Hearts Revealed and Sundered
Now, when two human hearts are throbbing under the mysterious influence of the spell called Love, be it noted that the universe pauses in its majestic routine to take a part. Our good Mother Nature lends a more benevolent smile. The breeze touches with softer caress and gentler whispering. The trees and herbage are greener, the flowers yield a sweeter fragrance and wear an added loveliness. The Sun himself shines with brighter effulgence and more generous warmth; at his setting, paints the heavens and gray old earth in hues of unwonted brilliancy, and gives way to twilights more tender than twilights seen at other times. And the Moon—what splendor in her radiance then! and in the stars! The world—the non-human part of it, for our fellowmen are often less benignant and sometimes roughen love's pathway most lamentably—the world takes on new charms and promises things untold; conspiring with the insistent young archer and with a thousand circumstances to lure the lovers on to their silently coveted happiness. Let all mankind unite in a commanding "Nay!" yet the two hear a still voice in more urgent "Yea, yea!" and read approval in Nature's kindly face. Be their resistance never so strong in the beginning, it must surely be overcome by a fatal languor at a fatal moment, and the archer triumphs.
Often, when Cristoval sat beside her in the hemicycle in meditative silence, Rava would take up Maytalca's tinya[1] and sing to its accompaniment. The melodies were simple, soft, and plaintive, and she sang with the sympathy and sweetness of her nature, her voice quivering from the fulness of her heart. The music was the one thing needful to complete the agony of Cristoval's self-denial. He heard her at first with wonder, then with unaffected ravishment.
[1] Tinya = a stringed instrument something like the guitar.
One moonlight evening—alas, a moonlight evening!—Rava had been telling him the great Peruvian classic, "Apu-Ollanta." Ollanta, the hero of the drama, born in obscurity, had risen by bravery and soldierly skill to the command of the armies of the Inca Pachacutec Yupanqui, and was his most trusted and beloved lieutenant. In an unfortunate hour he had loved and gained the love of Cusi-Coyllur, the Inca's daughter. The attachment, forbidden by the laws of Tavantinsuyu because of Ollanta's ignoble birth, was punishable with death. It was the story which has furnished a theme for poets through the ages. They loved in secret, and when at length concealment became no longer possible, Ollanta braved the laws and the Inca's wrath, and demanded Cusi-Coyllur in marriage. He was denied and banished from Cuzco, and when a child was born to the unhappy princess she was cast into prison. Ollanta hurried to his army in one of the provinces, raised his soldiers in rebellion, and led them to rescue his love. The war raged through ten long years, and after the death of Pachacutec Yupanqui, was carried on by his son. At last Ollanta, vanquished and a captive, was taken in chains to Cuzco; but the young Inca, more generous than his father, and moved by the rebel's constancy, pardoned him and led him to the dungeon of the princess. Years of confinement and sorrow had aged her prematurely, but Ollanta saw only the long-lost adored one of his youth and their child, and—well, they were married and restored to happiness and honor.
The story was long, and Rava told it with the simple candor of innocence, repeating with feeling and expression quite without consciousness of self, those passages whose beauty most appealed to her, from time to time taking up her instrument for the songs in the play. She finished, and sat with hands clasped, looking out upon the moon-lit lake, preoccupied and musing, apparently expecting no comment from Cristoval. He had listened with rapt attention, leaning forward with cheek upon his hand, less mindful of the story itself than of her low voice and the emotion on her sensitive features. He sat contemplating the calm beauty of the dark eyes, until, conscious of his gaze, she turned toward him. He roused from his reverie.
"It is a beautiful story, Ñusta Rava," he said, gently drawing the tinya from her lap.
There was a shadow of doubt in her look as she replied, "Didst find it so, Cristoval? It telleth little of war."
"Little of war, to be sure," he answered, failing to notice her tone; "but perhaps the better for that. I have heard its like before," he went on, fingering the strings.
"Yes?" she asked, with slight surprise.