"Your counsellors—have they been stricken with madness?" cried the cavalier. "Do they not know—"
"My friend," interrupted the Inca, placing a hand upon Cristoval's shoulder, "my counsellors know what it is not possible that thou shouldst know—that Tavantinsuyu is menaced by a foe more ruthless than the one in yonder city. This hour hath been long foreseen, and now it is come. Hunger is abroad!"
"Your stanchest ally!" interjaculated Cristoval.
"An ally, but one ready to turn most cruelly against us! Hear me, Cristoval! It is not yet with us, with the army, though thou hast seen the meagre fare our braves have had these many days, and hast been in want, thyself. But there is a graver peril. Thou knowest, the season of planting is at hand. The fields are waiting. Every province of the empire hath been denuded of its men, and only women, children, and the feeble, are left to till the soil. The time is short, and if the grain be not sowed, a calamity will follow, blacker in its horror than that of war, which taketh only lives of men. Starvation recketh neither of sex nor age. The siege must end."
Manco spoke with calmness. His face had paled, but otherwise his emotion was unbetrayed. Cristoval heard him in silence. The Inca's words, he knew, were final, Rhadamanthine; once spoken, not to be opposed by human tongue. Manco resumed:—
"So it must be, Cristoval. The magazines are exhausted—I learned it finally to-day,—and even the archers are in need of arrows. My warriors will march to their provinces with famine attendant, but—they must go. I am defeated! O, great Inti, why—" His words ended, and he turned abruptly away. Cristoval sank into a chair and bowed his head upon his hands. To disband the army now would mean disaster irremediable. He sprang up with fiery, urgent words, but they were stayed by Manco who faced him again with every trace of agitation gone: "I said, defeated! Forget that the word was spoken. Whilst life is spared me, and I have a warrior left to follow, there shall be no defeat. But now, Cristoval, thou wilt go. By midday to-morrow thou'lt have overtaken a force which marched to-day. At Yucay, all will be in readiness. Word hath gone forward, and as soon as the palace is abandoned it will be stripped of all that yonder vultures crave. Having seen the household safely at Ollantaytambo, thou'lt return. I will remain near Cuzco with some force, for the enemy shall find that peace is not yet. Now go, and Heaven speed thee. Farewell."
As Cristoval left the tent he turned. The Inca stood in thought, his dark, handsome face as calm as if his brave heart were untouched by disaster, untorn by myriad cares and sorrows. He waved his hand, and Cristoval left him to the brooding silence of the night—and God alone knows what hours of anguish.
As the cavalier rode forth in the starlight he looked upon a dark, prophetic vision of the future of the fair empire for which he had been fighting. Tavantinsuyu was doomed. Doomed—he saw it now—from the moment Pizarro had set his foot upon its soil. The Spaniards would crowd to its shores like ravening wolves, and before the army could be recalled to the field it would be too late. He knew the indomitable resolution of his countrymen, their resources, and their driving rapacity, too well to hope the Inca could ever regain the advantage now to be put aside. Unless crushed at what was yet its beginning, the conquest would never be abandoned. And too thoroughly did Cristoval know the nature of his race to foresee anything but cruel oppression for the conquered. He looked with clearer prevision than could the stricken monarch into the blackness of the years to come.
The meeting of the lovers at Yucay was in joy and grief. Cristoval strove to inspire a hope he could not share, but when Rava took sorrowful leave of the palace it was with an intuition that she would never enter it again. At Ollantaytambo their parting was in grief alone, and the cavalier rode back to Cuzco followed by many a tearful prayer.
Pedro's fighting days were done, and as he stood on the rampart of the fortress, watching his old comrade's departure, the receding figure grew dim to him by reason of something more than dust and distance.