Part 20

He sat awhile blinking and chuckling at the remains of his meal; snuffled, arose, and went to make a toilet which he purposed should reconcile his captive. A zestful, engaging occupation, this decking for the admiration of a fair one; and most agreeable if one can, like Rogelio, achieve it with the flattering self-assurance that it cannot fail. Nevertheless, it was not without some rasping of temper, and more than once in the process Rogelio stamped and swore with squeaky emphasis. But at length, after a final glance at his mirror and a dubious fingering of his double chin and hanging jowls, he quit his room, creditably attired, considering all the circumstances. To be sure, his hose were mended in places, his doublet seedy in the strong light, and his ruff far from crisp and snowy; but these defects were offset by a profusion of rings, and a redolence of musk sufficiently overpowering to divert attention.

Senora Bolio answered his rap, and opening the door a little way, replied to his salutation with a brief nod, and stood surveying him from head to foot and back again from foot to head with disfavor as disconcerting as it was manifest. Indisputably, the senora's aspect was unfriendly.

The _veedor_ hesitated. "Is--ah--is the senorita within?"

The senora paused for another survey before she replied with asperity: "Is the senorita within! Of a surety the senorita is within. Prithee, where is she like to be--out chasing butterflies?"

Rogelio looked at her in blank surprise; then, with a feeble effort at a smile: "I would have a few words with her, Senora,--and alone! Pray, open the door."

The senora made no move to open the door, but replied tartly: "The senorita hath no words to spare and no ear for listening. She is wearied."

The _veedor_ reddened slowly as astonishment turned to anger. "What--what, woman! Dost think to offer me hindrance in mine own house? Stand aside, then gather thy belongings. Thou 'rt dismissed, dost hear? dismissed!" He stepped forward.

For reply the lady thrust out her arm and in close proximity to his nose, snapped her fingers. The _veedor_ gasped. His nerves were already unstrung, and his indignation set him a-quiver as if he had been some huge, fancifully-moulded jelly.

"Why--name of a--thou--my soul and body! What meanest thou, beldame? inconceivable termagant!"

Alas! Rogelio. That was unfortunate, ill-considered, rash. As if thou wert not enough distraught!--and now to invite the overflow of this brimming vessel of wrath! Before he could draw a second breath she was outside, arms akimbo, her face thrust so close into his that her features for a moment were a blur to his startled eyes. Then she unrolled the infinite scroll of her diatribe,--a withering flow of invectives garnered in years of rude experience; a schedule of strange metaphors, born of inspiration and chasing in so rapid sequence that his bewildered ears no sooner received the shock of one than another followed, twice more shocking; a torrent of hyperboles so weird in their personal application that his ideas staggered in a vague, wondering effort to comprehend, then floundered helpless in the stream; and each member of her discourse emphasized by a jab at his nose with thumb and finger that forced him back, step by step, across the court. The first flush of rage vanished from his countenance and left an expression of surprised impotency, his jaw working in a futile effort to articulate, until, turning with uplifted hands, he fled.

As his door slammed, the breathless senora became conscious of another man. A man at the moment was as a flaunt in the face of a maddened bull, and she turned upon him. It was Pedro. He had watched the episode from its beginning to its close. Now he was bowing low, cap in hand.

"Senora Bolio," he said, with great unction, "my admiration! My admiration, my homage, my reverence! My veneration, my stupefaction, my awe! My----"

"Oh, drat thy gibberings!" interrupted the senora, with irritation. "Be done with thy bobbing, and come hither. Thou 'rt the very man I wished to see."

"Heaven forfend!" murmured Pedro. "Hast yet more wind?"

She eyed him sternly, then her features gradually relaxed. "Not for thee, my chicken pie. But hearken, Pedro. I have news. This girl--dost know it?--is a Christian."

Pedro stared. "No!" he exclaimed. "And 't is the Nusta Rava?"

"'T is she, and she a Christian, Pedro, as I live! And she calleth for Father Tendilla."

"For Father Tendilla! Then stew me, she shall have him! I'll fetch him."

"Fetch him, Pedro. Go at once." And taking him by the shoulder, the senora turned him toward the entrance of the court. "Make haste, and, _Adios_."

Pedro went a few paces, and halted; reflected a moment, and returned. As the senora looked back he nodded toward Rogelio's dcor, and approaching it, rapped vigorously. There was silence, and he pounded again.

"Be off!" came a piping voice, not entirely steady.

Pedro pushed open the door, and heard a scurrying within. "Be off, woman! I'm armed. Enter at thy peril!" trebled the voice. Pedro thrust in his head. The _veedor_ was intrenched behind his table, bathed in perspiration.

"Oh, thy pardon, _Veedor_! I thought thou didst bid me enter," said Pedro, and closed the door with a grin.

"Hold, good Pedro! Wait! Tarry a moment, I pray thee, my dear friend," called the _veedor_, but Pedro was gone. As he left the court the door opened, and Rogelio protruded his head, calling again; espied the senora across the court, and retired abruptly.

*CHAPTER XXIV*

_*Pedro Seeks Tidings of Cristoval*_

Pedro cantered into town and dismounted in front of the great, heavily walled, low-roofed edifice that had been the Temple of the Sun,--the Temple of the Sun for centuries, but now surmounted by a cross, the interior shorn of its symbols of pagan worship and its splendor, and consecrated to the Holy Faith. Beside the gray old building was the ancient palace of the priestly attendants, now sheltering the good Father Tendilla and his assistants in the pious work of saving heathen souls.

The gentle-mannered old priest was shocked at Pedro's revelation of the _veedor's_ iniquity, and made instant preparations.

"Good Father," said the cook, as he held the stirrup for Tendilla to mount, "if you can learn aught of Cristoval----"

"I will, my son. Come to-night," and the priest rode away.

Arrived at the fortress, he went directly to the commandant, and in half an hour was at Rogelio's door with a squad of halberdiers. It drew an outbreak of squeaky protests from that worthy, but the priest, leaving him grovelling in fear of the punishing hand of the Church, ordered a sentinel posted at his door and sought the senora. She admitted him at once to Rava's room.

The girl was asleep, her tear-stained cheek resting on her clasped hands. Even unconsciousness did not release her from her sorrow, for she sighed heavily and moaned as Tendilla knelt for a brief prayer beside her. He arose, and stood regarding her with compassion. With deeper compassion still, when, awakening, she drew back with eyes wide and deep with the unutterable fear of a creature hunted and caught. But her recognition of his silvery hair and benevolent face was quick, and with a sigh, the faintest smile, and a movement entirely queenly, she extended her hand. He took it, and touching the dark head, murmured a benediction. Rava raised her eyes, studying his with the unconscious intensity and directness of gaze that had often given Cristoval the feeling that she looked beyond; then the lines of anxiety softened into an expression of trust. But that kindly old face brought a train of recollections of dreadful days, and she turned away in sudden weeping. If Senora Bolio had at first impressed Father Tendilla with some doubt of that lady's fitness for her post beside the prisoner, she dispelled it now by the tenderness with which she soothed the storm of grief. With whispered words--words that might have sounded strangely enough to the priest could he have heard them,--she pressed the shaking form to her bosom, while with moistened eyes he waited for the return of calm. When the girl was able to hear him he approached.

"My child," he began, in Quichua, and Rava turned quickly with joy in her tears at the sound of the tongue which she had not heard since the wild night at Xilcala. "My child, I have come to tell thee thou hast friends, and thy dangers are past. As soon as thou 'rt composed we will go from this unhappy place to one of safety, and I hope in a few days to place thee in thy brother's care."

"Oh, Viracocha--my father!" she cried, rising and nearing him with hands pressed to her heart. "Is it true? is it true? Hath the sweet Virgin Mother answered my prayers? Ah, Cristoval promised it would always be! I believed him, and it is so! She hath heard me. She hath not turned from Rava in her sorrow!" She drew the crucifix from her bosom and kissed it passionately. "And he said thou wast good, and merciful, and kind, my father. Oh, I know it is true. And thou wilt save me? Wilt save me? Wilt take me from this wicked place--beyond the reach of these cruel Viracochas? Ah, I thank thee, Blessed Mother! I thank thee, I thank thee!" and she sank upon her knees, pressing the crucifix to her breast.

Father Tendilla raised her gently and led her back to her couch. "It is all true, my daughter. Thy prayers will never be in vain. Now, compose thyself, and rest until I return. I go but for a moment."

He left the room, offering earnest thanks for her faith, and ordered the _hamaca_. It was ready in a moment, and with the escort of halberdiers, and the resolute senora riding close beside her litter, Rava left the fortress.

Early in the evening Pedro went to the priest. He found his old confessor pacing the floor and full of mild enthusiasm.

"Ah, my son," said the father, beaming upon his visitor, "we have done a good work this day. I shudder to think of the infinite wrong that might have been but for thy prompt action in placing so rare a guardian as Senora Bolio over this injured girl, and apprising me of her peril. The senora, Pedro, is a remarkable woman. Where didst find her?"

"Stew me!--your pardon, father--I found her not. She found me--as the avalanche findeth the wayfarer." Pedro shook his head with a trace of gloom in his jovial face, adding, "Yes, she is a remarkable woman. No doubt of it! She hath powers and attributes, Father Tendilla. But, the Nusta Rava--she doth well?"

"Much more tranquil, and though most unhappy, beginneth to show commendable patience and resignation. I have talked with her as my time allowed, and would say from what I have seen, Pedro, that she is one of the earth's choicest blooms. Poor Peralta hath been a humble agent in her salvation, but his task was well acquitted, and he shall have many masses for his soul's repose."

"Ah, _Madre_!" faltered Pedro. "Then Cristoval is dead?"

Father Tendilla shook his head sadly. "I fear it, Pedro. Duero hath so said to Saavedra. I have forborne to ask the Nusta, for the mention of his name seemeth to pierce her heart. Alas! The old sad story of mortal love and grief."

Pedro rose and stumped nervously about the room. When he seated himself again his face was flushed and his hands were unsteady, but he said nothing, and the father went on.

"I have told the Nusta of thy part in her rescue, Pedro, and she would see thee. She holdeth thee in kindly recollection."

"I am easily remembered," said Pedro, briefly. "I'm pegged in memories wherever I roam," and he looked glumly at his wooden leg.

"For more than that, my son," said the priest, kindly. "Peralta never forgot thee, and made the Nusta partaker in full of his affection. But thou must see her soon--not to-morrow, for she is much in need of quiet; but possibly on the day following."

"_Bien!_" said Pedro, and his voice was hoarse.

"And now," continued Tendilla, "we must communicate with the Inca Manco."

"No better way than by _chasqui_," said the cook, "though there is uncertainty of his reaching Cuzco. It is said there are roving bands of Quitoans--remnants of Atahualpa's troops--still in the mountains. Since Manco's coronation they have been hostile. But have you learned, father, where the Nusta was found?"

"Only that the place is called Xilcala, and is some six days' march from here."

"Xilcala," repeated Pedro, and fixed the name in his memory. When he pegged back to his _cantina_ he meditated a purpose.

Two days later the cook was admitted to Rava's presence. She was expecting him, and if he had been disposed to think disparagingly of the grounds on which he was favored in her recollection, his modesty was gently reproved by her evident pleasure. He found her changed. Her pallor was sadly heightened, and the proud fire had gone from the dark eyes. Sorrow seemed indelibly impressed upon the gentle face; but with it a dignity strangely at variance with her youthfulness, and a refinement of beauty almost startling to the good Pedro, who whispered to himself, "Blessed saints! 't is the face of an angel." As she greeted him her eyes lighted with a faint smile, but he noted with a twinge the quiver of lip and chin and the scarcely controlled tremor in her voice.

"Ah, Pedro," she said, after bidding him to sit, and observing the diffidence in his honest eyes, "Father Tendilla hath told me all. I would that I could tell thee my gratitude, but thou knowest. Thou didst come to mine aid at the moment of despair, when I thought that even Heaven had forsaken me."

"I have done naught, Nusta Rava. Father Tendilla and the senora----"

"Thou didst send them, Pedro; and it is twice, now, that I have owed thee the means of my rescue. But for thy help at Caxamalca----" She shuddered, then presently went on: "I know how our escape was made possible, my friend. Cristoval--Cristoval told me. Ah, Pedro, he loved thee well!" A choking sob shook her frame, and covering her face with her hands, she turned toward Senora Bolio, who hastened to her side. Poor Pedro dashed his hand across his eyes, and sat bolt upright, his lips compressed. In a moment Rava was able to proceed.

"He spoke of thee often, Pedro."

Pedro bent forward. "Nusta Rava, is there no hope that Cristoval still liveth? Do you know that it cannot be?"

"Oh, I know not, I know not! Once, on that dreadful night, I thought I heard his voice rising above the clamor. I heard no more." She covered her eyes as if to shut out the memory of the horror.

Pedro silently cursed himself for the stupidity of the question, and it was moments before he could say something to divert her. He did so at last, and soon took his leave. Rava said earnestly, "Thou'lt come again, good Pedro?"

"I'll come again, Nusta Rava; and meanwhile, keep courage." He added to himself as he crossed the court, "I would I might say, hope! _Ay de mi_, Cristoval! if I could but know."

He tarried at the _cantina_ only while Pedrillo was saddling his mule, then mounted and struck toward the fortress. Again his errand lay beyond; and he drew rein at the _huasi_ of Municancha. The old Indio gave him welcome, and to him Pedro narrated Rava's flight from Caxamalca with the gallant Viracocha Cristoval. He told of her recent perils and deliverance, and begged Municancha's aid in learning from Xilcala whether the good soldier still lived, and if not, where lay his grave. He found a willing helper. The old man, overjoyed by the news of the safety of Rava, who had been mourned as dead throughout the empire, did not hesitate. He had a nephew, Ocallo. Ocallo was summoned. He would gladly accompany, would organize a company at once, and would be ready to start the following dawn. They agreed upon a meeting place, and having enjoined secrecy, Pedro rode back to Xauxa, grateful to the peg which had won him so good a friend as Municancha.

Night had fallen before he reached the town. He told his plan to Father Tendilla, arranged for his absence, received the confessor's blessing, and departed to prepare for the journey. Pedro worked late, completed his preparations, and lay down for a few hours' sleep. Long before dawn he was up, and having breakfasted, was assisted by Pedrillo to arm. His mule was brought, and with a few parting instructions, he was away. In half an hour he was clear of the town, on the road going north. A brisk trot for a mile or more, and he halted at a cross-road. A dim figure rose out of the darkness and was hailed by Pedro in Quichua. After a brief greeting, the man summoned half-a-dozen companions from a thicket beside the road.

"Are we all here?" asked Pedro, looking over the group.

"All here, Viracocha--four archers and two carriers," replied the one who had first approached.

"Good! Then we will move. Take the lead, Ocallo. We should be well in the mountains before the light."

Thus Pedro set out on his search for Cristoval.

*CHAPTER XXV*

_*A Glimpse of Cuzco*_

The interest at first aroused by Pedro's disappearance gradually subsided, and was suddenly forgotten for a time, in the excitement following upon another departure. This was attended by tragic circumstance. Fray Mauricio, having established himself at Xauxa, at once denounced Jose to the commandant, Saavedra, as a heretic, demanding his arrest. Saavedra, intimidated by threats of the Inquisition's vengeance, unwillingly consented. He was not prompt, however, and word of the friar's efforts reached the armorer, who was almost recovered from his fever. The next morning Mauricio was found in his quarters, stabbed to the heart. Jose had vanished.

Search was made in the town and neighboring mountains, but no trace of the armorer was found, and as no reward was offered, the hunt was given up.

Pedro's absence was not unnoted by Rava, however, and her gratitude for his devotion and services inspired her persistent inquiries. To these Father Tendilla made evasive replies, deeming it unwise to suggest a hope which would probably renew her anguish when Pedro returned. But to Senora Bolio, so much exercised that she even proposed to take the field in search of the cook, he confided his mission, perplexed at that lady's attitude, which seemed too resolute to imply tenderness, but which nevertheless indicated something more than mere solicitude. Even had the good father been better versed in the gentle passion as manifested in the feminine breast, the senora's symptoms might easily have balked his diagnosis. When she learned that Pedro had left Xauxa she suspected it was prompted by his unconquerable coyness, and shocked the mild priest by a characteristic opinion of the apparent treachery. But, apprised of the fact, she melted in a manner no less surprising, blew her nose violently to abort a threatened tear, and broke into eulogy even more emphatic than her denunciation.

Rava's spiritual growth had been such as to rejoice the good missionary's heart. She turned now with all the emotion born of grief, the yearning of a heart bereft, the ardent faith of a sincere and ingenuous mind, to the Mater Dolorosa and the Redeemer. Obedient to her preceptor, she conquered the despair which he saw was menacing her life itself. She found divine consolation, and in its realization her belief received new strength. She was baptized and received the sacrament. The occasion was one of utmost solemnity, and the garrison attended in body. The little flock of native converts and as many more of the people of Xauxa as the walls of the church would hold, gathered to see the daughter of an Inca repudiate the gods of her fathers in their ancient temple.

One morning Father Tendilla hastened to Rava with the news that a _chasqui_ had arrived from Cuzco, announcing that the Inca Manco had despatched an escort to convey her to the capital. Not many days later the sun rose upon a city of tents on the plain outside the town. The escort had arrived at nightfall the day before--battalions of the Incarial Guard, a hundred nobles, a throng of maids for the Nusta's attendance, and a long train of camp servants, _hamaca_ bearers, and carriers for the baggage. That morning the sacerdotal palace was a-glitter with the richly costumed members of the royal suite, bringing the Inca Manco's brotherly greetings and their own homage to the restored princess. Rava's simpler life was of the past, and once more she was a Daughter of the Sun.

A fortnight later the _cortege_ of the Nusta was descending by the great Chinchasuyu Road into the valley of Cuzco. As the column emerged from the pass, and the fertile _bolson_ opened out below, Rava drew aside the curtains of the _hamaca_. The arid slope dropped for hundreds of feet to the uppermost terraces of the _andenes_ which clung to the mountain-sides and ended with their green the bleak wilderness of eroded rock. Beyond these the rolling floor of the valley, traversed by the stream Cachimayo; and on the left, rising abruptly from the plain, crowned by the ramparts and towers of its huge fortress, loomed the sullen mass of the hill Sachsahuaman. At its feet lay Cuzco, the "Navel," the centre of the universe, the ancient capital of the Incas; and still farther away, the bastions of the gigantic circumvallation of the Cordillera, its peaks delicately outlined against the azure of the cloudless sky or the white of more distant snow-clad summits.

A faint haziness overhung the valley, with filmy spirals of white smoke rising languidly above the roofs into the air, a-quiver with the warmth of the lowland and lending lightness and unreality to the almost dreamlike splendor of the capital. It seemed not of the West. The bright walls of dwellings, the glare of street and plaza, the green of interior court and garden, and the gold of the roofs of palace and temple, were blended by distance into a harmonious beauty which might have belonged rather to some metropolis of the fabled Orient.

As her escort wound slowly down, Rava looked forward with throbbing heart, her eyes seeking in the confusion of roofs the spots endeared to her by lifelong association. The palace, the Amarucancha, was easily found on the great square, and even her own court with its shade of quinuars. Beyond gleamed the golden roof of the Temple of the Sun, now to her a symbol of the darkness from which she had been led by loving hands, and whence she felt it her mission to rescue others. A turn hid the city from view, and she leaned back with closed eyes until the rhythmical tramp of the companies was echoed by the walls of houses, and she heard the murmur of a multitude. The street was full of her people, and as she looked from the _hamaca_ they raised a mighty shout, waving hands and brightly colored scarfs and showering her with flowers. Her heart was full as she smiled back their greetings, and in her joy over theirs at beholding her again she could have embraced the humblest.

Far down the street the bristling column of spears turned to the left, and the thunder of the drums at its head grew faint, to rise again as her _hamaca_ reached the corner. Now she could see the plaza with its expectant crowds, and shortly she emerged from the narrow way, while waiting companies fell in on the right and left to form a hollow square. Suddenly her eyes rested upon a group of bearded faces crowded close to the lines, and she drew back into the shadow of the _hamaca_. They stared with quiet insolence, and others were elbowing through the throng from the direction of a building on the farther side of the square, over whose door she saw with sinking heart the flag of Spain and the dark colors of the Army of the Conquest. In front of the building was a picketed line of horses and a loitering knot of Spaniards. Rava turned away with a shiver, her brief happiness gone.