THE CRIMSON CONQUEST (continued 8)

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come, Cristoval! Up and helm. The thing's a-ready to simmer. Stir, man! Thou hast piped, bassooned, and hautboyed until the night hath shuddered and my mule hath wept. Stew me! Cristoval, had I a sleeping-voice like thine I'd gag myself with a saddle-bag, or wear a coffin for a night-robe. Wake up, thou scorched hurdy-gurdy! 'T is the prime hour of chilly misery and the last watch of ghosts and goblins. Ah, curse it! I would I were a barber, and no cook. See what it hath led to, this culinary art! Hola! Art awake at last? Well, here is a bite I've spread for thee. Eat, and ballast thy treason, since thou 'rt on treason bent, whilst I look to our saddles."

He went out into the darkness where Ocallo and Markumi waited with their steeds, while Cristoval, now alive, attacked a cold luncheon laid by his thoughtful comrade. He finished hurriedly, and left the tent.

The two Spaniards were quickly in saddle, and with Ocallo and Markumi following, crossed the camp toward the Antisuyu road. This highway, connecting the capital with the eastern provinces, becomes the street in which Cristoval and the Antis encountered the patrol on the first night of the fire. A few minutes' ride brought them to the road, now occupied by a waiting column. Turning toward the city, they were presently in its outskirts. Here they found Mocho with his staff, and dismounting to join them, Cristoval felt his arm touched. He glanced round and beheld a tall figure, clad and armed like the Antis, but wearing a turban.

"Abul Hassan!" exclaimed the cavalier, extending his hand. "I am rejoiced to see thee, old friend. Dost take part with us? I would thou hadst a horse and thine accoutrements."

"With the help of Allah I shall have both before the sun setteth again," replied the Morisco, calmly. He motioned toward a group of twenty or more men with lassos standing near. "Thy herdsmen, Cristoval. I have heard of thine expedient—a most excellent one!"

"I pray it will prove so," said the other, "and that we soon shall see thee mounted. When equipped, seek us. We'll find thee occupation."

The Morisco nodded grimly, and Cristoval and Pedro passed on to Mocho. In front were men at work in the darkness, and the general gave his hand, saying, "The task is well advanced, Viracocha Cristoval. Let us move forward."

He led the way into the street, which had been made, in pursuance of Cristoval's instructions, a confusion, of half-burned timbers, pieces of furniture which had escaped the fire, and all manner of débris. Heaped, lashed together, and interlaced, they formed an entanglement difficult for men on foot, and for cavalry barely surmountable. The adobe walls on each side had been pierced with loopholes for the archers, and the side-streets barricaded against flanking.

The party picked their way slowly, climbing over here, bending to pass under there, while Cristoval inspected, commended, or advised, until they had penetrated far into the suburb, where the workmen were still toiling. Until near dawn they directed the Antis pouring silently into the suburb and occupying the ruined buildings along the obstructed way. Cristoval saw the men with lassos properly placed, and the party returned to the outskirts.

A few minutes later, a company of warriors made its way through the entanglement into the city, going forward to draw a Spanish attack.

Cristoval and Pedro stood near the group around Mocho. The sky was light when far in the distant streets they heard the war-cry of the Antis. Immediately followed the hoarse shouts of the Spaniards, shots, and trumpets calling to arms. The sounds were faintly borne on the morning breeze, but full of portent, and echoed in many a warlike heart among the ruins of the suburbs. Mocho moved forward, giving Cristoval a wave of the hand as he passed, and a rustling and shuffling rose in the road back of where the two Spaniards stood as the waiting warriors took their places in column.

As Cristoval mounted, he heard a grunt and a sigh from Pedro, then the creaking of the saddle as the cook swung from the ground, and the two picked their way slowly down the littered street. Arquebuses were crackling, and now, the heavier and sharper report of a falconet. The firing ceased, and arose the nearing din of cavalry. The decoying party of Antis was flying before it in a dash for the fatal entanglement upon which the Spaniards were blindly rushing. The Antis reached it; were dimly seen by Cristoval as they leaped into the débris; then came the crash of breaking timbers when the pursuing troop struck the obstruction, a confusion of yells and Spanish shouts of warning, drowned by the war-cries of the tribesmen behind the walls as they delivered their terrible volley. A wild, tossing disarray of horses and riders, plunging and falling among the snapping beams, ridden over by the resistless torrent from behind. Men and animals down and struggling in the wreckage, crushed beneath those borne onward by the momentum of the charge, and assailed by the hordes of Antis rushing from the buildings. Riderless steeds, maddened by fear and wounds, careered wildly forward, or turned to the rear and added to the chaos. Troopers retaining their seats were blinded by the tempest of arrows and javelins, and could only shelter themselves behind their shields, bending low over saddle-bows to avoid the hail. Still they were forced on up the narrow, encumbered street, which roared with tumult indescribable.

Now Cristoval heard a Spanish voice rising above the clamor: "Forward! Forward! Forward!" and the notes of a trumpet, broken and faltering before it could blow the command. The column must fight through, or be crushed by those in the rear. The leading riders pressed on, sabring at the multitude crowding from all sides. Cristoval advanced with Pedro to meet them. A lasso serpentined through the haze of flying arrows, settled over the foremost trooper, and jerked him from his saddle, to be lost among the Antis as if swallowed by the sea. Other sinuous lines shot out, fastening upon the Spaniards and dragging them to quick obliteration. Those in advance paused, fear-struck by a weapon against which their blades were powerless. They saw comrades totter and go down; turned in panic, and Cristoval was among them.

Fell and relentless purpose in this cavalier; his arm nerved and strength doubled by thought of Rava. The nearest troopers, dismayed and disordered, opposed feeble resistance to the furious onslaught of Cristoval and his comrade; while those behind, aware of a new check to the advance, the cause of which they could not see, raised the cry, "To the rear!" It was caught up at once; and now, panic and disorder tenfold.

As Cristoval fought he heard a cry rising shrill, "Allah il Allah! Allah il Allah!" and Abul Hassan was beside him, mounted on the steed of some fallen Spaniard. Into the fray the Morisco, reckless of want of armor, fighting with the ferocity of a demon.

The retreat was more disastrous than the advance; but slowly the troop fought back to the open street, shook itself free, and fled. The jaunty sorties were to be made no more.

At Hernando's council that night, once more glum taciturnity. From dawn there has been, on every hand, sharp repulse unexampled since the siege began: many saddles empty for result, and a general call for surgery. Every street by which many a brisk sally has been made in previous weeks, now impassable for cavalry; and barricades pushed within bowshot of the square. The abrupt change in the tactics of the besiegers is ominous. The presence of Peralta—for the identity of the cavalier seen, and felt, fighting among the Antis, is not doubted—is significant, and the price on his head is doubled.

Toward evening Cristoval was joined by Pedro at the edge of the barricade. The cavalier had laid off his helmet and was begrimed to the roots of his hair with ashes and black dust from the charred timbers, his face streaked with perspiration, his reddened eyes gleaming strangely through their surrounding sootiness. He turned to his comrade and said with a grim smile:—

"Aha! Pedro, we seem to have put them on the defensive, yonder in the square. What sayst thou?"

"Why, I say first," returned Pedro, eying him sharply, "that if I caught myself with a grin as weird as that of thine, I'd wear a wooden face as well as a wooden leg. Untwist thy features, man! Thou hast the look of a devil. Ah! Now, I'll reply to thine observation by saying that I'm hungry; and as for those knaves in the square, we have them where they will stay for a spell, or longer, without being told. So let us go and eat."

Cristoval, about to reply, noted a sudden silence among the Antis. Every one of them was on his knees and bending toward the three or four nobles who had just drawn near.

"Madre! The Inca!" exclaimed Pedro, then he growled beneath his breath, "Now look at these pagans! Every man doubled up like a razor, and everything dropped without a word of warning! Suppose the Inca had come about this morning, Cristoval! We had been undone."

Cristoval made no answer, for an officer recognized as Quehuar was beckoning.

The two Spaniards halted a few paces from the monarch and saluted, awaiting his pleasure to speak. His countenance, more bronzed and sterner in its lines, wore a trace of friendliness not there before. The Inca studied the grim, murky visage of the cavalier before he spoke.

"Viracocha Cristoval," he said, at length, "General Mocho hath told me of thy gallantry to-day—and thine, Viracocha Pedro—and I see evidence here of thy zeal and soldierly skill. My warriors owe thee a measure of success and hope thus far wanting. What thou hast accomplished hath mine appreciation and gratitude, as hath all thou hast done hitherto. There is more that I would say to you, Viracochas, but at a fitter time. To-night you will sup with me, both."

The Inca gave a hand to each, and turned to continue his tour of the suburbs.

The two Spaniards supped with the Inca at dark, in the open, at a table lighted by a circle of fires. Of the score present several were officers met at Ollantaytambo; among the strangers the Villac Vmu, now in warrior's garb. A number besides Mocho bore marks of recent fighting. The formality imposed by the presence of the monarch was lacking, and he met his guests with a revelation of his personality unexpectedly agreeable to Cristoval. As guest of honor the cavalier had opportunity to correct the impression gained at their first interview, that the young potentate was a mere barbarous tyrant. By the end of the meal, when Manco pledged first him, then Pedro, clinking their cups of chicha with his own, a friendliness was established which neither Cristoval nor his host could have foreseen.

In quiet moods the resemblance of Manco to his sister Rava was pronounced, and there were moments acutely painful to Cristoval, when some inflection of the Inca's voice, some gesture, or an evanescent expression of his eyes, brought a quick vision of the loved one. But the Ñusta Rava was not mentioned. Indeed, the captives within the city were not referred to, nor any of the losses sustained since the beginning of the siege. This was demanded by Peruvian stoicism; and for all said that night the misfortunes of Tavantinsuyu might have been unfelt. As they scorned manifestation of physical pain, so they hid mental suffering beneath an exterior of grave impassibility.

At Mocho's tent, some hours later, when Cristoval was taking leave for the night, the general said abruptly: "Viracocha Cristoval, thou hast done for us to-day that for which words cannot thank thee. I will not try. But the Antis, their officers, and their general, are thine. Command them. Lead them whither thou wilt, and thou'lt find the last living man of them behind thee."

The cavalier replied with a grip of the hand. He had few words. But when he went to his quarters he felt a sudden hope. With those fierce battalions might he not search every nook of Cuzco? Mocho knew the object of his quest when he entered the burning city, and his tender was significant. That night there was little sleep for Cristoval.

At dawn he sought the prisoners, found one whom he knew, and questioned him concerning the Ñusta Rava. Was she alive? Alive, and safe in the Acllahuasi with the rest of the royal household, Father Valverde guarding like a hawk. All had been removed from the Amarucancha before it burned, and the Acllahuasi was one of the few buildings to escape the conflagration.

Cristoval waited to ask few more questions. With Mocho and Pedro he held council for an hour. At the end of it the two Spaniards mounted, and making a detour of the suburbs, entered the Rimac Pampa, crossed the Tullamayu, and reached the square called Coricancha, in front of the Temple of the Sun. This quarter was held by the Piros and Conibos, and once more Cristoval greeted Matopo, whom he had not seen since leaving the Urubamba. From the Coricancha a street led north to the square occupied by the Spaniards, and from the barricade thrown up by Matopo could be seen the Acllahuasi at the head of the thoroughfare, with the Amarucancha on its left, across the way. Plainly visible, also, was a Spanish breastwork defending the square, with a falconet scowling from its single embrasure.

That night Cristoval and Mocho consulted with the Inca regarding the captives within the city.

Day came with a heavy sky and threat of rain. During the morning sorties were attempted by the Spaniards, evidently for reconnaissance, for after brief skirmishing in the littered streets, the attacking parties withdrew. The afternoon was spent by Cristoval in making a tour of the suburbs with the Inca, inspecting the barricades, suggesting improvements, and perfecting or advancing the investment.

With darkness came rain and a rising wind. The night would favor. Toward midnight Cristoval rode with Pedro to the Coricancha. The square was massed with Antis, and in advance, near the barricade across the street to the Acllahuasi, was a picked body, among them their general, equipped with captured arms and armor—a resolute band, which Cristoval surveyed with satisfaction.

CHAPTER XXXVII

A Night Attack and a Deliverance

The rain fell drearily, driven and swished by flaws of the wind, which, as the night deepened, increased to a gale, moaning and whistling mournfully through the ruins. The hours lagged, measured by the brusque challenging of the Spanish sentinels at each relief, distinctly heard above the storm. Still the cavalier withheld the word for the advance, biding the night's most sinister hour.

He waited with apparent patience. But outwardly calm, within was a turbulence of mingled hope and anxiety, eagerness and doubt; throngs of dear anticipations, and clouds of dark misgivings. He was a lover with the possibility of meeting his beloved ere the night was spent; but while his heart palpitated at the thought, it sank at the attending uncertainties, and at all that must intervene. He turned abruptly, not daring to dwell upon a happiness so unassured. Mocho looked toward him. "Do we move, Viracocha Cristoval?"

"In God's name, yes! Let us go!"

Mocho muttered a word to the nearest Antis; as it passed to the rear of the column a movement followed, barely audible. Cristoval unsheathed his sword and laid aside belt and scabbard. Pedro imitated with a sigh and murmured, "Well, this is what cometh of being a cook! Would I were—" He did not finish. He had muffled his peg, and followed the cavalier noiselessly as the latter stole out through a breach in the barricade to the open street. Mocho, Abul Hassan, and the squad of mail-clad Antis, were close behind; then, the main body. With the advance were two men armed with sledges.

Cristoval moved forward in the darkness with caution, pausing at moments to bate his breath and listen. Along the wall of the roofless palace of the Priesthood of the Sun, past black doorways full of subdued echoings of the dismal plash and drip in the courts within, until they reached an intersecting street. Only this short distance covered! He seemed to have travelled an hour. Looking back he found his party close upon him, motionless, dimly seen in the faint light of the crossing. Forward again, counting his steps. Three hundred paces, and he halted. Here was the Acllahuasi, its thatch saved from the fire by miracle. On his left, the Amarucancha—blank walls with a few roof-timbers vaguely outlined against low-hanging clouds. The gate of the convent must be near, and he waited to allow the tribesmen to pass the barricade. The movement of those nearest him ceased; there was no sound from the rear, and for a time, as he stood looking back into the gloom, Cristoval feared the Antis were not following. A figure appeared before him as silently as a phantom, and stretching forth his hand, he felt a quilted tunic. At once another was beside him, and a third, and the cavalier could see the stealthy movement of hundreds, creeping forward with the still tread of pumas. Slowly they massed, and touching Pedro's arm, Cristoval advanced.

In front, through the cleft between the black walls on either hand, was a pale flickering from the square, where the fires were struggling in the rain, ruddily lighting the mist when a blast started a few scattered sparks, subsiding to a feeble glow until the buildings melted into obscurity. He could descry the breastwork across the head of the street, and the embrasure from which a falconet commanded the approach. He looked in vain for a sentinel. But presently, the faint ring of a grounded halberd: the sentinel was there, and awake.

Groping along the wall on his right, he came to a recess,—the gate! Pedro and Mocho halted beside him. Passing his hand over the doors, Cristoval felt the padlock, which rattled slightly under his trembling fingers, and he drew back. Mocho pushed the two sledge-men into the gateway, and they placed themselves with hammers poised.

The Antis were now moving past, led by Abul Hassan, and a detail detached themselves and halted, ready to follow into the Acllahuasi. Minute after minute fled, and the warriors crept on toward the square, while Cristoval waited, shivering with excitement until he clenched his teeth to prevent their rattling. Hours, hours, he stood before the gates behind which he should find joy or despair, listening for what would be the signal. The movement of the Antis was hardly audible above the wind and rain, though as one after another brushed past he heard their breathing, strained with the tension of coming battle. The street was dense with them, their bent bodies and constrained, fearfully slow advance as expressive of fierce intentness as if it could be read in their faces. But, gods! would they never reach the square? Had the Morisco halted? Cristoval leaned forward and glanced up the street: a quivering level of brazen helmets, half luminous in the reflection from the firelit haze ahead.

As he looked, a shout rose from the sentinel, hoarse and startled, cut short by the deafening war-cry of the Antis as they rushed.

"Strike! Strike!" shouted Cristoval, and the gates thundered and crashed under the sledges. Stroke after stroke fell upon the resonant panels, shattering them to fragments. The street bellowed and howled. From the square, wild shouts, the sharp blasts of a trumpet, the roar of the assaulting Antis. A shot, then a second, and a broken fusillade. A flash lighted the dripping walls, and an ear-stunning report rent the heavy air. The rampart was high, and before the Antis were over a soldier had seized a brand, rushed to the piece, uncovered the vent and fired. Unheeding wounds and death, the Antis were on the parapet, and the gun dismounted. They were over the work and into the square, driving the half-formed infantry before them. But for days no horse had been unsaddled, no trooper out of his armor. In a moment the earth was trembling with their onset, and the Antis were hurled back to the barricade. Here they stopped and fought, hand to hand. At other points, now, the yells and turmoil of assault, the flash and roar of guns. A few defences were carried, and the Peruvians plunged into the square, to be met and broken by flying squads of horse, driven back into the streets and slaughtered by the artillery.

But the Antis held the rampart, and the gate of the Acllahuasi was broken through. Followed by Pedro, Mocho, and a score of warriors, Cristoval dashed into the enclosure. The darkness was pitchy, and he went headlong into a copse of shrubbery, stumbled through into a path, lost it at once, and lost himself in another thicket. Half a minute had separated him from his friends. He groped about in bewilderment, blundering on. Heard voices, and shouted: answered, as it seemed, from every point of the compass. One voice was Pedro's, but Heaven alone could have sent a clue to its direction. He was in a great garden, dark with foliage intersected by a maze of paths. He crashed forward into another gravelled walk, and brought up against a wall. He was across the enclosure, and felt a pavement beneath his feet. He could discern doorways, numbers of them, all alike; some open, with empty dark chambers, some closed. He followed to the right, trying the closed ones, finding them unlocked and the rooms vacant. No sign of life, and he hurried on with sinking heart, sick with the fear that he had come too late. The night was hideous with the clamor outside, but he gave little heed, intent only on his quest. He heard a step, and ran against someone in the gloom, who sprang back with a familiar exclamation and engaged him. "Pedro!" he shouted, and the cook responded: "Thou, Cristoval! Heaven be praised! Where the fiend are we? Where are the others?"

"Only the fiend knoweth. Come!" They hastened along, throwing open doors, but finding everywhere darkness and vacancy. Cristoval's hope was fast going. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" he muttered over and over. "Where is she? Rava! Rava!" he called. "Answer, in the name of Heaven!"

Suddenly a gruff voice commanded in Spanish, "Halt!" Cristoval sprang forward. Again the summons, "Halt!" and a burly form loomed in the darkness with a mace raised to strike. "Halt! I command you in the name of the Holy Church!"

"Father Valverde!" cried the cavalier. "Hold, man! I am—"

The mace descended with sturdy force, dexterously caught on Cristoval's buckler. In an instant the priest's heels were kicked from under him, and Cristoval strode past, while Pedro seated himself upon the prostrate ecclesiastic. Without hesitation Cristoval tried the door Valverde had been guarding. It was fast, and he hurled his weight against it. At the second assault it yielded, burst open at the next, and the cavalier found himself in a dimly-lighted room, facing a group of shrieking women clinging about one who confronted him with unwavering, courageous eyes, but with no sign of recognition.

He stepped forward and halted, strove to speak, and failed, and stood overcome, while the women, made hysterical by the tumult beyond the convent walls, wailed at his dread appearance. He had forgotten his lowered visor, his bared sword, and the seeming menace of his attitude, and could only murmur hoarsely as he advanced: "Rava! Rava! Dost not know me—Cristoval?"

She cowered away, glaring in terror and anger, but with no word. He halted again, and lost his voice, standing before her helpless in a sudden fear. "Rava!" he cried in desperation. "Rava! in God's name, child, hast forgotten me?"—Then thought of his visor and raised it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A Tie of Mingled Blood

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

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

Cristoval smiled faintly and dozed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Could I leave thee else, Cristoval?"

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

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

"Hath he said?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Once on the coast—" said Cristoval.

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

They said little more, but clung together as if the morrow's parting would be final. Minutes passed, when Cristoval felt her shudder as she raised her head in a sudden recollection. "Cristoval, oh, Cristoval!" she faltered, "Father Valverde threatened thee!"

"Ah!" muttered the cavalier, gloomily. "Thou didst guess his meaning? I hoped it had escaped thee. The words were Latin."

"I know. I have had time to learn much since Xilcala. But, oh, my heart, dost think he will excommunicate thee?"

Cristoval hesitated. "If he should," he said, with courage, "thou'lt pray for me, child. I'll have no fear that the Virgin will not hear thee."

"It is dreadful, dreadful!" she murmured, sobbing.

"Nay: think not of it. It were more dreadful, far, to have obeyed his command to leave thee." And in Cristoval's mind an eternity in hell was naught in comparison. The certainty itself would not have forced him to relinquish her.

It seemed but a moment before her trusted maid came to whisper that the sky was growing light. A sweet, bitter instant of parting, and Cristoval was alone.

Before the sun had touched his tent the cavalier heard preparations for departure,—hastening steps, the rattle of camp gear, and soon, the marching of the escort and the commands of its officers as it formed on the parade in front of the Inca's quarters.

Accompanied by Paullo, Rava went first to Pedro's tent to say farewell.

"God bless thy sweet life!" said Pedro, weakly, as he pressed her hand. "I shall miss thy visits sorely—and another will miss them more. But thy going is sudden—doth Cristoval know?"

Rava colored, replying, "I am on my way to him now, Pedro. Shall I take him a message?"

"Why, my greetings to him as a noble. Doth the llautu become him?—No doubt of it!—Poor boy, poor boy!"

"But he is hurt less than thou!" said Rava.

"The wound in his shoulder? Ah! But he hath another below it—and harder to cure." Again came Rava's color, and she took her leave somewhat in haste.

The parting with Cristoval taxed her to the extreme, and only Paullo's presence saved her from breaking down. As it was, her distress and the cavalier's depression were apparent to the youth, and he gently and wisely hastened her departure, but resolving to accompany her a part of the way himself.

Rava had never confided to her younger brother her attachment for Cristoval; and he, though staggered by the revelation of it on the night of the rescue, had thus far refrained from questioning; but on the journey with Paullo beside her in her hamaca, she confessed, with an account, sufficiently heartfelt, of the cavalier's golden qualities. The youth, already predisposed toward his brother's gallant ally, listened with sympathy, promising to aid the lovers to the full in case of the Inca's opposition. He gave what hope he could, though this was slight, and Rava pursued her journey with heavy heart.

To Cristoval the succeeding days were of torment. The fighting was incessant, and the Inca rarely at his quarters, though he sent frequently to ask for the two Spaniards, and to express his good wishes. Opportunity for an interview, feverishly awaited by the cavalier, was not offered, and he tossed in an agony of suspense. At last his attendant informed him that Manco was in council with his generals. Directing the old man to report their departure, Cristoval struggled with his impatience. It was late when the orderly announced that the council was dissolved.

"Give me thine aid, Tocache," said Cristoval. "I will rise."

"But, my Lord Cristoval, you will do yourself injury," deprecated the old man. "Whither would you go?"

"To the Inca's tent. Come! Help me to my feet and to dress."

"My lord—"

"Nay, Tocache; I must go. I am strong enough, man, and thou shalt lend me a shoulder to lean upon."

Tocache demurred earnestly, but shortly Cristoval was clad and sandalled, and with the other's support, left his tent. The Inca was standing with Paullo and the Villac Vmu when the sentinel announced his visitor, and he turned in surprise when the cavalier, uncertain in his steps and quite pale, entered the tent and saluted.

"Thou, my Lord Cristoval!" exclaimed Manco, advancing. "Thou 'rt welcome, my friend, though I fear, imprudent. What hath brought thee at this hour?—but sit. Thou 'rt weak—too weak to have ventured." He led the visitor to a chair. Having greeted the Auqui and the priest and seen the Inca seated, Cristoval sank into it. Manco observed him with evident interest while waiting to hear his errand, which proved a difficult one to begin.

"Sapa Inca," said Cristoval, at last, unable in his weakness fully to control his voice, but approaching the matter with his usual directness, "I have come to you concerning the Ñusta Rava."

Manco's animated expression vanished, and he regarded the cavalier with no sign of emotion as he answered, in tones equally impassive, "What of the Ñusta Rava, my lord?"

Cristoval felt the ill omen of the change, but did not flinch, and his voice steadied at once. "I have spoken to you of the Ñusta Rava before, my Lord Inca, at Yucay. I think you cannot be unprepared for what I am about to ask."

Manco felt the candor of his eyes and their demand for it from him. "My Lord Cristoval," he said, frankly and regretfully, "I am not unprepared—for what I fear thou art about to say. I confess to thee that I have foreseen this very moment, which bringeth me infinite pain." He rose and crossed the tent; returned and seated himself. "But, my lord, I will not anticipate thee. Thou wouldst ask—"

"The hand of Rava, Sapa Inca," replied Cristoval.

Manco looked upon him thoughtfully before answering. "It is what I had reason to expect, and, with mine obligation to thee, to dread. Thy service to Tavantinsuyu hath been such that any return in my power to make must be inadequate."

"Nay, pardon me, my Lord Inca," rejoined Cristoval, quickly: "I beg you will not think that in this request it is in my thoughts to presume upon any service it hath been my fortune to render. That hath already been doubly rewarded by this mark of your confidence." He touched the llautu. "I ask no further return."

"That was not my meaning, my Lord Cristoval," replied Manco, gravely. "I was about to say that mine obligation and gratitude make it hard to answer thy request in the way I am compelled. Compelled—for it is beyond my power to grant. It is the ancient law of Tavantinsuyu that a princess must marry one of the royal family; or, in the event of a prince being wanting, then one of nobility by birth. This law is as old as the empire, and hath been violated but once. I dare not, whatever mine inclination, my Lord Cristoval," his eyes grew kindly "repeat its violation. My august father set aside a law as ancient as this one, and it hath been followed by calamities, of part of which thou art a witness to-day. May the great Inti forfend that I do aught further to provoke his wrath. I must refuse thee, my lord."

Cristoval rose unsteadily, his face more white than it had been left by his wound. Manco rose and took his hand. "My friend," he said, "believe, this grieveth me to the heart. I thought to tell thee these things when thou didst plan to take the Acllahuasi. I did not, for I knew well that it would not have altered thy purpose, nor dulled thy courage."

"I thank you, my Lord Inca," replied the cavalier, and added with an effort: "I will not urge aught that is against your conscience—God forbid! With your leave, I will return to my tent."

Paullo, who had listened with color coming and going, stepped forward. "Stay, Lord Cristoval!" he cried. "All hath not been said." He snatched the vari-colored llautu from Cristoval's head and, his dark eyes blazing, threw it aside. While the cavalier's face flushed at the seeming indignity, and the Inca's with surprise and anger, he lifted his own yellow diadem and placed it upon the Spaniard's brow. Seizing Cristoval's hand, and facing the Inca and the Villac Vmu, he said gravely, "My lords, I call upon you to witness that, by virtue of the law of the Inca Tupac Yupanqui, I claim brotherhood with the Lord Cristoval, an Inca of Tavantinsuyu by Privilege." He drew his dagger, and with a quick movement slashed his own arm; then, glancing into Cristoval's astonished eyes, wounded him at the wrist and, pressing together the two gashes, joined the ruddy streams. "Thus," he continued, solemnly, "have we a mingled blood! Only thine edict, Sapa Inca, can dissolve this tie and abate the princely rights of the Auqui Cristoval, whom I have made a brother."

It was a long minute before the monarch recovered from the prince's unexpected action. The pause was hardly less dramatic. Manco looked from one to the other, bereft of utterance, while the cavalier stood silent, scarcely comprehending the significance of what had happened. Paullo, gripping Cristoval's hand, with eyes still afire, waited for Manco. The Inca's brow was clouded. Notwithstanding his gratitude and friendship, the thought of admitting the Viracocha into the pure Incarial line taxed his generosity. Had Paullo's move been less impetuous he would have arrested it. But the thing was done, and to be undone only by his own formal decree. Erect and attentive, Paullo watched his brother with something nearing defiance, while the Villac Vmu, after his first start of surprise, had remained with his eyes upon the ground. To Cristoval the situation became intolerable, and he said quietly, doffing the yellow llautu:—

"Sapa Inca, consider this as not having occurred, I pray you. Could I have anticipated the Auqui Paullo's purpose it should have been prevented.—Paullo," he continued, turning to the youth and placing his hands upon his shoulders, "I thank thee more for thy generous intent than for thy deed. Thy good-will hath taken the lead of thy sober judgment; but I shall cherish the memory of it, do thou be sure, and shall feel myself thy brother no less dearly bound to thee than thou wouldst have made me. My Lord Inca Manco, I crave pardon for his warm-hearted folly. Let it end thus, and permit me to retire."

Manco regarded him with grave thoughtfulness, wholly inscrutable. At last he said abruptly to Paullo, "Assist the Lord Cristoval to his tent, and have the nobles summoned at once." He bowed dismissal and they left the tent.

During the remainder of the night the grim old warriors were gathered about their young lord in council. Toward dawn Cristoval was roused by a summons. The lamps were burning low when he paused at the door of the Inca's tent, glancing at the circle of faces, some familiar, many strange, but all turned toward him in stolid dignity and silence. Paullo greeted and led him to the Inca. For the solemn expectancy about him, Cristoval might have been approaching to receive the sentence of death. Manco met his eyes in a swift glance, deep and inscrutable as before, and took from the Villac Vmu the yellow llautu. He placed the diadem upon the head of the cavalier, saying as he did so:—

"Witness, my lords! and give your homage to the Auqui Cristoval. It is my will."

CHAPTER XXXIX

Again the Señora Descends

AS soon as Pedro was sufficiently recovered he was sent to Yucay. On the morning of his departure the Inca, with Cristoval, Paullo, and Mocho, entered his tent. Manco said farewell with a few warm words of commendation and gratitude that brought a mist before the eyes of the wounded cook, unclasping a gorget of pearls and emeralds. "Accept this, brave Viracocha Pedro," he said, "as a part expression of mine esteem and appreciation. It is but a trifle, but with it goeth much good-will."

Pedro gasped at the princely gift and stammered, part in Quichua, part in Spanish: "Why, stew—Nay, Señor Inca, I deserve it not! I am but a—a comrade of this man Cristoval. What fighting I have done, I tell you frankly, hath been mainly out of friendliness for him, and for the sake of being along to keep him out of trouble. This, my Lord Inca, is beyond my merits."

The Inca understood the gist of his words, and shook his head with a slight smile. "Not so, Viracocha! Thy merit is the greater for thy friendship. Thou shalt keep it. Farewell, and a quick recovery. Thou'lt find good friends in Yucay." He gave the cook his hand and departed abruptly to avoid his thanks.

Cristoval remained after the others, and Pedro stared at him blankly. At length he said slowly: "Now, spit me through the middle with a church-spire—I'd be less surprised! The man is reckless, Cristoval, or knoweth not the market-worth of gems. Do thou draw him aside and advise him that 't is a grand-duke's ransom, this bauble, and hand it back."

"Absurd, Pedro!" said Cristoval. "Rest thy mind, for 't is but a part of what he intendeth for thee."

"But I tell thee, Cristoval, it will burden my conscience. Had I come by it in honest looting in a Christian war—but this is akin to thievery. Thou'lt take it back to him, amigo!"

"Assuredly not, Pedro! Wouldst give him offence?"

Pedro looked troubled. "He knoweth not its worth, Cristoval. Moreover, should Pizarro learn that I have it, I'd not be safe a blessed minute. I should be invaded, overrun with fire and sword; given up to wrack, sack, and devastation; left a waste and ruin more ruinous than thou see'st me now. I've suffered losses a-plenty, my friend—not counting legs—without this novel liability. Do thou restore it."

"Gods, thou'rt a worried cook!—for a cook with a fortune in hand."

"Ah!" sighed Pedro. "Crescentem sequitur cura pecuniam—Horace, Cristoval. Meaneth, care followeth upon increasing riches. Stew me—"

"Oh, Madre! Have done with thy plaints. Now be still whilst I give thee a message to Rava."

"God bless her!" said Pedro, and after a pause, "I listen. But make it not over long, and prithee, adapt its terms to the grossness of my texture. No endearments, Cristoval, and no poetry!"

Cristoval blushed. "No, no!" he said quickly. "It will be short, and suited to thy decorous taste, count upon it."

"Then I'll compass it. But as well put sugar-lumps and lollipops in a mess of boiled cabbage as to fill me with blandiments for recitation. I'm no troubadour, Cristoval. Bear that in mind."

"No fear, thou Spartan cook!" growled Cristoval, with a trace of embarrassment. "I intend it all to be prose."

By the time his message ended, Pedro's hamaca and escort were waiting. In parting the cook said earnestly: "Now, Cristoval, in the name of all the names of all the saints on the calendar, have a care for thyself! Thou'rt as prone to misadventure as an unweaned calf. Remember, thou hast one to be anxious for thee besides myself—and relatives! Dost know how many, since thine adoption?"

"Thou meanest—"

"Thy foster-brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, and what-not—dost know how many?"

"I do not. I had not thought of it, Pedro."

"Not thought of it! of course not," returned Pedro, with irritation. "'T is what I have said—always charging into trouble, head down and eyes shut!" He regarded the cavalier with great disapproval. "On my soul, I know not whether 't is prudent to leave thee, with thy capacities for indiscretion! However—well—with the aid of the Indio who hath attended me, I've figured this multitude kin of thine, Cristoval, and Heaven fend thee from ever having them dependent upon thy support! Man, we counted three hundred, and more to tally, and without considering the concubines the Señor Inca is entitled by law to acquire—and all of them royal, by the eternal broiler!" His expression changed to commiseration. "Thou 'rt the worst relative-beridden Christian in my knowledge, amigo! and but one among them who is not a pagan! I tell thee, Cristoval, if thou dost rightly by thy family, thou'lt give over soldiering and turn missionary! But farewell, old friend, and God with thee! It grieveth me to leave thee."

Cristoval watched the hamaca out of sight, stood looking into Pedro's vacant tent, and returned slowly to his own.

In the palace of Yucay, in a chamber from which he could overlook the verdant and beautiful valley, ministered to by solicitous attendants, and visited by Rava, Pedro mended steadily. His gentle hostess spent many hours beside his couch with her maids about her, busy with embroidery and going white and red over it as he recounted Cristoval's adventures, enumerated his virtues, and mildly deprecated his rashness. Rava had daily messages by chasqui from her cavalier, and repeated the news, or brought the bearer himself. She had not seen Cristoval since the removal of the barrier between them, but in her happiness and implicit faith in her prayers for his safety, she waited with patience for what now seemed assured. Of the ultimate triumph of the arms of Tavantinsuyu she had no doubt.

One morning she came into Pedro's room with more than usual animation and said with a smile: "Pedro, to-day thou shalt see two of thy friends. I have sent for them, and have word of their coming. Canst think who they are?"

"Two friends of mine, Ñusta Rava? 'T is easily guessed. One is Cristoval, but who the other—"

Rava shook her head archly. "Not so good a friend as Cristoval—but I will tell thee. One is Father Tendilla, and the other—"

Pedro rose suddenly upon his elbow and startled her with his expression as he whispered with explosive force, "Bolio?"

Rava surveyed him with concern, and replied gravely: "Father Tendilla and my dear Margarita. I thought it would give thee pleasure."

Pedro sank back and drummed on the coverlet with his fingers. "Oh! It doth, Ñusta Rava. It doth give me pleasure. So would a fly-blister, had I lumbago—a figure of speech, Señorita, give it no weight. Hum! The señora!" He startled her again with a spasm intended for a smile, and resumed with some constraint: "Ha! The señora, did you say, Señorita Ñusta? Stew—Well, the señora is a good soul, my head on't. A bit rampant and superheated, look you, but altogether good-hearted, and I'll—I'll be glad—be glad to see her once more—baste me with hot tallow if I'll not—prithee, let that pass too: it hath no significance. Infierno!—I—I mean, Paraiso! But," he raised himself again and continued earnestly, "but, Ñusta Rava, would you as lief have the servants tell her I am full of holes and like to leak red gore in a thousand places if so much as a finger be laid against me, or my nerves be wrought upon? She is impulsive, Señorita, surcharged and double-shotted with impulse, and when she findeth me in this present state there is no knowing what sympathy may lead her to say, or do.—Pure exuberance of feeling, mind you! but I misdoubt me if my wasted frame would stand the stress.—And kindly have her told I am subject to spells, of late, and ofttimes bite. And that—but, no: never mind it—I'll advise the servants myself." Pedro lay back, quite breathless, muttering: "The señora! The señora! Ah! diablo! This is what cometh of being—But she is a kindly-hearted woman, and 't would be graceless in me to deny it."

Rava, bewildered by his agitated effusion, much of it in Spanish, gathered that he desired the señora to be warned of his enfeebled condition, and having promised, withdrew. Pedro lay the rest of the morning starting at faint sounds and perspiring freely.

At mid-afternoon a guide, two mules with riders, and a baggage-carrier lightly burdened, ascended the zig-zag road through the park to the palace. The leading animal was bestridden by a lady in native attire, but wearing a Spanish sombrero in its last stages, riding with the dignity of a generalisimo, a battle-axe at her saddle-bow. Behind, rode the good Father Tendilla, his cassock yet more seedy, but the same gentle-visaged priest. They were received with ceremony by a detachment of the guard, but the lady rode past with elevated chin, and followed the guide into the outer court. Rava was waiting with her attendants. Upon espying her, the señora emitted a shout, muffled by the vigor of her exertion in dismounting—on the wrong side—and in a second was embraced, sombrero and all, and joyfully wept over, weeping herself, and quite inarticulate.

"Oh, my honey-jar, my lady bird!" cried the overjoyed señora in Spanish. "God bless thy dear heart, what a happiness to see thee! But I'm covering thy pretty robes with dust! Oh, thou sweet baby! 'T is thou—and handsome as a rose! Dainty as a fairy! 'T is good for one's eyes to behold thee—now, is it not, Father? Come, let him see thee, love. Is she not an angel?" The señora stopped suddenly and glanced sternly about the court. "Ho! They've lugged off my mule and my cleaver—"

"Thou'lt have no need for them, my daughter," said Father Tendilla, quickly, and gave Rava his blessing. The señora forgot mule and cleaver in a fresh outburst of delight, and Rava presently led to her apartments. Here the effervescent lady was struck by the thought of Pedro, of whose wounds she had learned at Ollantaytambo, and demanded to be conducted to him forthwith. Rava sent one of her maids as guide. The damsel endeavored to give warning of the injured man's condition; but the señora's understanding of Quichua was limited, and her eagerness, moreover, made her deaf, so the words created slight impression.

Pedro heard the firm, rapid step, invoked a saint, and waited with beads gathering upon his brow. As the lady swept—nay, swooped—across the room with a cry of mingled joy and pity, the cook saw that his precautions were ineffectual. He could have sworn that in another second he should have been embraced; but with rare presence of mind he raised a warning hand, fetched a dismal groan, rolled his eyes, and gritted his teeth in so unearthly a fashion that the lady was brought up with a shriek.

"God's mercy, Pedro! What—"

"Sit down!" commanded Pedro, in a voice supernormally strong for one, as he seemed to be, in articulo extremo mortis. "Sit down!—No!—Farther away!—On the floor—anywhere—but sit, woman, or I perish!"

He continued his ghastly symptoms until he saw the señora seated, completely unnerved but foiled! Then he recovered quickly, sought his kerchief, wiped a clamminess from his forehead, and observing her pallor, said gently: "It is past, Señora. Be not alarmed. But hold! Stay where thou art, or it will come again. Move not a finger!"

"Santa Maria! Pedro, dear," she said, tearfully, "I thought thee dying. Thou 'rt dreadfully hurt, my love?"

"I am a very sieve, Señora!" replied Pedro, in a hollow voice. "So full of holes that I cannot cast a decent shadow! So weighted with copper slugs, leaden balls, and scraps of iron from Candia's guns that I could be molten up and cast into a fair culverin of bronze."

"Ah, pity of Heaven!" sobbed the lady, rocking herself. "I fear thou liest to some extent, Pedro, but I knew harm was to come of it when I left thee with that bandit, Cristoval. But may I not come nearer, chiquito?"

"Presently," said Pedro, softened, "but approach by easy stages, and not too near. I am better, my dear. Take heart, now, there's a good soul; and we will talk—but at a distance, look thou! or I'll be thrown into a fit. Hast been well?"

"As well," said the señora, drying her eyes, "as a lone woman in an infidel country with naught but a cleaver to give her courage o' nights and a helpless innocent of a priest to look after like a baby, and not a dress fit to put on her back save this, borrowed from a heathen woman whose name I cannot pronounce, could be."

"Ah!" said Pedro, with sympathy.

"Thou didst wrong to leave me, Pedro, and see what it hath come to! But who fired the gun at thee? I'll seek him out, as he liveth!"

"Now, toast me on a bodkin!" retorted Pedro. "Dost fancy I went back to ask his name? It would have escaped me by percolation had I heard it. I was a-leak on all sides, top and bottom, like a lobster-pot fresh-hauled. So thoroughly did he riddle me, Señora, that I could not have held a secret grief, or a good intention. But let the man go, my dear. He that loaded the gun hath half the responsibility."

"I'll find them both!" said the lady, with resolution.

The entrance of Father Tendilla ended the conversation, and Pedro heaved a sigh of relief. Thereafter, the señora usurped the role of nurse, chiding him gently for exaggerating his hurts when she learned their real extent, but caring for him faithfully.

Week after week the siege went on, fierce, bloody, and relentless. Sorties were attempted, savagely opposed. The defences of the Spaniards were assaulted, fought over with the fury of hate and desperation, and the assailants repulsed. To the Peruvians, the loss in each attack was sickening, but they returned with valor undaunted, until the Inca in humanity ordered a cessation and determined to reduce the enemy by famine.

Cristoval, in the meanwhile, yet unfit to resume his armor, gave his time to training a number of warriors in the riding school and the use of arms on horseback. Fearless, agile, and adaptable, they acquired the horseman's art with the readiness with which it was learned by the tribes of the North American plains, and by constant drill the cavalier produced a squad of riders, equipped with captured arms and mail, which was destined to prove formidable. The Peruvians, trained with the battle-axe and shield, easily exchanged these for mace and buckler; but Cristoval soon found that for a skilful use of the lance months would be required, and he was forced to see that weapon laid aside. Of all his pupils, none was so apt as the Inca Manco.

Thus Cristoval passed his convalescence, striving by incessant activity to hold his impatient longing. Twice only, after his strength returned, he rode to Yucay for a few brief hours of happiness.

The winter months passed and spring was at hand. Within the beleaguered city conditions grew desperate. Provisions, which had long been growing scanty, were almost exhausted, and the Spaniards faced starvation. They had hoped, watched, vowed many a pious vow, prayed many a fervent prayer, for reënforcements from the coast; but the expeditions sent by Francisco Pizarro for their relief had been entrapped in the mountains and driven back or annihilated. A few weeks must seal the fate of the besieged, and Hernando was already importuned by his cavaliers to lead in a final effort to cut through the investing lines and escape with his starveling remnant. Not he! He swore, and the stoutest of his men swore with him, to fight while strength remained to wield a blade.

But while the Spaniards were meeting in gloomy council the Inca was confronted by a situation no less grave.

Near the middle of a chill, clear night in the early spring, in the fifth month of the siege, Cristoval, now fully recovered, rode across the parade in front of the Inca's tent, and dismissed his native troopers. For a week he had been guarding the Cuntisuyu road, suspecting a Spanish design to break through the lines. He had laid off his helmet when a messenger summoned him to the Inca. Cristoval found Manco alone, pacing his tent with bent head, his face more deeply clouded than the cavalier had ever seen it. His expression lightened at sight of the man who had become nearer a comrade than any had ever been before, and he said gravely: "I have sent for thee, Cristoval, to entrust thee with a mission which, in other circumstances thou wouldst have found most welcome. Now it will be as painful to thee, I know, my friend and brother, as it is to me. It is this. Thou wilt ride to Yucay—wilt set out to-night. Arriving there, thou'lt conduct the household forthwith to the security of the fortress at Ollantaytambo."

Cristoval started. Was Yucay insecure? In Heaven's name, what could make it so, with the Spaniards held like starving rats? Manco read his question, and answered it bluntly:—

"We must raise the siege, Cristoval!"

Cristoval was aghast, unable to believe.

"We must raise the siege!" repeated Manco, steadily.

Cristoval put out his hand for the support of the table. When at last he spoke his voice was harsh and unnatural. "Raise the siege! Raise the siege—at this moment—when victory is within your grasp? By God, man, it must not be! Who hath advised this folly?"

Manco raised his hand. "It must be! I have held council all this day and to-night."

"Your counsellors—have they been stricken with madness?" cried the cavalier. "Do they not know—"

"My friend," interrupted the Inca, placing a hand upon Cristoval's shoulder, "my counsellors know what it is not possible that thou shouldst know—that Tavantinsuyu is menaced by a foe more ruthless than the one in yonder city. This hour hath been long foreseen, and now it is come. Hunger is abroad!"

"Your stanchest ally!" interjaculated Cristoval.

"An ally, but one ready to turn most cruelly against us! Hear me, Cristoval! It is not yet with us, with the army, though thou hast seen the meagre fare our braves have had these many days, and hast been in want, thyself. But there is a graver peril. Thou knowest, the season of planting is at hand. The fields are waiting. Every province of the empire hath been denuded of its men, and only women, children, and the feeble, are left to till the soil. The time is short, and if the grain be not sowed, a calamity will follow, blacker in its horror than that of war, which taketh only lives of men. Starvation recketh neither of sex nor age. The siege must end."

Manco spoke with calmness. His face had paled, but otherwise his emotion was unbetrayed. Cristoval heard him in silence. The Inca's words, he knew, were final, Rhadamanthine; once spoken, not to be opposed by human tongue. Manco resumed:—

"So it must be, Cristoval. The magazines are exhausted—I learned it finally to-day,—and even the archers are in need of arrows. My warriors will march to their provinces with famine attendant, but—they must go. I am defeated! O, great Inti, why—" His words ended, and he turned abruptly away. Cristoval sank into a chair and bowed his head upon his hands. To disband the army now would mean disaster irremediable. He sprang up with fiery, urgent words, but they were stayed by Manco who faced him again with every trace of agitation gone: "I said, defeated! Forget that the word was spoken. Whilst life is spared me, and I have a warrior left to follow, there shall be no defeat. But now, Cristoval, thou wilt go. By midday to-morrow thou'lt have overtaken a force which marched to-day. At Yucay, all will be in readiness. Word hath gone forward, and as soon as the palace is abandoned it will be stripped of all that yonder vultures crave. Having seen the household safely at Ollantaytambo, thou'lt return. I will remain near Cuzco with some force, for the enemy shall find that peace is not yet. Now go, and Heaven speed thee. Farewell."

As Cristoval left the tent he turned. The Inca stood in thought, his dark, handsome face as calm as if his brave heart were untouched by disaster, untorn by myriad cares and sorrows. He waved his hand, and Cristoval left him to the brooding silence of the night—and God alone knows what hours of anguish.

As the cavalier rode forth in the starlight he looked upon a dark, prophetic vision of the future of the fair empire for which he had been fighting. Tavantinsuyu was doomed. Doomed—he saw it now—from the moment Pizarro had set his foot upon its soil. The Spaniards would crowd to its shores like ravening wolves, and before the army could be recalled to the field it would be too late. He knew the indomitable resolution of his countrymen, their resources, and their driving rapacity, too well to hope the Inca could ever regain the advantage now to be put aside. Unless crushed at what was yet its beginning, the conquest would never be abandoned. And too thoroughly did Cristoval know the nature of his race to foresee anything but cruel oppression for the conquered. He looked with clearer prevision than could the stricken monarch into the blackness of the years to come.

The meeting of the lovers at Yucay was in joy and grief. Cristoval strove to inspire a hope he could not share, but when Rava took sorrowful leave of the palace it was with an intuition that she would never enter it again. At Ollantaytambo their parting was in grief alone, and the cavalier rode back to Cuzco followed by many a tearful prayer.

Pedro's fighting days were done, and as he stood on the rampart of the fortress, watching his old comrade's departure, the receding figure grew dim to him by reason of something more than dust and distance.

CHAPTER XL

Glory and Peace

We shall be brief with the last scenes of the tragedy of Tavantinsuyu. It was night when Cristoval arrived at the heights overlooking Cuzco, and the city lay dark and silent below. But the vast circle of the fires of the besieging host sparkled no more. The army had vanished. He found a remnant among the hills, picked warriors of the empire, led by Manco, and chosen to die in its last burst of glory.

There were long weeks of fighting about the city; fierce dashes by the Spaniards, driven by famine from their lair among the ruins, more fiercely resisted by the watchful Manco, to be many times hunted back with shattered ranks. The Inca's small body of horsemen grew as steeds were captured from the foragers, and it met the raiders in more than one sharp encounter and pursuit ending only in the environs of the city.

But at last came reënforcements from Francisco, and Manco withdrew to Ollantaytambo to rest and recruit his battle-worn warriors, leaving Cristoval with his riders and a small command of Antis to watch. Not many days later, it was learned from a captured Cañare that the Spaniards were planning an attack in force on Ollantaytambo. Assured of the information, Cristoval joined the Inca for its defence. They had not long to wait. With a strong body of cavalry and infantry, Hernando made a stealthy detour through the mountains in the valley of the Urubamba. He approached the fortress under cover of darkness and attacked at dawn, confident of taking it by surprise. Before midday his column was flying for Cuzco, defeated, demoralized, and in utter rout, with the Inca in hot pursuit.

Once more Cristoval's band of horsemen and Mocho's Antis were scouring the valley of Cuzco, lurking in the hills and passes, striking now here, now there; and intercepting, scattering, or destroying, the parties which need of food or greed of plunder led from the city. Informed by vigilant scouts of every move of the enemy, and guided by men familiar with every ravine and mountain trail, he struck often and with terrible unexpectedness. Repeatedly the Pizarros sent, and even led, in chase, always fruitlessly, or with disaster. If the swift-moving band was encountered, it was in some position of its leader's own choosing which more than offset the Spaniards' advantage of numbers. The cry, "El Renegado!"—for so Cristoval became known—grew to be one of terror; and raised suddenly in a party of marauders, it carried panic. Impelled by the wrongs of his adopted people—those suffered in the past, and blacker ones which he knew were to follow—he fought with reckless fury.

One night, while in bivouac a few leagues from Cuzco, a chasqui brought Cristoval a summons to Ollantaytambo with his command. The first thought of the cavalier was of the joy of seeing Rava. The next, an undefined disquiet. Before dawn he was on the march.

It was late when he entered the fortress, to be taken immediately to Manco's chamber. Paullo was with the Inca, and both embraced the cavalier with affection, the Inca adding a warm appreciation of his zeal and intrepidity. Paullo retired to apprise Rava. Manco regarded the march-stained soldier in rusty armor and said with less than his usual calm, but without the former gloom:—

"Cristoval, my brother, I have sent for thee to entrust another mission. Once more thou wilt take my loved ones to a place of safety. At dawn I leave with a few followers for a stronghold in the mountains of Apurimac, there to await the moment for reassembling my army. For the present, Ollantaytambo must be abandoned, and my few remaining troops disbanded. My last granary, my last armory, my last resource, have been exhausted.—But, my friend," he went on, with increased energy, and taking the cavalier by the arm, "think not that Manco hath succumbed!—nor that his sword will sleep through the months of waiting."

"Then I should be among your followers, my lord," said Cristoval.

"Nay! Thou'lt serve me better for the present in another way. Safeguard my dear ones. It is a trust which I can confide to thee as to none other. Paullo is but a boy. I ask the greatest service thou canst render, for thy sword, now, can aid me little."

"But when the time cometh—"

"Then I will call upon it, brave Cristoval," replied Manco, taking his hand. "But now, concerning a refuge: I have thought of Xilcala. I was there when a boy."

Cristoval flushed with sudden feeling, and the valley with all its beauty, its dear associations and memories, rose before him.

"It is remote from Cuzco," continued Manco; "and as I remember it, could be easily defended."

"A handful of men could hold it against an army," replied Cristoval, positively.

"Then to Xilcala, and Heaven guide thy way! Mocho will escort with his Antis, and thou'lt take thy riders, to hold them there until I call thee. They cannot serve me now, for I shall be in the mountains. Mocho will join me with his men in Apurimac. And now, go to Rava, who will be waiting. I will be with you in an hour." He paused, and regarding the cavalier earnestly, added, "I would, Cristoval, see you both happy—before I say farewell."

Cristoval flushed again. "God bless thee, Manco!—God bless thee! I—I will say a word to Rava."

Rava waited alone. As far as her door, but not beyond, we will follow the eager steps of Cristoval, then await, with what patience we may, the consequence of their meeting and tender duologue.

And the consequence was this. Within the hour Cristoval tore himself away, and in a condition of agreeable agitation, sought Pedro, who had expected his comrade's arrival, and had not retired. The cavalier's mood, as infectious as it was agreeable, seized upon the cook; and the cook, after interjections of the sort peculiar to himself stumped out in quest of Father Tendilla. The good priest was asleep, but straightway became broad awake, fell prey to the infection, and arose precipitately. From Father Tendilla, Pedro went to the door of Señora Bolio, not without trepidation. The Señora was likewise asleep, but after the fourth knock came to the door—far from being forgetful of her cleaver—and opened it to the slight degree consistent with modesty, or caution, or both. Pedro imparted his item of intelligence.

The señora uttered a cry of delight, and, both incautiously and immodestly, threw wide the door. "Is it so, Pedro? Is it so? Oh, the dear angel of a girl! Oh, Pedro, thou 'rt the best and wisest of men!" And in the exuberance of her joy the worst befell Pedro. He was embraced. "Pedro, thou 'rt a love!"

"Fiends, woman!" cried the cook, wrenching himself free, "'t is no doing of mine! They brought it upon themselves."

"Oh, do I not know that, thou simple! But had it not been for thee, they never would! I will come at once, Pedro, dear."

Pedro retired, not only agitated, but disarranged, mentally and otherwise.

Between midnight and dawn, within the dim, starlit ramparts of the ancient stronghold of Ollanta, was a Christian wedding. Strange the place, yet more strange the assemblage gathered to witness: A stern-visaged young pagan monarch with softened eyes beaming beneath a crimson llautu; about him, a score of grim, war-worn nobles of Tavantinsuyu with scars fresh from recent conflict; a throng of dark-haired women in loose-flowing robes and adorned with barbaric splendor. A Spaniard with but one leg, and a Spanish señora were there; the former glowing pleasantly with the sentiments of a genial heart; the other weeping with that mixture of feminine emotions inspired by such occasions, which must forever remain inscrutable to man.

Again a declining day in the fair Vale of Xilcala. Approaching by the gorge and nearing its head, is a column of the Inca's warriors, some of them mounted and clad in Viracocha mail, and escorting a train of hamacas. It is led by a cavalier whose armor bears many a mark of hostile blade unknown when he rode out from the valley, long and stormy months ago. The command halts at his signal, and riding back to one of the hamacas, he dismounts and assists its precious burden to alight. Together they walk forward to the edge of the lake, and Rava looks long and dreamily over its unruffled surface and mirrored mountains. There is the rocky promontory with its crowning of roofs and soft-gleaming walls; the gently-sloping shores with their fields and groves; the andenes clinging to the lower steeps, and the pinnacles towering above; and far across the valley, a hazy canyon from which these two—long ago, it seems to them now—looked out over the welcome peacefulness. The sheltering peaks are touched with rose; blue, transparent shadows are stealing up the eastern scarp; and across the still reflections creeps one thin, silvery arrow in the wake of a balsa urged shoreward by a fisherman. His distant, plaintive song floats across the lake and breaks into the murmur of the near-by stream. No other movement in all the tranquillity; no other sound, unless the whispered, liquid notes of the rippling on the pebbles of the beach.

Rava sighs, "Oh, Cristoval, is it not beautiful!"

"Most fair!" says the cavalier, as he said long ago, and passes a steel-clad arm about her as he meets the deep eyes, now brimming.

There they dwelt—Cristoval and Rava—remote from the dreary scenes of the wars among the Spaniards which followed close upon the fall of the Empire of the Incas. They found peace and happiness in a love enduring as their lives. Happiness, it is true, with a deep, life-long undertone of grief, for Tavantinsuyu and its last Inca; but their sorrow drew them nearer, as sorrow must. They found, too, palliative in alleviating many an ill brought upon the people outside their valley by the subjugation, and the twain—after their marriage, the Autauchi Cristoval and the Palla Rava—are remembered in undying tradition.

There, withal, dwelt Pedro, beloved comrade of Cristoval, and his genial head was silvered for many a long year. And all the children of the valley, when, from Father Tendilla—who gathered his last flock in Xilcala—they had learned about the saints, fixed upon Pedro as the vicar of the Patron Saint of childhood. There, moreover, dwelt the señora, the guardian angel of Pedro. A somewhat surcharged and superheated guardian angel, perhaps, but gradually moderating, under the influence of the repose of the valley, to a mild and kindly warmth. On one or more occasions, in the early days, she requested Pedro's hand in marriage with affectionate impetuosity; but he gently though firmly refused, and compromised with a promise never to leave the valley by stealth.

And in support of all which precedeth thou mayst find, Reader, in that peaceful valley, the Palacio del Autauchi Cristoval; and in its great hall two suits of armor, side by side, one perfect the other wanting in a jambe and solleret. They are cherished with almost equal pride and reverence by the De Peraltas, who dwell there still, and from whom thou mayst learn, though it may be with less detail, the history which endeth here.

THE END