The Inca's eyes were fixed steadily upon Almagro while the answer was being made known to him. "Viracocha," he said coldly, "this outrage is not the first of its kind. Now, I demand the penalty of death."
Almagro's scarred face flushed as his single eye met the Inca's frown, and he replied bluntly: "I refuse! Tell him I refuse, Juan. We'll make what reparation lieth within our power, but curse me if we'll waste a soldier at any man's behest!" and Almagro glanced defiantly from the Inca to the stern faces of his nobles.
Manco rose abruptly, dismissed his court with a few quick words, and left the dais. As he passed the old man he spoke to him in an undertone, and touching his white head lightly as he sank upon his knees, moved toward the door, followed by his suite.
Almagro sprang to his feet. "How now, my puppet king! Dost turn us an angry back? For the price of a breath of air I'd trim the fringe from thy toy of a diadem!"
"Not so loud, Diego!" remonstrated Juan Pizarro. "He hath good offence. I tell thee, we are not wise to make light of this soldier's trespass, amigo. One such outrage unpunished will breed a thousand, and before we are aware the country will be about our ears. 'T is a cut at their tenderest sensibility. I say, hang the knave and keep the peace."
"Kill a good fighting man for the sake of a twig of a heathen girl! Thou 'rt mad, Juan. I had as lief sacrifice a horse. We'll iron him for forty days, and the matter will be forgotten. Come! Set the business afoot. Have a public trial and advertise thy zeal, then keep the affair hanging until interest is worn out. Parade justice for a week, and these varlets will forget their grievance. Vamos!" They left the empty hall, and indifferent to the dark looks of the throng in front of the palace, sought their quarters in the old palace of the Inca Tupac Yupanqui.
With the few nobles so privileged, Manco went to his apartments. Controlling his agitation, he faced his counsellors. For a moment he studied each, reading under their impassiveness the fire smouldering in his own breast. In the group was Villaoma, the Villac Vmu, or high priest of the empire, most sagacious of his advisers, as he had been before to Huayna Capac and to the ill-fated Huascar. The old priest met his look with one of keen scrutiny. Manco had been his favorite, and from boyhood had been watched with an interest as deep and hopeful as if of his own flesh and blood. Manco's admission to the military order came when Cuzco was prostrate before the conqueror Atahualpa, her armies scattered, and the Inca Huascar a prisoner in the fortress at Xauxa. When Pizarro, after the death of Atahualpa, marched upon the capital with the new Inca, Toparca, Manco reassembled the forces of Cuzco and prepared for resistance. Following the counsel of the Villac Vmu, Prince Manco had suspended hostilities after Toparca's death and laid before Pizarro his own claim to the imperial llautu, temporarily humiliating himself to forestall such other pretender as this king-maker might advance. If he had underestimated the cost of this surrender of dignity to policy, the Villac Vmu did not share his mistake; and when the monarch presently realized the penalty for his pawned manhood, the stings of injured pride, the chafing under arrogance, and the wounds of slighted majesty, it was with difficulty that the priest restrained a premature outbreak. Now he saw the fire long kept in check burning near the surface. He held his peace, however, and Manco said merely:—
"I would have thee come hither to-night, Villac Vmu, after the third watch—and you, my generals, Quehuar, Mayta, and Mocho. And come prepared to counsel no longer caution, delay, but—action!" The effect of the last word was electrical—but as a flash of heat lightning, and as silent. It brightened their dark faces and fierce eyes for an instant, and was gone. But he knew them well, this young warrior-emperor; expected no reply, nor wished it. Presently he was alone.
The lamps were being lighted before Manco was in a mood to greet the Ñusta Rava. He sent a page to advise her of his coming, requesting that she be alone. After the youth had gone, he stood at his table with eyes bent moodily upon the floor; then with quick impulse lifted the llautu from his head, laid it aside, and quitted the apartment.
The evening was quiet and warm, but at that hour the several courts were almost deserted, and he walked slowly, encountering few but the frequent sentinels posted since the coming of the Spaniards. Through intermediate patios, he gained the establishment devoted to the suite of Rava and her younger sisters, the Ñustas Ocllo and Alcaya, halting near a door through which came the notes of a tinya and of some fair one singing. The song was a sad one, and he walked on, thinking of the days when these gloomy courts were enlivened with music and laughter from hearts untouched by care. Would those days come again to the brooding old Amarucancha?—to stricken Cuzco? The question was like the thrust of a dagger, self-administered. Was not this air of sadness, this pervading gloom, directly due to his own supineness? Was not its source in his weak, nay, criminal, submission to the Viracochas. Ah, why was he lingering, inactive, under the goading of every crying hour? Why did he rest an instant while there remained an enemy in Cuzco, or in all Tavantinsuyu?