CHAPTER XVIIThe Fugitives in the WildernessOnce more to the fugitives. The town left well behind, and the immediate danger of pursuit now past, the stimulus of live fear was removed, and Rava's spirit began to flag. She was feeling the weary length of the night with its never-ending plash, plash, plash, through the darkness, pelted by the rain, belabored by the wind, and seemingly going nowhere. There were few landmarks but ghostly trees and the innumerable small ditches, each, in the murk, so like those left behind that there seemed to her distressed and overwrought mind but a single one, presenting itself over and over again by some enchantment, to be crossed and recrossed until despair should bring them to earth. Her sodden garments clung to her, impeding every step. Her cloak, weighted by the rain, thrashed about by the gale, bore upon her as if made of lead, staggering her with its buffetings. The struggle was exhausting, and she already felt its effects. They rested frequently, Cristoval striving to stay the ebbing of her courage, but noting with grave concern her waning strength. At last, to his complete dismay, she gave up, weeping."Oh, Viracocha Cristoval," she sobbed, "I can go no farther! Leave me and save yourself. Alone, you can escape, but I can only be a fatal hindrance. Go, I pray you!"The cavalier would have been less disturbed had a dozen soldiers sprung up before him, and would have known better what to do. "Oh, Holy Mother!" he groaned to himself, "look upon a helpless sinner and aid him now! A weeping girl in the middle of a heathen cornfield in the middle of a heathen rainy night, and not another woman within a league to run for!" He contemplated the dim, quivering form with an embarrassment exceeded only by his compassion."Go, Viracocha!" she urged, with a moan whose piteousness brought him to his senses."Why, God help me, child!" he exclaimed, impetuously. "I would as quickly think of leaving thee as of pulling the nose of the Pope! Come, now,chiquita mia, do not weep! Thou 'rt weary, I know—and cold. Well, I'll tell thee—we must be moving, thou knowest—and I'll carry thee for a space. Presently thou'lt be rested, then we'll walk again. Hush, now, little one!"Without heeding her protests he lifted her and strode on with her in his arms. For some distance the girl wept quietly on his shoulder while he strove to soothe. The good Cristoval was as fatherly as if she had been his own, and before long her tears had subsided. But he was less cheerful than his words were cheering. There was importunate need of speed, and speed was impossible.They kept on to the southward until an hour before the dawn. Their halts were infrequent now, but often the cavalier took his ward into his arms and carried her until she was able to struggle along beside him, half supported. At last they turned to the west, and within an hour were on the great road, going toward Guamachucho. They pushed on more rapidly and in silence, Cristoval preoccupied with the immediate future. He was debating, in the main, the policy of at once making themselves and the situation known to the natives of the valley, to secure their aid. He finally decided against it. He had no doubt of their willingness and loyalty, but danger lay in the nearness of Caxamalca. A suspicion on the part of the Spaniards that these people had knowledge of the fugitives would be warrant for an effort to extort it, and Cristoval was too well acquainted with Spanish methods to feel sure that the effort would be unsuccessful. Pizarro would not hesitate at any cruelty to gain the information, and the safest plan would be to leave no traces. Before twenty-four hours he had reason to be thankful for that decision.The morning was now so near that the highway was no longer safe, and he had resolved to gain the foothills, when he became aware of a small group of buildings. The principal one, he observed, was a smalltambofor herdsmen. They passed it cautiously, and were again in the open, unconscious of having been seen by an early riser. The man, a Spaniard, peered through the darkness at their shadowy forms, stood listening for a moment, then stepped after them on tiptoe. Shortly he paused and hearkened again. The sound of their steps ceased as they left the roadway, and with a grunt and grin he returned to thetambo.Here several comrades were moving about, and he told his tale, remarking that the pair had left the road for the fields. His account brought slight comment, and he dropped the matter until, later in the morning, he found an audience with a pronounced interest in his observations, the significance of which his absence from Caxamalca for a few days had made him unable to measure. He was informed by the first search party met coming from the town, and the squad left him at a gallop.By the first gray of daybreak the fugitives had gained the crest of a range of foothills. The ridge stretched away to the south with many a rise and dip, finally dropping into a distant valley. In front, almost at their feet, but with two or three smaller ranges between, lay the plain of Caxamalca, half veiled by the morning mist and nearly a thousand feet below. Just over the farthest of the foothills they could descry the road with its fringe of trees, and the group of flat-looking buildings of thetambo. Nearer was a cottage and garden, close to their path into the hills, but which they had not seen. To the west was a ridge higher than theirs, backed by the gray silhouette of the Cordillera. They saw in the fair valley nothing of hostility, to be revealed perhaps at any moment, and strained their eyes to the northward for signs of pursuit. The only life, however, was in a few specks of figures moving about thetambo, the cottager already at work in his garden, and a solitary wayfarer on the road to Caxamalca.The cavalier turned away satisfied from his scrutiny, and spread his cloak at the foot of an outcropping rock. Soon they were busy with a frugal breakfast, Cristoval eating sparingly, talking little, and keeping a vigilant eye on the valley. Rava, too weary to talk, was quite ready to stretch herself upon his cloak under the sheltering ledge. He wrapped her well in its folds, and had hardly turned away before she was sleeping.How long she slept she could not have said, but it seemed only a moment before she was roused by Cristoval's touch. She looked up with bewildered eyes. "What is it, Viracocha Cristoval? Oh, where am I? I dreamed—but, are we pursued?" Terrified by his expression, her voice sank into a whisper."We must go," he replied, giving her his hand. She rose painfully, and he drew her back from the crest of the hill. A misty rain was falling, obscuring all but the fields immediately below. As she looked, she gasped and clutched his arm. Towering before her, seemingly but a few yards away, was a white, curling column of smoke, writhing heavily as it rose, and drifting off down the valley."Oh, what is that, Viracocha?" she cried, cowering at his side. "What is it—what is it?""Nothing to fear," said Cristoval, drawing her farther away. "The cottage hath been fired. They have found our trail, Heaven only knoweth how!"Cristoval threw her cloak around her, secured his own, and hurried her away. The thatch of the cottage was blazing fiercely. Outside of the garden wall stood a group of horses, and trotting in the direction of the hills, a squad of three troopers, one of them in the lead, bending over his saddle-bow in scrutiny of the ground.Cristoval had seen the cavalcade nearly an hour before; saw them halt at thetambo, leave the road, gallop to the cottage, and surround it. Not long afterward it burst into flames, and he had little doubt that the unfortunate native, and perhaps his family, were being put to torture. He watched until the three troopers left the others and started toward the hills. Then he had awakened Rava.As they left the spot she was weeping and frantically wringing her hands. "Oh, Viracocha Cristoval," she sobbed; "are they burning and killing because of our flight? Let me go back! Oh, let me go back! My return may stay their cruelty.""No, no!" he replied, quickly. "They are not killing, and now that they have found our traces they will probably burn no more. Your return would not help, Ñusta Rava. Compose yourself, I pray you.""Ah, my poor people!" she wailed. "My unhappy country! The Sun hath indeed turned away his face! Ah me, ah me!"Cristoval crossed himself at the mention of her pagan deity, and whispered a prayer for her soul. She turned to him earnestly."Viracocha, we will not seek aid until beyond the reach of those cruel men. We must endanger none of my father's children. We will flee alone—die alone, if need be."Cristoval nodded assent, but thought of Pedro's pouch, which was none too heavy. How to replenish it without the help of men would be a question. "By the saints!" he thought; "this lady's escape is attended by difficulties, and now she setteth up problems of generalship that are unfamiliar. Ah, well, we'll see what can be done." Then he said aloud, "We will consider it later, Ñusta Rava. For the present, it is better not to talk, for breath may grow precious later on."They pressed forward. The cottage was smouldering now, and left by the soldiery, who had apparently gone into the lower hills, for none was in sight. The top of the ridge was fairly smooth, though occasionally strewn with rock; but toward midday it developed into a succession of deep gullies, and their progress became labored, with halts of growing frequency. Before the afternoon was half gone Rava showed serious exhaustion, and they stopped in a thicket. Cristoval again spread his cloak, and once more she slept. In an hour he regretfully awakened her, and they took up their march. The sky was clearing, and presently Cristoval saw the expected. Far to the eastward, creeping over the first foothills, was a small, dark column of horsemen, sparkling here and there as the afternoon sun struck upon burnished helm and corselet, and deploying at last into a widely-extended line. Another column was moving to the southward along the highway, almost imperceptibly, as it appeared to Rava, but in reality at a gallop, as Cristoval knew. He watched for a time without comment, then led on. When darkness fell they rested again; then up with the rising moon and wearily onward.The night was far spent when they were brought to a halt at the verge of a cliff, and looked into a valley half a league in breadth, roughly semicircular, and opening to the east. Its floor held many a hillock and hollow, and here and there the white walls of a cottage glimmered in the moonlight. At the foot of the declivity flowed a stream, showing silvery where it rippled past a shoal, black in the quiet pools, finally losing itself in the distant plain to which the vale descended. To the west the hills closed in gradually, forming the head of the amphitheatre and softening into the semiluminous mist which filled a great rift in the wall of the Cordillera looming beyond. Through this dim moonlit canyon the stream found its way into the valley from the fastnesses of its source.The dale was one of those rare spots of the arid Sierra made fertile by an ample supply of water, and every available foot, as Cristoval could see, was under cultivation. From the edge of the cliff the long sinuous lines of terraces on the opposite hills were distinctly visible in the moonlight, following the contour of the valley-wall far to the east and west.They stood for several minutes, Rava gazing longingly upon the peaceful cottages of her people, their shelter so near, yet denied. Cristoval, strongly tempted to take the risk of entrusting themselves to some of the denizens, was about to make the suggestion when both were startled by the neighing of a horse. It came, apparently, from a point just below, and was answered immediately by another, more remote. Rava clutched his arm with a quick catching of breath."Santa Maria!" interjected he, in an undertone. "So they are here before us!" His faint hope of aid was dashed. While Rava clung, trembling, to his arm, he debated. The plain was occupied. To cross it in this brilliant moonlight would be fatal. Even the hills were no longer safe; parties would be scouring them with the earliest dawn, and in their last march darkness had made it impossible not to leave traces. Cristoval glanced at the dark eyes turned anxiously to his."There is but one thing left for us to do, Ñusta Rava. We must trust ourselves to yonder mountains.""Oh, my good friend," she whispered, in terror; "in those mountains we are lost! We shall starve—go mad! They are most dreadful. You know not, Viracocha.""Less to be dreaded than the wolves around us," he replied, sombrely. "There is naught else. We can hide there until the hunt is given over. How is your strength. Are you very tired?""I can go," she said, with a brave effort to conceal the tremor in her voice."Then come. If need be, I can carry you; but we must make speed."They followed the encircling hills, and descried presently the smouldering fire of a bivouac, far out in the valley. An hour late, nearing the mouth of the canyon, they found new danger. It was picketed. Fortunately they were warned by the live embers of the campfire left by an indiscretion for which Cristoval returned fervent thanks, and they passed by a detour well up the mountainside. Safely beyond, they crept down to the bank of the torrent foaming noisily through the gulch, and while Rava waited Cristoval went on his knees in search of the trail which he knew instinctively would be there. He found it presently, a mere trace left by herdsmen in years of going and coming to and from the mountain pastures, and to be followed with difficulty in the shadow of the canyon. It was rough, and grew rougher as they proceeded, but in its rockiness lay safety, for it held no tell-tale tracks. They stumbled on in fevered haste, Rava heedless of weariness and the bruising stones alike. Cristoval gave what aid he could, supporting her weight when possible, guiding her steps among the bowlders, and she struggled on without complaint.Momentarily the stream grew wilder, plunging and tearing over the rocks and filling the canyon with its roar. Now they blundered along its brink, now toiled up a steep ascent to pass a spur, then down, slipping, floundering, and lacerating their hands on the thorny bushes clutched to save a fatal pitch headlong into the howling waters below. The pace could not endure. Again and again Rava fell, to be raised gently by the cavalier and carried in his arms until he staggered,—but on and on, though he groaned at the torture she endured at every step.Morning came, and revealed such a scene of savage grandeur as he had never before beheld. They were well within the mountains. On either hand they rose in ragged slope or dizzy precipice, buttressed, pinnacled, piled crag upon crag until their heights pierced the heavens. In front loomed greater steeps, with gloomy malevolence in every seam and scar. Around them, a madness of shattered rock, strewn and riven as if hurled down by an angry god. Over these raged and thundered the stream, here a white, leaping cataract, there a black, whirling pool, and sinister everywhere.They labored onward, in their stupendous surroundings mere pygmies on a threadlike trail, bending beneath exhaustion as if crushed by the enmity of the wilderness. Often, turning to lift the half-fainting girl, Cristoval found the tears streaming over her pallid cheeks, and at last he saw her sandals were stained with blood. In his arms she clung in the complete abandonment of weariness, and when he was compelled to lower her to her feet she reeled, too benumbed to follow. But he pressed forward, relentless under the driving necessity, though with aching heart for every evidence of her suffering. No halt possible now, for day had come, and he knew they would be followed. At the first light he scrutinized the trail in the hope of finding marks of horses' hoofs in indication that the canyon had been explored the day before. The signs were absent, and he knew the hunt would soon be upon them. From time to time he left Rava to rest while he clambered up the mountain-side for a cautious look back down the valley, returning to rouse and gently urge her forward. Frequently she pleaded, begging to be left to die; but his face was stern, and his words, though kindly, grew peremptory in answer to her tears. More often he took her in his arms and strode on without a word.Thus through hours which seemed to Rava to be life-long; over a path of eternal length; driven by a being who at one moment was a monster of cruelty, urging her on to endless torture, at the next, a spirit of benevolence, on whose shoulder she wept her anguish. And the poor cavalier, wrung by every fresh pang he forced her to undergo, cruciated even by his conscience for bringing such torment upon her, could only toil onward, reeling with fatigue and harrowed by uncertainty while he muttered incoherencies vainly meant to cheer.At last, having left her beside the path, a mere bedraggled, almost inanimate heap, he returned from a reconnaissance in mad haste."Quick!" he whispered, as he bent to raise her from the ground. "Up—up! They are upon us! We must hide—God knoweth where!"His urgency gave her life, and she staggered to her feet, clinging to him and looking back in terror. A few paces forward, her pain forgotten; then down toward the stream, from rock to rock, to a bowlder behind which they crouched at the edge of a pool. He pressed her down and knelt, his hand one of iron upon her arm.It seemed an hour before her ears caught the sound of hoofs, and she closed her eyes. They neared slowly, until she heard the subdued voices of the riders. They halted a moment, scanning the mountain-sides, and moved on. They were opposite the bowlder, so close that she could hear the creaking saddles; an age in passing; finally past. Cristoval relaxed his grip upon her arm, and she heard his deep-drawn breath. He half arose and looked warily after them. A gallant party, surely, with the sunlight glancing from their steel, but Cristoval whispered a fervent curse upon them as they wound along the trail—upon each by name, for they were near enough for easy recognition. They rode slowly, searching the sides of the defile with careful scrutiny; halted at a point a hundred yards up the canyon, and dismounted to lead their horses, over the narrow path where an outcropping ledge crowded toward a dangerous slope, falling away abruptly to the stream twenty feet below. Beyond this they mounted again and shortly disappeared beyond a jutting crag.Cristoval turned to Rava. She was crouched with half-closed eyes, her hands tight-pressed upon her bosom. Startled by her pallor and the drawn lines about her mouth, he hastily opened the pouch and drew forth the flask ofchicha. "Here!" he whispered, unstopping it and pressing it to her lips. "Swallow this. It will help thy strength. They have gone.—Rava! Dost hear? Swallow!"She obeyed mechanically. He bathed her forehead with the icy water, and presently she revived."Ah!Gracias á Dios!" he murmured, as she opened her eyes. "Thou'rt better? Another sip, and thou'lt be thyself. They have gone, but we must find better shelter before they return.—Poor little one, thou 'rt worn to death—and,Madre!—thy feet! Oh,miserere Domine!"He looked cautiously about. Beyond was a larger bowlder, rising almost from the water's edge, a few small bushes growing near. It would afford better hiding—the only one as far as he could see. He bore her thither. Seating her against the rock with his folded cloak for cushion, he hastened to unlace her sandals and bathe and bandage her cuts. Her head was drooping, and he quickly cleared the narrow strip of sand, and eased her upon it. She was sleeping heavily almost before he had drawn her cloak around her.Cristoval seated himself to await the return of the cavalcade, lines of anxiety on his face as he looked upon the motionless form, wan cheeks, and darkened eyelids, and pondered the gloomy prospects. She was at the limit of her strength. "Ah,miserere nobis, Domine!"It was late afternoon when he was roused by sounds of the returning horsemen. He rose to his knees, silently unsheathing his sword. The movement awakened Rava, and he raised a warning hand. He heard them halt to dismount, and soon they were passing, riding carelessly, the search of the canyon evidently given over. He looked furtively out as they straggled by."Curses, a thousand curses upon you, Gutiero, De Vera, Almar, Cueva—but wait! One is wanting! There were nine, or I miscounted. Ah!—De Valera!"At that moment he heard a shout, faint and distant, up the canyon, and saw Cueva draw rein. "Shall we wait for him?" Cristoval heard him ask."No!" replied one, with an oath. "Let him follow as he can. He's always behind, the pig, and we've wasted time enough for his lagging. He'll not wander far off this highway, I'll venture a peso. Give him an answer, then come.""Give him answer with thine own wind, if thou hast wind to spare, I'll not," retorted the other, and gave spur. They moved on. Another distant hallo, and Cristoval's eyes suddenly fired. He glanced at Rava, and his resolution formed. There was one chance, and only one, of saving her. She could never survive another day of torture. Maimed and exhausted, a league farther would be beyond her powers. They must have a horse.Cristoval unbuckled his belt. His lips were compressed, and there was a light in his eyes which Rava had never seen. Laying down belt and scabbard, he picked up his naked blade, gave it quick scrutiny, and looked after the retreating cavalcade. It moved slowly, and it was long before he turned from scowling down the valley. From the other direction came shouts, growing more distinct. He looked again at Rava, who had risen upon her elbow and was watching his eyes in alarm."Make no sound!" he whispered, gently touched her hand, and was gone.A rapid climb brought him to the trail. He glanced once more down the canyon. The horsemen had disappeared beyond a turn, and he ran to the abutting rock where they had dismounted. Here he stepped off the path, and placed himself against the rock. The shouts from the upper valley were near enough now to betray De Valera's anxiety. Minutes passed, then came the ring of the horse's hoofs. They ceased, and a grunt close by told him the laggard trooper had dismounted. De Valera emitted another bellowing wail, and Cristoval heard his puffing approach."Come along, thou lazy—ambling—lop-eared—bedeviled—misbegotten—and wholly damned son—of a cow!" De Valera was addressing his languid steed.Cristoval grinned and laid aside his sword. "Bah! Why kill the wretch?" he thought, but loosed his dagger and gathered for a spring, his alert eyes upon the trail. De Valera appeared, lance over his shoulder, his face purple with irritation and shouting, tugging his reluctant horse. Cristoval was upon him like an avalanche."Whoof!" blurted De Valera, with sudden aspiration as he received the charge. Cristoval grappled, and he dropped his lance, slipped, clutched the neck of his assailant's mail, and both rolled down the face of the rock. The horse reared and turned, lost his footing and regained it, and tore back up the canyon at a run.Rava heard the brief struggle with palpitating heart: the crash of the fall of the armored man, the mad gallop of the horse, and then only the roaring of the torrent. She rose from her knees. There was no sign of Cristoval or his adversary, and only distant hoof-beats to vary the monotonous din of the stream. She leaned against the rock, weak and shaking. For a moment she stood with straining ears. The gallop had died away, and she was alone. Minute after minute fled, and at last she could endure no longer. Unheeding the pain of every step, she sped to the trail. No slightest evidence of life. She ran a few steps down the canyon, halted trembling, and turned to the jutting rock. Here she stopped and looked down, transfixed. There lay a man in armor, inanimate; beside him the form of Cristoval, face upward and marred by a stream of blood from his forehead. She tottered, and parted her lips to scream, but her voice failed. How she descended from the path she never knew; but in a moment she was kneeling with his head in her lap, calling his name in agony, and wiping away the crimson stream. She thought of the water, and in a second was carrying it in her hands and bathing his face, praying, praying for a sign of animation. Tears blinded her while she worked, hurrying to and from the edge of the torrent, dashing the too meagre handfuls into the still face, chafing his wrists, beating the nerveless hands, sobbing and moaning his name. He lay without a quiver. She thought she looked upon death, and her fear became wild, frenzied despair. She cast a shuddering look of horror at the grim desolation surrounding her, and threw herself upon him, her hands at his throat, on his cheeks, in his hair, wailing his name in the extremity of mortal anguish.He sighed. Ah, merciful Sun!—most beneficent Inti! She stifled her sobs and brushed away her tears that she might see. His eyelids trembled, and now a moan, most faint, barely audible, but—he lived! More water, and more, and when she came again his eyes were open, blankly at the sky at first, then at her. She wept for joy, pressing his hands to her bosom, while he regarded her vaguely, striving to arrange his muddled thoughts."Courage!" murmured Cristoval, and closed his eyes again, to be startled to his senses by a shriek from the girl. De Valera had moved, and was feebly groaning. Cristoval turned his head at the sound, and the sight of his fallen enemy aroused him."Cielo!" he gasped. "He had slipped my mind." He crawled to the trooper, found his dagger, and tossed it out of reach. De Valera moved again, but Cristoval rose unsteadily and seated himself upon his adversary's chest. "Water,carita!" he whispered, and bowed his reeling head upon his hands. Rava brought her hands full and dashed it into his face. "Ah!Bueno!" he muttered, and looked down upon De Valera. The visor of the helmet was thrown back, and the prostrate soldier was staring up at him. Cristoval glowered, rubbing an aching head, and the two Spaniards regarded one another for a time in silence, neither in full possession of his faculties. At last De Valera moaned faintly, "Mercy, Cristoval!"Cristoval made no reply, scowling blackly at the pallid face and wiping away the blood which still trickled into his own eyes from the gash in his forehead."Mercy, Cristoval! Give me time for a prayer."The words brought Cristoval more fully to consciousness, and he replied, angrily: "Time for a prayer! Time for a prayer! What dost think?—that I will murder thee, lying on thy back and hands down? If thou hast the thought, dismiss it, or I'll have it out of thee roughly."The soldier faltered weakly: "What! Thou wilt spare me, good Cristoval? Oh, blessed Virgin!" and tears of gratitude filled his eyes. "But I might have known it of thee, Cristoval.""Ah!" replied Cristoval, scornfully. "But see thou liest still, lest I lose the whim." He rubbed his head again, struggling to order his thoughts. De Valera lay motionless, and at length Cristoval said sternly:—"Now attend, thou unfortunate—I am going to plunder thee. I've need of thy horse, which is up yonder—and of thy harness. Thou'lt be wise to make no hindrance. Dost comprehend?Bien! Then sit up whilst I unhelm thee. Ware, now!—no sudden movement!"Cristoval rose to his feet, still giddy, and set to work, De Valera submitting quietly, while Rava looked on in wonder."Alli!" quoth Cristoval, as he tossed the last piece upon the heap of armor. "Now, Ñusta Rava, thy girdle, I pray thee, to bind him. No groaning, Señor! It doth misbecome thee. Now, thy hands behind thy back. So! Now for thy feet.—Good! Hast a kerchief? Then we'll have a choke-pear.—Silence! Dost think I'll have thee waking mournful echoes through the night? Thou hast shouted more than is good for thee already. And next, whilst I make the choke-pear I'll question thee—and see thou makest cheerful response, or— First, hast cherished against me any peculiar animosity? I mean before this solemn afternoon.""No, good Cristoval," replied De Valera, with candor."Then why partaking this hunting holiday?" demanded Cristoval, eying him severely."The reward,amigo. A thousandcastellanosto a poor man—""A thousand!" exclaimed Cristoval, with contempt. "Is that all Pizarro hath offered? By the saints, he'll double it before I have done! Well,bastante! Thou didst seek reward!Bien! But now thou 'rt unhorsed thou canst hope for reward no longer and canst answer freely. How many are in pursuit?""Nearly all have been, saving Juan and Gonzalo Pizarro, De Soto, José, and a few more.—But hold, Cristoval, the Cañares are out and after thee. I give thee warning."Cristoval drew a long breath, his face darkened, and he stood in reflection. He threw down the choke-pear with which he had purposed gagging his captive. "We'll not trouble thee with it. Thy news is not welcome, Valera, but thy warning is. We will go, Ñusta Rava.""First, I will attend to your wound," she said, and tearing a strip from her robe, soon had it bandaged. In a few minutes Cristoval was in his enemy's armor, and taking up the lance he said: "Adiós, Valera! Thy comrades will find thee in the morning." He assisted Rava to the trail, secured his sword and belt, and once more they were on their way, leaving De Valera leaning mournfully against a rock, a prey to varied fears.A mile up the canyon Cristoval captured the horse, and found De Valera's mace and buckler hanging on the saddle. The first care was to examine the contents of the saddlebags."Ah!" exclaimed the cavalier, with satisfaction. "Praise Heaven, they are well stocked. Here ischarqui, bread, and parched maize, and grain for our steed in the other—with discretion, some days' supply. But I was more sure of De Valera's providence than of his honesty. Now, we're equipped, Ñusta Rava, and now we'll mount."It was a trial of her courage, but soon she was seated upon the horse's croup, holding her place with the aid of the cavalier's belt.CHAPTER XVIIIThe Vale of XilcalaIn Rava's memory, afterward, the toil, suffering, and peril of the succeeding days remained as fragments of an anguished dream. There were dim recollections of unmeasured hours of weariness, of journeying upward through huge defiles, along the verge of precipices, and out upon barren stretches of tableland which seemed, in their desolation, the abode of Despair and Death: the moaning of the wind, their voices. Here was infinite loneliness, the dreary solitude of a world forgotten of God. Over these lofty wastes, gasping and dizzy in the rarified air, their brains pierced by the fierce rays of a sun which gave no warmth, their lips split and bleeding, their faces raw and smarting in the eager wind, they labored on. Cristoval, silent, walked and led, his eyes rarely lifted from the faint trail left by herdsmen and their flocks of llamas. This once lost, there would be slight hope. Followed, it might lead to safety.But through all her recollections of hunger, exhaustion, and torture, was that of the dauntless spirit who shared them with her, ever watchful, ever solicitous, and of unfailing gentleness in the most desperate hours. A memory of a brave, kindly face, growing haggard as one day of struggle followed another, but with never a sign of failing courage or resolution, never a shadow of impatience at her plaints, her tears, or when her weakness compelled the loss of precious time. Often she had been delirious, or in a half stupor, but never unconscious of his presence and tender guardianship. She had a memory, too, of a tempest, of snow and deadly cold, when they had sought shelter among the drifts of a gorge and he had held her in his arms through the night, wrapped in his cloak, his armor removed that she might have his warmth. But she only half remembered the long battle through the snow of a pass to which Providence had led their steps when they had finally lost the trail.After this, a descending valley, a lonely hut at last, and she came to her senses surrounded by the warmth and frugal comforts of a herdsmen's lodge. Here Cristoval learned from the two occupants of the hut that a village called Xilcala lay within three days' journey through the mountains. The younger of the herders, named Mati, would guide them; and after tarrying for some days until food and rest should fit them to resume their way, they set out.In the late afternoon of the third day of travel from the hut they were descending into the Vale of Xilcala. Since morning they had been creeping down a canyon which broadened at last at its junction with another, and their haven lay before them. A turn in the trail brought it into sudden view, and they halted, struck by a scene of so rare and tranquil beauty that even Cristoval, not easily impressed, muttered an exclamation. Assisting Rava to dismount, he led her out upon an overhanging ledge. Hundreds of feet below spread a rolling plain surrounding an alpine lake of limpid emerald and blue which gleamed in its setting of spring verdure like some fair jewel. From the water the shores gently rose to the encircling mountains, traceried with walls and hedges, and sparkling with the silver inlay of numberless rivulets and miniature canals. Far up the slopes of the sheltering masses of the Cordillera clung cultivated terraces, theandenes, the lines of their retaining walls sweeping in and out with the contour of the rugged scarp until they broke at a distant cleft in the rampart, through which flowed the outlet of the lake. Half-way down the western shore was the village, crowning a rocky promontory, its white walls reflected on the placid water, and to the weary eyes of the refugees hardly more real or permanent, in its quiet beauty, than the inverted and blended image at its feet. Nearer were scattered cottages, a villa with its park, and shaded lanes and groves of trees just breaking into leafage or blossom.Over all was an atmosphere of peace that went to the heart of the girl standing with cheeks pale and eyes darkened by the sorrow, hardship, and dangers through which she had come. She gazed long with clasped hands. At length in a whisper, as if loath to break the silence which like the evening haze brooded over the tranquillity below, she said to Cristoval, who stood leaning upon his lance beside her, "Ah, my friend, is it not beautiful? Oh, Viracocha Cristoval, is it not too beautiful to be real?""Why, God bless thee, child!" answered the cavalier, "not too beautiful to be real, surely; but fair enough for a dream, no less! and welcome as 't is alluring.""Most welcome! Most welcome!" she exclaimed; and after a pause, "And now—our cares and dangers are over."He did not reply at once, and she glanced at him inquiringly. "Thy cares and dangers are over, Ñusta Rava," he said. "I pray 'tis so.""But," she said, with concern, "I said ours, Viracocha. Are not yours as well?""No doubt, no doubt!" he replied, hastily. "The most immediate of them, assuredly." He looked away toward the distant mountains, as if unwilling to pursue the subject. She studied his eyes for a moment, observing their cloud, and said gently, "The most immediate of them, but not all?""Oh, belike all!—But shall we not move again? We have yet some distance, and thou 'rt a-weary.""Presently," she answered, with decision; "when you have told me what you reserve in your thoughts. Why may not your care and danger be past, as well as mine?"He smiled at her persistence. "Why, Ñusta Rava, thou dost forget! I am a renegade from my countrymen—a traitor—with a price upon my head. And to thine own people, what can I be but one of a band of plunderers—an enemy?""Something far different, Viracocha Cristoval," she replied, earnestly. "You are my friend." He inclined his head, but made no reply, and Rava continued: "You have been my preserver; and that meaneth, doth it not, that you are a friend of Tavantinsuyu? Surely, you cannot think we are without gratitude! Not one of my people—not one! but will share mine with me.""Nay!" replied Cristoval, gravely, "it is not that I would doubt their generosity, Ñusta Rava; but I am a Spaniard, and Spaniards have done your country wrongs that will not be forgotten whilst there lives a father in Tavantinsuyu to tell them to his sons. They will do more grievous ones, for I know them well. Their deeds will breed a hatred for my race that will not die in a thousand years. Think not that my blood can be overlooked."Rava was pale. "But, Viracocha," she said faintly, after a moment, "you had no part in those deeds—nor will have.""I had no part in the massacre, and strove to save thy brother—but failed."She touched his arm timidly. "Your friendship for him, as well as for me, shall be remembered. Be sure of it."Cristoval shook his head. "It may be so, Ñusta Rava; but to thy people I shall always be one of the race accursed."She looked long toward the lake and beyond. He resumed with his kindly smile: "And now, child, I shall presently give thee into the hands of thy friends, and thou'lt be 'child' no longer, but a Daughter of the Sun, surrounded by a court, inaccessible to thy rusty cavalier, and with thousands ready to do for thee more than he hath done—though not more gladly, upon my heart!"She turned to him quickly, her lips parted. No words were uttered, but Cristoval saw a depth and strange lustre in her eyes that haunted his memory. The look was brief and unfathomable. She extended her hand—quite cold, he noted—and faltered, "Let us go, Viracocha." He bent over it, and led her to the horse.Cristoval walked on beside the head of the steed, striving to divine what she had been about to say, and the meaning of the fleeting expression. He looked back at her, but she seemed lost in reverie, and gave him but a brief downward glance half hidden beneath the veil of her lashes, with the faintest trace of a smile. But, he thought, the smile had more of sadness than her expression of repose.They had covered half the distance to the town when their guide, who was some paces in advance, halted, faced about, and went upon his knees, bending until his forehead touched the ground."Ah!" growled Cristoval to himself, "there goeth that benighted varlet nosing the dust once more. The ten thousandth time since we left his hut! Well, doubtless he hath, with our gracious permission, some humble matter of information." He led up to the prostrate Peruvian and stopped, waiting patiently for the development."Rise, Mati," said Rava, gently. "What wouldst thou say?"Pointing toward the lower valley, he said diffidently: "Most illustrious Daughter of Inti, if you will permit, yonder villa on the hill between this and Xilcala is the home of the Palla[1] Maytalca."[1] Palla = married woman of the blood-royal."Oh! Is it so, Mati?" cried Rava, eagerly. "Then, Viracocha Cristoval, it will be ours. The Palla Maytalca is a kinswoman and was one of my royal father's household. In my childhood I loved her well. We shall be most welcome. Mati, do thou go forward and prepare her for our coming."The youth dropped to the ground again, rose, and backed away for a dozen yards, then turned and sped down the trail. They followed, and the path shortly entered a lane between rows of willows around the margin of the lake. Night was coming rapidly, and it was almost dark when they arrived at the gateway of the villa. Mati met them, and Rava having dismounted, Cristoval removed his helmet, tethered his horse, and they followed the herdsman down an avenue of trees toward the residence. It was a rambling building, or a group of several, and of a size comporting with the rank of its occupant. As they drew near torches flashed toward them, and they were presently met by the Palla Maytalca, advancing with perturbation, attended by excited young women and torch-bearers. Rava uttered a cry of joy and threw herself into the Palla's arms, and the two mingled their broken exclamations of delight. Cristoval halted a few paces back."Rava, Rava, my best beloved!" at last exclaimed the Palla, holding the girl at arm's length, surveying her in surprise and fondness. "I cannot believe it is thou. Hast come from the clouds? By what miracle of the great Inti art thou here?""Oh, I hardly know, dearest Maytalca!" answered Rava, smiling and sobbing, "and can make it seem real no more easily than thou. Nor can I tell thee the thousand perils in our coming. Had it not been for the bravest and best of friends—oh, Viracocha Cristoval, I pray you come nearer!—This is he, Maytalca: my deliverer and defender—the Viracocha Cristoval."The lady started as his grim, warlike figure clanked out of the obscurity and the light fell upon his steel. Observing her trepidation the cavalier halted, saying as he bowed: "Palla Maytalca, you do not know my joy in seeing the Ñusta Rava at last in safety, and in witnessing her affectionate welcome."His voice and manner were reassuring, and she conquered her fears sufficiently to extend a trembling hand and say, timidly: "One who hath befriended the Ñusta Rava, Viracocha, hath no need to be assured of a welcome to the home of Maytalca. It is yours.""Be sure of my gratitude," said Cristoval, as with Rava he followed their hostess to the villa. As the Princess passed, the kneeling attendants rose and went after, dumb with awe of the royal maiden and her mysterious companion.The Palla led across a terrace into a large hall, brightly lighted and strewn with rugs. A pair of braziers were burning, for the evening was growing chill, and Rava was soon established among the cushions of a divan, giving a hurried though unconnected narrative of her late adventures to the wondering Maytalca. The Palla, who, as her title indicated, was of royal blood, though not of the reigning family, was the widow of one of the princes of the realm. She was a stately woman, just past middle age, with hair slightly touched with gray, and robed in the rich costume of the women of the nobility. Her bearing was that of a gentlewoman, and whatever disquietude she felt at her steel-clad guest it was effectually concealed. As a matter of fact he gave an impression of formidableness with his rust-streaked armor, his half-grown beard, eyes burning in sockets made deep by hardship, and cheeks hollowed by the recent toil and hunger, which his gentle comportment could only half dispel. When he excused himself some minutes later and left the room with a servant to look after his horse, the Palla turned to Rava and seized her hands."Rava, my child," she exclaimed, in a low voice, "how hadst thou courage to trust thyself with that terrible-appearing man? I tremble to look at him! I shall never sleep while he is beneath the shelter of this roof."Rava smiled up at her from her cushions. "Ah, Maytalca, thou dost not know him! Had I been a child he could not have been more gentle. Indeed," and the slightest pout came into her expression, "he seemeth to hold me but a child! But oh, my dear, he is brave as he is kind! The god Viracocha himself were not more terrible when he meeteth an enemy: nor thou more tender than he hath been to me. He is invincible; yet hath the heart of a woman. Sleep as thou wouldst with Inti guarding, dearest Maytalca. Thou'lt love him."The Palla seated herself beside the girl and placed an arm about her, gravely studying her eyes. "Hast thou found, Rava, such traits in thy protector?"Rava turned her eyes upon her for an instant with a half-frightened look, then dropped them with sudden reserve. "He was the Inca's trusted friend, Maytalca," she replied, with womanly art, "and hath been mine. I believe him most worthy."The entrance of the cavalier interrupted. He tarried but a moment for a brief but ceremonious leave-taking for the night, then followed a servant to the apartment which the Palla said he should regard as his own. It was in a wing forming one side of a rear court which opened toward the lake, and he found the chamber one which might have suited a Moorish prince. It was decorated with the richness of style which had already become familiar, furnished with the usual cushioned chairs, tables of polished stone, and a divan which looked more inviting than any the weary soldier had laid eyes upon for many days. The attendant opened a door and showed him a small court with a pool fed by a running stream for bathing, then aided him to disarm, and with the announcement that his supper would be sent presently, backed out with a profound reverence. By the time Cristoval had finished his bath the repast was served, and an hour later he was asleep.He was aroused in the morning by a persistent rapping. Calling a summons to enter, a youth presented himself, dropping immediately upon his knees and bending to the floor. Weariness came into the face of the cavalier at the obeisance, and he directed the boy to rise. He did so, backed out of the door, and reappeared with a goblet and an armful of apparel. The latter he laid over a chair, and approaching the couch, knelt to tender the cup."Viracocha," he said, humbly, "my mistress sendeth her morning greeting with the prayer that the Sun have you in his protection.""It is most kind of her," said Cristoval, rising upon his elbow. "Bear mine in return to her, and thank her for me. What is this? Ah! Hotchichaand water. It is thoughtful, boy.""Viracocha," said the youth again, "it hath pleased my mistress to honor me with the command to serve you.""She is very gracious," returned Cristoval, looking the boy over with favor. "Thank her also for this. But what was thine other burden—that on the chair?""Fresh garments for you, Viracocha.""Surely?" said the cavalier. "I thank her again, sincerely, for I had sore need. I will rise at once."The youth retreated backward to the door, and started to go once more upon his knees."Stay!" said Cristoval, quickly interrupting the movement. "There is one matter whereof I would speak—but what is thy name, lad? Markumi? Good! Well, Markumi, there is, as I say, one thing I would mention—a trifle, but as we may be thrown together for a time, it may concern our peace of mind. It is this: I am not an Inca, Markumi, nor an idol, nor an altar, nor yet a heathen god, nor a saint; and may never be any one of them, though I have a namesake who is the last—San Cristoval, of blessed memory, of whom thou mayst some day learn. But, being neither one nor another, this excessive reverence doth not relish me. I am a plain soldier, and love naught better than to see a man upright on his two legs. Reserve, therefore, thy homage for the ladies, who have full claim and title to it; and thy cramps for the Inca, who may be wonted to it—as I am not. Dost comprehend, Markumi?""Not clearly, Viracocha," replied Markumi, with embarrassment."Why, what I mean is this. Keep off thy knees. Bow to me with moderation, temperately, and without extravagance, and I'll like it better. Is it plain?""Yes, Viracocha.""That is a good lad. And now, is there a man in thy village who can trim hair? Ah! Then fetch him. And Markumi—""Yes, Viracocha.""Advise him about the manner of his approach." And he added to himself: "I'll have no barber coming before me in the attitude of a cow just rising from her bed. I weary of it."Cristoval arose quite himself. He hummed through his bath and was cheerful until he confronted the chair holding the apparel sent by the Palla. Then his face grew sombre."Santa Maria!" he whispered. "Do I face the need of donning this infidel caparison? Must I forswear the guise and earmarks of a Christian? On my soul, 'twill stick sorely in my conscience!" He lifted one piece after another from the pile, surveying them at arm's length, then turned to his own sadly worn garments. "No help for it, Cristoval," he said, as he overhauled them. "They are rent, torn, ripped, and decrepit, to say naught of the stains of hard travel. Well, may Heaven overlook my heathen masquerade!" He returned to the others and gloomily began to dress.The costume was that of a Peruvian noble: a shirt of white cotton, another of white wool, and a loose, sleeveless tunic, handsomely woven in rich colors and conventional design, to be belted in at the waist, leaving its skirts falling as a kilt almost to the knees. There was a girdle—a broad band, highly ornamental in its woven pattern, heavily fringed with flat braids of cord, each of half the breadth of a hand, and reaching to the bottom of the tunic. Over this was worn a belt, and Cristoval lifted it with an exclamation. It was of soft leather, and mounted with heavily embossed plates of alternate gold and silver."By the saints!" quoth he. "Should Pizarro rest his eye upon this he'd raise my price."A cloak, or poncho, and a pouch to be hung from the belt, equally rich in design and color with the tunic, completed the apparel for the body. A pair of sandals, or buskins, with broad straps highly ornate, and provided with protecting toe-pieces and side-pieces, were beside the chair. These laced half-way up to the knees. The costume was picturesque, thoroughly graceful and masculine, and revealed his strength of arm and symmetry of leg; but as he glanced downward his eyes rested upon his bare knees and half-bare calves."Oh, the fighting saint!" he exclaimed, in dismay. "My knees! Stark, gleaming, barefaced, preëminent knees! Gods! I'mallknees! O, San Miguel, clap thine eyes upon them! Didst ever see so many knees, and knees so braggart in their nakedness? Name of a fiend!"He tugged at the kilt to bring it lower, but vainly, and he sat down."A thousand curses!" he groaned, as he contemplated them. "Thrice more flagrant in repose!" He rose and moved about, watching them narrowly. "Flashing like the beacons of Tarragona when I walk! Ah, Blessed Mother, can I ever lug their effrontery into the gaze of women's eyes? Oh, would that I were Pedro! then this immodesty were reduced by half. Blood and Misery!"He was standing helpless when Markumi entered with his breakfast. Cristoval eyed him closely, but the boy observed nothing unusual, merely announcing as he set to work to arrange the table that the man would come presently to trim his hair. His knees were bare too, of course, and Cristoval envied their brown.Bien! He would sun his own assiduously—and he sat down with a gradually returning feeling of composure.By the time he had breakfasted the barber arrived. Cristoval hoped to be shaved; but learning that the Peruvians used only tweezers, gave it up, forced to be content with the closest possible trimming. Even this he would have forgone but for Rava, who disliked, and more than half feared, the Viracocha beard. An hour later, with head and face reduced to order, Cristoval strolled out in search of his hostess.The court in the rear, as he had observed the night before, was open toward the lake and guarded on that side by a low parapet from which steps descended to a broad avenue through the trees, from terrace to terrace to the shore, a few hundred yards distant. In the middle of the patio was the usual fountain, and on each side a parterre, at one of which a venerable servant was at work on the budding plants. Before Cristoval could prevent, the old man prostrated himself; on being asked for the Palla, he rose painfully and led Cristoval to the steps, saying, "She walked toward the lake a moment ago, Viracocha, with two young friends. No doubt you will find her on the shore."The cavalier thanked him and looked about. The building was of the customary massiveness and severity of style, modified somewhat by numerous windows and niches, and by the sculptured border surrounding each doorway. This decoration struck Cristoval forcibly as being identical with the simpler forms of Grecian frets seen in European architecture. Among the trees on either side were smaller buildings for the accommodation of the Palla's servants. The site had been chosen with the fine appreciation of natural beauty of surroundings characteristic of the ancient Peruvians. From the foot of the hill the lake spread out like a mirror, reflecting in perfect detail every rugged feature of the opposite mountains, with here and there a streak of silver where its surface was ruffled by the morning breeze. To the right was the village of Xilcala, and ten miles or more beyond, the narrow gorge through which the waters of the lake found exit on their way to the distant sierra. On his left, toward the canyon he had descended the day before, was a stretch of rolling fields with groups of men at work, and he caught the plaintive melody of a ploughing-song. He listened, impressed by the sense of peace which pervaded the valley, and descended the steps to the avenue. The bank was terraced to the water's edge, each terrace with its trees, shrubbery, winding paths, and nooks with benches inviting idleness. At the margin of the lake was a sunny space, or hemicycle, from which opened a charming panorama of the lake; and surrounding it were broad, high-backed stone seats, shaded by overhanging foliage. One bench was covered with rugs and cushions, and bits of half-finished embroidery indicated the recent presence of the ladies.The cavalier turned into the path along the shore. He had not gone far before he heard voices, and another step brought him face to face with his hostess. She was advancing slowly, her arms encircling a maiden on each side. They walked with hands resting affectionately on her shoulders, bending forward and listening, the attention of all so engaged in conversation that Cristoval had been unheard. The Palla started slightly when she perceived her guest, but disengaged herself and came to greet him."May the Sun shine kindly upon you this morning, Viracocha Cristoval," she said, offering her hand. "I rejoice to see that your recent hardships have left few traces."Her cordiality and freedom from constraint, due in part to his altered appearance, but in a great degree also to Rava's influence, placed the cavalier at ease, and he forgot his knees."The traces must be deep indeed," he replied, "not to be banished by the gracious hospitality of the Palla Maytalca. The hardships are no longer remembered.""I fear you belittle them," she said, with a smile and a slight flush. "The Ñusta Rava hath already told me much of your terrible journey, and my wonder that she endured it is only less than my thankfulness that she had so good a guardian."Cristoval bowed again. "The Ñusta Rava hath rare spirit. I trust she will quickly regain her strength, Palla Maytalca."Cristoval showed his anxiety, and the lady hastened to assure him that his ward needed only rest. "But now," she said, "let me make you known to my young companions," and she called to the damsels a few steps away. Their timidity at approaching a Viracocha, to them a fabulous and dreaded being, was dissipated by his simple kindliness of manner, and when the quartet reached the hemicycle the first reserve had gone. The maidens were the daughters of thecuracaof Xilcala, the Palla explained, and spent much of their time with her, acquiring what accomplishments she could impart, and affording her welcome companionship in return. They were handsome, graceful girls, and compared favorably, Cristoval thought, with the señoritas of Castile.All three were soon engaged with their embroidery, Maytalca often pausing to listen breathlessly to the cavalier's details of the flight from Caxamalca. He gave them simply, passing over incidents that involved his own courage, and dwelling with quiet enthusiasm upon Rava's fortitude. But his hostess had heard from the Ñusta more of the former than of the latter, and she was rapidly coming to share the estimate of him held by his gratefulprotégée. At his mention of the Cañares her face became grave."I fear them, Viracocha Cristoval," she said, seriously. "They are as wolves on the track of a wounded deer. It is a tribe which hath cost the Incas most heavily to subdue, and their subjection hath never been complete. They were conquered first by the Inca Tupac Yupanqui, but revolted some years ago and were repressed at terrible sacrifice of life. The tribe hath never taken kindly to our laws and institutions, and hath always resisted the benevolent efforts of the Incas to lift them from savagery. It is true, they fought with our unhappy Huascar against Atahualpa, but they were influenced, I have always thought, less by loyalty to Tavantinsuyu than by their native treachery, for they were once subject to Quito. Now they hate Quito and Cuzco alike, and I wonder not at their traitorous alliance with the invaders.—Pardon me, Viracocha Cristoval!""You are not talking to an enemy of Tavantinsuyu, Palla Maytalca," said Cristoval, quietly."I believe it," she returned, with a quick glance. "I think it hath been proven. But," she resumed, after a pause, "I dread the thought of the Cañares following."Cristoval was silent for a moment. "I should think it impossible that we could be traced by any living creature," he said, at length."They will search every crevice of these mountains; and the distance from here to Caxamalca is not great, Viracocha."
CHAPTER XVII
The Fugitives in the Wilderness
Once more to the fugitives. The town left well behind, and the immediate danger of pursuit now past, the stimulus of live fear was removed, and Rava's spirit began to flag. She was feeling the weary length of the night with its never-ending plash, plash, plash, through the darkness, pelted by the rain, belabored by the wind, and seemingly going nowhere. There were few landmarks but ghostly trees and the innumerable small ditches, each, in the murk, so like those left behind that there seemed to her distressed and overwrought mind but a single one, presenting itself over and over again by some enchantment, to be crossed and recrossed until despair should bring them to earth. Her sodden garments clung to her, impeding every step. Her cloak, weighted by the rain, thrashed about by the gale, bore upon her as if made of lead, staggering her with its buffetings. The struggle was exhausting, and she already felt its effects. They rested frequently, Cristoval striving to stay the ebbing of her courage, but noting with grave concern her waning strength. At last, to his complete dismay, she gave up, weeping.
"Oh, Viracocha Cristoval," she sobbed, "I can go no farther! Leave me and save yourself. Alone, you can escape, but I can only be a fatal hindrance. Go, I pray you!"
The cavalier would have been less disturbed had a dozen soldiers sprung up before him, and would have known better what to do. "Oh, Holy Mother!" he groaned to himself, "look upon a helpless sinner and aid him now! A weeping girl in the middle of a heathen cornfield in the middle of a heathen rainy night, and not another woman within a league to run for!" He contemplated the dim, quivering form with an embarrassment exceeded only by his compassion.
"Go, Viracocha!" she urged, with a moan whose piteousness brought him to his senses.
"Why, God help me, child!" he exclaimed, impetuously. "I would as quickly think of leaving thee as of pulling the nose of the Pope! Come, now,chiquita mia, do not weep! Thou 'rt weary, I know—and cold. Well, I'll tell thee—we must be moving, thou knowest—and I'll carry thee for a space. Presently thou'lt be rested, then we'll walk again. Hush, now, little one!"
Without heeding her protests he lifted her and strode on with her in his arms. For some distance the girl wept quietly on his shoulder while he strove to soothe. The good Cristoval was as fatherly as if she had been his own, and before long her tears had subsided. But he was less cheerful than his words were cheering. There was importunate need of speed, and speed was impossible.
They kept on to the southward until an hour before the dawn. Their halts were infrequent now, but often the cavalier took his ward into his arms and carried her until she was able to struggle along beside him, half supported. At last they turned to the west, and within an hour were on the great road, going toward Guamachucho. They pushed on more rapidly and in silence, Cristoval preoccupied with the immediate future. He was debating, in the main, the policy of at once making themselves and the situation known to the natives of the valley, to secure their aid. He finally decided against it. He had no doubt of their willingness and loyalty, but danger lay in the nearness of Caxamalca. A suspicion on the part of the Spaniards that these people had knowledge of the fugitives would be warrant for an effort to extort it, and Cristoval was too well acquainted with Spanish methods to feel sure that the effort would be unsuccessful. Pizarro would not hesitate at any cruelty to gain the information, and the safest plan would be to leave no traces. Before twenty-four hours he had reason to be thankful for that decision.
The morning was now so near that the highway was no longer safe, and he had resolved to gain the foothills, when he became aware of a small group of buildings. The principal one, he observed, was a smalltambofor herdsmen. They passed it cautiously, and were again in the open, unconscious of having been seen by an early riser. The man, a Spaniard, peered through the darkness at their shadowy forms, stood listening for a moment, then stepped after them on tiptoe. Shortly he paused and hearkened again. The sound of their steps ceased as they left the roadway, and with a grunt and grin he returned to thetambo.
Here several comrades were moving about, and he told his tale, remarking that the pair had left the road for the fields. His account brought slight comment, and he dropped the matter until, later in the morning, he found an audience with a pronounced interest in his observations, the significance of which his absence from Caxamalca for a few days had made him unable to measure. He was informed by the first search party met coming from the town, and the squad left him at a gallop.
By the first gray of daybreak the fugitives had gained the crest of a range of foothills. The ridge stretched away to the south with many a rise and dip, finally dropping into a distant valley. In front, almost at their feet, but with two or three smaller ranges between, lay the plain of Caxamalca, half veiled by the morning mist and nearly a thousand feet below. Just over the farthest of the foothills they could descry the road with its fringe of trees, and the group of flat-looking buildings of thetambo. Nearer was a cottage and garden, close to their path into the hills, but which they had not seen. To the west was a ridge higher than theirs, backed by the gray silhouette of the Cordillera. They saw in the fair valley nothing of hostility, to be revealed perhaps at any moment, and strained their eyes to the northward for signs of pursuit. The only life, however, was in a few specks of figures moving about thetambo, the cottager already at work in his garden, and a solitary wayfarer on the road to Caxamalca.
The cavalier turned away satisfied from his scrutiny, and spread his cloak at the foot of an outcropping rock. Soon they were busy with a frugal breakfast, Cristoval eating sparingly, talking little, and keeping a vigilant eye on the valley. Rava, too weary to talk, was quite ready to stretch herself upon his cloak under the sheltering ledge. He wrapped her well in its folds, and had hardly turned away before she was sleeping.
How long she slept she could not have said, but it seemed only a moment before she was roused by Cristoval's touch. She looked up with bewildered eyes. "What is it, Viracocha Cristoval? Oh, where am I? I dreamed—but, are we pursued?" Terrified by his expression, her voice sank into a whisper.
"We must go," he replied, giving her his hand. She rose painfully, and he drew her back from the crest of the hill. A misty rain was falling, obscuring all but the fields immediately below. As she looked, she gasped and clutched his arm. Towering before her, seemingly but a few yards away, was a white, curling column of smoke, writhing heavily as it rose, and drifting off down the valley.
"Oh, what is that, Viracocha?" she cried, cowering at his side. "What is it—what is it?"
"Nothing to fear," said Cristoval, drawing her farther away. "The cottage hath been fired. They have found our trail, Heaven only knoweth how!"
Cristoval threw her cloak around her, secured his own, and hurried her away. The thatch of the cottage was blazing fiercely. Outside of the garden wall stood a group of horses, and trotting in the direction of the hills, a squad of three troopers, one of them in the lead, bending over his saddle-bow in scrutiny of the ground.
Cristoval had seen the cavalcade nearly an hour before; saw them halt at thetambo, leave the road, gallop to the cottage, and surround it. Not long afterward it burst into flames, and he had little doubt that the unfortunate native, and perhaps his family, were being put to torture. He watched until the three troopers left the others and started toward the hills. Then he had awakened Rava.
As they left the spot she was weeping and frantically wringing her hands. "Oh, Viracocha Cristoval," she sobbed; "are they burning and killing because of our flight? Let me go back! Oh, let me go back! My return may stay their cruelty."
"No, no!" he replied, quickly. "They are not killing, and now that they have found our traces they will probably burn no more. Your return would not help, Ñusta Rava. Compose yourself, I pray you."
"Ah, my poor people!" she wailed. "My unhappy country! The Sun hath indeed turned away his face! Ah me, ah me!"
Cristoval crossed himself at the mention of her pagan deity, and whispered a prayer for her soul. She turned to him earnestly.
"Viracocha, we will not seek aid until beyond the reach of those cruel men. We must endanger none of my father's children. We will flee alone—die alone, if need be."
Cristoval nodded assent, but thought of Pedro's pouch, which was none too heavy. How to replenish it without the help of men would be a question. "By the saints!" he thought; "this lady's escape is attended by difficulties, and now she setteth up problems of generalship that are unfamiliar. Ah, well, we'll see what can be done." Then he said aloud, "We will consider it later, Ñusta Rava. For the present, it is better not to talk, for breath may grow precious later on."
They pressed forward. The cottage was smouldering now, and left by the soldiery, who had apparently gone into the lower hills, for none was in sight. The top of the ridge was fairly smooth, though occasionally strewn with rock; but toward midday it developed into a succession of deep gullies, and their progress became labored, with halts of growing frequency. Before the afternoon was half gone Rava showed serious exhaustion, and they stopped in a thicket. Cristoval again spread his cloak, and once more she slept. In an hour he regretfully awakened her, and they took up their march. The sky was clearing, and presently Cristoval saw the expected. Far to the eastward, creeping over the first foothills, was a small, dark column of horsemen, sparkling here and there as the afternoon sun struck upon burnished helm and corselet, and deploying at last into a widely-extended line. Another column was moving to the southward along the highway, almost imperceptibly, as it appeared to Rava, but in reality at a gallop, as Cristoval knew. He watched for a time without comment, then led on. When darkness fell they rested again; then up with the rising moon and wearily onward.
The night was far spent when they were brought to a halt at the verge of a cliff, and looked into a valley half a league in breadth, roughly semicircular, and opening to the east. Its floor held many a hillock and hollow, and here and there the white walls of a cottage glimmered in the moonlight. At the foot of the declivity flowed a stream, showing silvery where it rippled past a shoal, black in the quiet pools, finally losing itself in the distant plain to which the vale descended. To the west the hills closed in gradually, forming the head of the amphitheatre and softening into the semiluminous mist which filled a great rift in the wall of the Cordillera looming beyond. Through this dim moonlit canyon the stream found its way into the valley from the fastnesses of its source.
The dale was one of those rare spots of the arid Sierra made fertile by an ample supply of water, and every available foot, as Cristoval could see, was under cultivation. From the edge of the cliff the long sinuous lines of terraces on the opposite hills were distinctly visible in the moonlight, following the contour of the valley-wall far to the east and west.
They stood for several minutes, Rava gazing longingly upon the peaceful cottages of her people, their shelter so near, yet denied. Cristoval, strongly tempted to take the risk of entrusting themselves to some of the denizens, was about to make the suggestion when both were startled by the neighing of a horse. It came, apparently, from a point just below, and was answered immediately by another, more remote. Rava clutched his arm with a quick catching of breath.
"Santa Maria!" interjected he, in an undertone. "So they are here before us!" His faint hope of aid was dashed. While Rava clung, trembling, to his arm, he debated. The plain was occupied. To cross it in this brilliant moonlight would be fatal. Even the hills were no longer safe; parties would be scouring them with the earliest dawn, and in their last march darkness had made it impossible not to leave traces. Cristoval glanced at the dark eyes turned anxiously to his.
"There is but one thing left for us to do, Ñusta Rava. We must trust ourselves to yonder mountains."
"Oh, my good friend," she whispered, in terror; "in those mountains we are lost! We shall starve—go mad! They are most dreadful. You know not, Viracocha."
"Less to be dreaded than the wolves around us," he replied, sombrely. "There is naught else. We can hide there until the hunt is given over. How is your strength. Are you very tired?"
"I can go," she said, with a brave effort to conceal the tremor in her voice.
"Then come. If need be, I can carry you; but we must make speed."
They followed the encircling hills, and descried presently the smouldering fire of a bivouac, far out in the valley. An hour late, nearing the mouth of the canyon, they found new danger. It was picketed. Fortunately they were warned by the live embers of the campfire left by an indiscretion for which Cristoval returned fervent thanks, and they passed by a detour well up the mountainside. Safely beyond, they crept down to the bank of the torrent foaming noisily through the gulch, and while Rava waited Cristoval went on his knees in search of the trail which he knew instinctively would be there. He found it presently, a mere trace left by herdsmen in years of going and coming to and from the mountain pastures, and to be followed with difficulty in the shadow of the canyon. It was rough, and grew rougher as they proceeded, but in its rockiness lay safety, for it held no tell-tale tracks. They stumbled on in fevered haste, Rava heedless of weariness and the bruising stones alike. Cristoval gave what aid he could, supporting her weight when possible, guiding her steps among the bowlders, and she struggled on without complaint.
Momentarily the stream grew wilder, plunging and tearing over the rocks and filling the canyon with its roar. Now they blundered along its brink, now toiled up a steep ascent to pass a spur, then down, slipping, floundering, and lacerating their hands on the thorny bushes clutched to save a fatal pitch headlong into the howling waters below. The pace could not endure. Again and again Rava fell, to be raised gently by the cavalier and carried in his arms until he staggered,—but on and on, though he groaned at the torture she endured at every step.
Morning came, and revealed such a scene of savage grandeur as he had never before beheld. They were well within the mountains. On either hand they rose in ragged slope or dizzy precipice, buttressed, pinnacled, piled crag upon crag until their heights pierced the heavens. In front loomed greater steeps, with gloomy malevolence in every seam and scar. Around them, a madness of shattered rock, strewn and riven as if hurled down by an angry god. Over these raged and thundered the stream, here a white, leaping cataract, there a black, whirling pool, and sinister everywhere.
They labored onward, in their stupendous surroundings mere pygmies on a threadlike trail, bending beneath exhaustion as if crushed by the enmity of the wilderness. Often, turning to lift the half-fainting girl, Cristoval found the tears streaming over her pallid cheeks, and at last he saw her sandals were stained with blood. In his arms she clung in the complete abandonment of weariness, and when he was compelled to lower her to her feet she reeled, too benumbed to follow. But he pressed forward, relentless under the driving necessity, though with aching heart for every evidence of her suffering. No halt possible now, for day had come, and he knew they would be followed. At the first light he scrutinized the trail in the hope of finding marks of horses' hoofs in indication that the canyon had been explored the day before. The signs were absent, and he knew the hunt would soon be upon them. From time to time he left Rava to rest while he clambered up the mountain-side for a cautious look back down the valley, returning to rouse and gently urge her forward. Frequently she pleaded, begging to be left to die; but his face was stern, and his words, though kindly, grew peremptory in answer to her tears. More often he took her in his arms and strode on without a word.
Thus through hours which seemed to Rava to be life-long; over a path of eternal length; driven by a being who at one moment was a monster of cruelty, urging her on to endless torture, at the next, a spirit of benevolence, on whose shoulder she wept her anguish. And the poor cavalier, wrung by every fresh pang he forced her to undergo, cruciated even by his conscience for bringing such torment upon her, could only toil onward, reeling with fatigue and harrowed by uncertainty while he muttered incoherencies vainly meant to cheer.
At last, having left her beside the path, a mere bedraggled, almost inanimate heap, he returned from a reconnaissance in mad haste.
"Quick!" he whispered, as he bent to raise her from the ground. "Up—up! They are upon us! We must hide—God knoweth where!"
His urgency gave her life, and she staggered to her feet, clinging to him and looking back in terror. A few paces forward, her pain forgotten; then down toward the stream, from rock to rock, to a bowlder behind which they crouched at the edge of a pool. He pressed her down and knelt, his hand one of iron upon her arm.
It seemed an hour before her ears caught the sound of hoofs, and she closed her eyes. They neared slowly, until she heard the subdued voices of the riders. They halted a moment, scanning the mountain-sides, and moved on. They were opposite the bowlder, so close that she could hear the creaking saddles; an age in passing; finally past. Cristoval relaxed his grip upon her arm, and she heard his deep-drawn breath. He half arose and looked warily after them. A gallant party, surely, with the sunlight glancing from their steel, but Cristoval whispered a fervent curse upon them as they wound along the trail—upon each by name, for they were near enough for easy recognition. They rode slowly, searching the sides of the defile with careful scrutiny; halted at a point a hundred yards up the canyon, and dismounted to lead their horses, over the narrow path where an outcropping ledge crowded toward a dangerous slope, falling away abruptly to the stream twenty feet below. Beyond this they mounted again and shortly disappeared beyond a jutting crag.
Cristoval turned to Rava. She was crouched with half-closed eyes, her hands tight-pressed upon her bosom. Startled by her pallor and the drawn lines about her mouth, he hastily opened the pouch and drew forth the flask ofchicha. "Here!" he whispered, unstopping it and pressing it to her lips. "Swallow this. It will help thy strength. They have gone.—Rava! Dost hear? Swallow!"
She obeyed mechanically. He bathed her forehead with the icy water, and presently she revived.
"Ah!Gracias á Dios!" he murmured, as she opened her eyes. "Thou'rt better? Another sip, and thou'lt be thyself. They have gone, but we must find better shelter before they return.—Poor little one, thou 'rt worn to death—and,Madre!—thy feet! Oh,miserere Domine!"
He looked cautiously about. Beyond was a larger bowlder, rising almost from the water's edge, a few small bushes growing near. It would afford better hiding—the only one as far as he could see. He bore her thither. Seating her against the rock with his folded cloak for cushion, he hastened to unlace her sandals and bathe and bandage her cuts. Her head was drooping, and he quickly cleared the narrow strip of sand, and eased her upon it. She was sleeping heavily almost before he had drawn her cloak around her.
Cristoval seated himself to await the return of the cavalcade, lines of anxiety on his face as he looked upon the motionless form, wan cheeks, and darkened eyelids, and pondered the gloomy prospects. She was at the limit of her strength. "Ah,miserere nobis, Domine!"
It was late afternoon when he was roused by sounds of the returning horsemen. He rose to his knees, silently unsheathing his sword. The movement awakened Rava, and he raised a warning hand. He heard them halt to dismount, and soon they were passing, riding carelessly, the search of the canyon evidently given over. He looked furtively out as they straggled by.
"Curses, a thousand curses upon you, Gutiero, De Vera, Almar, Cueva—but wait! One is wanting! There were nine, or I miscounted. Ah!—De Valera!"
At that moment he heard a shout, faint and distant, up the canyon, and saw Cueva draw rein. "Shall we wait for him?" Cristoval heard him ask.
"No!" replied one, with an oath. "Let him follow as he can. He's always behind, the pig, and we've wasted time enough for his lagging. He'll not wander far off this highway, I'll venture a peso. Give him an answer, then come."
"Give him answer with thine own wind, if thou hast wind to spare, I'll not," retorted the other, and gave spur. They moved on. Another distant hallo, and Cristoval's eyes suddenly fired. He glanced at Rava, and his resolution formed. There was one chance, and only one, of saving her. She could never survive another day of torture. Maimed and exhausted, a league farther would be beyond her powers. They must have a horse.
Cristoval unbuckled his belt. His lips were compressed, and there was a light in his eyes which Rava had never seen. Laying down belt and scabbard, he picked up his naked blade, gave it quick scrutiny, and looked after the retreating cavalcade. It moved slowly, and it was long before he turned from scowling down the valley. From the other direction came shouts, growing more distinct. He looked again at Rava, who had risen upon her elbow and was watching his eyes in alarm.
"Make no sound!" he whispered, gently touched her hand, and was gone.
A rapid climb brought him to the trail. He glanced once more down the canyon. The horsemen had disappeared beyond a turn, and he ran to the abutting rock where they had dismounted. Here he stepped off the path, and placed himself against the rock. The shouts from the upper valley were near enough now to betray De Valera's anxiety. Minutes passed, then came the ring of the horse's hoofs. They ceased, and a grunt close by told him the laggard trooper had dismounted. De Valera emitted another bellowing wail, and Cristoval heard his puffing approach.
"Come along, thou lazy—ambling—lop-eared—bedeviled—misbegotten—and wholly damned son—of a cow!" De Valera was addressing his languid steed.
Cristoval grinned and laid aside his sword. "Bah! Why kill the wretch?" he thought, but loosed his dagger and gathered for a spring, his alert eyes upon the trail. De Valera appeared, lance over his shoulder, his face purple with irritation and shouting, tugging his reluctant horse. Cristoval was upon him like an avalanche.
"Whoof!" blurted De Valera, with sudden aspiration as he received the charge. Cristoval grappled, and he dropped his lance, slipped, clutched the neck of his assailant's mail, and both rolled down the face of the rock. The horse reared and turned, lost his footing and regained it, and tore back up the canyon at a run.
Rava heard the brief struggle with palpitating heart: the crash of the fall of the armored man, the mad gallop of the horse, and then only the roaring of the torrent. She rose from her knees. There was no sign of Cristoval or his adversary, and only distant hoof-beats to vary the monotonous din of the stream. She leaned against the rock, weak and shaking. For a moment she stood with straining ears. The gallop had died away, and she was alone. Minute after minute fled, and at last she could endure no longer. Unheeding the pain of every step, she sped to the trail. No slightest evidence of life. She ran a few steps down the canyon, halted trembling, and turned to the jutting rock. Here she stopped and looked down, transfixed. There lay a man in armor, inanimate; beside him the form of Cristoval, face upward and marred by a stream of blood from his forehead. She tottered, and parted her lips to scream, but her voice failed. How she descended from the path she never knew; but in a moment she was kneeling with his head in her lap, calling his name in agony, and wiping away the crimson stream. She thought of the water, and in a second was carrying it in her hands and bathing his face, praying, praying for a sign of animation. Tears blinded her while she worked, hurrying to and from the edge of the torrent, dashing the too meagre handfuls into the still face, chafing his wrists, beating the nerveless hands, sobbing and moaning his name. He lay without a quiver. She thought she looked upon death, and her fear became wild, frenzied despair. She cast a shuddering look of horror at the grim desolation surrounding her, and threw herself upon him, her hands at his throat, on his cheeks, in his hair, wailing his name in the extremity of mortal anguish.
He sighed. Ah, merciful Sun!—most beneficent Inti! She stifled her sobs and brushed away her tears that she might see. His eyelids trembled, and now a moan, most faint, barely audible, but—he lived! More water, and more, and when she came again his eyes were open, blankly at the sky at first, then at her. She wept for joy, pressing his hands to her bosom, while he regarded her vaguely, striving to arrange his muddled thoughts.
"Courage!" murmured Cristoval, and closed his eyes again, to be startled to his senses by a shriek from the girl. De Valera had moved, and was feebly groaning. Cristoval turned his head at the sound, and the sight of his fallen enemy aroused him.
"Cielo!" he gasped. "He had slipped my mind." He crawled to the trooper, found his dagger, and tossed it out of reach. De Valera moved again, but Cristoval rose unsteadily and seated himself upon his adversary's chest. "Water,carita!" he whispered, and bowed his reeling head upon his hands. Rava brought her hands full and dashed it into his face. "Ah!Bueno!" he muttered, and looked down upon De Valera. The visor of the helmet was thrown back, and the prostrate soldier was staring up at him. Cristoval glowered, rubbing an aching head, and the two Spaniards regarded one another for a time in silence, neither in full possession of his faculties. At last De Valera moaned faintly, "Mercy, Cristoval!"
Cristoval made no reply, scowling blackly at the pallid face and wiping away the blood which still trickled into his own eyes from the gash in his forehead.
"Mercy, Cristoval! Give me time for a prayer."
The words brought Cristoval more fully to consciousness, and he replied, angrily: "Time for a prayer! Time for a prayer! What dost think?—that I will murder thee, lying on thy back and hands down? If thou hast the thought, dismiss it, or I'll have it out of thee roughly."
The soldier faltered weakly: "What! Thou wilt spare me, good Cristoval? Oh, blessed Virgin!" and tears of gratitude filled his eyes. "But I might have known it of thee, Cristoval."
"Ah!" replied Cristoval, scornfully. "But see thou liest still, lest I lose the whim." He rubbed his head again, struggling to order his thoughts. De Valera lay motionless, and at length Cristoval said sternly:—
"Now attend, thou unfortunate—I am going to plunder thee. I've need of thy horse, which is up yonder—and of thy harness. Thou'lt be wise to make no hindrance. Dost comprehend?Bien! Then sit up whilst I unhelm thee. Ware, now!—no sudden movement!"
Cristoval rose to his feet, still giddy, and set to work, De Valera submitting quietly, while Rava looked on in wonder.
"Alli!" quoth Cristoval, as he tossed the last piece upon the heap of armor. "Now, Ñusta Rava, thy girdle, I pray thee, to bind him. No groaning, Señor! It doth misbecome thee. Now, thy hands behind thy back. So! Now for thy feet.—Good! Hast a kerchief? Then we'll have a choke-pear.—Silence! Dost think I'll have thee waking mournful echoes through the night? Thou hast shouted more than is good for thee already. And next, whilst I make the choke-pear I'll question thee—and see thou makest cheerful response, or— First, hast cherished against me any peculiar animosity? I mean before this solemn afternoon."
"No, good Cristoval," replied De Valera, with candor.
"Then why partaking this hunting holiday?" demanded Cristoval, eying him severely.
"The reward,amigo. A thousandcastellanosto a poor man—"
"A thousand!" exclaimed Cristoval, with contempt. "Is that all Pizarro hath offered? By the saints, he'll double it before I have done! Well,bastante! Thou didst seek reward!Bien! But now thou 'rt unhorsed thou canst hope for reward no longer and canst answer freely. How many are in pursuit?"
"Nearly all have been, saving Juan and Gonzalo Pizarro, De Soto, José, and a few more.—But hold, Cristoval, the Cañares are out and after thee. I give thee warning."
Cristoval drew a long breath, his face darkened, and he stood in reflection. He threw down the choke-pear with which he had purposed gagging his captive. "We'll not trouble thee with it. Thy news is not welcome, Valera, but thy warning is. We will go, Ñusta Rava."
"First, I will attend to your wound," she said, and tearing a strip from her robe, soon had it bandaged. In a few minutes Cristoval was in his enemy's armor, and taking up the lance he said: "Adiós, Valera! Thy comrades will find thee in the morning." He assisted Rava to the trail, secured his sword and belt, and once more they were on their way, leaving De Valera leaning mournfully against a rock, a prey to varied fears.
A mile up the canyon Cristoval captured the horse, and found De Valera's mace and buckler hanging on the saddle. The first care was to examine the contents of the saddlebags.
"Ah!" exclaimed the cavalier, with satisfaction. "Praise Heaven, they are well stocked. Here ischarqui, bread, and parched maize, and grain for our steed in the other—with discretion, some days' supply. But I was more sure of De Valera's providence than of his honesty. Now, we're equipped, Ñusta Rava, and now we'll mount."
It was a trial of her courage, but soon she was seated upon the horse's croup, holding her place with the aid of the cavalier's belt.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Vale of Xilcala
In Rava's memory, afterward, the toil, suffering, and peril of the succeeding days remained as fragments of an anguished dream. There were dim recollections of unmeasured hours of weariness, of journeying upward through huge defiles, along the verge of precipices, and out upon barren stretches of tableland which seemed, in their desolation, the abode of Despair and Death: the moaning of the wind, their voices. Here was infinite loneliness, the dreary solitude of a world forgotten of God. Over these lofty wastes, gasping and dizzy in the rarified air, their brains pierced by the fierce rays of a sun which gave no warmth, their lips split and bleeding, their faces raw and smarting in the eager wind, they labored on. Cristoval, silent, walked and led, his eyes rarely lifted from the faint trail left by herdsmen and their flocks of llamas. This once lost, there would be slight hope. Followed, it might lead to safety.
But through all her recollections of hunger, exhaustion, and torture, was that of the dauntless spirit who shared them with her, ever watchful, ever solicitous, and of unfailing gentleness in the most desperate hours. A memory of a brave, kindly face, growing haggard as one day of struggle followed another, but with never a sign of failing courage or resolution, never a shadow of impatience at her plaints, her tears, or when her weakness compelled the loss of precious time. Often she had been delirious, or in a half stupor, but never unconscious of his presence and tender guardianship. She had a memory, too, of a tempest, of snow and deadly cold, when they had sought shelter among the drifts of a gorge and he had held her in his arms through the night, wrapped in his cloak, his armor removed that she might have his warmth. But she only half remembered the long battle through the snow of a pass to which Providence had led their steps when they had finally lost the trail.
After this, a descending valley, a lonely hut at last, and she came to her senses surrounded by the warmth and frugal comforts of a herdsmen's lodge. Here Cristoval learned from the two occupants of the hut that a village called Xilcala lay within three days' journey through the mountains. The younger of the herders, named Mati, would guide them; and after tarrying for some days until food and rest should fit them to resume their way, they set out.
In the late afternoon of the third day of travel from the hut they were descending into the Vale of Xilcala. Since morning they had been creeping down a canyon which broadened at last at its junction with another, and their haven lay before them. A turn in the trail brought it into sudden view, and they halted, struck by a scene of so rare and tranquil beauty that even Cristoval, not easily impressed, muttered an exclamation. Assisting Rava to dismount, he led her out upon an overhanging ledge. Hundreds of feet below spread a rolling plain surrounding an alpine lake of limpid emerald and blue which gleamed in its setting of spring verdure like some fair jewel. From the water the shores gently rose to the encircling mountains, traceried with walls and hedges, and sparkling with the silver inlay of numberless rivulets and miniature canals. Far up the slopes of the sheltering masses of the Cordillera clung cultivated terraces, theandenes, the lines of their retaining walls sweeping in and out with the contour of the rugged scarp until they broke at a distant cleft in the rampart, through which flowed the outlet of the lake. Half-way down the western shore was the village, crowning a rocky promontory, its white walls reflected on the placid water, and to the weary eyes of the refugees hardly more real or permanent, in its quiet beauty, than the inverted and blended image at its feet. Nearer were scattered cottages, a villa with its park, and shaded lanes and groves of trees just breaking into leafage or blossom.
Over all was an atmosphere of peace that went to the heart of the girl standing with cheeks pale and eyes darkened by the sorrow, hardship, and dangers through which she had come. She gazed long with clasped hands. At length in a whisper, as if loath to break the silence which like the evening haze brooded over the tranquillity below, she said to Cristoval, who stood leaning upon his lance beside her, "Ah, my friend, is it not beautiful? Oh, Viracocha Cristoval, is it not too beautiful to be real?"
"Why, God bless thee, child!" answered the cavalier, "not too beautiful to be real, surely; but fair enough for a dream, no less! and welcome as 't is alluring."
"Most welcome! Most welcome!" she exclaimed; and after a pause, "And now—our cares and dangers are over."
He did not reply at once, and she glanced at him inquiringly. "Thy cares and dangers are over, Ñusta Rava," he said. "I pray 'tis so."
"But," she said, with concern, "I said ours, Viracocha. Are not yours as well?"
"No doubt, no doubt!" he replied, hastily. "The most immediate of them, assuredly." He looked away toward the distant mountains, as if unwilling to pursue the subject. She studied his eyes for a moment, observing their cloud, and said gently, "The most immediate of them, but not all?"
"Oh, belike all!—But shall we not move again? We have yet some distance, and thou 'rt a-weary."
"Presently," she answered, with decision; "when you have told me what you reserve in your thoughts. Why may not your care and danger be past, as well as mine?"
He smiled at her persistence. "Why, Ñusta Rava, thou dost forget! I am a renegade from my countrymen—a traitor—with a price upon my head. And to thine own people, what can I be but one of a band of plunderers—an enemy?"
"Something far different, Viracocha Cristoval," she replied, earnestly. "You are my friend." He inclined his head, but made no reply, and Rava continued: "You have been my preserver; and that meaneth, doth it not, that you are a friend of Tavantinsuyu? Surely, you cannot think we are without gratitude! Not one of my people—not one! but will share mine with me."
"Nay!" replied Cristoval, gravely, "it is not that I would doubt their generosity, Ñusta Rava; but I am a Spaniard, and Spaniards have done your country wrongs that will not be forgotten whilst there lives a father in Tavantinsuyu to tell them to his sons. They will do more grievous ones, for I know them well. Their deeds will breed a hatred for my race that will not die in a thousand years. Think not that my blood can be overlooked."
Rava was pale. "But, Viracocha," she said faintly, after a moment, "you had no part in those deeds—nor will have."
"I had no part in the massacre, and strove to save thy brother—but failed."
She touched his arm timidly. "Your friendship for him, as well as for me, shall be remembered. Be sure of it."
Cristoval shook his head. "It may be so, Ñusta Rava; but to thy people I shall always be one of the race accursed."
She looked long toward the lake and beyond. He resumed with his kindly smile: "And now, child, I shall presently give thee into the hands of thy friends, and thou'lt be 'child' no longer, but a Daughter of the Sun, surrounded by a court, inaccessible to thy rusty cavalier, and with thousands ready to do for thee more than he hath done—though not more gladly, upon my heart!"
She turned to him quickly, her lips parted. No words were uttered, but Cristoval saw a depth and strange lustre in her eyes that haunted his memory. The look was brief and unfathomable. She extended her hand—quite cold, he noted—and faltered, "Let us go, Viracocha." He bent over it, and led her to the horse.
Cristoval walked on beside the head of the steed, striving to divine what she had been about to say, and the meaning of the fleeting expression. He looked back at her, but she seemed lost in reverie, and gave him but a brief downward glance half hidden beneath the veil of her lashes, with the faintest trace of a smile. But, he thought, the smile had more of sadness than her expression of repose.
They had covered half the distance to the town when their guide, who was some paces in advance, halted, faced about, and went upon his knees, bending until his forehead touched the ground.
"Ah!" growled Cristoval to himself, "there goeth that benighted varlet nosing the dust once more. The ten thousandth time since we left his hut! Well, doubtless he hath, with our gracious permission, some humble matter of information." He led up to the prostrate Peruvian and stopped, waiting patiently for the development.
"Rise, Mati," said Rava, gently. "What wouldst thou say?"
Pointing toward the lower valley, he said diffidently: "Most illustrious Daughter of Inti, if you will permit, yonder villa on the hill between this and Xilcala is the home of the Palla[1] Maytalca."
[1] Palla = married woman of the blood-royal.
"Oh! Is it so, Mati?" cried Rava, eagerly. "Then, Viracocha Cristoval, it will be ours. The Palla Maytalca is a kinswoman and was one of my royal father's household. In my childhood I loved her well. We shall be most welcome. Mati, do thou go forward and prepare her for our coming."
The youth dropped to the ground again, rose, and backed away for a dozen yards, then turned and sped down the trail. They followed, and the path shortly entered a lane between rows of willows around the margin of the lake. Night was coming rapidly, and it was almost dark when they arrived at the gateway of the villa. Mati met them, and Rava having dismounted, Cristoval removed his helmet, tethered his horse, and they followed the herdsman down an avenue of trees toward the residence. It was a rambling building, or a group of several, and of a size comporting with the rank of its occupant. As they drew near torches flashed toward them, and they were presently met by the Palla Maytalca, advancing with perturbation, attended by excited young women and torch-bearers. Rava uttered a cry of joy and threw herself into the Palla's arms, and the two mingled their broken exclamations of delight. Cristoval halted a few paces back.
"Rava, Rava, my best beloved!" at last exclaimed the Palla, holding the girl at arm's length, surveying her in surprise and fondness. "I cannot believe it is thou. Hast come from the clouds? By what miracle of the great Inti art thou here?"
"Oh, I hardly know, dearest Maytalca!" answered Rava, smiling and sobbing, "and can make it seem real no more easily than thou. Nor can I tell thee the thousand perils in our coming. Had it not been for the bravest and best of friends—oh, Viracocha Cristoval, I pray you come nearer!—This is he, Maytalca: my deliverer and defender—the Viracocha Cristoval."
The lady started as his grim, warlike figure clanked out of the obscurity and the light fell upon his steel. Observing her trepidation the cavalier halted, saying as he bowed: "Palla Maytalca, you do not know my joy in seeing the Ñusta Rava at last in safety, and in witnessing her affectionate welcome."
His voice and manner were reassuring, and she conquered her fears sufficiently to extend a trembling hand and say, timidly: "One who hath befriended the Ñusta Rava, Viracocha, hath no need to be assured of a welcome to the home of Maytalca. It is yours."
"Be sure of my gratitude," said Cristoval, as with Rava he followed their hostess to the villa. As the Princess passed, the kneeling attendants rose and went after, dumb with awe of the royal maiden and her mysterious companion.
The Palla led across a terrace into a large hall, brightly lighted and strewn with rugs. A pair of braziers were burning, for the evening was growing chill, and Rava was soon established among the cushions of a divan, giving a hurried though unconnected narrative of her late adventures to the wondering Maytalca. The Palla, who, as her title indicated, was of royal blood, though not of the reigning family, was the widow of one of the princes of the realm. She was a stately woman, just past middle age, with hair slightly touched with gray, and robed in the rich costume of the women of the nobility. Her bearing was that of a gentlewoman, and whatever disquietude she felt at her steel-clad guest it was effectually concealed. As a matter of fact he gave an impression of formidableness with his rust-streaked armor, his half-grown beard, eyes burning in sockets made deep by hardship, and cheeks hollowed by the recent toil and hunger, which his gentle comportment could only half dispel. When he excused himself some minutes later and left the room with a servant to look after his horse, the Palla turned to Rava and seized her hands.
"Rava, my child," she exclaimed, in a low voice, "how hadst thou courage to trust thyself with that terrible-appearing man? I tremble to look at him! I shall never sleep while he is beneath the shelter of this roof."
Rava smiled up at her from her cushions. "Ah, Maytalca, thou dost not know him! Had I been a child he could not have been more gentle. Indeed," and the slightest pout came into her expression, "he seemeth to hold me but a child! But oh, my dear, he is brave as he is kind! The god Viracocha himself were not more terrible when he meeteth an enemy: nor thou more tender than he hath been to me. He is invincible; yet hath the heart of a woman. Sleep as thou wouldst with Inti guarding, dearest Maytalca. Thou'lt love him."
The Palla seated herself beside the girl and placed an arm about her, gravely studying her eyes. "Hast thou found, Rava, such traits in thy protector?"
Rava turned her eyes upon her for an instant with a half-frightened look, then dropped them with sudden reserve. "He was the Inca's trusted friend, Maytalca," she replied, with womanly art, "and hath been mine. I believe him most worthy."
The entrance of the cavalier interrupted. He tarried but a moment for a brief but ceremonious leave-taking for the night, then followed a servant to the apartment which the Palla said he should regard as his own. It was in a wing forming one side of a rear court which opened toward the lake, and he found the chamber one which might have suited a Moorish prince. It was decorated with the richness of style which had already become familiar, furnished with the usual cushioned chairs, tables of polished stone, and a divan which looked more inviting than any the weary soldier had laid eyes upon for many days. The attendant opened a door and showed him a small court with a pool fed by a running stream for bathing, then aided him to disarm, and with the announcement that his supper would be sent presently, backed out with a profound reverence. By the time Cristoval had finished his bath the repast was served, and an hour later he was asleep.
He was aroused in the morning by a persistent rapping. Calling a summons to enter, a youth presented himself, dropping immediately upon his knees and bending to the floor. Weariness came into the face of the cavalier at the obeisance, and he directed the boy to rise. He did so, backed out of the door, and reappeared with a goblet and an armful of apparel. The latter he laid over a chair, and approaching the couch, knelt to tender the cup.
"Viracocha," he said, humbly, "my mistress sendeth her morning greeting with the prayer that the Sun have you in his protection."
"It is most kind of her," said Cristoval, rising upon his elbow. "Bear mine in return to her, and thank her for me. What is this? Ah! Hotchichaand water. It is thoughtful, boy."
"Viracocha," said the youth again, "it hath pleased my mistress to honor me with the command to serve you."
"She is very gracious," returned Cristoval, looking the boy over with favor. "Thank her also for this. But what was thine other burden—that on the chair?"
"Fresh garments for you, Viracocha."
"Surely?" said the cavalier. "I thank her again, sincerely, for I had sore need. I will rise at once."
The youth retreated backward to the door, and started to go once more upon his knees.
"Stay!" said Cristoval, quickly interrupting the movement. "There is one matter whereof I would speak—but what is thy name, lad? Markumi? Good! Well, Markumi, there is, as I say, one thing I would mention—a trifle, but as we may be thrown together for a time, it may concern our peace of mind. It is this: I am not an Inca, Markumi, nor an idol, nor an altar, nor yet a heathen god, nor a saint; and may never be any one of them, though I have a namesake who is the last—San Cristoval, of blessed memory, of whom thou mayst some day learn. But, being neither one nor another, this excessive reverence doth not relish me. I am a plain soldier, and love naught better than to see a man upright on his two legs. Reserve, therefore, thy homage for the ladies, who have full claim and title to it; and thy cramps for the Inca, who may be wonted to it—as I am not. Dost comprehend, Markumi?"
"Not clearly, Viracocha," replied Markumi, with embarrassment.
"Why, what I mean is this. Keep off thy knees. Bow to me with moderation, temperately, and without extravagance, and I'll like it better. Is it plain?"
"Yes, Viracocha."
"That is a good lad. And now, is there a man in thy village who can trim hair? Ah! Then fetch him. And Markumi—"
"Yes, Viracocha."
"Advise him about the manner of his approach." And he added to himself: "I'll have no barber coming before me in the attitude of a cow just rising from her bed. I weary of it."
Cristoval arose quite himself. He hummed through his bath and was cheerful until he confronted the chair holding the apparel sent by the Palla. Then his face grew sombre.
"Santa Maria!" he whispered. "Do I face the need of donning this infidel caparison? Must I forswear the guise and earmarks of a Christian? On my soul, 'twill stick sorely in my conscience!" He lifted one piece after another from the pile, surveying them at arm's length, then turned to his own sadly worn garments. "No help for it, Cristoval," he said, as he overhauled them. "They are rent, torn, ripped, and decrepit, to say naught of the stains of hard travel. Well, may Heaven overlook my heathen masquerade!" He returned to the others and gloomily began to dress.
The costume was that of a Peruvian noble: a shirt of white cotton, another of white wool, and a loose, sleeveless tunic, handsomely woven in rich colors and conventional design, to be belted in at the waist, leaving its skirts falling as a kilt almost to the knees. There was a girdle—a broad band, highly ornamental in its woven pattern, heavily fringed with flat braids of cord, each of half the breadth of a hand, and reaching to the bottom of the tunic. Over this was worn a belt, and Cristoval lifted it with an exclamation. It was of soft leather, and mounted with heavily embossed plates of alternate gold and silver.
"By the saints!" quoth he. "Should Pizarro rest his eye upon this he'd raise my price."
A cloak, or poncho, and a pouch to be hung from the belt, equally rich in design and color with the tunic, completed the apparel for the body. A pair of sandals, or buskins, with broad straps highly ornate, and provided with protecting toe-pieces and side-pieces, were beside the chair. These laced half-way up to the knees. The costume was picturesque, thoroughly graceful and masculine, and revealed his strength of arm and symmetry of leg; but as he glanced downward his eyes rested upon his bare knees and half-bare calves.
"Oh, the fighting saint!" he exclaimed, in dismay. "My knees! Stark, gleaming, barefaced, preëminent knees! Gods! I'mallknees! O, San Miguel, clap thine eyes upon them! Didst ever see so many knees, and knees so braggart in their nakedness? Name of a fiend!"
He tugged at the kilt to bring it lower, but vainly, and he sat down.
"A thousand curses!" he groaned, as he contemplated them. "Thrice more flagrant in repose!" He rose and moved about, watching them narrowly. "Flashing like the beacons of Tarragona when I walk! Ah, Blessed Mother, can I ever lug their effrontery into the gaze of women's eyes? Oh, would that I were Pedro! then this immodesty were reduced by half. Blood and Misery!"
He was standing helpless when Markumi entered with his breakfast. Cristoval eyed him closely, but the boy observed nothing unusual, merely announcing as he set to work to arrange the table that the man would come presently to trim his hair. His knees were bare too, of course, and Cristoval envied their brown.Bien! He would sun his own assiduously—and he sat down with a gradually returning feeling of composure.
By the time he had breakfasted the barber arrived. Cristoval hoped to be shaved; but learning that the Peruvians used only tweezers, gave it up, forced to be content with the closest possible trimming. Even this he would have forgone but for Rava, who disliked, and more than half feared, the Viracocha beard. An hour later, with head and face reduced to order, Cristoval strolled out in search of his hostess.
The court in the rear, as he had observed the night before, was open toward the lake and guarded on that side by a low parapet from which steps descended to a broad avenue through the trees, from terrace to terrace to the shore, a few hundred yards distant. In the middle of the patio was the usual fountain, and on each side a parterre, at one of which a venerable servant was at work on the budding plants. Before Cristoval could prevent, the old man prostrated himself; on being asked for the Palla, he rose painfully and led Cristoval to the steps, saying, "She walked toward the lake a moment ago, Viracocha, with two young friends. No doubt you will find her on the shore."
The cavalier thanked him and looked about. The building was of the customary massiveness and severity of style, modified somewhat by numerous windows and niches, and by the sculptured border surrounding each doorway. This decoration struck Cristoval forcibly as being identical with the simpler forms of Grecian frets seen in European architecture. Among the trees on either side were smaller buildings for the accommodation of the Palla's servants. The site had been chosen with the fine appreciation of natural beauty of surroundings characteristic of the ancient Peruvians. From the foot of the hill the lake spread out like a mirror, reflecting in perfect detail every rugged feature of the opposite mountains, with here and there a streak of silver where its surface was ruffled by the morning breeze. To the right was the village of Xilcala, and ten miles or more beyond, the narrow gorge through which the waters of the lake found exit on their way to the distant sierra. On his left, toward the canyon he had descended the day before, was a stretch of rolling fields with groups of men at work, and he caught the plaintive melody of a ploughing-song. He listened, impressed by the sense of peace which pervaded the valley, and descended the steps to the avenue. The bank was terraced to the water's edge, each terrace with its trees, shrubbery, winding paths, and nooks with benches inviting idleness. At the margin of the lake was a sunny space, or hemicycle, from which opened a charming panorama of the lake; and surrounding it were broad, high-backed stone seats, shaded by overhanging foliage. One bench was covered with rugs and cushions, and bits of half-finished embroidery indicated the recent presence of the ladies.
The cavalier turned into the path along the shore. He had not gone far before he heard voices, and another step brought him face to face with his hostess. She was advancing slowly, her arms encircling a maiden on each side. They walked with hands resting affectionately on her shoulders, bending forward and listening, the attention of all so engaged in conversation that Cristoval had been unheard. The Palla started slightly when she perceived her guest, but disengaged herself and came to greet him.
"May the Sun shine kindly upon you this morning, Viracocha Cristoval," she said, offering her hand. "I rejoice to see that your recent hardships have left few traces."
Her cordiality and freedom from constraint, due in part to his altered appearance, but in a great degree also to Rava's influence, placed the cavalier at ease, and he forgot his knees.
"The traces must be deep indeed," he replied, "not to be banished by the gracious hospitality of the Palla Maytalca. The hardships are no longer remembered."
"I fear you belittle them," she said, with a smile and a slight flush. "The Ñusta Rava hath already told me much of your terrible journey, and my wonder that she endured it is only less than my thankfulness that she had so good a guardian."
Cristoval bowed again. "The Ñusta Rava hath rare spirit. I trust she will quickly regain her strength, Palla Maytalca."
Cristoval showed his anxiety, and the lady hastened to assure him that his ward needed only rest. "But now," she said, "let me make you known to my young companions," and she called to the damsels a few steps away. Their timidity at approaching a Viracocha, to them a fabulous and dreaded being, was dissipated by his simple kindliness of manner, and when the quartet reached the hemicycle the first reserve had gone. The maidens were the daughters of thecuracaof Xilcala, the Palla explained, and spent much of their time with her, acquiring what accomplishments she could impart, and affording her welcome companionship in return. They were handsome, graceful girls, and compared favorably, Cristoval thought, with the señoritas of Castile.
All three were soon engaged with their embroidery, Maytalca often pausing to listen breathlessly to the cavalier's details of the flight from Caxamalca. He gave them simply, passing over incidents that involved his own courage, and dwelling with quiet enthusiasm upon Rava's fortitude. But his hostess had heard from the Ñusta more of the former than of the latter, and she was rapidly coming to share the estimate of him held by his gratefulprotégée. At his mention of the Cañares her face became grave.
"I fear them, Viracocha Cristoval," she said, seriously. "They are as wolves on the track of a wounded deer. It is a tribe which hath cost the Incas most heavily to subdue, and their subjection hath never been complete. They were conquered first by the Inca Tupac Yupanqui, but revolted some years ago and were repressed at terrible sacrifice of life. The tribe hath never taken kindly to our laws and institutions, and hath always resisted the benevolent efforts of the Incas to lift them from savagery. It is true, they fought with our unhappy Huascar against Atahualpa, but they were influenced, I have always thought, less by loyalty to Tavantinsuyu than by their native treachery, for they were once subject to Quito. Now they hate Quito and Cuzco alike, and I wonder not at their traitorous alliance with the invaders.—Pardon me, Viracocha Cristoval!"
"You are not talking to an enemy of Tavantinsuyu, Palla Maytalca," said Cristoval, quietly.
"I believe it," she returned, with a quick glance. "I think it hath been proven. But," she resumed, after a pause, "I dread the thought of the Cañares following."
Cristoval was silent for a moment. "I should think it impossible that we could be traced by any living creature," he said, at length.
"They will search every crevice of these mountains; and the distance from here to Caxamalca is not great, Viracocha."