"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.