Part 6

Doors flew open, and half-asleep soldiers broke into the square. Lanterns flitted, an arquebusier on the redoubt fired his piece, and in a moment the town was roused. The ghouls promptly saw their danger, and fled. The encounter had been of brief duration, but one of them was badly bitten by Cristoval's point, and another bleeding from a cut by Pedro, who had himself received a scratch outside his ribs. In a moment an excited crowd had gathered, and presently Pizarro came up.

"What now?" he demanded. "Another affray? By the faith, our brawling will not cease until I have made an example to be remembered! Who is this?" He snatched a lantern from a soldier and held it to Cristoval's face. "What! Thou again, Peralta--and wiping thy sword? And who is this behind thee? Thou, Pedro?"

"Ah! Pedro!" replied the latter, smarting from his wound. "A cook! A punctured cook, and no less! Here, you pikeman, help me to peel my doublet, for I have a hurt--_vulnusculum in latere_--a little one in the side;--_neque acu pundum_--not a needle-prick, I'll swear;--and damn the man who made it!"

Pizarro turned away impatiently, irritated by the cook's garrulity. "Explain this matter, Peralta!" he commanded sharply. Cristoval explained in a few words.

"Soto, have the companies formed!" ordered Pizarro. "We will learn who is out. Some of these dogs are plundering for themselves. It shall go hard with them! Peralta, I will send thee an additional detail. Post sentinels about the square until daylight.--Ha! Whom have we here?"

The man who had struck at Cristoval had regained his senses and was sitting up, spitting out teeth.

"He is one of them, General," remarked Cristoval.

A soldier jerked him to his feet. "Put him in double irons!" commanded Pizarro, and walked away.

The call was blowing for assembly, and the crowd of soldiers dispersed. Cristoval gave his attention to Pedro, who was already being examined by Jose. He found the wound slight, and it was soon bandaged. Cristoval set about searching for the injured Peruvian whom he had saved from the soldier's knife. He found him presently, and called to Jose, who had a lantern. The three gathered round him.

"Look him over, Jose," said Cristoval. "He is badly hurt, I think--and a youth!"

"A noble!" exclaimed Pedro, inspecting him. "Santa Maria! The gold on his tunic, and in his ears! Our friend whom thou gavest a sore face would have found him rich scraping, Cristoval."

"Ah!" assented Cristoval. "Now, let us get him out of this. Take thou the lantern, Pedro. Jose, help me with him to my quarters."

The wounded Peruvian was carried from the square. They laid him upon Cristoval's couch, and leaving him in Jose's care, the former went about his duties. About dawn he returned and found the Indio fully conscious, with his wounds bandaged. Cristoval greeted him in a few words of Quichua. The young noble started at the sound, and regarding the cavalier eagerly, demanded:--

"Do you speak my tongue, Viracocha? Then, in the name of the great luminary who shineth upon us both, tell me what hath become of my brother, the Inca!"

"Thy brother?" exclaimed Cristoval. "God save us! Thy brother--if thou meanest the Inca--is alive and unharmed."

"Oh, thou great God, I thank thee!" murmured the Indio fervently, and closed his eyes, overcome. Presently, looking up again, he asked, "Is he free, Viracocha?"

Cristoval shook his head. "Not free."

"Not free!--a prisoner!" cried the wounded youth, weakly. He raised his hands, trembling with grief: "Oh, woe, woe! My country, what weight of sorrow hath fallen upon thee!" He buried his head in his arms and lay in silence. Cristoval was about to leave when he spoke again, his voice steady once more, and all trace of feeling banished from his countenance:--

"Viracocha, you have shown me mercy. You have saved my life. Let me beg one more favor. Will you say to the Inca that Toparca sendeth his affectionate greeting and sympathy; and that if it is permitted he will share his imprisonment and minister to his wants--that he will share his fate, whatever it be?"

"Willingly," replied Cristoval, and desirous of ending the interview, he spoke a few words of assurance and returned to his post.

*CHAPTER VIII*

_*An Arm of the Inquisition*_

The day following was one of activity. The first task was to clear the square. The hundreds of prisoners herded in one of the buildings were set at the work, noble toiling beside common without distinction or favor. Not even Indian stoicism was proof against the calamity, and old men, scarred from a hundred battles, worked with streaming eyes, dragging forth the bodies of their friends to be stripped of their ornaments by the Spaniards and borne away for indiscriminate burial.

Hernando Pizarro was sent with his troop to the Peruvian camp to break up whatever force might be lingering there, and to plunder the Inca's residence. Toward midday his return was announced by a sentinel, and Cristoval formed his guard. The troop entered the town with a flourish of trumpets. Its leading platoon was followed by a long procession of captives laden with spoils, of _hamacas_ bearing the women of the court, of disarmed warriors, and of townspeople who had been removed from Caxamalca at the approach of the Spaniards. The men, stupefied by what had befallen, marched in stolid indifference. But the women, dishevelled, wild-visaged, and dreading all things for themselves and the children in their arms or clinging to their robes, filled the air with their wailing and frantic lamentations, until securely housed in the buildings on the square.

Late in the afternoon an orderly summoned Cristoval to a council of the officers at Pizarro's headquarters. He picked up Candia on his way, and the two were the first to arrive. They found Pizarro watching the _veedor_ at work appraising the plunder brought from the Inca's villa and taken from the bodies of the Indian nobles. The commander's face was haggard, and he looked years older. He greeted the two officers cordially and said, pointing to the table on which were heaped the spoils:--

"The first fruits, _camaradas_! We have come to the harvest season at last. Not a bad wage for one day's work! What say you?"

Cristoval looked with astonishment at the wealth stacked upon the stone table on which the _veedor_, or inspector, had set his scales. In the middle was the chair of the Inca, a fortune in itself, and heaped around it the royal table service of gold and silver. On one of the plates was a little mound of emeralds, some of them of unusual size and brilliancy, and near by, a disorderly heap of the personal ornaments taken from the slain. On the floor were piled rugs, furs, embroidered tapestries, and fabrics of finest weave and dye.

The _veedor_ ceased his work as he arose and walked round the table. He was a fat, puffing, putty-colored individual of fifty years, with a peculiar falsetto voice and a habit of perpetually snuffling. Now his bulging eyes were more bulging than ever in their greedy leer. "Ah, look upon it, gentlemen!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. "Behold it! Satiate your eyes! Let them revel, my friends! Is it not a feast? Delicious! Delicious! Look at these plates!--gold--solid gold! And these goblets--silver! And these precious stones--ah!" He dug his hands into the heap of emeralds and let them sift through his fat fingers, his head on one side, fairly drooling with delight, while he screwed his face into so gross and atrocious a smirk that Cristoval looked away with an oath under his breath. The _veedor_ snuffled and went on: "And see these gewgaws--stripped from the heathen! Oh, my soul and body, what pickings! They are bloody yet, but how they'll shine when they are clean! They'll weigh too. Eh, Pizarro?--Treasure, treasure, _compadres_! The reward of our courage! A fitting reward of gallantry! We'll divide it by-and-by--we'll all have some! But stay, my friend Cristoval, thou didst not fight! What shall we do about Cristoval's share, General? We all know he did not fight. Of course, nobody would question his courage--but there are so many brave fellows to provide for, and after all there is not so very much to divide."

He turned to Pizarro, puffing out his cheeks and wiping from his forehead the perspiration started by his emotion over the treasure. Cristoval had listened with disgust, hardly able to restrain his hands from gripping the fat throat. The slurring reference to his inactivity in the massacre roused his ire, and the _veedor_ encountered a scowl so black that he started back with a gasp and shuffled precipitately behind the table.

"Pizarro! Pizarro!" he cried, his peculiar falsetto rising to a squeak. "That man meditateth violence! He contemplateth doing me an injury! I see it in his eyes! Restrain him, Pizarro! I am an officer of the Crown, and call upon you to protect me with your sword. I have a wife and five small--"

"Be done, Rogelio!" commanded Pizarro, who had small liking for the timorous member of his civil staff. "Thou talkest too much. Learn to hold thy tongue. Come! Get back to thy work, and I'll vouch for thy safety."

"I am a civilian, and a man of peace," piped the _veedor_, rolling his colorless eyes at Cristoval. "I am an officer of the Crown, and I want it understood, Pizarro, that I'll accept no challenges. He may meditate a challenge."

"I think thou doest him injustice," replied Pizarro, with sarcasm. "Thou 'rt safe. Now return to thy work."

Cristoval had turned his back with a snort of contempt, and Rogelio resumed his weighing and figuring, his fear gradually giving place to malicious glances directed toward the back of the stout cavalier.

Jose entered, and Pizarro hailed him.

"_Hola_, Jose! Thou 'rt in good season. I have been hearing of thee from Fray Mauricio. Dost know that he hath denounced thee as a heretic?"

"He promised so to do, General."

"A serious charge, Jose! It would bring thee trouble were we at home, and might do so here, had I less authority. The friar saith thou didst utter blasphemies enough to bring thee before the Holy Office. Many a man hath gone to the stake for less."

The old armorer's dark eyes glowed, and he replied bluntly: "If it was blasphemy to defend the Holy Mother and Santiago from the charge of aiding in yesterday's butchery, then I blasphemed, and would blaspheme again; for I tell you, Pizarro, the work of your men was naught less than hellish."

"Have a care, old man!" said Pizarro, with a scowl. "Thy words are more dangerous than blasphemies. Imperil thy soul if it please thee; but understand that, by Heaven, I'll brook no criticism!"

There was no flinching in Jose as he met the threat in Pizarro's words and look, and he answered hotly, "Then let me not be put to a defence of my words to Fray Mauricio."

De Soto and other officers had entered, followed by the friar, unobserved and in time to catch Jose's challenge. The monk moved quickly forward and confronted the armorer. "Thou libeller! Blasphemer! Heretic! What!--hath the Church no power to punish such as thou? But we shall see! We shall see! Officers, seize that man! General Pizarro, I demand his arrest in the name of the Congregation of the Holy Office!"

No man moved. All stood for a moment aghast at the friar's invocation of the dread power of the Inquisition. Its very name carried terror, and they hated it as much as they feared its wrath. They stared in silence at Fray Mauricio, but Jose alone stood unmoved. He faced the friar with calm scorn, his tall, soldierly figure towering above him like a tree. Cristoval glanced at Pizarro and stepped to Jose's side. De Soto and others followed, and the group faced the Dominican. The commander's irritation at the armorer's criticism was smothered in resentment of the intrusion of the Inquisition in his affairs, already difficult enough, and in a quick detestation of Mauricio as its avowed agent.

"My good brother," said Pizarro, coldly, "thou hadst best reconsider thy demand."

"Oppose me at thy peril, Pizarro!" shouted the friar, whirling upon him savagely. "Dost thou know this man? Dost know that he is a Morisco--this unknown who calleth himself Jose? Doth any man here know his name?"

"No man here knoweth my name, friar," interrupted Jose, "but thou shalt have it! I am Abul Hassan Zegri--a Moor. My father was Abul Hassan Zegri--a Moor.--And now hearken!" he thundered, approaching the monk at a stride and glaring down into his eyes with an expression that chilled his blood. "Hearken! If thou seekest more of me, or breathest my name again in denunciation or accusation, to-day, to-morrow, or twenty years hence, thou diest--and I swear it! By the Almighty, if thou barest thy claws again at me, I'll not spare thee! Now go! Go!--or I'll kill thee in thy tracks!"

Mauricio hurriedly retreated. Jose thrust his poniard back into its sheath with a snap and faced the officers. During the outburst they had stood petrified. His bold declaration that he was a Moor--one of a people which had been proscribed and driven from Spain with every form of persecution, outrage, and cruelty that hatred of their race and greed of their wealth could inspire--staggered even Cristoval. The others had been too much astounded, and even horror-stricken by his rash defiance and arraignment of the Inquisition to interfere in behalf of the friar had they been so inclined. Jose looked from one to another for a moment with all the pride and fierceness of his race now aroused and burning in his defiant eyes.

"Senores," he said, "ye have heard my name. There may be one among you who liketh not the sound of it, or who would question me further. If there be such a one, I will give him answer on horse or on foot."

"Nay, nay, Jose!" cried Cristoval, advancing and grasping his hand. "None of us will quarrel with thy name. Thou 'rt a gallant comrade and honest gentleman. That sufficeth. If any man here would dispute it, he hath affair with me!"

"And with me!" added De Soto, with emphasis. "I believe, on my soul, thou 'rt a good Christian, Abul Hassan Zegri, whatever thy blood. Thou may'st count Hernando de Soto one of thy friends."

Hernando Pizarro and others joined in their protestation of friendship, but the rest hung back, fearing the danger involved in adhering to a man under ban of the Inquisition. Mendoza's muttered "_Morisco infiel!_" was taken up, but the group around Jose was too formidable to encourage open hostility, and the rest stood sullenly apart.

It was noticed by the commander, who said briefly: "There shall be no quarrel about Jose, nor with him.--Jose, or Abul Hassan Zegri, or whoever thou art, thou 'rt among friends. Thou hast been a stanch companion, and whilst I have power no hand shall be raised against thee. But guard thy tongue, and beware throwing nettles to the clergy. We are far from Seville, but the Inquisition hath long arms, as men have learned before. But--thou 'rt not an infidel?"

"I am a Christian," responded the armorer with dignity.

"That answereth every question thou shalt be asked. Senores, this affair is mine. It endeth here." He glanced significantly at the lowering group around Mendoza, then, after a pause: "Now, to the business for which I have called you together. These are my orders, and ye will see them carried out to the letter. The captives shall be released and go unmolested. A sufficient number shall be retained as hostages and for such services as may be required. The Inca shall be established with his wives and household, and shall have every privilege and liberty consistent with security. His nobles and people are to be admitted to him without hindrance, and for the present he shall be allowed to conduct the affairs of the empire--with our guidance and counsel when it seemeth expedient. The nobles shall be treated as befitteth their rank, and we'll have no violence offered any man or woman, noble or other. Ye will make this understood among the men and see it enforced. Thus far our arms have been blessed with success, but for the future as much dependeth upon discretion as upon courage. Be prudent, therefore, as vigilant, and vigilant as ye have been resolute.

"One word more: To-morrow I send a messenger to San Miguel, and with him goeth Fray Mauricio. That is all, Senores. _Adios_."

*CHAPTER IX*

_*Cristoval Meets the Princess*_

There was a building fronting on the plaza which, from, the great sculptured serpent on its wall, became known to the Spaniards as the House of the Serpent. Plain and massive in its architecture as the others, it covered, in a rambling fashion, a large extent of ground. By chance the invaders had left it untouched until opened for the Inca and his suite. Being an old Incarial palace, Atahualpa requested that he be quartered there. This was readily granted, and Pizarro, to be near his prisoner, moved into the building himself.

That part of it abutting on the square was ancient, but in later years it had been added to from time to time until it could house five or six score people. It extended back a hundred yards or more, enclosing one large and two smaller courts from which entrance was given to the various apartments. In the rear was a park filled with trees and shrubbery, and surrounded by a high wall of stone and adobe. Since the erection of the villa near the mineral springs the palace had been disused, and the garden neglected; but it retained its beauty, enhanced, perhaps, by its touch of wildness. The fountains still playing in its shade were green with moss, the walks overgrown with grass, and wild flowers had invaded the lawns, as if Nature had gently striven against its artificiality. The melancholy of decay had entered the enclosure as in preparation to greet the fallen fortune of the royal prisoner, fated to spend many a moody hour pacing its walks and chafing in his bondage.

Whatever depth of hatred the Inca cherished toward his captors, however burning his thirst for revenge, no sign betrayed them. The bitterness of captivity must have sunk into his proud heart, but it lay hidden beneath unvarying dignity and calm. With strength and patience which rose above disaster and compelled the admiration of the Spaniards, he took up the affairs of his stricken country, and with masterly readiness stayed the demoralization already sweeping over his empire like a tidal wave. With the few nobles left him he held his councils. Fleet _chasquis_ were despatched to the farthest confines of his dominions, bearing assurances of his safety, enjoining peace, and summoning his trusted advisers.

Meanwhile, everything practicable was done to mitigate the hardship of his captivity. The blue-uniformed guard in the anteroom had given place to a detail of steel-accoutred Spaniards, and sentinels were in evidence outside the palace walls, but the monarch saw little of them. Even the officers did not intrude upon his privacy; though later he found pleasure, or at least interest, in the society of certain of them and invited them often. He gave daily audience to his people, who were admitted freely to his presence. They found him still wearing the _llautu_ and possessing the semblance--to all immediate intents and purposes the actuality--of his imperial power. They were commanded by him to be acquiescent to the strangers, by whom they were treated with due consideration, and went away reassured.

The soldiers were now removed from the temporary barracks and assigned to quarters in the houses, largely left vacant by townspeople who availed themselves of the privilege of leaving Caxamalca. Cristoval, with De Soto, took a dwelling not far from the palace. He dismissed most of the Indies placed at his service, and assigned a suitable number to the wounded Toparca, whom he left in his old quarters on the square.

The prince was mending rapidly under Jose's skill, but was still unable to rise. Cristoval visited him daily, thereby improving his knowledge of Quichua and acquiring information about the country. As their acquaintance ripened he found the noble to be very much a man, and beneath his reserve he discovered a genuine urbanity. Toparca, on his part influenced by gratitude, increased by Cristoval's unfailing thoughtfulness, had become strongly attached to his rescuer, whose friendship he regarded as the condescension of a being somewhat more than human.

Returning late one afternoon from a reconnaissance to the southward, Cristoval stopped to inquire for the prince. He entered the patio, rapped upon the half-open door, and, without waiting for an answer, pushed aside the hangings and entered,--to find himself confronted by half-a-dozen young women. He recognized them at once by their costume as attendants at the palace. The sudden apparition of his mailed figure threw consternation among the damsels, nearly equalled by his own at their half-suppressed scream. Stammering an apology, part Spanish, part Quichua, he bowed and was hastily retiring when Toparca called from his couch:--

"Wait, Viracocha Cristoval! Do not go before I have made you known to my sister, the Nusta Rava. Tarry a moment, I pray you."

The princess had risen, terrified by the formidable man in steel, whose face she could scarcely discern beneath his lifted visor. To her unaccustomed eyes he was huge and monstrous--a direful, enigmatic being from another world, of a race prodigious in destructiveness, unassailable and irresistible as gods, murderous as fiends. The sound of his approach as he moved toward her, the clank and harsh rustle of his accoutrements, struck dread to her heart. Cristoval perceived her trembling. He halted, hurriedly unlatched and removed his helmet.

"I trust the Nusta Rava will forgive me for appearing in my harness," he said in Quichua made lame by his embarrassment, and bowing gravely; "but I had no thought of finding any one here but my Lord Toparca. With her gracious permission I will retire."

"No, no!" said Toparca. "Let me present you:--Rava, this is the Viracocha Cristoval, who, as I have told thee, rescued me from death."

Cristoval made a low obeisance, but the princess recoiled from him in undisguised horror. Toparca saw the movement and expression, and said quickly: "Rava, thou needst have no fear. I beg thou wilt know the Viracocha Cristoval as my friend."

"Thy friend, Toparca?" she exclaimed, her low voice trembling. "Dost think that I can look upon one of these as the friend of any of our race? The blood-marks have not yet vanished from the square."

Toparca raised himself in anxiety to exonerate his benefactor. "But, my sister," he said, hurriedly, "the Viracocha Cristoval had no part in that."