!" he replied, hastily. "The most immediate of them, assuredly." He looked away toward the distant mountains, as if unwilling to pursue the subject. She studied his eyes for a moment, observing their cloud, and said gently, "The most immediate of them, but not all?"

"Oh, belike all!--But shall we not move again? We have yet some distance, and thou 'rt a-weary."

"Presently," she answered, with decision; "when you have told me what you reserve in your thoughts. Why may not your care and danger be past, as well as mine?"

He smiled at her persistence. "Why, Nusta Rava, thou dost forget! I am a renegade from my countrymen--a traitor--with a price upon my head. And to thine own people, what can I be but one of a band of plunderers--an enemy?"

"Something far different, Viracocha Cristoval," she replied, earnestly. "You are my friend." He inclined his head, but made no reply, and Rava continued: "You have been my preserver; and that meaneth, doth it not, that you are a friend of Tavantinsuyu? Surely, you cannot think we are without gratitude! Not one of my people--not one! but will share mine with me."

"Nay!" replied Cristoval, gravely, "it is not that I would doubt their generosity, Nusta Rava; but I am a Spaniard, and Spaniards have done your country wrongs that will not be forgotten whilst there lives a father in Tavantinsuyu to tell them to his sons. They will do more grievous ones, for I know them well. Their deeds will breed a hatred for my race that will not die in a thousand years. Think not that my blood can be overlooked."

Rava was pale. "But, Viracocha," she said faintly, after a moment, "you had no part in those deeds--nor will have."

"I had no part in the massacre, and strove to save thy brother--but failed."

She touched his arm timidly. "Your friendship for him, as well as for me, shall be remembered. Be sure of it."

Cristoval shook his head. "It may be so, Nusta Rava; but to thy people I shall always be one of the race accursed."

She looked long toward the lake and beyond. He resumed with his kindly smile: "And now, child, I shall presently give thee into the hands of thy friends, and thou'lt be 'child' no longer, but a Daughter of the Sun, surrounded by a court, inaccessible to thy rusty cavalier, and with thousands ready to do for thee more than he hath done--though not more gladly, upon my heart!"

She turned to him quickly, her lips parted. No words were uttered, but Cristoval saw a depth and strange lustre in her eyes that haunted his memory. The look was brief and unfathomable. She extended her hand--quite cold, he noted--and faltered, "Let us go, Viracocha." He bent over it, and led her to the horse.

Cristoval walked on beside the head of the steed, striving to divine what she had been about to say, and the meaning of the fleeting expression. He looked back at her, but she seemed lost in reverie, and gave him but a brief downward glance half hidden beneath the veil of her lashes, with the faintest trace of a smile. But, he thought, the smile had more of sadness than her expression of repose.

They had covered half the distance to the town when their guide, who was some paces in advance, halted, faced about, and went upon his knees, bending until his forehead touched the ground.

"Ah!" growled Cristoval to himself, "there goeth that benighted varlet nosing the dust once more. The ten thousandth time since we left his hut! Well, doubtless he hath, with our gracious permission, some humble matter of information." He led up to the prostrate Peruvian and stopped, waiting patiently for the development.

"Rise, Mati," said Rava, gently. "What wouldst thou say?"

Pointing toward the lower valley, he said diffidently: "Most illustrious Daughter of Inti, if you will permit, yonder villa on the hill between this and Xilcala is the home of the Palla[1] Maytalca."

[1] Palla = married woman of the blood-royal.

"Oh! Is it so, Mati?" cried Rava, eagerly. "Then, Viracocha Cristoval, it will be ours. The Palla Maytalca is a kinswoman and was one of my royal father's household. In my childhood I loved her well. We shall be most welcome. Mati, do thou go forward and prepare her for our coming."

The youth dropped to the ground again, rose, and backed away for a dozen yards, then turned and sped down the trail. They followed, and the path shortly entered a lane between rows of willows around the margin of the lake. Night was coming rapidly, and it was almost dark when they arrived at the gateway of the villa. Mati met them, and Rava having dismounted, Cristoval removed his helmet, tethered his horse, and they followed the herdsman down an avenue of trees toward the residence. It was a rambling building, or a group of several, and of a size comporting with the rank of its occupant. As they drew near torches flashed toward them, and they were presently met by the Palla Maytalca, advancing with perturbation, attended by excited young women and torch-bearers. Rava uttered a cry of joy and threw herself into the Palla's arms, and the two mingled their broken exclamations of delight. Cristoval halted a few paces back.

"Rava, Rava, my best beloved!" at last exclaimed the Palla, holding the girl at arm's length, surveying her in surprise and fondness. "I cannot believe it is thou. Hast come from the clouds? By what miracle of the great Inti art thou here?"

"Oh, I hardly know, dearest Maytalca!" answered Rava, smiling and sobbing, "and can make it seem real no more easily than thou. Nor can I tell thee the thousand perils in our coming. Had it not been for the bravest and best of friends--oh, Viracocha Cristoval, I pray you come nearer!--This is he, Maytalca: my deliverer and defender--the Viracocha Cristoval."

The lady started as his grim, warlike figure clanked out of the obscurity and the light fell upon his steel. Observing her trepidation the cavalier halted, saying as he bowed: "Palla Maytalca, you do not know my joy in seeing the Nusta Rava at last in safety, and in witnessing her affectionate welcome."

His voice and manner were reassuring, and she conquered her fears sufficiently to extend a trembling hand and say, timidly: "One who hath befriended the Nusta Rava, Viracocha, hath no need to be assured of a welcome to the home of Maytalca. It is yours."

"Be sure of my gratitude," said Cristoval, as with Rava he followed their hostess to the villa. As the Princess passed, the kneeling attendants rose and went after, dumb with awe of the royal maiden and her mysterious companion.

The Palla led across a terrace into a large hall, brightly lighted and strewn with rugs. A pair of braziers were burning, for the evening was growing chill, and Rava was soon established among the cushions of a divan, giving a hurried though unconnected narrative of her late adventures to the wondering Maytalca. The Palla, who, as her title indicated, was of royal blood, though not of the reigning family, was the widow of one of the princes of the realm. She was a stately woman, just past middle age, with hair slightly touched with gray, and robed in the rich costume of the women of the nobility. Her bearing was that of a gentlewoman, and whatever disquietude she felt at her steel-clad guest it was effectually concealed. As a matter of fact he gave an impression of formidableness with his rust-streaked armor, his half-grown beard, eyes burning in sockets made deep by hardship, and cheeks hollowed by the recent toil and hunger, which his gentle comportment could only half dispel. When he excused himself some minutes later and left the room with a servant to look after his horse, the Palla turned to Rava and seized her hands.

"Rava, my child," she exclaimed, in a low voice, "how hadst thou courage to trust thyself with that terrible-appearing man? I tremble to look at him! I shall never sleep while he is beneath the shelter of this roof."

Rava smiled up at her from her cushions. "Ah, Maytalca, thou dost not know him! Had I been a child he could not have been more gentle. Indeed," and the slightest pout came into her expression, "he seemeth to hold me but a child! But oh, my dear, he is brave as he is kind! The god Viracocha himself were not more terrible when he meeteth an enemy: nor thou more tender than he hath been to me. He is invincible; yet hath the heart of a woman. Sleep as thou wouldst with Inti guarding, dearest Maytalca. Thou'lt love him."

The Palla seated herself beside the girl and placed an arm about her, gravely studying her eyes. "Hast thou found, Rava, such traits in thy protector?"

Rava turned her eyes upon her for an instant with a half-frightened look, then dropped them with sudden reserve. "He was the Inca's trusted friend, Maytalca," she replied, with womanly art, "and hath been mine. I believe him most worthy."

The entrance of the cavalier interrupted. He tarried but a moment for a brief but ceremonious leave-taking for the night, then followed a servant to the apartment which the Palla said he should regard as his own. It was in a wing forming one side of a rear court which opened toward the lake, and he found the chamber one which might have suited a Moorish prince. It was decorated with the richness of style which had already become familiar, furnished with the usual cushioned chairs, tables of polished stone, and a divan which looked more inviting than any the weary soldier had laid eyes upon for many days. The attendant opened a door and showed him a small court with a pool fed by a running stream for bathing, then aided him to disarm, and with the announcement that his supper would be sent presently, backed out with a profound reverence. By the time Cristoval had finished his bath the repast was served, and an hour later he was asleep.

He was aroused in the morning by a persistent rapping. Calling a summons to enter, a youth presented himself, dropping immediately upon his knees and bending to the floor. Weariness came into the face of the cavalier at the obeisance, and he directed the boy to rise. He did so, backed out of the door, and reappeared with a goblet and an armful of apparel. The latter he laid over a chair, and approaching the couch, knelt to tender the cup.

"Viracocha," he said, humbly, "my mistress sendeth her morning greeting with the prayer that the Sun have you in his protection."

"It is most kind of her," said Cristoval, rising upon his elbow. "Bear mine in return to her, and thank her for me. What is this? Ah! Hot _chicha_ and water. It is thoughtful, boy."

"Viracocha," said the youth again, "it hath pleased my mistress to honor me with the command to serve you."

"She is very gracious," returned Cristoval, looking the boy over with favor. "Thank her also for this. But what was thine other burden--that on the chair?"

"Fresh garments for you, Viracocha."

"Surely?" said the cavalier. "I thank her again, sincerely, for I had sore need. I will rise at once."

The youth retreated backward to the door, and started to go once more upon his knees.

"Stay!" said Cristoval, quickly interrupting the movement. "There is one matter whereof I would speak--but what is thy name, lad? Markumi? Good! Well, Markumi, there is, as I say, one thing I would mention--a trifle, but as we may be thrown together for a time, it may concern our peace of mind. It is this: I am not an Inca, Markumi, nor an idol, nor an altar, nor yet a heathen god, nor a saint; and may never be any one of them, though I have a namesake who is the last--San Cristoval, of blessed memory, of whom thou mayst some day learn. But, being neither one nor another, this excessive reverence doth not relish me. I am a plain soldier, and love naught better than to see a man upright on his two legs. Reserve, therefore, thy homage for the ladies, who have full claim and title to it; and thy cramps for the Inca, who may be wonted to it--as I am not. Dost comprehend, Markumi?"

"Not clearly, Viracocha," replied Markumi, with embarrassment.

"Why, what I mean is this. Keep off thy knees. Bow to me with moderation, temperately, and without extravagance, and I'll like it better. Is it plain?"

"Yes, Viracocha."

"That is a good lad. And now, is there a man in thy village who can trim hair? Ah! Then fetch him. And Markumi--"

"Yes, Viracocha."

"Advise him about the manner of his approach." And he added to himself: "I'll have no barber coming before me in the attitude of a cow just rising from her bed. I weary of it."

Cristoval arose quite himself. He hummed through his bath and was cheerful until he confronted the chair holding the apparel sent by the Palla. Then his face grew sombre.

"_Santa Maria!_" he whispered. "Do I face the need of donning this infidel caparison? Must I forswear the guise and earmarks of a Christian? On my soul, 'twill stick sorely in my conscience!" He lifted one piece after another from the pile, surveying them at arm's length, then turned to his own sadly worn garments. "No help for it, Cristoval," he said, as he overhauled them. "They are rent, torn, ripped, and decrepit, to say naught of the stains of hard travel. Well, may Heaven overlook my heathen masquerade!" He returned to the others and gloomily began to dress.

The costume was that of a Peruvian noble: a shirt of white cotton, another of white wool, and a loose, sleeveless tunic, handsomely woven in rich colors and conventional design, to be belted in at the waist, leaving its skirts falling as a kilt almost to the knees. There was a girdle--a broad band, highly ornamental in its woven pattern, heavily fringed with flat braids of cord, each of half the breadth of a hand, and reaching to the bottom of the tunic. Over this was worn a belt, and Cristoval lifted it with an exclamation. It was of soft leather, and mounted with heavily embossed plates of alternate gold and silver.

"By the saints!" quoth he. "Should Pizarro rest his eye upon this he'd raise my price."

A cloak, or poncho, and a pouch to be hung from the belt, equally rich in design and color with the tunic, completed the apparel for the body. A pair of sandals, or buskins, with broad straps highly ornate, and provided with protecting toe-pieces and side-pieces, were beside the chair. These laced half-way up to the knees. The costume was picturesque, thoroughly graceful and masculine, and revealed his strength of arm and symmetry of leg; but as he glanced downward his eyes rested upon his bare knees and half-bare calves.

"Oh, the fighting saint!" he exclaimed, in dismay. "My knees! Stark, gleaming, barefaced, preeminent knees! Gods! I'm _all_ knees! O, San Miguel, clap thine eyes upon them! Didst ever see so many knees, and knees so braggart in their nakedness? Name of a fiend!"

He tugged at the kilt to bring it lower, but vainly, and he sat down.

"A thousand curses!" he groaned, as he contemplated them. "Thrice more flagrant in repose!" He rose and moved about, watching them narrowly. "Flashing like the beacons of Tarragona when I walk! Ah, Blessed Mother, can I ever lug their effrontery into the gaze of women's eyes? Oh, would that I were Pedro! then this immodesty were reduced by half. Blood and Misery!"

He was standing helpless when Markumi entered with his breakfast. Cristoval eyed him closely, but the boy observed nothing unusual, merely announcing as he set to work to arrange the table that the man would come presently to trim his hair. His knees were bare too, of course, and Cristoval envied their brown. _Bien_! He would sun his own assiduously--and he sat down with a gradually returning feeling of composure.

By the time he had breakfasted the barber arrived. Cristoval hoped to be shaved; but learning that the Peruvians used only tweezers, gave it up, forced to be content with the closest possible trimming. Even this he would have forgone but for Rava, who disliked, and more than half feared, the Viracocha beard. An hour later, with head and face reduced to order, Cristoval strolled out in search of his hostess.

The court in the rear, as he had observed the night before, was open toward the lake and guarded on that side by a low parapet from which steps descended to a broad avenue through the trees, from terrace to terrace to the shore, a few hundred yards distant. In the middle of the patio was the usual fountain, and on each side a parterre, at one of which a venerable servant was at work on the budding plants. Before Cristoval could prevent, the old man prostrated himself; on being asked for the Palla, he rose painfully and led Cristoval to the steps, saying, "She walked toward the lake a moment ago, Viracocha, with two young friends. No doubt you will find her on the shore."

The cavalier thanked him and looked about. The building was of the customary massiveness and severity of style, modified somewhat by numerous windows and niches, and by the sculptured border surrounding each doorway. This decoration struck Cristoval forcibly as being identical with the simpler forms of Grecian frets seen in European architecture. Among the trees on either side were smaller buildings for the accommodation of the Palla's servants. The site had been chosen with the fine appreciation of natural beauty of surroundings characteristic of the ancient Peruvians. From the foot of the hill the lake spread out like a mirror, reflecting in perfect detail every rugged feature of the opposite mountains, with here and there a streak of silver where its surface was ruffled by the morning breeze. To the right was the village of Xilcala, and ten miles or more beyond, the narrow gorge through which the waters of the lake found exit on their way to the distant sierra. On his left, toward the canyon he had descended the day before, was a stretch of rolling fields with groups of men at work, and he caught the plaintive melody of a ploughing-song. He listened, impressed by the sense of peace which pervaded the valley, and descended the steps to the avenue. The bank was terraced to the water's edge, each terrace with its trees, shrubbery, winding paths, and nooks with benches inviting idleness. At the margin of the lake was a sunny space, or hemicycle, from which opened a charming panorama of the lake; and surrounding it were broad, high-backed stone seats, shaded by overhanging foliage. One bench was covered with rugs and cushions, and bits of half-finished embroidery indicated the recent presence of the ladies.

The cavalier turned into the path along the shore. He had not gone far before he heard voices, and another step brought him face to face with his hostess. She was advancing slowly, her arms encircling a maiden on each side. They walked with hands resting affectionately on her shoulders, bending forward and listening, the attention of all so engaged in conversation that Cristoval had been unheard. The Palla started slightly when she perceived her guest, but disengaged herself and came to greet him.

"May the Sun shine kindly upon you this morning, Viracocha Cristoval," she said, offering her hand. "I rejoice to see that your recent hardships have left few traces."

Her cordiality and freedom from constraint, due in part to his altered appearance, but in a great degree also to Rava's influence, placed the cavalier at ease, and he forgot his knees.

"The traces must be deep indeed," he replied, "not to be banished by the gracious hospitality of the Palla Maytalca. The hardships are no longer remembered."

"I fear you belittle them," she said, with a smile and a slight flush. "The Nusta Rava hath already told me much of your terrible journey, and my wonder that she endured it is only less than my thankfulness that she had so good a guardian."

Cristoval bowed again. "The Nusta Rava hath rare spirit. I trust she will quickly regain her strength, Palla Maytalca."

Cristoval showed his anxiety, and the lady hastened to assure him that his ward needed only rest. "But now," she said, "let me make you known to my young companions," and she called to the damsels a few steps away. Their timidity at approaching a Viracocha, to them a fabulous and dreaded being, was dissipated by his simple kindliness of manner, and when the quartet reached the hemicycle the first reserve had gone. The maidens were the daughters of the _curaca_ of Xilcala, the Palla explained, and spent much of their time with her, acquiring what accomplishments she could impart, and affording her welcome companionship in return. They were handsome, graceful girls, and compared favorably, Cristoval thought, with the senoritas of Castile.

All three were soon engaged with their embroidery, Maytalca often pausing to listen breathlessly to the cavalier's details of the flight from Caxamalca. He gave them simply, passing over incidents that involved his own courage, and dwelling with quiet enthusiasm upon Rava's fortitude. But his hostess had heard from the Nusta more of the former than of the latter, and she was rapidly coming to share the estimate of him held by his grateful _protegee_. At his mention of the Canares her face became grave.