Part 30

Her expression changed slowly to one of wonder and unbelief, and she raised her hand to her heart, growing suddenly more pallid. In the semi-darkness of the room she was uncertain until he spoke her name again. Then she stretched forth her hands, took a step forward, and sank with a sob into the arms of the Nusta Ocllo.

In a second Cristoval had her in his own, pressing his lips to hers, to her forehead, and to her eyes until she opened them; but quite too choked himself to speak--this stalwart cavalier!--and half blinded by something he feared she would see.

"Oh--is it thou, my Cristoval?" she murmured, raising her hand to touch his swarthy cheek, only half-convinced by her eyes. "Ah, my love, I thought thee forever lost!" and in a passion of weeping she put her arms about the steel-covered neck, pressing her cheek upon his breastplate, insensible to its cold and hardness, conscious only of a joy beyond belief.

They were oblivious of those around them, of the din of battle coming through the open door; forgetful of all but one another, and might have remained fatally so, had not the Auqui Paullo rushed in, followed at once by Pedro and Father Valverde. The bishop had been disarmed, and was flaming with rage. The youth, wild-eyed, and pale with the excitement of the night, halted at the astounding spectacle of his sister embracing a Viracocha. Before he had recovered, Mocho dashed in and seized his arm.

"Auqui Paullo," cried the general, "there is no moment to lose! Assemble the women and get them to the gate. Hasten!"

Mocho in armor was unrecognized. Paullo wrenched himself free and demanded angrily, "Who art thou?"

"Oh, Supay!--I am Mocho! Fly, Paullo!--Cristoval; do not tarry. Lead the Nusta to the gate."

Paullo stared for a second, then hurried out to collect the rest of the household. Mocho turned to the wailing women. Cristoval was gently forcing Rava toward the door when Father Valverde, as suspicious of the cavalier as of any other soldier, interposed. Planting himself in front of the two, he commanded sternly:--

"Peralta, forbear! Release the maiden. She remaineth here."

Cristoval surveyed him in astonishment and anger. "Remaineth here, priest! Art mad? Out of the way!"

"Release her!" commanded Valverde, advancing to restrain her. Cristoval interposed his buckler and thrust him roughly back.

"Release her!" thundered the bishop. "Pass me on pain of the wrath of the Church, her holy guardian! Rava, beware this man, and remember thy promise! Peralta, this maiden is for no man."

The cavalier laughed in his face. "Stand aside!" he cried, savagely. "Thou'rt in peril, Valverde!"

Valverde raised his hand in menace. "_Excommunicabo te--_" he began solemnly; and Cristoval blanched, then replied, fiercely:--

"Excommunicate and be damned! I defy thee! By what right this interference? Aside! lest I forget thy gown." He strode past. Valverde, white with passion, would have sprung upon him, but Mocho, furious at delay, thrust himself between with his sword at the bishop's breast, his eyes blazing with vindictiveness. "Back, Viracocha, or by the great Inti, I will lay thee open!"

Valverde recoiled, and Cristoval hurried to the door with Rava, followed by the women, whom Mocho drove after them with scant ceremony.

They were soon at the gate with all of the household that could be collected. But many of the terrified women had hidden themselves, and there was no time to search. Outside, the conflict was still raging. The Antis were holding the breastwork with desperate valor and determination, Abul Hassan at the front, for the hour a madman, a Moslem fanatic: pity the Spaniard who came within reach of his terrible blade. Ocallo and Markumi, with the other armored Antis, fought beside him, tigers. At the gate the street was a mere madness of warriors struggling to the places of those who fell.

Mocho and Cristoval forced themselves into the throng, leading the convoy of women surrounded by the detail which had followed into the Acllahuasi. It was minutes before they could make an avenue through the tribesmen, but at length they gave way, and leaving the two Spaniards to take the rescued to the rear, Mocho turned back to the rampart, which must be held until the women were in safety. Slowly Cristoval forged through the press, keeping close to the wall, and at length the worst was past. A hundred yards more, and they were at Matopo's barricade and through the breach: Rava was delivered from her peril.

Cristoval sought her in the crowd of hysterical women, and reached her side. No time for words. He embraced her once, and before she knew his purpose he was gone. Now she was safe, his duty lay elsewhere. The Antis must be withdrawn.

Once more to the front, crowding, staggering, almost fighting his way through the mass, Cristoval became aware that Pedro was behind. He turned and shouted into the cook's ear: "Back, Pedro! For the sake of Heaven, go to the rear!"

There was scorn in Pedro's voice as he leaned forward and roared, "_Infierno!_"

Of damnable obstinacy, this cook! Cristoval pushed on, every step more difficult. Here was an officer. The cavalier seized him by the shoulder, bellowing and gesticulating that the Antis must be retired. Hopeless! Mocho was at the front. Retreat and leave their general?

Forward, then, the cavalier, and at last the breastwork. Here was hell's own fury. The work had been lost and retaken repeatedly by the Antis, and was half demolished, its crest a rampart of dead. Mocho's men had just been swept from it and the Spaniards were in the street. The square and its approaches at other points had been cleared, and many of the troopers had dismounted to fight here. Their weight had turned the tide, and Mocho had lost some dozen yards. Cristoval reached the point of contact, Pedro close behind and roaring a battle-cry. In the pressure, the foremost of the foes fought shield against shield in a swaying, howling death-struggle of men bereft of reason, the more horrible for the darkness. Cristoval could see nothing, or, vaguely, a wild surging around him. Knew that he was in touch with the enemy only when his buckler rang with the blow of a mace. Then he fought.

For the rest, a mere delirium, hardly to be remembered. He heard Mocho's war-cry, the Morisco's howl, and knew they were alive. Pedro was beside him. Their two fresh blades in the narrow thoroughfare turned the tide once more, slowly at first, then with a rush, and Cristoval was atop of the breastwork. Battled here a brief minute, and was hurled back by a fresh charge from the square--but with the memory of having seen a spark of fire!

A spark of fire! Trivial! But what if it were a lighted gunner's match?

Cristoval gave voice. Found Mocho, and roared a warning. A Spanish trumpet was blowing the recall, and the charge had been arrested. Mocho was ordering back his men, but as well shout at a mountain torrent. They bore forward with resistless pressure, and Cristoval was forced against the rampart, fighting them back and shouting with all the strength of his lungs. Futile! They passed and were mounting the rampart. As he stood on the _debris_ at the foot of the scarp he was head and shoulders above the work, and glancing up, saw again the spark of fire, just as he felt himself seized by a strong hand and dragged back toward the wall of the Acllahuasi. Pedro shouted something, drowned by an explosion that shook the earth, and in the flash he saw--horror not to be told. A gun had been dragged to the top of the breastwork and fired in the very faces of the Antis.

Horror not to be told, not to be imagined, while falconet and arquebus raked the street. Pedro held the cavalier with firm grip as they crouched beneath the spurts and flashes of the fire overhead, their ears benumbed by the repeated shocks.

At length the rush and yells of the retreating Antis died away, and the arquebus-fire was stopped; but the falconet still roared, though with longer intervals between the shots. Cristoval counted the seconds intervening. There would be time enough to allow a dash to the gate of the Acllahuasi, where they would have cover until the firing ceased. He spoke to Pedro,--no fear of being overheard, for the night was full of voices raised in every intonation which agony could wrench from human lips. Between explosions they reached the gate through the stinging atmosphere, but as they turned into its shelter Cristoval halted his comrade with a hand upon his arm. From the enclosure came the sound of Spanish voices, and lights were flitting. Valverde had reported the invasion, and the place had been entered through another door. A party was coming toward the gate. No alternative, then, but to keep the street, count the seconds, and before each discharge, throw themselves upon the pavement behind their bucklers. These, faced with steel, might deflect the slugs and fragments with which the gun was charged.

The intervals lengthened to near a minute, the firing being a mere warning against renewed attack; and the street had not ceased to reverberate after the next explosion before the two were away. Poor Pedro's speed was not high, and Cristoval moderated his own, counting as he ran. "Down!" he cried, at the limit of the period of safety, and they went upon the ground full length. Now the report, and the deadly blast flew over. Cristoval was up and speeding, the cook close in his rear, then down once more and waiting with nerves a-quiver. Again the report, but this time with a thick patter of the projectiles on every hand as the charge spread with the increase of range. With a call to Pedro, the cavalier sprang to his feet and dashed on. Twice more he dropped and covered himself: gained the barricade, and was through the breach. He turned with a shout to his comrade. There was no reply.

Cristoval called again, answered by the moaning of the wind, a sound unnoticed since they had left the barricade, he could not have said how many hours ago. Some one laid hand upon his shoulder:--Mocho, bandaged. Cristoval gave his hand a silent pressure, and shouted again. There was a flash far up the street, the report, and the barricade sputtered. Antis gathered round, and the cavalier turned to them, seeking hope against despair.

"Hath he been seen--the Viracocha Pedro? Quick!--hath he been seen?"

They communed among themselves, and the question was passed back. Mocho answered after a silence, but Cristoval was straining his eyes toward the square. He knew the reply before the question had left his lips. "God have mercy! I fear for him!" he was muttering. "Oh, God have mercy!"

Once more the street flashed and roared, and Cristoval started forward. Mocho halted him.

"Stay, friend!" cried the general. "Hast lost thy mind? Whither?"

"I must find him," said Cristoval, and was gone.

The way was littered with wounded and dead, grewsome obstacles over which he stumbled as he crouched along, groping among the bodies for one in steel, but counting with diligence. He had not gone twenty paces before Mocho was beside him. The cavalier dragged him into a doorway: "Lord Mocho, thou must return!"

"With thee: not before!" replied the general. The falconet spoke again. Cristoval stood irresolute, then exclaimed: "Rashness, my lord!--but I am grateful. Come! Keep close, and drop at my word."

They sallied forth on their desperate, almost hopeless errand, searching for a few brief, fevered seconds, then prone to wait for the deadly flurry. Thus they proceeded slowly, far up the street. The interval between the shots had grown--near five minutes, was the cavalier's rough guess--and they covered the ground more rapidly. At last the firing ceased. The searchers were in front of the Acllahuasi, and turned back. They must hasten, for dawn was at hand, and through the powder-smoke the mangled forms on the pavement were indistinctly visible, a grievous sight to Mocho. Should the veil lift, the hunt would end abruptly. Now, however, it went on without interruption.

Somewhere near the cross-street a suppressed exclamation from the cavalier drew Mocho to his side. He was bending over a prostrate form in armor, and the general, as he neared, heard a sound very like a sob. Pedro lay face downward and quite still, but as Cristoval gently rolled him over he groaned slightly, and they knew him to be alive. Silently they raised him and started on their return.

In the last few minutes the light had grown appreciably, and the street was almost clear of smoke. In the direction of the square they heard voices: a Spanish search-party, looking for their own wounded. Cristoval glanced back, and they pressed on. The barricade was but a few yards away when there was a shout near the Acllahuasi. They had been observed. Another shout, and the report of an arquebus.--Poor marksmanship, thought Cristoval. A second shot, and a ball struck the pavement close by, and with a vicious sing and spat hit the barricade. A third, and Cristoval stumbled to his knees with a quick catch of breath. He staggered up at once, his face white. "It is naught," he replied hurriedly to Mocho's startled question, and glanced anxiously at Pedro, from whom the jolt had started a groan.

They passed the barricade, laid their burden on the ground, and kneeling beside him, Cristoval rapidly removed the armor. There was a ragged hole through Pedro's corselet beneath his right arm, one more ragged and terrible in his side where a projectile had torn its way, but a hasty examination showed that it had passed entirely through. Cristoval worked quickly, cutting away the clothing, and while water and bandages were being sought, laid aside his own helmet, conscious that a numbness in his shoulder had given place to pain. But he finished with Pedro's wound, and rose, somewhat giddy, to ask assistance in disarming. Matopo was beside him. Cristoval grasped his arm.

"She is safe, Matopo--the Nusta Rava?" demanded the cavalier. "Speak! Thou hast seen her in safety?"

"She is safe, Viracocha Cristoval," answered an even voice behind him, and turning, he beheld the Inca. Paullo was at his side, and near by, a group of nobles. Manco extended his hand and continued: "She is safe--I thank the great Inti, and thee!"

Cristoval took the proffered hand, but the reaction from hours of strain was upon him, with the realization that he had found his love and led her out of danger. The agony of months was ended. "Sapa Inca," he began, unsteadily, but could say no more, and Manco, as he released his hand, felt it shaking.

The young monarch eyed him gravely, his sombre eyes growing thoughtful, then kindly, when he said as if in obedience to an impulse:--

"Viracocha, should I try to tell thee my gratitude the words could but make it seem unequal to thy gallant service. Once, I offered thee a gift. Now, I offer thee another which hath no value but the honor which it beareth with it, and the esteem which I wish it to express." He drew from his bosom a _llautu_, woven of vari-colored cords and threads of gold and silver. Braided in the fringe were strands of the imperial red of which his own diadem was made. He stepped forward, and pausing slightly, said, "I beg thou wilt accept it, Viracocha Cristoval."

The cavalier replied earnestly, with a quick rise of color, "My Lord Inca Manco, I accept it most gratefully and proudly."

"Then I make thee an Inca of Tavantinsuyu by Privilege," said the monarch, and placed the _llautu_ upon Cristoval's head. He touched the red in the fringe. "This, my Lord Cristoval, I bestow as a mark of especial confidence. Thou knowest its significance and power, for I am not the first to give it thee." He turned to Pedro. "For thy brave comrade I shall find another expression of my gratitude. He must be brought to my headquarters, where there are tents for you both." He made a slight gesture to stay Cristoval's words of thanks, and giving his hand once more, added: "The Nusta Rava, my lord, will thank thee for herself."

As the Inca moved away, his nobles gathered round the cavalier with words of friendship. Paullo had taken both his hands, saying something eagerly, but his voice seemed strangely far away. The earth was rolling and whirling, and Cristoval heard some one exclaim, "Great Inti, he is hurt!" Mocho was supporting him, and he knew no more.

They found a wounded shoulder, not dangerous, but much blood had flowed, as they discovered by his saturated clothing.

*CHAPTER XXXVIII*

_*A Tie of Mingled Blood*_

Cristoval became languidly conscious of the swaying of a litter; then he was being lifted to a couch in a tent softly aglow with morning sunshine, and heard friendly voices around him. He opened his eyes, and with an effort whispered an inquiry for Pedro.

"He is being cared for, my lord," said an officer, bending over. "He is badly hurt, but hath asked for you. Otherwise, his mind seemeth to wander, for he muttered something which Markumi translated as a request to be stewed. We did not heed him, Lord Cristoval."

Cristoval smiled faintly and dozed again.

When he awoke the tent had grown dim with the declining day. As he lay with partly open eyes he became aware of clasping something in his hand that pressed his own and trembled. He raised it weakly, and his eyes travelled from a wrist to a rounded arm. A face hovered over him, lovely as a vision, with dark eyes deep with tenderness and solicitude.

"Rava!" he whispered; and she knelt, pressing her cheek against his own, her form, as he passed his arm around her, quivering with a passion of joy. He would have spoken, but she pressed her fingers upon his lips, murmuring an injunction and nestling closer. Cristoval was content, and lay marvelling that contentment could be so perfect.

But if he could not speak, he could listen, and he hearkened to whispered words, mere incoherencies, broken by faintest of sighs, coming from the depths of a heart which beat with love without reserve. They are not to be set down here, those sweet, disordered fragments, nor are their like to be comprehended save by the ear into which they are breathed.

The interview was short. A mere swift glimpse of happiness, and she had torn herself away, lingering in a final caress, and gone. Cristoval was left with the memory of her presence and touch, ineffably sweet, until submerged in the pain of helpless longing.

The next morning the old man who attended him brought news. Pedro was low, and his chances for recovery not yet determined, but there was hope. Abul Hassan had crept into Matopo's barricade during the night, mortally hurt. Ocallo and Markumi had both been wounded, the former seriously. Not a man in contact with the Spaniards came out unscathed, and the total losses of the night were grave. What the enemy had sustained could only be guessed, but they had since lain inactive, though apparently doubly vigilant, and strengthening their defences.

Before midday Rava came with Paullo and remained an hour or more. She forbade Cristoval's speaking, and talked little herself, but it may be said that the silence was not constrained. The day dragged after her departure, but the cavalier slept, and was without fever. The following day they came again, and Rava remained long. By a blessed fortune Paullo was called away on three several occasions, and the moments were not lost. Still she permitted few words, touching his lips and bidding him wait. As she left she looked back with a swift, bright glance, full of some meaning which he could not fathom, but withal, most agreeable to remember. Later, came the Inca with Mocho and the Villac Vmu, but their stay was short. Pedro, said Mocho, was better.

The day passed slowly, quietly. Night fell, and Cristoval prayed for fortitude to endure the wait for the morrow and Rava's visit; his patience inversely proportioned to his gaining strength. He slept to awake toward midnight stronger and more refreshed. The attendant dozed with his back against the tent-pole. Cristoval was staring at the feeble light, musing on the fatuity of a number of demented moths there courting a painful death, while he wondered whether their singed wings would smart as he had smarted after his own encounter with fire; and whether, furthermore, they too fancied themselves impelled by love. He forgot the moths in counting the hours before seeing her again. His eyes were closed. They opened at a faint rustle, and he beheld an apparition. Within the tent door stood Rava, her eyes dark with excitement, but smiling as she touched her lips for silence. The attendant glided from his seat to his knees in an ecstasy of amazement. She whispered, and he vanished as if he himself had been an apparition. Cristoval saw a flush of color mount to her cheeks. The next instant she had extinguished the light, and was kneeling beside his couch in the darkness. No phantom, this, but living, palpitating flesh and blood, warm arms that crept about his neck, and a heaving bosom to which his head was pressed.

Rava drew away and whispered breathlessly, passing her hand over his face: "Oh, Cristoval, what canst think of me? But I could endure no longer, and now I will tell thee why I have come--"

The pressure of Cristoval's arm told his thought. "What can I think, my own! Only of thy love and mine, and my gratitude. God make me always worthy of the joy thou givest, dear heart!"

"Worthy of it, Cristoval! Of what hast thou not shown thyself worthy, over and again?--and thy gratitude, my love! Ah, then what must mine be to thee? But I must tell thee why I have come to-night: It is to say farewell--Nay! but hear me--not a long farewell--to-morrow I go to Yucay."

The darkness deepened for Cristoval. "To-morrow!" he groaned. "No, no! It cannot be, Rava. How can I live? The hope of seeing thee hath kept me alive. Thou'lt not leave me!"

She touched his lips again. "Be patient, Cristoval. Yucay is not distant, and it is the Inca's wish that I go. Bethink thee! This is a camp."

"Ah, true!" he said, sorrowfully. "No place for thee, and there might be danger. Thou must go, though it is despair for me, Rava. But say we shall meet soon again."

"Could I leave thee else, Cristoval?"

They were silent until Cristoval asked: "Is there other reason for thy going, Rava? The Inca knoweth my love for thee. Is not that in part the cause?"

"I know not. He knoweth mine for thee."

"Hath he said?"

"No: he hath said naught of thee to me, and from his silence I am sure. I know not what is in his mind. He is as tender as he used to be in earlier days--he parted from me in anger, Cristoval, months ago, in the Amarucancha, when he learned I had become a Christian. His anger hath gone, but he regardeth me always with strange sadness and gloom. I fear it is because of our love."

Cristoval partly raised himself. "Rava, dost think he will forbid our marriage?"

"Oh, my own, I do not know! By the law of Tavantinsuyu I can be married only to one of royal blood. Manco holdeth the laws as sacred as the ancient rites. In these perilous times he would dread their violation as like to provoke the wrath of Inti. I know not!" she moaned, pressing her cheek to his. "I know not, Cristoval!"

The cavalier's arm tightened in its grasp. "And if he should forbid," he whispered, sharply, "if he should, then we must fly again. Wilt go with me?"

"Thou knowest, my own! But whither? The uttermost parts of the empire would be searched."

"Once on the coast--" said Cristoval.

"We should never reach it!" she replied, pressing him closer. "We should never reach it, my love--but, we can die together."