THE CRIMSON CONQUEST (continued 5)

Often, when Cristoval sat beside her in the hemicycle in meditative silence, Rava would take up Maytalca's tinya[1] and sing to its accompaniment. The melodies were simple, soft, and plaintive, and she sang with the sympathy and sweetness of her nature, her voice quivering from the fulness of her heart. The music was the one thing needful to complete the agony of Cristoval's self-denial. He heard her at first with wonder, then with unaffected ravishment.

[1] Tinya = a stringed instrument something like the guitar.

One moonlight evening—alas, a moonlight evening!—Rava had been telling him the great Peruvian classic, "Apu-Ollanta." Ollanta, the hero of the drama, born in obscurity, had risen by bravery and soldierly skill to the command of the armies of the Inca Pachacutec Yupanqui, and was his most trusted and beloved lieutenant. In an unfortunate hour he had loved and gained the love of Cusi-Coyllur, the Inca's daughter. The attachment, forbidden by the laws of Tavantinsuyu because of Ollanta's ignoble birth, was punishable with death. It was the story which has furnished a theme for poets through the ages. They loved in secret, and when at length concealment became no longer possible, Ollanta braved the laws and the Inca's wrath, and demanded Cusi-Coyllur in marriage. He was denied and banished from Cuzco, and when a child was born to the unhappy princess she was cast into prison. Ollanta hurried to his army in one of the provinces, raised his soldiers in rebellion, and led them to rescue his love. The war raged through ten long years, and after the death of Pachacutec Yupanqui, was carried on by his son. At last Ollanta, vanquished and a captive, was taken in chains to Cuzco; but the young Inca, more generous than his father, and moved by the rebel's constancy, pardoned him and led him to the dungeon of the princess. Years of confinement and sorrow had aged her prematurely, but Ollanta saw only the long-lost adored one of his youth and their child, and—well, they were married and restored to happiness and honor.

The story was long, and Rava told it with the simple candor of innocence, repeating with feeling and expression quite without consciousness of self, those passages whose beauty most appealed to her, from time to time taking up her instrument for the songs in the play. She finished, and sat with hands clasped, looking out upon the moon-lit lake, preoccupied and musing, apparently expecting no comment from Cristoval. He had listened with rapt attention, leaning forward with cheek upon his hand, less mindful of the story itself than of her low voice and the emotion on her sensitive features. He sat contemplating the calm beauty of the dark eyes, until, conscious of his gaze, she turned toward him. He roused from his reverie.

"It is a beautiful story, Ñusta Rava," he said, gently drawing the tinya from her lap.

There was a shadow of doubt in her look as she replied, "Didst find it so, Cristoval? It telleth little of war."

"Little of war, to be sure," he answered, failing to notice her tone; "but perhaps the better for that. I have heard its like before," he went on, fingering the strings.

"Yes?" she asked, with slight surprise.

"Yes, Ñusta Rava. Why not?" responded Cristoval, in turn surprised at the slight incredulity in her voice. "Stories of hopeless love and happy endings? Why not, my dear?"

"But do you have love-stories in Castile? I thought—"

"What didst think? We have love-stories and love-songs a-many."

"Thou hast never told me one," she said, with a shade of reproach; "nor have I ever heard thee sing except of soldiers and horrid battles."

"Why, mayhap 't is true," said Cristoval, reflectively. "But I know more of such than of the other, though once—" He paused, then added with more of suppressed emphasis and resolution than seemed to be required, "I will sing thee one now, Ñusta Rava!"

He was familiar with the guitar, and the tinya was therefore not so strange that he could not, without difficulty, find the chords. He had, moreover, taken it up when Rava was not by, and so made its acquaintance; so that after retuning he picked out a fair accompaniment and began. His song was one of those sweet Spanish airs which breathe passion in every line, and he sang with true feeling, with the richness of voice native to his race.

Rava listened to a song utterly strange and in an unknown tongue. But music, said to be the universal language, surely is the universal language of love, and her heart beat in response to every measure. Had she been indifferent to the singer she could not have been unmoved; but her unspoken longing made her doubly vibrant to his emotion, and the close left her pale and strangely quiet.

Cristoval laid aside the tinya. The moon was shining full in Rava's face as she leaned back, and he glanced into eyes from which the deep melancholy had gone. They were no longer doubtful, but swimming with happiness that struggled with timidity. The song was a revelation. It had solved the riddle of this good, brave Viracocha, and had shown him a man. He was no longer the demigod, reserved, with breast invulnerable, but of flesh and blood. She did not need to know the meaning of his words. Every inflection had said more than words. Her own voice was tremulous and almost inaudible.

"It was a love-song, Cristoval?"

"A love-song," he replied, looking away.

"Then thou—then the Viracochas can love?" she faltered, after a pause.

Cristoval turned quickly. "Can love, child!" he exclaimed. "Why, what dost think us? Men without souls?"

"But I mean love, Cristoval," she said, with timid earnestness. "The love that is not cruel, and merciless, and savage, like that of the Viracochas at Caxamalca; nor yet—" She hesitated, and dropped her eyes.

"Nor yet?" asked Cristoval, bending forward.

She looked at him again waveringly.

"Nor yet?" he persisted. "What wouldst say?"

Her eyes fell once more. "Nor yet," she murmured, "the love that is all unselfishness, like that of a father for his child. Oh, Cristoval, I know not what I would say, but there was in the song what I thought the Viracochas could not feel."

He replied impetuously: "Thou hast thought that? Thou hast dreamed we could not love? Shall I tell thee how we can love? We can worship, Ñusta Rava, and yet, hopeless, be silent until death were happiness."

She regarded him in wonder. "Hopeless, Cristoval?" she asked, in a voice so low that he barely heard it, and the question threw him off his guard. He answered it quickly and desperately, and in giving voice to the torture of his soul for weeks, forgot to be impersonal.

"Hopeless!" he repeated, turning away again. "How else? What art thou?—a princess. And I?—" He stopped. When he looked again his eyes met that in hers which a lover should be willing to give his life to see. Darkened by the moonlight, they regarded him with strange, intent abstraction, serious, gentle, and ineffably fond. This time Cristoval did not turn away. He must have been more than human—or less—to have turned away.

For an instant, as a drowning man reviews a lifetime, he had a hundred thoughts of deprecation, each a stab. He spurned them. The dross of common things faded into due perspective. The world's cares and dangers grew shadowy. His hands sought hers. As they yielded, the deep eyes deepened, and her lips parted with a sigh, almost a sob.

The tinya had slipped to the ground at their feet. Rava unclasped her hands from his neck and drew back her head to look into his eyes. "Ah, Cristoval, then thou canst love?—truly, thou canst love, and dost love me?"

Cristoval kissed the upturned lips and eyes and brow. "God knoweth I love thee, Rava, and have loved thee long. I had not purposed to tell thee."

"That would have been wrong and cruel," said Rava. "Why wouldst thou not have told me?"

"I thought we must part, my own, and would have spared thee an aching heart."

"Thou wouldst have denied me the only solace for a broken heart," she sighed, clinging more closely. "But now, we shall never part, Cristoval."

"Never! Never, with the help of Heaven!" he whispered.

But at length, the leave-taking for the night. A score of leave-takings before the last wafted kiss from her doorway, and the beloved form vanished in its shadow. Then Cristoval, alone, sought to realize his happiness. In his room he raised his sword, and kissed its hilt—the soldier's cross.

Ware happiness complete! Evil hath no harbinger more sure. Their glimpse of it was fleeting, as always. Even while they dreamed it would endure, the blow was falling. One day, a second, and a third—days with hours like minutes, speeding on so quickly to the evening, the evening so quickly into night, that the lovers seemed hardly met before it was time to part again and lie in fevered longing for the dawn, each with a thousand thoughts untold. Ah, Time! Capricious, perverse and always cruel; swift as light when the moments are of joy; grudging and niggardly in their measure when mortals would have them long; but unsparing, lavish, prodigal, when thou metest hours of sorrow!

Again a moonlit evening. They had said good-night and parted. Hours had passed; Cristoval was sitting beside his lamp, whose waning light drew his thoughts back to earth; even while he contemplated its struggles it sputtered and died, leaving the room in darkness. He sighed, loath to lay aside his reverie, and stepped to the window. The moon was nearly at the full, and he leaned against the casement, looking across the placid lake to the silvered peaks beyond. He stood long, enjoying the fresh beauty of the night, his eyes among the shadows of the garden where he had crowned his life. While he mused a cloud drifted across the moon, leaving the garden a moment in obscurity. When it passed and the light returned, he was startled out of his dreaming. The details of shade and illumination had come back, but now there was something more. Near the edge of the shrubbery, half a hundred yards below, was a formless shadow not there before. Cristoval leaned forward, studying intently a curious blot on the sward, suggestive of some lurking beast, yet different. It moved, ever so slightly, and the confused outline became suddenly clear. There was the head of a warrior, stretched alertly forward, and wearing the high, conical helm of a Cañare. There was the line of his crouched back. One hand and a knee were on the ground. Now there was a sparkle just above—a javelin head!—and at the same instant an arm was raised in signal. At once other shadows appeared here and there, and they slunk, half running, toward the villa.

Cristoval watched no longer. In a second he was groping for his armor. His hands were shaking, but soon corselet was on, and helmet: no time for more. Now, sword and buckler. He threw the empty scabbard on the couch as he rushed to the door. In the anteroom slept Markumi.

"Markumi! Markumi!" Cristoval whispered, shaking him.

"Yes, Viracocha," said the youth, sleepily.

"Up, Markumi! Make no sound. Quick—thy weapons, and follow!"

Markumi needed no second word. Electrified by the cavalier's voice, he was on his feet at a bound. Cristoval had not reached the door leading into the court, which he must cross to gain Rava's apartment, before the boy was beside him, grunting as he slipped the loop of the bow-string into its notch. Cristoval halted, listening. Without were movement and suppressed voices. As he put hand to the bar to open, the fastenings creaked with the weight of some one trying. Across the court came the crash of blows upon another door.

Markumi gasped, "What is it, Viracocha?"

"Devilry!" answered Cristoval. "The house is surrounded. Cañares, I think." The words were not uttered before the room reverberated with a rain of strokes upon the panels before them.

"Set an arrow!" said Cristoval, in Markumi's ear. "Stand clear of the door when I throw it open. Do not follow. Keep in the darkness, and shoot low."

Markumi hurriedly set his arrow, grateful that the darkness hid his shaking legs. The cavalier released the bar and sprang back. The door flew wide, letting in a sudden flare of torches, and two half-naked forms plunged in headlong. The first ran full upon Cristoval's point. The second was shot through by Markumi. With a shout a throng filled the doorway. A javelin whizzed past Cristoval's ear; another, and another. Markumi's bow twanged, a Cañare fell, and the cavalier dashed forward, his buckler ringing with the quick thrusts of spears, his sword playing swift and deadly. A gasp or moan followed every lunge at the unarmored bodies. Shielding his head he pressed close upon the group, cut through, and was in the open. A pause of half a second, and he found himself the centre of a confused surging of warriors, their limbs and dark, ferocious faces illumined by the dancing light of torches. The court seemed full, resounding with the uproar from savage throats. Now a fiercer yell, and they closed. So dense the mass none dared hurl his javelin, but they pressed from all sides, and for an instant Cristoval staggered under the impact of their weapons upon his shield and mail. As they rushed, shriek upon shriek, half smothered by the walls of the opposite wing of the villa, cut to his heart with a sudden deadly chill—Rava!

The chill was followed by a flame more quick, and Cristoval became a demon. He charged into the thickest, thrusting from beneath his upraised buckler, the thin, glimmering steel finding flesh at every stroke. It flashed low, reaching its mark under lifted arms: a dull ray of light, with the velocity of light itself; a chameleon's tongue, its gleam barely seen for its fatal quickness. For a moment he seemed to struggle hopelessly. Hedged about, he labored heavily, impeded by mere weight of numbers, lacerated from elbow to shoulder by their spears, the grip of his weapon slippery with his own blood. Hands clutched to wrench his buckler from his grasp. Once it was swept aside, and he looked into the eyes of a Cañare in the head-gear of a chieftain: saw the glitter of a falling axe. It fell, glanced from his helmet, and struck with stunning force upon his shoulder—by the grace of Heaven, not upon his right! The chief went down, his naked body run through, and the circle widened. A javelin glanced from the shield, and impaled a Cañare beyond. Another, thrown with terrific force, shivered against his breastplate.

But for his mail the cavalier would not have lived through a dozen paces. He was breathing in gasps, his arm stiffening with its wounds. Warriors whirled around him, yielding here before the lightning blade; closing there and forcing him to fight to the rear. From the doorway Markumi had sped his last arrow and fled. Every shaft had carried death. Cristoval fought, not with hope, not in despair, but in madness to reach and save his love; in a frenzy to kill, kill, kill, while a man lived to interpose. All at once he became conscious of a growing light. The villa was afire! A torch had been set to the roof of the main building, and the thatch blazed high, a column of rosy smoke curling toward the quiet stars. Half across the court his eye caught the gleam of a morion. A Spaniard dashed from a door, followed by two others bearing a senseless form. For the first time Cristoval gave voice, and his roar overtopped the din. The first Spaniard stopped, glanced toward the struggle, then rushed forward with a shout, followed by one of the others, leaving their burden to the third. Straight to thy doom, Juan Lopez!

He sprang through the mob, sweeping the Cañares from his path, and whirling aloft his halberd. Cristoval rushed upon him. The axe fell, was caught upon the buckler, and Cristoval drove his sword into the Spaniard's throat, jerked it out, and while the other tottered, drove it home again with all the force lent his arm by hate.

It was the end. While he strove to disengage his blade the Cañares swept upon him. He was down. On his knees he still fought, creeping a few inches toward his beloved, then sank beneath a war club whose force even his helmet could not ward. While his brain reeled he heard the yell of triumph, growing distant to his ears, and the world ceased to be. A score of hands clutched to tear him to pieces, struck back by the second halberdier.

"Off, dogs! He is mine.—Hola, Duero! We have him!—A thousand castellanos!"

He stopped. A Cañare reeled against him in a spasm of coughing, tugging at the shaft of an arrow in his chest. In another moment the Spaniard had been forced away from Cristoval by a rush of the tribesmen, and arrows and javelins whistled about him from the darkness outside the court. He heard Duero calling and swearing, a fierce yell from the gloom surrounding the villa, and a storm of missiles swept the court, whose tumult became a pandemonium.

Xilcala had been roused. One of the household had given alarm, and the flames brought the villagers on wings. The conflagration wrought its own punishment: every Cañare in the court revealed by the mounting flames, the garden in blackness. A merciless hail assailed the ravagers from the obscurity, and they were seized with panic—a mere tossing herd, stampeded by a foe unseen, dropping by twos and threes beneath the deadly rain. Yells, the crackling flames, and the shouts of the invisible assailants made the garden a horror.

The halberdier fought his way to Duero's side, and they stood in consternation. The still unconscious Rava had been drawn into the doorway. With a motion to his companion Duero picked her up, and they groped through the smoke-filled building into the shrubbery in front, and were away.

Clear of the garden, they made a detour to pass the village, halting once to bind and gag the Ñusta as they hurried toward the gorge. A mile beyond the town they joined a small party of Spaniards and Cañares in concealment beside the road. Duero replied to their questions with a comprehensive curse. "Move, blockheads!" he roared. "Fetch the litter. Before ye finish gawping they will be upon us. Hell is uncovered, d' ye hear? Fetch the litter."

A hamaca was brought, Rava thrust into it, and the curtains drawn. Two Cañares took it up, and the party hurried away.

At the entrance of the gorge they crossed the stream by a bridge of twisted osiers. On the farther side they hacked with their halberds until the structure hung, a wreck, from its opposite anchorage. It would cut off the retreat of their allies, but would delay pursuit, for the torrent was unfordable. Their route was down the gorge. Toward morning they crossed and destroyed another bridge, then proceeded in security.

The conflict raged about the villa until the Cañares retreated to the mountains, leaving their wounded and dead. The villagers turned to the flames, tore away the thatch, and saved the wings of the house, but of the main portion only blackened walls remained. Until Maytalca was found, imprisoned with her maids in a room remote from the flames, the capture of Rava was unknown, and Duero's party had gained several miles the start. Pursuit, delayed at the first bridge, was balked completely at the second, and forced into a circuitous mountain path before it could come again upon the raiders' trail. The flight was toward Xauxa, but by the third day the pursuers found themselves impeded by prowling Cañares. Forced again to the mountain trails, the chase was hopeless.

Markumi found Cristoval, and with assistance bore him, almost lifeless, to Huallampo's villa. For the second time he was hovering upon the brink, and for days the aged healer summoned by the curaca answered the villagers with a dubious shake of his head.

CHAPTER XXI

The Señora Descends upon Pedro

We go forward to find ourselves at Xauxa, a week subsequent to the catastrophe at Xilcala, months after Pizarro's march to Cuzco.

The town lies on the river Xauxa, a branch of the great Apurimac, in one of the many fertile valleys, or bolsons, that break the arid desolation of the Sierra. Pizarro had found it well defended by the immense fortress on the steeps of an adjacent mountain. He left it with a small garrison, as has appeared. With this remained the sick and incapacitated, and most of the non-combatants. Among these were Pedro, who, since the escape of Peralta, was no longer persona grata, and felt more secure away from the commander; José remained invalided by an attack of the fever; Father Tendilla, as missionary to the natives; and Rogelio, the veedor, who tarried for reasons best known to himself. Rogelio, however, pleaded an indisposition which, as a civil officer of the Crown and a man with a family, he could not conscientiously neglect; and from his couch in his quarters within the fortress, bade farewell in a voice of feebleness and suffering. When assured that the last company had marched he rolled out of bed and dressed in time to watch the command from the rampart as it trailed down to the town below. He shook a fist at the distant figure he knew to be Mendoza's, rubbed his hands, snuffled, and emitted a chuckle of mingled glee, triumph, and malice. An hour afterward he was haggling with Duero and Mani-mani, a sub-chief of the Cañares.

For several days the garrison remained within the fortress. A fortnight later word came that Prince Manco had met Pizarro peaceably at Xaquixaguana, and had presented his claim to the throne. His right had been formally recognized, and the prince was proceeding with the Spaniards to Cuzco, where the coronation would take place straightway. Accompanying the news was his command that all hostility should cease, and soon natives and garrison were on friendly terms. Those Spaniards privileged to do so took quarters in the town, and among them was Pedro.

Pedro established his cantina near the square. One afternoon he was leaning idly beside his door, watching the passers-by, with an occasional glance down the thoroughfare toward the north. A chasqui had announced the day before that a small company of Viracochas was approaching, newly arrived from Panama, on the way to join Pizarro. The cantina was prepared, and a roast of llama on Pedrillo's spit divided the attention which the proprietor paid to the street. The latter was interesting, for the day was a festival of some sort and the town was full of the country people, gayly clad, and notwithstanding recent calamities, in full holiday spirits. As Pedro stood he noted that the crowd was growing. By and by he observed that his establishment was drawing a deal of persistent attention. No one had stopped in front of it, but a number had passed and repassed, and one Indio, conspicuous for his dignity of bearing, had already grown familiar. He was a tall old man, wrapped in a long, colored poncho of unusual elegance, its heavy folds falling to his knees and decorated with a profusion of conventionalized forms of birds and beasts. The object of particular interest to Pedro, however, was his suite. Following close as he stalked past for the sixth or seventh time, was his wife; and in her train a numerous family ranging in age from five to eighteen years or thereabout, the eldest a maiden of comely face and figure who glanced at the cook with shy but unmistakable curiosity. The old man seemed never to see him, apparently disdaining show of interest; but his family were less scrupulous, and favored him with stares undisguised. This group was but one of many, but it was notable to Pedro by the presence of the shy though curious eighteen-year-old of the comeliness mentioned. Pedro was not unsusceptible. Having once or twice caught her eyes, he straightway experienced a responding interest.

"Ho!" thought he. "How now? Have thy charms survived thy years, Pedro, my boy? Are there yet lines of grace in thy portliness? That was a wistful, surreptitious, yearning contemplation, or there's some mistake. It swept thy traits and fair proportions most lingeringly.—Ha! She cometh again! Stew me if she cometh not again! Hold! Guard thine eyes, admired cook. Bank their fires, lest they startle with too much ardour. I'll look at the sky till she is near. Ah! Fair sky! Ample, roomy, easy-fitting vault of blue! Large, capacious dome! Dome with space enough for stars to knock about in, and space to spare— But she is here! Now look! Oh, hot kettles, Pedro, how comfortable thou art! Was there not warmth in that stolen glance? O, my patron saint!— But who is she—and where abideth? That patrolling image in her lead must be her papa. I'll inquire."

With his jovial countenance glowing pleasantly he cast about for a possible source of information, and his eyes lighted upon a youth across the street who was surveying him with unmitigated wonder, his eyes and mouth equally broad open. Pedro motioned him, and the boy started hesitatingly across the street. At once the interest of the crowd was fixed, and they formed a respectful circle, across which the lad advanced with evident trepidation. Pedro had acquaintance with the Quichua, and hailed him cordially.

"May the day bring thee good fortune, and the night better, my lad. Come hither. There is something I would ask. This seemeth a gala day, is it not?

"The Feast of the Full Moon, Viracocha," replied the boy, respectfully.

"The Feast of the Full Moon! Good! Dost live in Xauxa?"

"No, Viracocha. I am here but for the day. I live yonder, up the valley," indicating the direction by turning and pursing out his lips, a gesture habitual with the Peruvians, and surviving to this day.

"Yonder, up the valley!" said Pedro, imitating his grimace. "Hum! Thou 'rt a good boy, I take it from thy face. Sleepest at home, and early?"

"Why, where else, Viracocha?" asked the other innocently.

"Ah! Where else, to be sure! But in my country o' nights, the boys oft go chasing nightingales—a bird which I have not yet seen in Tavantinsuyu. 'T is quite as well. But what I would ask is this: The folks seem curious. Now, what draweth their attention hereabout? What held thy lower jaw away from its fellow a moment since?"

"Viracocha?" asked the boy, puzzled.

"I observed thee looking this way. What is the interest which hath brought this crowd?"

"Oh!" exclaimed the youth, enlightened. "Why, you are one of the Viracochas—your pardon."

"No offence," answered Pedro. "A mere chance which hath befallen others of my race. Is that all?"

The boy hesitated. "No, not all. The bare bone of your leg, Viracocha—"

"Oho!" shouted Pedro. "The bare bone of my leg! God bless my soul! The bare bone of my leg, for a surety! Why, stew me! Now, 't is a sight, is it not—to see a man with a part of his skeleton sticking out into the glare of day! But, lad, what if I were to show thee my ribs? Nay!" he added, as the boy drew back aghast. "I'll not do it in the presence of ladies, never fear. Ha! The bare bone of— But is that all?" He lowered his voice. "Yonder damsel, for instance, just now passing—do not look too quickly—hath she been drawn by my leg, thinkst thou?"

The boy looked round cautiously at the girl lingering at the edge of the circle. "I cannot say for her," he said, "but if the Viracocha wisheth, I will ask her," and full of accommodation, he started in her direction.

"Stay!" cried Pedro, seizing him. "Santa Maria, no! Let it pass. I'll endure the doubt.—The bare bone of my leg, saith he! Oh, pots and skillets!" Pedro exhibited some symptoms of a coming laugh, but the attack did not develop, and he went on: "A marvel, in truth! But if it hath merited so much attention I'll show it worthy of more."

Steadying himself upon the boy's shoulder, Pedro unscrewed his peg from its socket, and as an exclamation of amazement and dismay arose from the crowd, tossed it high in the air, caught it, and set it whirling in his nimble fingers. The circle spread abruptly. The old Indio forgot his dignity and watched in stupefaction while the cook juggled his member with the skill of a mountebank. Transforming it into a weapon, he attacked a fancied enemy, hopping about, striking, and guarding, until the foe was laid low by one last fell stroke. From the role of a weapon it passed to that of a flute, and as Pedro's fingers ran over imaginary keys he whistled a Spanish air, then one of their own, to their infinite wonder and delight. He finished with a bow to the old Indio, and tendered the peg for inspection. It was taken gingerly, and the ice was broken.

The old man examined it with profound solemnity, while his daughter looked upon the gracious cook with a round-eyed fascination most grateful to his complacent soul. It ended with an invitation into the cantina, and, having screwed his peg back into place, Pedro ushered in the entire family and served a luncheon, at the end of which he was asked to their huasi, six miles out beyond the fortress. The Indio, Municancha, was a master-mason engaged upon the uncompleted fortifications. Thus the cook opened an acquaintance which he afterward found of value.

Pedro bade his guests farewell, bestowing a significant squeeze upon the hand of the daughter, Coriampa, and was pleasantly reviewing the circumstance, when a shout from his boy at the door hurried him to the street. His expected countrymen were approaching. A distant flutter of pennons and the gleam of steel showed above the heads of the crowd, and soon Pedro was cheering lustily as the company passed. In the lead rode Sotelo, the commander of the company, with Saavedra, commandant of the fortress, his travel-stained accoutrements contrasting with the latter's burnished armor. Following, and escorted by Father Tendilla, were half-a-dozen priests and friars, a few on mules and jaded horses, but most of them on foot. As they passed, Pedro suddenly ceased his greetings.

"Aha! Thou back, Fray Mauricio!" he muttered. "Hast renewed thy courage and venom, my small, liver-colored brother? I'd exchange thee for the devil himself, my friend, and so would José, had he his choice. Would thou wert back in Spain—or farther! I'll warn the armorer, be sure of it. And now, the cavaliers—two, four, six, eight. Not bad! But, father of famine, what a hungry lot! Hola!" he shouted. "What fare on the way, compadres? Saddle-leather and surcingles, I'll be bound. Cheer up! There's better beyond. Come, smile thou, my empty caballero in the rear! In a week thy waistband will renew acquaintance with thy pansiere. There's that in Peru to fill it, and some to be left over for the infantry. Oho! Here they are—our honest lads of the foot! Twenty in all—and that is to say, twenty larcenies the more for each day of the calendar. Bien! Were there no thieves we'd have no love for honest men. What cheer, pikemen? Did ye ever see a cold boiled ham? Ah, see them drool! They're blest with powers of memory, 't is sure. What, ho! A civilian! A leech, amigo? No? A barber!—next of kin. Gracias á Dios, a barber! Fall out, my friend; thy journey endeth here."

A weary individual in civil garb, his legs bare to the knees but for the fringe of rags that fell below them, turned out of the column.

"Nombre de Dios! Is this an inn?" he asked in astonishment, peering through the open door and sniffing the fragrance.

"An inn, and no less. An inn, and no more," replied Pedro. "Enter. Thou 'rt as welcome to it as the smell of it seemeth to be to thee."

The stranger shook his head. "I have no money, Señor."

"The fiend!" ejaculated Pedro. "But thou hast an appetite, or thy looks belie thee. Enter, and call for what there is. Thy credit is good. Are there any others—civilians?"

"My gratitude, Señor," said the other, with feeling. "Yes, there are four in the rear of the baggage, and three women with the rear guard."

"Three women!" repeated Pedro. "Native women, thou wouldst say?"

"Of our own race, Señor."

"What!" exclaimed Pedro, in amazement. "Three Spanish women? Santo Sacramento! sayst thou so? What do they in this land of paynimry? Oh, these modern women!"

"Two are wives of cavaliers. The third is alone. And, Señor"—he spoke earnestly—"beware of this third."

"Ho!" responded Pedro, with a shrug. "I have all my feathers, amigo."

"Nay; but, Señor—" he was interrupted by the jubilant bray of a pack-mule which had divined the end of the march. When he would have continued Pedro was badgering a muleteer. The stranger entered the cantina—and Fate rode down upon the unsuspecting Pedro.

The rear guard approached. Sure enough, there were three señoras, two heavily veiled, riding mules. Pedro was bowing profoundly.

"Welcome, Señoras! Welcome to the land of gold. 'T is a Heaven's blessing to look once more upon your kind."

They inclined their heads graciously and Pedro raised his eyes to the third, some paces in the rear. As he bowed again he was conscious of a buxom figure, strangely bedight in a rusty corselet and a man's sombrero which showed marks of the hard journey, its limp rim hanging tow about a face which he saw only partly. She was astride, he noted, with a huge battle-axe at her saddle-bow, and a ponderous spur on a foot of goodly size.

The lady glanced at him, gasped, reined up with vigor, and shouted in a voice of joyful surprise, "Pedro!"

Pedro straightened with a jerk and staggered against the wall.

"Pedro!" she shouted again. She urged her steed across the street with a series of jabs of her spurs, and tumbled out of the saddle, a confusion of petticoats, arms, legs, and a flapping sombrero. Dropping the reins, she charged the cook, who stood transfixed to the wall, powerless.

"Pedro, as I live!" she cried, seizing his hands. "Oh, Pedro, thou graceless, fat, one-legged darling of a cook, I was never more joyed in my life!"

Pedro struggled in her grasp, speechless, his face reddening violently, as she held him at arm's length, surveying him with pleasure.

"And 't is thou!" she exclaimed. "Hold, whilst I look at thee—stop squirming, thou lubber! Yes, I'd know thee in a brigade, even did I not see thy peg. But why dost not greet me, Pedro? Greet me, sinner! Dost think I've journeyed a thousand leagues over sea and mountain to be received like a cold omelet? Fie, Pedro!"

He gained his voice with an effort. "Why—my greetings, Señora Bolio!" he panted. "What the devil—I'm glad to see thee well!—but release my hands, prithee!—we're in the street, woman. Thou'lt stir a scandal!"

"A scandal!" returned the señora, scornfully. "Soapsuds! A scandal, forsooth! What care I for these pagans? I'm glad to see thee."

"Of course—of course!" gasped Pedro. "But look to thy mule!—he's wandering away, reins down. Let me go! I'll—I'll catch him."

"Let him wander, Pedro, and may the fiend ride him with hot spurs! He hath jolted the life out of me these many days. But, art not surprised to see me? Say!"

"Name of a martyr! Yes!" said Pedro, desperately. "But loose my hands, I tell thee! We're observed."

"Oh, Pedro, thou 'rt so coy, thou dear old cherub!"—and she laughed joyfully.

"Oh, coy!" groaned Pedro. "Thunder and Mars! Dost not see the town watching us? And look at the rear guard!"

The troopers had halted, and were observing the little drama with interest.

"Brava, Señora!" called one, encouragingly. "His timidity is that of inexperience. Persist, and he'll succumb, my head upon it!"

The lady turned. "What now?" she demanded, indignantly, facing them with hands upon her hips. "Who gave you command to halt? Jog on, jog on! Circulate! Go, you singular accumulation of veal and old iron! Wend, worry on, flit, you most unusual galaxy of junk and poultice! You grotesque pack of——"

They tarried not to hear the completion of her period. They had journeyed with Señora Bolio for many weeks, and had learned her powers. When she turned to Pedro he was vanishing through the doorway, and she followed precipitately. He backed against a table, and she dropped into a chair facing him.

"Vagabonds!" she exclaimed, wrathfully, fanning herself with her sombrero. "They have gone clean through my patience a hundred times since we sailed from Panama. May the goblins gnaw their shin-bones!"

Pedro passed his sleeve across his forehead. "But they have left thee thy gifts of speech, Señora," he ventured.

"Ah! What would I do without them—a helpless woman? Oh, me! 'T is a sad world, Pedro.—But thou 'rt plump as a suckling porker, chiquito. And this is thy place? Cara! What a savory smell!"

"Why, bless me!" cried Pedro, forgetting his disturbance in his hospitality. "Thou must be hungry!"

"Hungry!" said Señora Bolio. "Boil me this hat, and I would eat it, amigo mio! But first, help me off with this rusty furniture of mine. Saints! I was never so wearied of a garment as of this iron bodice. 'T is a man's, of course, tight where it should be full, and' full where it should be snug. But they told me I should have to fight as often as eat, or more, so I bought it, with the cleaver thou mayst have seen on my saddle. And, Pedro, we must find the mule, for I would keep that cleaver by me. No telling when I may need to use it on an Inca—thou callest them Incas, these varlets in sleeveless pinafores?—Well, 'tis all the same. Now, I am ready for a full trencher."

Seated before his guest while she ate with an appetite keened by hard marches and harder fare, Pedro recovered his composure in listening to news of the civilized world, interrupted now and again by the entrance of patrons, each of whom started at sight of the lady, then bowed with a curious glance at the host which made him fidget.

"Now," said the señora, finishing, "thou must find me lodgings, Pedro dear; and before night, my mule, for I'll not sleep without that axe. My crucifix and it have been mine only comforts since I touched this benighted land. I'll part with neither. Canst find me a room, thinkst thou? Ah, thou'rt a love! I could wish thou hadst two legs; but with only one and a half thou 'rt more complete than any other man I ever knew," and she bestowed a smile whose warmth caused him to back away with an uneasy glance about the room. To his relief she made no further demonstration, and shortly they sallied out in search of quarters for her accommodation. A satisfactory lodging was found with a native couple—and thus was Señora Margarita Bolio established in the land of the Incas.

CHAPTER XXII

Rava in the Toils

Next morning early Pedro's mule, held by Pedrillo, stood at his door, surrounded by a whispering, awe-stricken group of native urchins lingering to see the dread beast mounted by the Viracocha of the fabulous leg. As Pedro appeared the brute twitched an ear toward him, opened his mouth, and drew breath in a faint, rasping, wheezy note of salutation. Pedro was gloomy, but he paused to rub the gray nose.

"Ah, my good friend," he said, with feeling, "there is melancholy in thine accent—belike, the echo of a melancholy in thy soul, like that in mine. 'T is but a sorry life: we're agreed in that, and comrades in misery. Thou, a mule, a cook's mule; I, a cook, a one-legged cook; and a panting, surcharged, vociferous Bolio at our heels, following with the pertinacy of doom! But if thou, too, hast doleful thoughts, forbear to voice them, lest I be brought to tears. Now, prithee, lend me thy back. Adiós, Pedrillo. Remember the frijoles. Burn them again, scamp, and I'll—Whoa, mule! Thou misbegotten whimsy, I thought I read sadness in thine eye,—and 't was the devil. Be done, or I'll chew thine ear! Farewell, Pedrillo."

Pedro was off. Half-an-hour's ride took him through the suburbs, and he turned into the military road toward the grim fortress overlooking the town. A short, steep climb, and he was at the gate, bantered by the guard about the coming of Señora Bolio. Within was a citadel, surrounded by buildings for the garrison, or the townspeople when driven by war, and quarters for the Inca's officers. As Pedro was passing he was hailed by the familiar pipe of Rogelio. He drew rein, not in the best of grace, awaiting the veedor's approach.

"Ah, Pedro, my good friend," said Rogelio, "I am pleased to see thee. I had thee in mind, 't is but a moment since. I——"

"Ware the heels of the mule!" bellowed Pedro, with a violence that startled the veedor into sudden agility in a backward spring.

"My soul and body!" exclaimed Rogelio, rolling his eyes from the beast to its rider. "No need to roar, my friend. Thine animal looketh gentle enough."

"He hideth an abundance of wickedness under a smooth exterior—like some of his brethren who go on two legs," remarked Pedro.

"Ah?" Rogelio eyed the cook suspiciously.

"Ah!" returned Pedro. "But, hadst aught to say, Señor Veedor?"

"Why, I have, good Pedro," said Rogelio, recovering. "In a few days—perhaps a fortnight, perhaps very soon—I expect—that is to say, I—he, he, Pedro!—'tis a delicate subject—but—well, I may need a woman servant. Just a common servant, Pedro."

"Ah!" said the cook. "Just a common servant! So! 'T is a common need, Veedor, shared by common and uncommon. I thank thee for thy confidence, Señor. I'll betray it to no man." And apparently considering the interview closed, Pedro gathered his reins to go.

"Wait!" shouted the veedor. "Blockhead, that is not all!"

"Not all, Señor! Thou hast need of two?"

The veedor piped a curse, then controlled himself and went on with a smile of forced amiability. "I mean it is not all I have to say, Pedro. In a few days—or less—I hope to share thy happiness."

"My happiness!" exclaimed Pedro, mystified. "Oh, I see! The Señor is going to turn cook."

"Damnation!" squeaked the veedor; then stifling his rage, he continued: "No, no! Not that. By thy happiness I mean thine inamorada, the Señora Bolio——"

"Oh, blessed saints!" interrupted Pedro. "Thou wouldst share my happiness in the Señora? Take it all, Señor! Take the whole of her. By heaven, I'll send her up entire! Wait but an hour." He started to turn his mule.

"Stop, fool!" choked the exasperated veedor; and grasping at a rein, narrowly escaped a kick. He sprang out of range with a gasp.

"Well," said Pedro, complacently, "I gave thee warning, Señor. But hast more to say?"

It was a minute before Rogelio regained his speech. "Yes!" he shrilled. "Perdition! Yes! If thou wilt but hold thy tongue!"

"Bueno! I listen. Proceed, Señor Veedor."

Rogelio drew near again and said, with difficulty, forcing a grin: "Now, in the devil's name, give heed; and forbear to fly off the bowstring until I have finished! What I've tried to get into thy pate is this. In a few days I shall have a guest, Pedro." He looked cautiously about and whispered, "A maiden, my friend—the fairest heathen in the land. I'll not say her name—he, he!—that shall be a secret. But, I would have a woman servant—one worthy of dependence, dost mark? Canst find me one? Thou 'rt known to the townsfolk, and I am not. What sayst? There will be some moderate compensation for thy time and trouble, Pedro,—moderate, mind thee, for I am a poor man; though," he looked about again, "I'll tell thee this, once I have her safe, there will be treasure untold at my command—Ah! Hum!—That is, Pedro, a fair sum—rather small, in fact—little more than enough for my requirements, for I have a fam——" He stopped short, snuffled, and went on hastily, "I'll pay thee, Pedro. Wilt find me a servant?"

Pedro concealed both his contempt and his suddenly roused interest, and after brief scrutiny of the tallowy face and protuberant eyes, looked away. "Why," he drawled, "for the time it hath taken thee to get it out, 't is a simple matter. Doubtless I can find a woman. I'll look about."

"Do so, my worthy friend," said Rogelio, rubbing his hands. "It will be worth thy while."

"No doubt," answered Pedro. "Adiós, Señor." He rode away.

"Dolt, lunk-head, clod-pate!" muttered Rogelio, looking viciously after him.

"Oily scoundrel!" muttered Pedro. "Slimy dastard." Then he chuckled. "Oh, give me but an hour, and I could work him into a fit! His rage striketh at his vitals. But, let us see! A maiden, the fairest in the land, and treasure untold! God's love! Can it be she?" He reined up, the better to think, and sat in study, his geniality of countenance giving place to grave concern. Shortly he rode on, still pondering.

Pedro's mission to the fortress was to see the sick armorer and warn him against Fray Mauricio, with the advice that José go straightway to Cuzco, where Pizarro would hold him safe. The Morisco was so ill, however, that he said nothing of his errand, and after an hour at the bedside, took his departure.

Pedro rode back much occupied with uneasy thoughts of Cristoval and Rava. He had heard nothing of their fate, and it was generally believed that they had perished in the mountains. After De Valera had been found in the canyon by his companions even the Cañares had lost the scent. Still Pedro hoped, and better, prayed with right good-will. Now he determined to watch for Rogelio's expected guest, his suspicion thoroughly roused by the morning's conversation.

Two days later he was again riding toward the fortress. On this occasion, however, he went beyond, making inquiries for the huasi of one Municancha, master-mason. Rewarded at length, he was received with distinction by the dignified Indio and his interesting family, to whom he made himself so agreeable that he was pressed to come again, the small children chasing the dust of his mule for many yards, with shrill farewell and reiterated invitation.

Pedro rode back in an enviable frame of mind. It was dark when he passed the road to the fortress, and he had gone a little beyond when his mule stopped with a suddenness that sent his hand smartly to his sword-hilt. He distinguished a shadowy group of figures ahead, and hearing a word in Spanish, he prodded his animal with his single spur and rode forward. The strangers had drawn off to let him pass. As he neared them Pedro hailed:—

"Hob, compadres! A good-night to you."

"Oh, 't is Pedro!" he heard one say in relief, then the ring of ordered pikes, and, "Good-night, Pedro!" briefly.

"What cheer, friends?" asked the cook, drawing rein; but they moved on without response. He grunted at their discourtesy and went his way, failing to observe in the darkness that two of the number bore a hamaca.

The party halted near the fortress gate. Duero was challenged by the sentinel, seating himself wearily while the soldier drawled his call for the sergeant. The officer appeared, a parley followed, and the gate swung open.

"Well, and what fortune, amigo?" asked the old sergeant, surveying Duero as he stood scowling in the lantern light. "Why, man, thou'rt haggard!"

The other replied with an oath: "Not the worst fortune, but so near the worst that, curse me, 't would be no easy choice between them. Dost pass my party?"

"Pass them," said the sergeant, and Duero called to his companions; then, not wishing to be interrogated, gave the officer good-night. The sergeant watched the hamaca past the gate, and with a grimace to his sentinel, retired to the guard-room. Since the death of Atahualpa he had seen the like more than once.

Inside the gate Duero dismissed his remnant of the Cañares. Taking up the silent and closely curtained hamaca, the Spaniards were presently pounding at the veedor's door. An Indio servant opened to them, and the litter was carried into the court. Apprised of its arrival, Rogelio hurried out.

Duero ignored his greeting and demanded bluntly: "Where is the cage, Señor Veedor? Here is the bird."

"Oh, my stars!" snuffled Rogelio, rubbing his hands and sidling round the hamaca. "Is she there, indeed?—and in good condition, Duero? Remember, that was part of the stipulation—that she should be unharmed, and in good condition."

"As to being unharmed, I'll answer for it," replied the soldier. "As for her condition, you can figure for yourself what it is like to be after such a journey. Where will you have her put? Come! We're weary."

"This way," said Rogelio, in a fluster. "The room is all prepared—a bower, Duero, a very bower! He, he! Wait! I'll fetch a lamp." He scuttled away, reappeared with a light, and led the way to a door opening upon the patio. It was fastened with a heavy padlock. Fumbling for a second, he threw open the door. The hamaca was carried in, the door closed, and while Rogelio edged round eagerly with the lamp, striving for a glimpse, Duero threw back the curtains and lifted Rava, almost lifeless, from the litter. She moaned as he bore her to the couch, and he hastened to remove the bonds and gag she had worn since nearing Xauxa. She gave no other evidence of animation.

"Here—the light!" commanded Duero, gruffly, and took it without ceremony from the veedor's hand, bending over the girl in scrutiny. Rogelio hovered about, twisting his fat fingers, and straining to have a look at the pale, drawn face almost hidden by her disordered tresses. It was a face to move the compassion of a savage. The rough soldier felt its pathos, for he straightened up and said brusquely:—

"She needeth looking after, 't is a certainty. Fetch a woman at once, Señor Veedor."

"A woman!" piped Rogelio. "Why, there's no woman about. I have spoken for one, and may have her to-morrow."

"No woman about!" exclaimed Duero, turning upon him sternly. "Do you say there is none to give this girl the care she needeth?"

"To-morrow—" began the veedor weakly.

"To-morrow!—To-night! This night, Veedor, or she goeth to Xauxa." Duero's black eyes travelled over Rogelio with an expression the latter did not care to meet.

"To-night! Impossible, Duero!" he whined. "There is not a woman in the fortress save two just come from San Miguel, and they—" He shook his head.

"Then, Señor, you will fetch one from Xauxa," said Duero, with determination.

"Curse me if I will!" retorted the veedor, angrily. "And look thou, Duero: this is mine affair. Thy part in it is done. Thou'lt refrain from meddling."

Duero motioned his companions forward, and stepped to raise the Ñusta. At the move Rogelio forgot himself and sprang forward with a snarl and curse to interpose, but recollected himself at once when Duero, dagger half-drawn, thrust an elbow beneath his chin and met his eyes with a scowl so malevolent that he caught breath with a sudden weakening of his knees. As the veedor retreated with a gasp Duero followed him steadily with his glare, then turned again with deliberation to the couch. The veedor raised a shaking hand to his throat as if he expected to find it already cut, and quavered:—

"My—my soul—and body, Duero! Thou'rt sudden! Wait! I—fiends and goblins!—I'll go if it will please thee."

"It will," said Duero, briefly. "See that you do. We will tarry until your return. But first, a small cup of chicha. We must warm her blood, or your woman will find a corpse. Do you hear, Veedor? A cup of chicha!"

The veedor started painfully and waddled away. He was back in a moment with the liquor. The soldier forced a few drops between the pallid lips of the Ñusta, and vigorously chafed her hands and arms. A fierce, unprincipled rascal in most respects, he was endowed with a rough warmth of heart to which the helpless state of his captive made silent appeal. He worked with what gentleness was in him, and when at last Rava opened her pathetic eyes he motioned his companions out of the room with the hamaca. Rogelio lingered near, but a gesture from Duero and the menace in his eyes sent him back into the shadow, whispering a futile anathema. When the unhappy girl revived somewhat the soldier drew a robe over her, and leaving her sobbing desolately among the pillows, gripped Rogelio's arm and led him out. He locked the door, and to the veedor's astonishment and rage, pocketed the key. The other commenced a shrill expostulation, but the burly Duero merely hunched a shoulder at him with chin thrust out and a sidelong glance of quiet viciousness that stopped his railing abruptly. Rogelio led the way to his room with no further word, followed by his four sullen hirelings.

They ranged themselves round his table in silence. The veedor stood glancing uneasily from one scowl to another, then piped in irritation: "Well, gentlemen, your task is finished, isn't it? Come now, my good friends, the hour groweth late. Return in the morning, and I'll give you your hire."

Duero stepped forward, planting a powerful fist upon the table and hitching at his belt: "Señor Veedor, we'll have our hire now! Then, when you have brought some one to look after the señorita, our business is done. In the meantime, with your leave—or without it—we wait here. She must be cared for before morning. But now, our gold."

Rogelio blinked about the circle, snuffled, and went out. Having closed the door, his rage overflowed in a series of frenzied gesticulations in the direction of Duero, accompanied by suppressed grunts and squeaks, until he was swollen in feature and quite breathless. He returned with a bag and pair of balances. They looked on with vigilance while he weighed out the gold, the lamp illuminating swarthy faces full of eagerness—except that of Duero, which was only watchful and grim.

"There!" snapped the employer. "Two thousand castellanos. Take it."

Duero extended an arm to withhold the others and said, coolly, "Double it!"

The veedor staggered back with the bag clasped in his arms. "Wha—what?" he gasped.

"I say, double it!" replied Duero, with force.

Rogelio stared at him with fallen chin.

"Double it!" repeated the soldier, and returned the stare fixedly.

"Fiends!" shrieked the veedor. "Man, thou 'rt mad! What was our bargain?"

"That acquitteth the bargain, Señor, but there are damages."

"Damages! What damages?"

"Why, to our several consciences, Veedor. Mine, I'll swear, hath stood a wear and tear that hath left not remnants enough to equip a dog! 'T is a most villanous piece of villany, and promiseth to grow worse when our hands are out of it. By the crucifix! Señor Rogelio, my soul will need masses for this affair, and I mean to provide for them. You will make it double, or the girl goeth to Xauxa this night; and I'll have the Señor Inca notified—or mayhap, Mendoza."

"Scoundrels, bandits, thieves!" screamed Rogelio, his face purple and hands shaking. Duero took a step toward him with a movement to his sword-hilt, and the victim retreated to the wall, hugging his gold and rolling his eyes in terror. The soldier surveyed him with contempt.

"Well," he demanded, "what do you say? Must we lug her back to Xauxa? Answer, and quickly, for I sicken."

"Oh, gentlemen!" wailed Rogelio, "be honest. Be just. Be considerate of a poor man."

Duero broke in with imitation of his whine: "Oh, be open-handed. Be charitable. Be virtuous. Faugh! You offend my bile. Come. Yes, or no! Do you double it? 'T is indifferent to us, for the Inca, or Mendoza, will know how to reward. But answer!"

Rogelio rolled his eyes to heaven, then lagged forward to the table and took up the scales. "Oh, my good men, 't is—"

"Cease!" commanded Duero. "We are no good men. Had we been, you had not approached us. Weigh out, and be done."

The veedor heaved a long, shuddering sigh, and weighed the gold.

"Now," said Duero, "to your horse, and to Xauxa."

"Oh, curses!" protested the veedor. "Art not finished? I've paid thee twice!"

"Go!" shouted Duero, stamping his foot. "Order your horse. I'll see you to the gates."

Rogelio went out with a groan. In half an hour he was riding down the hill, panting an imprecation at every step. Duero returned from the gate whither he had escorted him, and calling the servant, ordered the best the veedor's larder afforded. Then the villains held carnival.

CHAPTER XXIII

Rogelio Finds Gall and Wormwood

Pedro was extinguishing the lights of his cantina when he heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs. They stopped at his door, and Rogelio entered, perspiring, breathless, and in violent perturbation.

"Ho, Señor Veedor, thou dost ride late!" exclaimed Pedro, in surprise. "There is something amiss?"

Rogelio sank upon the nearest stool, panting and wiping away perspiration, on the verge of apoplexy from exertion and rage combined. The danger of it seemed to strike Pedro at once. He hurried forward and commenced fanning the official vigorously with his apron.

"Steady, steady, Señor!" he urged, soothingly. "Do not try to talk. Take time and spare thy wind. Thou 'rt gasping like a ducked hen.—Nay, nay! Do not swear. Be tranquil. Calm thyself. Count ten, Señor—now do! Believe me, naught doth so soothe a fit of ferment. But—swearing again! Gently, gently, or thou'lt melt in thine own heat! Gods, man! Cease rolling thine eyes. Hast a cramp under thy belt? Let me thump thy back.—Ah!"

Pedro pummelled the agitated veedor between the shoulders with hearty vigor, and succeeded thereby in expelling what little breath he had remaining, rendering him still more helpless from exasperation. He saved himself by bolting from his seat and backing against the wall, where he stood waving his arms in speechlessness to keep the zealous cook away.

"Name of a saint, my friend!" said Pedro, with great concern, after Rogelio began to breathe more freely, "I never saw an over-gorged pup nearer a fit than thou. What hath gone wrong?"

"She—hath arrived!" gasped the veedor at length.

"Oh! She hath arrived, hath she? Well, she must be a very tarantula to work thee a spell like that, Señor! By the gods, even Bolio's coming could not give me such a bedevilment of jerks and palpitations!"

The veedor was rendered speechless again. Pedro eyed him with great commiseration until he showed signs of recovery, then threw him into another spasm by inquiring with solicitude,

"Doth the lady pursue, Señor? If so, we will barricade the door."

Rogelio held up his hands, violently shaking his head. "No, no!" he managed to say. "Damned—numskull! Let me—talk."

"Why, talk, to be sure! 'T is what I've waited for,—to hear thee talk. What the devil dost think? that I've been standing here this while to see thee contort and strangle? I had liefer watch a pig in the colic. Proceed, Veedor, and talk. It may ease thy mind. Sensa animi tui libere profare—Latin, Señor, and it meaneth, speak freely. Prithee, begin. I listen."

The veedor had collapsed into a chair, choking with rage. He sprang up, shaking both fists at the cook, and started toward the door; turned back, and waving his arms for silence, howled: "Accursed—rattle-teeth!—hear me!—I seek a servant!"

"Thou seekest a servant!" responded Pedro, with composure. "Well, by heaven, I could guess it! And thou needest, not one, but a dozen, I should say; and a strait-jacket withal. But, infierno! is the quest of a servant so delirious a pursuit?—Now, do be calm, Señor! Hold a minute, and I'll bleed thee. No? But 't would be wise, my friend, for if thou 'rt not on the edge of the staggers, then I never gave physic to a horse.—And now thou'rt swearing again! Fie, Veedor! Here! Let me get thee a wet rag."

Pedro hurried away. When he returned the veedor had regained his utterance, and waving aside the proffered application, he shouted:—

"Keep off, thou babbling moon-calf! Wilt hear me? I need a servant—at once! A servant—dost hear? A servant—and may the fiend claw thy vitals! Canst get me one—to-night? I'll pay thee well."

"Well, stew me! if the need of a servant wrought me to such a state of mind, I'd——" Pedro seated himself. "But 't is late, Veedor. Thy guest hath come, sayst thou?"

"Yes, yes! She is sick from weariness, and needeth a woman. Wilt find me one?"

Pedro became serious at once. "Sick! Then 't is pressing. Let me think. There is Señora Bolio, for a possibility. She might consent to go, but she knoweth no Quichua. That, however, might be an advantage, not so? Less apt to connive at escape." Pedro eyed the veedor watchfully.

"Yes! Diablo, yes!" said Rogelio, eagerly. "Canst persuade her?"

"I'll try," said Pedro, rising. He threw off his apron and started toward the door; halted, and came back, determined to test his suspicion. "Señor," he said, abruptly, "how did they get her away from Peralta? Did they kill him? If not, then I swear to thee, Veedor, thou 'rt as good as dead!" and Pedro slowly shook his head in direst portent.

The veedor was unguarded. He started violently, and his face went ashy. "Oh, my soul and body! I—I forgot to ask them." He scanned the cook with quick suspicion. "How in the devil's name dost know?" he demanded. Pedro placed a finger beside his nose, wagged his head with deep significance, and went out. Now it was his turn to be agitated.

He pegged straight to the señora's lodging, and pounded upon the door until it opened. "Quick!" he cried. "The Viracocha woman! There is sickness."

The native made him repeat it, refastened the door, and left Pedro in a fume. When she opened again, it was with a request to follow, and led him across the court. The señora appeared at a door with an under-garment over her shoulders. "Is it thou, Pedro?" she asked, sleepily. "What is to do? This is an unholy hour to wake a body, dost not know it?"

Pedro pushed the door open, and entered. "'T is a crying need," he said, and hastily explained.

"Who is this girl?" demanded the señora, with a pang of jealousy.

"Peralta's enamorada," replied the cook, thinking he lied, but venturing it to quiet her suspicion.

"And who this Rogelio?" asked the señora.

"A toad!" answered Pedro. "Wilt go? I will ride with thee to the fortress."

The señora was retying the fagged end of her braid.

"A favor to me, carita," urged Pedro.

"I will go," said Señora Bolio.

"Then come to the cantina as soon as thou 'rt clad. I will have thy mule," and he hastened away. By the time the animals were saddled the lady arrived, her battle-axe beneath her arm, wrapped in a bundle of apparel. Pedro strapped it to her saddle, and summoning the fevered veedor, assisted the señora to mount. As they rode out on the quiet road, Rogelio leading, the cook gave further history of the Ñusta, together with certain sidelights on the veedor. They reached the fortress, and having seen the two through the gate, Pedro returned, relieved for Rava, but sadly disturbed by thoughts of Cristoval.

The señora followed her conductor to his door. As he dismounted a sound of revelry stole out upon the night, and the veedor dashed in. The neglected lady sniffed after him scornfully, swung herself out of the saddle, unstrapped her belongings, led her mule into the patio, and followed the veedor to a half-open door. The unfortunate Rogelio was doomed to further bitterness. The room was lighted by all the lamps of the establishment. Duero and his companions were seated round a well-laden board, a bowl of steaming punch in the midst, and had arrived at the jovial stage. As Rogelio entered and stood blinking at the brilliancy, his fat chin wagging with renewed rage at their effrontery, they surveyed him a moment, and burst into a shout of laughter. Duero raised his cup.

"Hail, good host, liberal entertainer, most hospitable mate!" roared he. "Thou 'rt welcome. Enter! Come, leave diffidence outside. Thou 'rt not intruding—now is he, camaradas? No! Sit and make free. What is ours is thine—not so, camaradas? Segaramente! Hola!" He sprang to his feet as the señora appeared at the door. "Blessed angels of Heaven, what do I see? The Señora Bolio!" He advanced with a profound bow. "Welcome, Señora, most welcome! Upon my heart, 'tis like the sight of a nosegay from Old Castile! Ho, compañeros!—your courtesies to Señora la Conquistadora!" He bowed again, answered by the lady with a glare of cold disdain.

"Miscreants, knaves, cutthroats!" shrieked Rogelio. "You shall pay dear for this night!"

Duero surveyed him darkly, hunched his shoulder, and thrust out his chin, and the veedor sank into a chair. The soldier eyed him for a moment, and turned to the lady. "Señora, I surmise thou hast come to care for the girl. She needeth it, God knoweth, and the less time lost the better. Come. I have the key."

Rogelio sprang up to follow, but once more the hunch of shoulder, the thrust of chin, and the scowling look askance, and he sat. Duero winked at the señora as he turned to lead the way, and ignoring her snort of resentment of the liberty, went out. She followed, and halting at the Ñusta's door, he said, as he unfastened, "Pedro hath told thee of this Rogelio?"

"Briefly, that he is a toad," responded the señora.

"Brief, but most precise! Pedro hath a good head. Now, Señora, I'll leave thee to enter, and the door unlocked. If thou hast need of aught, thou'lt find us entertaining the veedor for an hour or more. I'll have him send a bowl of broth at once. Adiós."

Duero rejoined the others, and they sat long making their host unhappy; then, having promised him with evident sincerity that if he whispered a complaint he would find himself some morning with a severed windpipe, they took their leave.

Señora Bolio went to the couch. Rava had raised her head, but perceiving the invader was a woman, rose to her knees, her eyes streaming, and voice broken with sobs. With arms outstretched, she poured forth an impassioned supplication in words to the stranger unknown,—in words unknown, but with meaning clear, and an eloquence that went straight to the heart of the señora. For the señora had a heart. It beat somewhat wildly at times, and at times with vehement hostility toward the sex which had worked it countless wrongs; but like other hearts that flame, it had its gentler warmth. The appeal of the injured and helpless girl touched her womanliness, and she hastened to her side.

"Poor dearie!" she exclaimed, seating herself and drawing the sobbing prisoner to her breast. "Poor little waif! Have they been cruel, these men? Ah, may the devil roast them well! Do not weep, love. Do not weep, chiquita. They shall not harm thee more. Let the veedor beware. Let him come to trouble thee, and we'll unjoint him—will we not, little one? We'll put a twist in his neck, thou and I, that will let him look at his shoulderblades to his heart's content—will we not, my dove? Ah! That we'll do, and more, if he but roll his eyes aslant at thee!"

With soft voice and motherly caress, the señora soothed the heart-broken Rava; her words—perhaps quite as well—without meaning to the girl, but her tones replete with sympathy. Rava clung to her as to a last hope, becoming gradually more calm, until a knock at the door stirred her terror afresh. Releasing her, the señora sprang up. Grimly she stripped her battle-axe, and stepped to the door. The servant recoiled.

"Ah, 'tis thou!" the lady exclaimed, and received the broth.

The strength it gave aided her efforts to restore calm to the despairing captive, and in an hour Rava slept. Her guardian sat long, nursing a waxing enmity for the authors of the maiden's sorrows, and for Rogelio in particular; then, having with fell purpose placed her weapon conveniently at hand, she lay down beside her protégée.

She awoke early, astonished to find Rava kneeling with hands clasped in prayer, a silver crucifix before her on her pillow, the Latin periods, in her quaint, hesitating accents, sounding strangely. The señora joined her orison, then turned to her in surprise.

"A Christian, thou?" she asked, taking her hand.

Rava understood the word, and assented eagerly. "Cristoval!" she said, and touched the crucifix, her eyes filling at the name.

"Ah! Peralta! The stout freebooter with the good voice. I know him," and the señora nodded emphatically. "Art baptized, child?"

This word was familiar also, and Rava nodded her head; then said eagerly: "Father Tendilla! Father Tendilla!"

"Father Tendilla!" exclaimed Señora Bolio. "Thou knowest him? Blessed thought!—we'll send a word to Father Tendilla. Aha, Rogelio, sniffling obesity, we shall see! We'll choke thee with thine own unholy purpose, or I'm not Bolio. Rogelio, indeed! If, now, Pedro will but come!" She patted Rava's arm reassuringly and arose.

Meanwhile the veedor, with eyes puffed and bloodshot from a night of scanty sleep and much exacerbation, was breakfasting. At intervals he paused, laid down his knife, and sat rubbing his hands in pleasing meditation while he chewed. Then his complacent smile would fade, and he would cease both to rub his hands and to chew while he irefully reviewed the night's indignities. "Caitiffs! Perfidious scoundrels! Vipers! Only wait! Rogelio hath not done. If he live not to see the garrote at every one of your rascally throats, then 't is because he shall be short-lived. Wait, my over-cheerful bullies: we'll have another settling of this account, and 't is Rogelio will split his sides! But, oh, my stars, what a cost! Four thousand—oh, calamities!" Then, as the matter slowly revolved in his mind and the other aspect came uppermost, he would begin to chew again with a returning smirk of satisfaction. "But what a prize! Eh, Rogelio, what a prize! And safely housed—in the cage, as Duero put it!—accursed knave! serpent! Four—oh, my soul and body!—But, oho! Mendoza, thou uncouth ruffian, how now? Rogelio hath overmatched thee, despite thy rant and swagger. He, he! The fox and the bull—the fox and the bull! Ah, but thou 'rt a rogue, Rogelio! a sad rogue and sly! And thou'lt be reimbursed the four thousand—oh, my life, yes! Her jewels ought to do that. Did she wear jewels last night? Murder! I did not think to look. But 't is like Duero looked out for that—or that prison-bird, Peralta." Rogelio's countenance fell. Presently it brightened. "But we have her, and now it is to be seen how she will receive thee, Rogelio—her daring captor! Doubtless with charming terrors and maidenly trembling. Oh, these delightful women! Shy, timid, alluring! Bless their souls—if they have souls. He, he!"

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

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

The veedor hesitated. "Is—ah—is the señorita within?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXIV

Pedro Seeks Tidings of Cristoval

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bien!" said Pedro, and his voice was hoarse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have done naught, Ñusta Rava. Father Tendilla and the señora——"

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

"He spoke of thee often, Pedro."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus Pedro set out on his search for Cristoval.

CHAPTER XXV

A Glimpse of Cuzco

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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