Part 28

Half-way across he heard horses once more, approaching, and not distant. The great door of the temple stood open. He hurried to its shelter as a patrol of cavalry trotted into the square. They were coming in his direction, and he entered the building. The darkness was absolute, but opposite was another door, faintly lighted by the reflection from the heavens. He stole toward it with reluctance, awed by the vastness of the hall, whose walls sent back sepulchral echoes of his furtive tread. High up indistinctly outlined windows revealed the loftiness of the interior, which seemed to be unceiled. The place was lugubrious, as if tenanted by ghosts of votaries of the ancient faith, mourning its desecration. So thought Cristoval, and hastened his steps--then stopped. There had been a movement in the doorway in front of him: a mere blur, and gone, noiseless as a shadow. There was a trickling chilliness under his back-plate, and again he made a sign of the cross. The place was unholy--accursed by pagan rites. He must out of it! Should it be to face the patrol, or--the other? The open air of the court was nearer, and he quickened his pace to gain it, assailed by a multitude of whispered reverberations; chased, as he knew, by devils, spooks, goblins, and lemures.

In the court, he was sweating, but cold. It was bare, ghostly, and surrounded by buildings with broad, open doors into which he did not look as he sped across toward a gate that stood ajar. Outside, he breathed more freely. He was in a garden with trees and shrubbery, and these, even in the dark, are always friendly. There were avenues, but the ground had been upturned by his countrymen for buried treasure, and he could follow none. He turned across what had been a lawn, descending from terrace to terrace, burdened by the sense of being watched by the lurking stranger; nor paused until he had placed distance between himself and the unhallowed temple. Now he could hear the ripple of a stream, and knew that he was at the Huatenay; but kept on, looking for a stout bush he could have at his back, and with a vigilant outlook for the other tenant of the garden. He was now fully aware of his burns, but dared not remove a jambe to ease them. He seated himself presently, but after a minute's rest the sensation of being under espionage became unendurable. It chafed him, and with the irritation of his burning feet and legs, roused a bloodthirsty desire to hunt the lurker and determine whether he was substance or shadow. He thought better of it.

A few minutes, now, would bring him to the Amarucancha, and impatience pushed him on. He had gained the lowest terrace when the mysterious form appeared again, directly in his path, a hundred feet away. It rose as if out of the earth, retreated a few paces, and vanished into the shadow of the gully, leaving Cristoval in dismay.

"_Santa Madre!_" he gasped, and stood irresolute, wishing with ardor for a crucifix. The figure was so wholly spectral that the thought of following it into the darkness started his courage oozing as quickly as it did the perspiration. Yet there was no help for it unless to return through the temple. The stout cavalier was in a wavering frame of mind. Then it stole over him that this shadowy creature was interposing between him and Rava. He sprang down the bank with an oath. Were it Satan himself he would dispute such hindrance.

He stumbled among the bowlders, straining his eyes for a sight of the figure, furious to test its reality. But he plunged forward resolutely. Above the temple he came to a stairway leading to the quay, and mounted it, intending, if the streets were quiet, to leave the stream. As he raised head and shoulders above the parapet, an arrow, coming with terrific force, struck the bars of his lifted visor and splintered with a crash that made his ears ring within his helmet. At the same instant the figure rose a few yards ahead and sped away through the darkness. Notwithstanding the shock, Cristoval's dread vanished in a flash. "Aha! thou flitting, gliding, misty son of an imp of perdition, then thou 'rt real!" He dropped his visor. "By the saints! 't is a burden off my mind. I thought thee a ghost, but that was no ghostly arrow, my word for it! And 't was good archery. _Bien_! I'll keep thee in mind until I can teach thee thou 'rt shooting at a friend." Convinced now that the stranger was a native bent on vengeance on his own account, Cristoval descended again and pushed on up the stream, infinitely relieved in spirit. But thereafter he kept his visor closed.

At length the black buildings on either bank came to an end at the great square, and with beating heart the cavalier recognized the pile on the right as the Amarucancha. He crept cautiously up the steps by which the Inca and Mayta had descended on the night of their attempted escape. Here he could look out upon the plaza, so near that he heard the Spaniards' voices. The fire had eaten from the direction of the Sachsahuaman to its margin, and like the Rimac Pampa, it was partly illuminated by burning ruins. In the middle were awnings and tents occupied by his beleaguered countrymen. Near the camp was the picket line with the steeds saddled, and in front of it, a detachment standing to horse, ready for instant action. Cristoval took it in at a glance, then his eyes sought the palace before him. Immediately opposite was a door. Would it be locked? Locked, no doubt!--and would he dare to knock? First he would try its fastenings. Cristoval was shaking at the knees, and so intent that he had forgotten prudence. He was about to steal across the quay when he was arrested by the tread of an approaching sentinel. The cavalier retreated down the steps with a flash of sudden heat over his body. Ten thousand devils! Here was a condition unforeseen. Standing in the water and leaning against the shadowed wall, he thought with diligence and many whispered interjections. With the square so near he could not overcome the sentinel without an alarm. The attempt might serve as a last resort; but he put it aside to debate a hundred impracticabilities. After a time he crept up the steps again and stole a look at the soldier. The latter was keeping close to the palace wall, and for a pikeman his vigilance seemed preternatural. Had he divined his surveillance by a pair of watchful eyes in a head simmering with plans for his quick extinction!--but he had not. He paced so many paces to the south, turned with a glance at the sky; paced so many more to the north, turned with a glance at the sky; and so for an hour, when he challenged the relief.

Meanwhile, Cristoval descended and stood meditating furiously. Assuredly the chance for entrance here was slight. He picked his way carefully down the stream, ascended by the first flight of steps to the opposite bank, and started toward the square in the shadow of the buildings. At its edge he descried another sentinel, and turned back. At a bridge passed going up, he crossed the rivulet. At the farther side he glanced back up the street toward the western line of fire, now sweeping rapidly forward, and once more caught sight of the flitting figure crossing the light, slinking toward the plaza, but lost at once in the darkness. "Aha! my friend," muttered Cristoval, "thou 'rt off the scent. Keep off it, thou heathen, or I may warm thy legs with the flat of my blade."

He moved up the quay with a slight hope of finding an unguarded door into the palace. Twenty paces more and he was startled by a long-drawn yell of agony from the direction of the square. The stranger had attacked a sentinel. "Holy Mother!" he exclaimed, "the skulking archer hath scored."

The whispered words had not been said before a second cry arose, fiercely exultant, "_Allah il Allah!_" Cristoval started at the words, and crossed himself.

The cry was answered by a shout and a rush of soldiers. Cristoval glanced about for a stairway to descend to the stream. None at hand, and no time to search. He dropped his buckler over the parapet, lowered himself by his hands, and let go. An instant to regain his shield, and he fled down the rocky bottom as a platoon galloped along the edge of the square, divided at the quay, and a party clattered toward him, following the bank on his right. It divided again at the first street, but as he blundered on through the darkness a squad passed him, going down the stream. The square was in an uproar.

Far off somewhere Cristoval heard the cry again, "_Allah il Allah!_" and stopped. "Jose, as I'm a Christian!" He reached the temple garden, blown by the flight, and threw himself upon the bank, nearer despair than he had been since entering the city. Only a miracle would admit him to the Amarucancha.

He lay for an hour listening to the patrols, now near, now far, before he rose heavily and looked about. It was necessary to seek a shelter for the coming day; but where he should find security at once from the fire, from Spaniards, and from the equally hostile Morisco, was a question which taxed him to answer. He now had a wholesome dread of buildings, and finally decided upon the garden itself, whose thickets would afford concealment against any but a systematic search.

He found a coppice on one of the upper terraces; and having removed his jambes and sollerets, bandaged his blistered feet with his torn-up kerchief, and crawled into the lair. Physically tortured by burns, mentally by anxiety, he lay broad awake until after sunrise, watching the advancing fire, laboring with the problem before him, and wondering at the presence and hostility of Jose.

It was late in the day when he awoke and looked out. A strong westerly wind was blowing, and he saw at once that the conflagration was making rapid headway toward the quarter of the palaces. Would reach it by nightfall, if not before. He groaned at his helplessness, forgot his pain, forgot the hunger and thirst now assailing him, and lay the day through, feverishly watching the progress of destruction.

The hours dragged. The air was hot, dry, and stinging with the reek of burning. His throat was parched, his lips split and bleeding, and his face, from the heat in the palace, was raw and so badly swollen that his eyes were almost closed. His burns were maddening. But all his torture of body was a trifle, was nothing, to the agony of beholding the inexorable approach of the fire to the Amarucancha.

By evening he was feverish, and lay reenacting every minute circumstance of the preceding day and nights; went through new struggles quite as real and of worse torment; and suffered horrors unspeakable.

When night fell he awoke bewildered, unable for a time to untangle the actual from his delirium, and lay staring at the ruddy light, straining to comprehend its meaning. It came like a flash, and he sat up, groping for his arms. Greaved and shod, he staggered out, aching and giddy. His first glance was toward the north.--God of Heaven! The Amarucancha! The fire had crossed the stream!

The temple loomed black against an appalling background of flame. He reeled and went upon his knees, weak with fear; was up and rushing forward, crashing through shrubbery, colliding blindly with tree-trunk and branch, until he reached the court; across it, and into the hall of the temple, its ghostly terrors forgotten. Through the entrance streamed a broad light from the Coricancha. The centre of the city was a vast furnace, a hell, with flames leaping and whirling with the roar of breaking surf.

The long night which followed seemed as unreal in its horror as his delirium. Cristoval went fire-mad.

When he came to his senses, hours later, it was as if awakening from a hideous dream. He had indistinct memories of insane dashes into flame-swept streets, beneath infernal, incandescent canopies, past doorways belching red-hot blasts; of terrible repulse and flights for life; of renewed attempts, and bewilderment in fiery labyrinths whence escape seemed impossible; of weeping, laughing, and shouting frantically for Rava while he battled; of a long detour, later, through dark, fuliginous thoroughfares, hot and stifling as ovens; of finding himself wallowing in a stream, drinking and praying; and at last, of bursting from the darkness upon a squad of startled soldiers and of fighting with the fury of a maniac. How he escaped he knew not; but while he fought, welcoming wounds that seemed to ease his burns, he heard again the shrill, weird cry, "_Allah il Allah!_" saw a pikeman fall with an arrow in his brain, then another and another; and fled alone, unpursued.

After this, dim wanderings through a Cimmerian wilderness of streets, black, desolate, stinking of dead embers, and of eternal length and intricacy, but cool. At last he heard a fountain; staggered into a ruined patio, drank deep, and dropped into the nearest corner, asleep in an instant.

High noon roused him to consciousness of suffering. His swollen eyes would hardly open, and as he moved and groaned he heard a voice beside him:--

"_Allah akbar_! I thought thou wouldst sleep to thy death. _Hola_! Canst see, Cristoval? Dost know me?"

Cristoval's smarting eyes came open with a start, and he stared up at a lank figure in burnoose and turban, bending over him. "Jose!" he exclaimed, thickly, his lips cracking with the effort, and he sat up, feeling for his sword.

"No need for that, my friend!" said the old armorer. "But look thou, Cristoval: call me not Jose. A curse be upon the name! I am Abul Hassan Zegri. Be thankful that 't is Abul Hassan Zegri, and not one of thy countrymen. What, Cristoval! Dost doubt me? Man, had it been my purpose to do thee harm, I would have saved thee the trouble of awakening!"

Cristoval regarded him distrustfully a moment, and offered his hand. He was in a roofless, blackened apartment, off the court he had entered in search of water. The armorer had dragged him from the fountain into better concealment.

"Canst drink?" asked Abul Hassan, tendering a smoke-stained vessel.

The cavalier drank with avidity, nodding his thanks. Never a draught more delicious; never a drinker more grateful. The Morisco watched him in glum silence, brought more water, and more, and still not enough. "Ho! Let that suffice, Cristoval," he said, at length.

Cristoval groaned, but yielded. "_Madre!_" he mumbled, conscious of his weakness, "what aileth me?"

"What aileth thee! Thou 'rt a fool--a madcap," replied the Morisco, bluntly. "What hare-brained motive hath possessed thee, Cristoval? For two nights and a day I've seen thee in the city, careering like a santon pursued of devils."

"_Por Dios!_" growled Cristoval; "thou wast not far from putting an estoppel upon it, Abul Hassan."

"When I split an arrow on thy casque? I did not know thee, Cristoval, save as a Spaniard--and thou hadst followed me. For what purpose?"

"I was not in purpose to follow thee. It was a chance."

"Then it might have been a costly chance, for I had it in mind to kill thee, until I found thee killing pikemen. What dost seek in Cuzco?"

"The Nusta Rava."

"Ah!" Abul Hassan studied him narrowly, then asked, "Hast friends outside, among the Indios?" Cristoval nodded.

"As soon as thou canst move we'll seek them," said the other.

The cavalier shook his head. "I must find the Nusta Rava," he answered, with resolution.

"_Galimatias_! Bosh! Thou'lt find the garrote. Dost know how long thou hast lain thus among these cinders? This is the second day. I found thee yester morning. But, canst eat?"

The Morisco had a pouch well supplied, and the cavalier broke his long fast. He wasted no time in words while a morsel remained of his prudent allowance; but finished and refreshed, he asked, "And thou, Abul Hassan, why art thou in Cuzco?"

"I am here to be near mine enemies."

"Thine enemies!"

"The enemies of my race," said Abul Hassan, with a quick flash in his eyes; then, regarding the cavalier steadily, he added, with increasing energy, "and of my faith! For, hear me, Cristoval, I am no more a Christian! I am a follower of Mahomet--an unworthy Mussulman whom Allah hath punished for his apostasy!"

Cristoval stared at him, horrified, and crossed himself. At the gesture the old man spat upon the ground in sudden rage.

"Ah! The Cross!" he cried, his face drawn in repugnance. "The Cross! The sign accursed! The sign which hath been stamped upon every atrocity the minds of fiends--of Christians--can invent! The sign under which murder, torture of body and soul, wreck of hearts and minds, have been works of piety! I scorn it, spurn it, and hate it with a living hatred!" He spat again and turned away, his gaunt form trembling with passion.

Cristoval had gained his feet, suspecting a madman. Abul Hassan controlled himself, and faced the cavalier. "Forget the words, Cristoval--if thou canst. I would not offend thee, but--I have suffered much. Behold me, an old and broken man, but hunted, hunted! Once I had loved ones-- O, Allah, thy wrath is hard to bear!"

He bowed his head, and Cristoval said hastily: "Say no more, old friend! I owe thee much, and thy words shall not stand between us--nor thy faith, for, by Heaven! I've known other gallant men who were not Christians. Let it pass, Abul Hassan." Cristoval changed the subject, and presently the Morisco resumed his usual composure.

All that day they remained in hiding. Food and rest restored some of the cavalier's strength, but realizing the futility of a hope to accomplish his purpose in his present condition of body, he agreed reluctantly to the wisdom of leaving the city. Late in the evening they started, but though they were in the western suburbs, Cristoval was so crippled by his burns that notwithstanding his companion's assistance they were long in clearing the ruined outskirts. In the open country at last, the Morisco left him concealed while he went to the Peruvian lines for help. He returned with a _hamaca_ and bearers, and Cristoval was borne to a hamlet among the foothills on the western margin of the Bolson of Cuzco. Here they found simple medicaments, and when Pedro appeared, two days later, he found his friend much as he had come upon him in Xilcala.

The cook stumped into the cottage without a word. Cristoval was lying, smeared to his eyes in grease, with bandaged limbs, and Pedro looked him over with great severity.

"Well, stew me!" he exclaimed, with bitterness. "If thou 'rt not done brown, Cristoval, then I'm no cook to judge! Broiled to a turn! Roasted with a crust!--and a complexion like a boiled ham in the summer sun. Damnation, man! thou'rt overdone, dost not know it?" He paused, regarded the cavalier for a moment with increased sternness, then resumed reproachfully: "Ah, but no! Thou hadst no need for Pedro, an experienced cook who would have taken thee out in time, and mayhap saved the gravy--but must go and cook thyself, like a bedeviled Phoenix!" He paused again, and Cristoval smiled slightly, waiting for the storm to pass.

"Grin!" blurted the cook, with irritation. "Thou 'rt as cheerful-looking as a smoked herring. But what the fiend dost think I have had to grin about these several days? 'T is the second time I've mourned for thee as dead, and twice too often!"

Cristoval extended a bandaged hand, and presently the severity faded from Pedro's countenance. He touched the hand, swore a little, and seated himself. "Well, curse it! I'm glad to see thee once more, Cristoval, cooked or raw. But I tell thee, old friend, my belt hath gone loose from worriment!"

*CHAPTER XXXVI*

_*The Barricades*_

The fire had burned itself out and left two-thirds of Cuzco in ruins long before Cristoval was in condition to mount. In the meantime, it had required all of Pedro's persuasion, entreaty, expostulation, and threats, to keep him on his couch. Haunted by the conflagration and visions of Rava in the perils which he had just escaped, he taxed the cook's abundant patience to extremity. The Spaniards' daily sorties were inflicting heavy losses upon the Inca's devoted troops, most of whom, for the first time confronting cavalry and firearms, were led by ignorance into useless sacrifice. When Pedro brought accounts of these engagements the cavalier groaned and fumed, fumed and groaned, and at last declared vehemently that he would lie inactive no longer. The brunt of his unrest fell upon Pedro, for the old Morisco, having seen him in good hands, had stolen away with replenished quiver, to lurk among the ruins and spread death and terror among the ancient enemies of Granada.

One day, intelligence came that the Sachsahuaman had been stormed by the Spaniards and taken. Juan Pizarro had lost his life leading the assault. Mocho and his Antis had been relieved a few days before, and Mayta, the new commander of the fortress, driven with a remnant of its defenders into the citadel, and seeing that the place was lost, had wrapped himself in his cloak and plunged from the battlements to death.

Pedro brought the tidings,--a double sorrow to Cristoval, for Juan Pizarro had been steadfastly his friend. The cavalier rose abruptly. "Look thou, Pedro! To-morrow I ride. These poor devils of Indios are throwing brave lives away for want of knowledge. 'T is as if they were children dashing themselves over a precipice without warning. They know not even where a Spaniard is vulnerable in his armor. Why, man, were they mine enemies 't would sicken me to see them fight at such hopeless odds! And now, with Juan dead, Rava will be more than ever in danger. I go to-morrow."

Pedro scrubbed his forehead vigorously and growled: "Cristoval, thou 'rt an unringed bull-calf, and I'm of a notion to choke-pear and strait-jacket thee. What canst do in thy condition? Thou'rt sore-footed from thy burns, and wilt shed thy blisters like a lizard his skin before thou 'rt in the saddle an hour. Thou 'rt bad enough, and not over-amusing as it is; but what wilt be with legs like two peeled carrots?"

"No worse than now," replied Cristoval, doggedly, "and at least not idle."

"But what dost think to do?--to fight thy way to the Nusta Rava?"

"That, if possible. At any rate, to teach these people that cavalry is not to be stopped with bodkins, nor chain-shot with wisps of straw."

"Well," admitted Pedro, thoughtfully, "it would be a God's mercy."

The next morning, with Markumi and Ocallo following, they made a long detour of the Peruvian lines to the camp of the Antis, east of the city. Although the ride was full of pain, the activity was a relief to Cristoval, and as the sun rose upon the valley full of martial sights and sounds, his spirits rose with it. Near midday they were guided to General Mocho, who was on the lines with his troops. They found him with a group of officers on a rise of ground in advance of his battalions, overlooking the ruined suburb, Toco Cachi. He hastened forward to meet them, greeting the cavalier with warmth. The latter lost no time in broaching the subject. Mocho interrupted to summon his officers. They gathered round, listening intently while the cavalier, with his usual brevity and clearness, laid the project before them.

While Cristoval and Pedro refreshed themselves, Mocho went to the pavilion of the Inca on the heights east of the city. Soon _chasquis_ were flying to summon the generals in council.

Evening came, with notes of evening calls from trumpets, conchs, and drums, and the movement of battalions relieving those on the line around the city. Then, night with its myriad stars, myriad fires on the hills, and silence. But in Cuzco's blackened purlieus the besiegers were toiling through the hours.

Near midnight Cristoval returned with Pedro from observing the operations which his counsel had set afoot, to have a few hours' sleep. Toward morning he was roused by Pedro.