Part 26

The Auqui Paullo came, flushed with excitement and fierce cheerfulness. He knew the dire significance of the turmoil, and bade Rava partake his own hope. The army of the Inca was afield, and deliverance at hand. Alas! no deliverance to Rava from her bondage of grief. She waved him away and wept afresh.

Late in the day came Father Valverde from his ministrations to dying Spaniards, and she knelt at his feet, imploring his prayers for her relief. The good priest, shocked at her longing for death, hastened to banish this vestige of her barbarism; prayed beside her for the renewing of her resignation; told her again of His agony and gentle patience, of the Mother bereaved, and gave her support. Once more he spoke of the saintly lives of nuns, and she listened with yearning for their holy peacefulness. He left her at last with new hope and a resolution fast growing. Rava would take the veil.

The night which closed the first day's struggle was without alarm. The Spaniards slept beside their arms, the troopers in armor and at the picket line of their saddled steeds. Guards were doubled, and patrols kept the streets. The stars came out, but they seemed rivalled in multitude and brilliancy by the fires of the besieging army, sparkling in a vast circle on the surrounding hills, and beheld with awe by the beleaguered conquistadors.

To one Spaniard, however,--to Cristoval,--viewing them from the ramparts of the Sachsahuaman, they gave hope and promise. Beside Mocho, and followed by Pedro as closely as his wooden member would permit, he had taken part in the storming of the fortress. Later, they watched the struggle in the streets below, and Mocho pointed out the Amarucancha, beneath whose roof was Rava. With strained nerves and fevered blood the cavalier had seen the conflict raging at the very doors of the palace, hardly to be withheld from descending to join in the battle, and deterred only by the manifest impossibility of reaching its front through the masses in the streets. Sick at heart he had witnessed the repulse, but with new resolution and a solemn, whispered oath. All day he had lingered on the parapet studying the city spread out like a map below him, and at nightfall the sight of the great girdle of campfires brought fresh courage. With such a host the Inca must triumph.

The next morning news came that Manco had engaged the Spanish cavalry near Yucay. Later, that the Spaniards were in full retreat toward Cuzco, and an order was received from the Inca permitting them to enter the city. On the following day they appeared on the Chinchasuyu road, uncovered for their passage. The highway passed at the foot of a spur of the hill Sachsahuaman, and from the height Cristoval and Pedro watched the entry of the cavalcade. Had it not been for a dozen empty saddles and the litters borne by Canares in the rear, the return might have been from a victory. Pennons fluttered, plumes tossed jauntily on helmets, and as they passed the lines a trumpeter blew a quickstep.

Shortly after the column had entered the city a _chasqui_ arrived at the fortress announcing the approach of the Inca, and Mocho paraded his Antis to receive him. Messengers were sent to the several generals of the divisions surrounding the city, and the afternoon was spent in council with the monarch in the citadel.

*CHAPTER XXXIII*

_*The Doomed City*_

About two hours after darkness had fallen Pedro appeared at Cristoval's door and beckoned him out. The cook's face was grave.

"What is it, _amigo_?" asked Cristoval, as they stepped upon the terrace surrounding the tower.

"I know not, nor can I learn; but something is afoot. Come!" He led toward the rampart nearest the city.

The plain within the fortress was now covered with tents, but as they traversed the encampment its streets were deserted. From the midst rose the pile of the citadel, Moyoc Marca, dimly outlined in the starlight, and showing a single lighted window below the battlements. At the edge of the camp they passed the embers at the kitchens, and beyond these were a few silent groups of camp attendants looking toward the south, where presently Cristoval descried the motionless masses of the garrison drawn up under arms and facing the ramparts. The cavalier looked about in surprise.

"What is the meaning of it, Pedro?" he demanded.

Pedro shook his head and stumped on without reply. Passing between two of the battalions, they reached the margin of the plain, and skirting it, drew near the battlements. Three fires were burning brightly, and the two Spaniards caught the pungent, resinous odor of boiling pitch rising from kettles suspended over the flames. Between these and the parapet was a group of officers, and a few paces in their front stood a cloaked figure, motionless and alone. The firelight flashed on the golden eagle of the helmet, and Cristoval recognized the Inca. Halting at a short distance from the fires, the cavalier looked over the scene in mystification. Again he demanded:--

"What is to do, Pedro? Canst guess? They are heating pitch! _Madre_! Is there to be torture?"

"God knoweth!" said Pedro. "Wait!"

With the exception of a small party of soldiers around the kettles, no man was moving. No word was spoken, unless by these, and their tense, suppressed tones added to the pervading air of mystery. Two were feeding the fires, while the rest were kneeling or bending over some task whose nature Cristoval could not discern. Presently he saw three or four rise to string their bows. Aside from their whispers and muttering and the crackling of the fires, the only sound was the sighing of the rising wind; and now, from the shadowy city far below, the sweet, distant wail of a Spanish bugle blowing an evening call. Out in the dark valley, beyond the dim reticulation of black streets and pale roofs, was the great cincture of watch-fires, glimmering and twinkling as cheerfully as if their omen were as peaceful as the stars. But the night, even in its placidity, seemed portentous, and Cristoval felt a sense of dread as he glanced from the kettles with their wizard-like attendants to the silent, muffled figure of the Inca.

"God's mercy, Pedro!" he whispered, with a sign of the cross, "what is doing? What hell's broth do they brew? Not--"

Pedro gripped his arm as a soldier stepped to a kettle, holding an arrow swathed in cotton, and turned toward the Inca. The monarch made a sign, and thrusting the missile into the boiling pitch, the archer drew it forth and held it to the flames. It burst into instant blaze, and he strode hastily to the parapet, set it to his bowstring, and drew until the flame licked his hand. He shot, and with a fluttering hiss the burning arrow soared high into the darkness, leaving a trail of falling sparks, paused for an instant against the firmament, and fell with ever-increasing swiftness into the city.

Cristoval had uttered an exclamation of horror as the meaning burst upon him, and had taken a stride forward, to be jerked forcibly back by Pedro with a hand over his mouth.

"Silence!" muttered the cook. "Dost think to hinder?"

"They are firing the city!" gasped the cavalier.

"Canst prevent it? Beware!"

"Rava--"

"Safe with Valverde! Come!" Pedro dragged him out of ear-shot of the Inca, warning him to hold his tongue. A second arrow sped its flaming course, then a third; and at once, from a hundred points around the doomed capital, mounted thin pencillings of fire answering those from the fortress and falling like a shower of meteors. Arrow after arrow flashed out from the parapet into the surrounding gloom, and Cristoval gazed spellbound. Below, where the first had descended, was a tiny, wavering flame. While he watched, speechless, breathless, it grew with every second, its base spreading rapidly with ragged outline over the tinder-like thatch of one of the nearer buildings. Beyond, another feeble blaze was springing, and not far from this, a third. The first was now leaping, sending up a tenuous column of smoke which grew ruddy momentarily, and was seized by the wind and swept away toward the eastern hills. The flame waxed with incredible swiftness, lost its brilliance, turned deep and angry, with a lurid veil around it, through which darted red tongues, whipping plumes, and forked lashes. In a moment the smoke was rolling upward in volumes, showing whirling gaps with depths of murky incandescence, masses of black rising heavily after eddying sprays of sparks and burning fragments of straw. Where the first arrow had fallen was a volcano of fire with smaller craters bursting out on every hand.

In the distant suburbs were splashes of flame and towers of smoke in a huge, infernal circle, and the watch-fires on the hills were gradually blotted out by a broken, rufous curtain. Now the roofs of palaces stood out in pallid relief against the inky blackness of the streets, and the golden thatch of the Temple of the Sun was gleaming fitfully in the wavering illumination. From the square, at the first outbreak of the fire, had risen shouts of alarm, the startled clamor of trumpets, then the dismal howling of Canares. But shortly these had ceased, the beleaguered stricken into dumbness by the terrific vengeance with which they were menaced. The city had grown strangely still, as if waiting, aghast, for its fate.

Cristoval gazed in stupefaction, held in a paralysis by thought of the danger to the loved one within the swiftly growing chain of conflagration. It seemed an age before his tense muscles obeyed his will. A suppressed exclamation from Pedro at last dissolved the spell, and with a groan he dashed toward his quarters.

Mocho was approaching, and the cavalier ran against him. "Whither, friend?" demanded the general, detaining him forcibly.

Cristoval made a wild gesture toward the fire. "To arm--into the city--the Nusta Rava!" He broke away.

Mocho looked after him, dumbfounded, then hastened to his command and called an officer. "Take fifty, Rimachi," he said, hurriedly, "and follow the Viracocha Cristoval. Obey his orders as mine. He goeth into Cuzco in aid of the Nusta Rava. Go first to his quarters in the Paucar Marca. Speed!"

Rimachi entered Cristoval's apartment and reported his orders. Pedro followed him in. The cook had come at his best speed, but the cavalier was finishing his arming as he entered.

"Wait for me, Cristoval!" he panted, as he donned his corselet.

"Nay!" said Cristoval, latching his helmet and seizing his buckler. "This time we part, good old comrade. Thou hast risked thyself too often for friendship's sake. I go alone. Farewell!" Pedro wrung his extended hand, swearing and almost weeping at being left behind, but before he could protest, Cristoval was gone.

Outside, the whole world to the south seemed aflame. A monstrous, reddened cloud leaped and surged toward the heavens, apparently against the very ramparts of the fortress. The plain, its tents, the towers, the battalions of the garrison, and every inequality of the ground, were as clearly marked in the ruddy, reflected glow as if by dawn. Cristoval paused for an instant, overcome by the terrible magnificence of the spectacle and the grewsome roar and crackle of the fire, which had grown apace in the short time it had taken him to arm; then consigned himself to the Virgin's care and hurried to the southernmost gate, followed by the Antis.

Here the road drops abruptly down the cliff to the terraces of the Colcampata, several hundred feet below. Part of the way was by steps made treacherous by the unusual lights and shadows, and uncertain by the dense smoke drifting from the western suburbs; but Cristoval descended at a run, and was soon at the foot of the declivity. Here he was overtaken by his party, and paused to consider with Rimachi the possible avenues of entry. In front, the nearest buildings were a mass of flames. To the right, he could see the district called Huaca Puncu, already burning fiercely in a score of places. On the left, he remembered, was the stream Tullamayu, and after a brief consultation they hastened across the terraces. Through gardens and over walls, they were presently following a street to the eastward, stumbling in the murk. At the edge of the ravine was a low wall, surmounted in a second, and they rushed down the terraced bank to the stream. Cristoval was harrowed by a fear that the almost solid belt of fire before him would prove impassable. The few gaps were closing momentarily, forming a nearly continuous sheet of leaping, whirling flame whose heat reached even to where he stood. The narrow course of the Tullamayu presented the only breach, and this was already perilous, dense with smoke and illumined by a storm of falling sparks and burning brands. He glanced about at the Antis. Their faces were alight and their eyes gleaming with the fire, but they showed no sign of fear, and with a word to Rimachi, Cristoval started down the stream.

Shortly they were within the fire-belt, heads bent forward, groping through the stinging smoke and rain of embers, blundering and slipping on the water-worn bowlders, under an appalling canopy. The bed of the stream was pent between walls of masonry with a narrow quay along either bank. The structures on both sides were now topped with spouting flames whipped out overhead by the wind in huge streamers and pennons. The sound of the stream was drowned by the roar and snapping of the conflagration, the crash of falling timbers, and the incessant hiss of firebrands showering into the water. The air grew hotter and more stifling, until they breathed in gasps, but pushed on, dashing water over their apparel to save themselves from being burned alive. Panting and floundering, kneeling from time to time to cool his scorching armor and fill his lungs from the lower air, Cristoval led onward.

At length he could see that the glare in advance was growing less. They had gained the inner edge of the fire-zone. A few yards more, and they were in a freer atmosphere and partial darkness, and they halted, leaning against the walls or crouching in the stream to recover from the exhaustion of the ordeal. Cristoval anxiously counted his men. None were wanting, and they groped on, presently passing beneath a bridge. Below was a flight of steps leading to the quay. Cristoval mounted, and motioned the Antis to follow. The air was thick with smoke beaten down by the wind, but still dangerously light from the blazing buildings they had passed, and the cavalier felt the insecurity. A few yards away was the entrance of a street leading westward, somewhat darker by reason of being parallel to the line of fire, and he ran his men into its shadow. Now he wished with fervency that he had a guide; for he learned that neither Rimachi nor his Antis were acquainted with Cuzco.

Cristoval knew where the Amarucancha must lie, and that the street they were on would lead toward it; further than this he was ignorant. He knew, moreover, that the palace stood beside the stream Huatenay, and trusted that, the rivulet once gained, he could find his objective with little difficulty. Once within with his Antis, he could wait for a favorable moment to escape with Rava.

Cristoval pushed forward through the half-dark, straining eyes and ears. Little could be seen but dim walls looming on either side, with a flying drift of smoke above, racing before the wind and weirdly lighted, curling over roofs, and sucked down in ghostly swirls into the street before them. Now, it happened that, deceived by the apparent length of time during which they had struggled down the course of the Tullamayu, Cristoval fancied himself in the lower part of the city. But the street they were following was the one in all Cuzco which should have been avoided. It was the highway leading from the Antisuyu road directly to the great square. It was deserted now, however, and Cristoval pressed rapidly on, passing cavernous doorways of palaces, many of them standing broad open as they had been left by their Spanish occupants when the starting conflagration had hastened them to the open plaza. Cristoval passed them cautiously, peering into the dark courts to make sure there were no lingerers. But all seemed vacant, and save for the murmur of fountains caught occasionally, all were silent.

At a broad street crossing he halted, half disposed to make farther toward lower Cuzco, suspecting from the nearness of the fire, now only a few hundred yards to the north, that he was closer to the square than was prudent. But the brighter illumination of the intersecting street decided him to continue his way. He was about to advance when Rimachi seized his arm. The keener ears of the Indio had caught a sound. The cavalier listened with concentration. From somewhere in the obscurity came the ordered tramp of soldiers and the murmur of voices, but in the confusion of sounds from the fire he was unable to determine the direction. Anxious, above all things, to avoid the mishap of an encounter that would be most certain, whatever the result, to abort his plans, he turned to motion the Antis back into the shadow of the street from which they had emerged, when an abrupt challenge from the darkness ahead left no doubt of the source of the sounds. Standing in the half-light of the crossing, he and the group about him were more plainly visible than he had thought. Before he could effect a retirement, he received a second challenge, and a party advanced from the darkness at a run. It was too late to retreat. A score of pikes and halberds charged into the light. With a shout to his men Cristoval drew and attacked.

The Antis, excited by the conflagration, and maddened by burns, needed but the word. They rushed with a yell that startled even Cristoval by its ferocity, and drove into the Spanish patrol with a savage impetus which would have shaken a regiment.

The fight was terribly brief. Cristoval had hardly flashed his blade in the first collision before the party was swept away from him by the charge of the Antis. The Spaniards recovered, resisted sharply for an instant, then broke for the square with the Antis in hot pursuit.

But a stubborn opposition would have been less disastrous than this victory. Already a trumpet was sounding, alarmingly close at hand. In quick realization, Cristoval rushed after his men, ordering them back, collaring a few whom he was able to overtake, only partly successful in staying the chase. Before he ceased he saw the dim lights of the open square a few steps distant, heard the shouts of the startled Spaniards and the uproar of moving cavalry. The Antis in front, aware of their peril, came flying back, and he joined their retreat just as a party of horse entered the head of the street.

It was a dash, now, for life. Cristoval noted the interval before the trot behind broke into a gallop. Weighted by his armor, his speed was slow, and he heard the Antis pass him in the darkness. The street was clamoring with the din of hoofs, nearing every instant. He stumbled over a prostrate form and almost fell; recovered, and sped on. The fleet Antis had left him far behind, and he was flying alone with death at his back. Now the troop was almost upon him. He was lost!--No! A doorway! He flung himself into its shadow headlong, and the charging column went past with a roar that shook the earth. By the grace of Heaven, he had not been seen. Or, if seen by the foremost troopers, those behind had forced them past, and for a moment he was safe. For a moment only, for infantry would follow; and as the last files thundered by he staggered to his feet and hurried after.

Ahead was the broad thoroughfare where he had stood with Rimachi, and in its light he could see the glint of the helmets of the troop. An instant, and they had vanished into the darkness beyond. Could he cross the lighted space unseen? He was panting with the weight of his steel and the previous exertion, and his pace slackened. When he reached the corner he was stumbling and plunging with weariness, and he paused to breathe and reconnoitre before venturing to cross. Toward the Tullamayu he heard the uproar of the still receding troop, and a glance up and down the lighted street showed him that all had kept on in that direction. But behind was the rushing of many feet. The infantry were following. He dashed across the open, conscious of the fierce glare in the north, already perceptibly more intense, and gained the farther obscurity. He remembered the open doorways, and struggled forward with desperation. As he turned into the shelter of one of them at last, a glance over his shoulder showed him morions gleaming in the firelight at the crossing.

He had strength to swing the ponderous door and place the bar, but no more, and sank down beneath armor that weighed a ton. He lay straining to suppress his heavy breathing that he might listen for the approach of the infantry. He heard them presently, and rose to his knees, gripping his sword. They seemed so long in passing that he fancied they were gathering about the door; and expecting every instant to hear it assaulted, he gained his feet, praying for new strength to fight. But they passed, and the street grew quiet. Still he hearkened, minute after minute, for sounds which might indicate whether the Antis had been struck, until, after what must have been an hour, he heard the troop straggling by on its return to the square. An interval, and a party of the infantry tramped by in the same direction, and he surmised from the smallness of the number that it had divided into squads to search the streets. After this, a welcome silence.

Exhausted, desperate at the catastrophe which had so abruptly blocked his project, the cavalier entered the court to seek the fountain whose plash had been torturing his thirst. The place, evidently one of the numerous palaces, was quite deserted. Doors stood open upon dark chambers, but there was neither light, sound, nor sign of life, and he traversed the dusky courts in solitude.

*CHAPTER XXXIV*

_*In the Burning Palace*_

On the rampart of the Sachsahuaman, apart from his generals, wrapped in his cloak, and shrouded more impenetrably by something which forbade approach; a dark silhouette against a sky wilder and more terrible than words can describe; unspeakably solemn before the havoc wrought at his command, stood the Inca. In his grim silence and immobility, in his relentless wielding of a power little less absolute than that of a god, he took on the sinister majesty of the spectacle his fiat had created.

When flame followed the fall of the first arrow, he had buried his face in his cloak. Slowly lowering his arm, he had looked on with countenance inflexible as bronze while destruction progressed in leaps and bounds. After this, not the tremor of a muscle. To his nobles, quailing and awe-stricken at the sublime horror of the scene, he was never before so much a king.