Cover art

"Quick!" Cristoval whispered, "They are upon us!" (Page 196)

THE CRIMSON CONQUEST

A Romance of Pizarro and Peru

BY

CHARLES BRADFORD HUDSON

With Frontispiece in full color by
J. C. LEYENDECKER

CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1907

Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1907

Published October 5, 1907

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England

The University Press, Cambridge, U.S.A.

CONTENTS

Chapter

I [Booty from Peru]
II [The Señora Declares a Purpose]
III [Nipping a Conspiracy]
IV [The Inca's Encampment]
V [The Monarch and the Princess Rava]
VI [The Massacre]
VII [Cavalier and Cantinero]
VIII [An Arm of the Inquisition]
IX [Cristoval Meets the Princess]
X [A Royal Ransom]
XI [The Inca's Last Prayer]
XII [Vengeance Foiled]
XIII [Cristoval a Prisoner]
XIV [Pedro to the Rescue]
XV [The Flight]
XVI [Pedro in the Thumbscrews]
XVII [The Fugitives in the Wilderness]
XVIII [The Vale of Xilcala]
XIX [Hearts Perplexed]
XX [Hearts Revealed and Sundered]
XXI [The Señora Descends upon Pedro]
XXII [Rava in the Toils]
XXIII [Rogelio Finds Gall and Wormwood]
XXIV [Pedro Seeks Tidings of Cristoval]
XXV [A Glimpse of Cuzco]
XXVI [The Inca Manco]
XXVII [The Incarial Diadem on a Spanish Saddle-Bow]
XXVIII [Two Comrades Reunited]
XXIX [A March and Another Reunion]
XXX [An Encounter on the Plain of Chita]
XXXI [Inca and Conquistador]
XXXII [The Storm Breaks]
XXXIII [The Doomed City]
XXXIV [In the Burning Palace]
XXXV [The Lurking Morisco]
XXXVI [The Barricades]
XXXVII [A Night Attack and a Deliverance]
XXXVIII [A Tie of Mingled Blood]
XXXIX [Again the Señora Descends]
XL [Glory and Peace]

FOREWORD

This tale is to be of days when the green forest-aisles and mountain trails of America saw the glint of the steel of men in armor. It will have to do with times when the aborigine looked upon the sparkle of lance, the flutter of pennon, the gleam of corselet, helm, and morion, and felt his primeval turf tremble beneath the hoofs of steeds in full panoply. It will tell of plumed and plated cavaliers, "In brave pursuit of chivalrous emprise," who found in the wilderness of the New World adventures no less hardy, and near as strange, as any fabled one encountered by knight of old.

It is easily half forgotten that our continent has its chronicles which link us with the age of chivalry; that its soil once sustained the march of men armed cap-a-pie, as bold of heart, greedy for renown, and thirsty for blood, as ever a crusader. They came, proof-valiant against all peril; of a fire-eating, eager courage surpassed alone by their truculence and cruelty; of a courage to meet not only dangers real, but a myriad direful ones born of fancy. For they were, withal, men of imagination and fine, wide credulity. They peopled the West with Amazons, giants, dragons, and legions of beings of varied and curious monstrosity. They were prepared in mind not only to fight battles, but to encounter sorcerers, witches, and the Fiend himself; to undergo all manner of spells, charms, enchantments, and kindred grisly experiences and phenomena. They sought earnestly, conscientiously, and with diligence, for golden Manoa and its emperor, El Dorado, and for the Fountain of Perpetual Youth. If they failed to come upon these, and did no preternatural deeds, they were none the less heroes, animated by the spirit of knight-errantry, which with them took its final leave of earth.

THE CRIMSON CONQUEST

CHAPTER I

Booty from Peru

Toward the end of a day in the year Fifteen Hundred and Thirty-one, as the air cooled slightly with the sun's decline, the plaza of the little Spanish city of Panama grew languidly animate. The square had blazed, shimmered, and baked all day, shunned in its fervor except by those compelled to cross it in order to avoid the exertion of going round, or by the few straggling natives whose half-naked bodies and sun-tanned hides were proof; but this was the hour of listless awakening, and groups formed at the corners, exchanging gossip—if by a blessing there was gossip to exchange—and awaiting the sole break in the sultry monotony of the day, the evening parade of the garrison with its stimulating bang of the culverin at sunset.

The dominant type in these groups was that of the fighting man. Some were sailors, a few were planters; but most of the swarthy faces wore the unmistakable marks of the soldier. The dress and bearing of a small number indicated rank; but all, save a sprinkling of ecclesiastics and civil officers of the Crown, were adventurers, and bore evidence, in their worn apparel, in their scars, and in their bronzed and weatherbeaten features, of severe campaigns and hardship.

This particular evening the ceremony of the parade received less than usual attention. Two ships had entered the harbor the day before, bearing news and plunder from Francisco Pizarro's expedition to the coast of South America. The inn at the side of the plaza was full of men. Its wineshop was overflowing, but the rattle of dice, the oaths, and controversy were wanting. In front lounged a crowd, thickening at the door, where swayed lazily a banner displaying a device new to heraldry,—the arms of Pizarro. At the portal stood a halberdier in corselet and morion fresh-burnished, recounting with vaunt and gasconade an alluring tale of rapine, which was heard with varying degrees of interest, credulity, or scepticism. There was no enthusiasm. Some sauntered doubtfully away. A few heeded, and finally entered the door. Within, there was more animation.

Behind a table near the rear, leaning comfortably against the wall, his legs sprawled under the board and his hands thrust into his belt, sat a sturdy cavalier. He was listening with some amusement to the excited comments of the men about him as they passed a golden bracelet of barbaric design which he had tendered for their inspection. He was between thirty-five and forty years old—perhaps nearer the latter. His sunbrowned countenance gave the impression of being stern, almost fierce. A close-shorn beard, nearly black, covered a firm, well-formed jaw, and with the trim cut of his hair, suggested a care of person conspicuous among the rough-looking campaigners in the room. The upward twist of his mustachios and strongly aquiline nose gave his face a pronounced military character, borne out presently, when he straightened up from his lounging attitude, by the erect bearing and squareness of shoulder that belong to the soldierly calling. A closer view dispelled the first notion of fierceness, for from the ruggedly marked brows looked a pair of dark eyes, clear, frank, well lined about with crow's-feet, and enlivened by good humor.

While he conversed with those nearest, the bracelet circulated from hand to hand, was scrutinized, bitten, rung upon the tables to test its metal, and was finally handed back by a seedy-looking soldier, who observed: "By my faith, Señor Cristoval, that bauble hath the proper color. There is more of yellow in its complexion than I've seen for many a day. Thou mayst set me down. I go to Peru. Hola! camaradas, d'ye hear? I go to Peru. Who will follow?"

His example and the lure of the gold had their sure effect. In a moment the officer was busy with his pen, while an eager group leaned over the table to watch as he wrote their names and answers to his brisk questions. Their enthusiasm spread among the loungers outside, and before it subsided a dozen or more enlisted for the expedition. Most of the recruits were half-starved fellows who had idled about the colony for months, unable to secure employment for their swords since the rebellion in Nicaragua had been suppressed, and disdainful of work less honorable. A few were fully equipped, but many had sold, pawned, or gambled away their arms and armor, and had only their rapiers, which they retained as a necessity. During this first day of recruiting, a score had been sent to the temporary quarters, with instructions first to gather up or locate whatever of equipment they could find.

Candles had been brought, the room had nearly emptied, and the officer was arranging his papers, when he heard the sound of hoofs and the voice of the halberdier, evidently addressing a rider.

"Hola, Pedro! Blessed Faith! Is it thou?"

The response was not immediate, and the creaking of the saddle, with sundry grunts and adjurations to the animal, indicated that the newcomer was dismounting. The operation was made difficult by the fact that he had a wooden leg, the left having been taken off at the knee. He puffed as he finally stood, but presently answered the soldier in a voice of much volume and with uncommon blandness and fluency.

"It is I,—that is, my solid parts. Of the rest, those volatile are volatilized; those meltable, melted and bedewing the grass along my trail. Thou seest but a parboiled residuum. Wilt hold my mule?"

"Hold thy mule!" replied the halberdier, with proper soldierly scorn. "Not I, by the fiend!"

"Nay! Keep thy temper, my lusty buck soldier," said the other, with suavity. "I meant no flattery."

"Flattery!"

"In offering thee the privilege.—Here, boy," he called to a half-breed urchin, "guard my steed. But keep in front of him, for he hath a twofold nature,—tender-hearted to a fault as far as the saddle-girth; behind it, maleficent as the powers of evil." He turned again to the soldier. "Is this thy recruiting office, Señor Alabardero?"

"Ah!" assented the halberdier. "But, Sacramento! Dost think to enlist, Pedro?"

"And why not?" demanded Pedro.

"Why, if I can count, thou hast legs too few by half."

"Then thou canst not count, for I have three. Two I have with me,—one mine by right of birth, the other by right of purchase, and of as good wood as that of which thy head is made. The third lieth in Italy, four feet under ground, but still mine, nihilo minus,—which is Latin, my friend, and meaneth 'nevertheless.' But dost require more legs in thy recruits, halberdier? If so, it must be a running game, this campaigning in Peru."

"Bastante!" growled the soldier. "Thou hast legs enough, and tongue enough, God wot!"

"Good! Then I'll enter. Who is the officer?"

"Lieutenant Cristoval de Peralta."

"I've heard of him," said Pedro, and stumped into the room. Cristoval looked up, to behold a man ten years his senior, slightly corpulent, with a full round face, now reddened by the heat and exertion of riding, which he mopped vigorously as he advanced with sombrero under his arm. Smooth-shaven, somewhat bald, and with gray hair closely cropped, there was a suggestion of the priest or monk in his countenance, further aided by the genial benignancy of his expression. A frock would, indeed, have made him the most jovial-looking of ecclesiastics, and his well-fed and comfortable appearance would have helped the disguise. A large mouth, a nose formidable but well shaped, and eyes with ever a lurking twinkle, made up a face to be warmed to at first glimpse. The precision of his salute left no doubt in Cristoval's mind that the missing leg had been lost on the battle-field, and he surveyed the man with interest.

"Let me not interrupt, Señor Teniente," said Pedro. "I am in no hurry."

"I have finished," replied Cristoval. "How can I serve thee?"

"Thou'rt recruiting for Pizarro?"

Cristoval nodded, thinking of the rabble already enrolled that day, and wondering whether this one-legged veteran purposed offering himself.

"Bien!" said Pedro. "I would join the expedition."

"But thou'rt maimed, compadre!"

"Como asi! Just so!" replied the other, with a wave of the hand. "I'm not all here, as the cannoneer observed when his pieces were scattered over a thousand yards by the explosion of his gun. But there is enough of me for the purpose, señor, for I am a cook,—a cantinero. I seek not to enlist, but the privilege of filling a moderate space aboard thy brigantine with myself, my helper, called Pedrillo, and such stores and gear as will fit a canteen."

"Draw up a chair," said Cristoval, pleased with the cook's manner. "We will consider it. Thy name?"

"Pedro."

"So I heard thee called by the halberdier."

"Ah!—the rest of my name? H'm! Why, I'll tell thee, señor, I have not always been a cook—and—pardon me—"

"I see," said Cristoval, with delicacy. "No importa. We'll let it go. Thou'rt Pedro."

Pedro bowed. After some conversation the arrangement was made. "Now," said Cristoval, "there are three or four of us from the ship quartered together, and we need a cook. There is Ruiz, the pilot; José, the principal armorer; and I look for De Soto from Nombre de Dios. He is to command when we sail. Couldst take charge of the rancho whilst we remain in Panama? Couldst begin at once? Good! Then 'tis agreed. I've taken the inn kept by Señora Bolio for quarters for the company, but her cooks are all Indios and worthless, and—What aileth thee, man?"

At the señora's name Pedro opened his mouth, pushed back his chair, and sat looking at the cavalier in manifest disquiet. "Bolio!" he whispered. "Bolio! Dost know her, Señor Teniente?"

"No. What of her?" demanded Cristoval, remembering that certain of his recruits had heard her name with similar uneasiness. "I saw her only for a moment when we came ashore yesterday. Dost know her, thou?"

Pedro turned away with a gesture as if to wave him off. He faced about. "Do I know her! Warily and charily, señor—as a pup knoweth the family cat! Ah, Madre! Lieutenant Cristoval, she hath a tongue like a flail—like a red-hot rapier. Thou shouldst hear her storm—at some other man—when she is roused! Nay, smile not! I once heard her berating her servants, and they wilted, withered, shrivelled like spiders on a hot skillet. Ah, stew me! Bolio!"

"Thou dost stir mine interest, Pedro," said Cristoval. "Who is the lady?"

Pedro laid a broad hand upon the table with suppressed vehemence. "Bolio!" he replied, as if nothing could be added.

"I know little save from hearsay, señor," he continued; "she was a vivandera with the armies in Italy in her youth. Thou knowest that training. Diablo! I saw her in the Neapolitan campaign against Louis XII."

Cristoval interrupted. "What! Didst serve with Gonsalvo?"

"With the Great Captain," said Pedro.

"Then, by Saint Michael, we were comrades!"

Pedro nodded without surprise, and continued quickly: "She had beauty then, señor. Poor girl! She was learning, by hard experience, to hold all men her enemies. She hath not forgotten. I heard of her again in the campaign of '22, and again at Pavia, where I left my leg. After that, no more until I found her here at Panama, two years ago. It is said she worked her way hither from Spain, disguised as a common sailor, and I doubt it not, for I have known of another woman who did as much. Por cierto, her eloquence was not gained in camps alone! It hath the savor of the sea as well, and she commandeth the most vigorous that each affordeth, my head upon it! But whatever her youth, Señor Cristoval, the saints preserve the man who would turn a soft eye upon her to-day. She weigheth, I should guess, some twelve or fourteen stone. 'T is all hostility!"

Cristoval reflectively gathered up his papers. "Well," he said, "we can pray for peace. Let us go."

"Whither?" asked Pedro.

"To the señora's."

"Misericordia! I think I had best ride back to my hacienda for the night, Señor Teniente."

"How far?" asked Cristoval.

"Three leagues or less."

"Absurd, Pedro! Thou 'rt to begin thy duties in the morning. Come."

Accompanied reluctantly by the stout cook leading his mule, and followed by the halberdier, Cristoval led down a narrow, garbage-littered street to a large house built around the usual patio. It had been the residence of some officer of government, and its size made it suitable for the recruiting officer, the poverty of whose levies made it necessary to provide for their keep before sailing to join Pizarro. They entered the suggestively quiet court, and having seen that his recruits had made proper use of the kitchen, Cristoval gave orders concerning quarters for the night, and ascended to the second floor in quest of the señora. He found her alone in a dim-lighted, lofty, bare-walled apartment,—the salon of the establishment in its better days.

The señora was a black-haired, black-eyed woman of generous proportions. She wore, now and generally, an air of stern repression of what Cristoval, after Pedro's account, knew to be the hostility mentioned. Notwithstanding the marring effects of a stormy career on her rather florid face, she was not uncomely. Her eyes were those of her race, which seem always smouldering with the fire of passion, gentle or the reverse as the case may be. She received the cavalier with dignity; heard his explanation of Pedro's status; directed, coldly, that her servants be called upon for assistance, and Cristoval bowed himself away with relief.

CHAPTER II

The Señora Declares a Purpose

The next day the whole city crowded to look upon the booty from Peru, on display at the office of the governor, and many an adventurer, after feasting his eyes on the gleaming treasure, went straight to the door beneath the banner of the "Army of the Conquest." Thereafter the recruiting went on rapidly, and the Bolio establishment soon wore the appearance of a barrack. When sufficiently advertised the office was transferred from the square, and now the banner floated over the Bolio gate.

The arrival of Hernando de Soto with a small company lent new impetus. The participation of a leader of his reputation gave confidence to many who had hesitated to enlist in an enterprise which had already met serious reverses and was led by one commonly regarded as visionary. Neither Pizarro nor his partner, Diego de Almagro, had been known as other than needy soldiers of fortune, and not even the countenance given by the Crown of Spain had raised them above the derisive scepticism of Panama. It had long been incredulous regarding a rich and civilized empire to the southward, and had been niggardly in its support. The two preceding expeditions had met disaster complete; but the leaders persisted with unconquered resolution, and the matter began to assume moment. There were scoffers still, but many who had held aloof hastened to offer service. Most of the levies were drawn by mere hope of plunder, or driven by sheer necessity. Some were impelled by ambition for the sort of glory won by the conquerors of Mexico. A few were attracted by the audacity and perseverance of the commander, but these qualities were not uncommon enough to give Pizarro preëminence among men of a race then unsurpassed in its soldiery, and of all considerations they weighed the least.

Whatever the motives that led recruits to Pizarro's banner, they comprised all sorts and conditions of men, from the noble and hidalgo to the fugitive from the law—younger sons of ancient families bearing historic names; veterans of European wars, free-lances from every country on the northern shores of the Mediterranean. It was a band as mixed as the swarms of pirates infesting the Indies in later years, and hardly less ferocious in hunger for blood and plunder.

The days flew quickly, and few remained before the command should embark. Considering the character of the men, the preparations had gone on smoothly. But there had been, it must be said, certain flurries, even small tempests, from another source. These episodes were due to the temperament and powers of Señora Bolio. This worthy lady proved to be a slumbering volcano—yet not always slumbering—with potentialities that justified the impressive words of Pedro. She erupted unexpectedly, for causes unforeseen, and spread sudden confusion throughout the establishment. There would be heard from time to time in the patio a quick disturbance, a scurrying of soldiery, and then a tirade in the deep tones of the señora, matchless for rapid invective. Perhaps a soldier, a newcomer to Panama, would venture to oppose her eloquence with his own, like in kind, but feeble in comparison. It was only to court defeat and humiliation.

To Cristoval, at first amusing, it soon grew monotonous, and as his time became precious, an annoyance and irritation. He appealed, to Pedro, in whom there might lie hope.

"In the name of the fiend, Pedro," said he, "canst suppress that woman? If so, do it—in a gentle way if possible; for she is a woman. Those varlets below deserve their flaying, but it groweth wearisome."

Pedro shook his head. "I doubt if she could be estopped by anything short of strangulation. However, I'll cast about." But he muttered as he moved away: "Now the saints lend me their protection! This is what cometh of being a cook."

Thereafter, when the lady broke out, Pedro, with marvellous patience, would go to the patio, approach her with all deference, and oppose her torrent with an equal flood of apologies, assurances, entreaties, compliments, and cajoleries, with splendid versatility. And however great her rage, the moment would come when Madame would stop to listen—and be undone. The cook would thereupon lead her ceremoniously to her door, bow her across the threshold, and return to his kitchen leaving the lady appeased. But having regained his privacy, Pedro would swear roundly.

These repeated softenings were not without their effect upon the señora. This effect was cumulative. As the days went by it grew apparent that in her hostility toward mankind she made the suave cantinero an exception. This he noticed at first with natural complacency. Later, when her attitude became one of tolerant friendliness, he blessed his stars, vowing privately that his circumspection should be without a flaw. Still later, as a consequence, the señora's amiability grew more pronounced, expressed by small favors, and even by occasional invitations to sup. The good Pedro's serenity increased, and its influence seemed to spread over the establishment. Alas for his tranquillity, for its life was short! The señora had speaking eyes, and as they looked with growing favor upon the gracious cook, they softened in a measure that could never have escaped one less unsuspecting than he.

Pedro went his placid way, unconscious of the growing tenderness, until a glance awoke him to his peril. There was no doubt, no need of words to interpret. It was only a glance in passing, but Pedro looked after the lady in consternation. As she passed he crossed himself, stood a moment, then deserted his task and stumped with precipitation to the first refuge—to Cristoval. The cavalier looked up as the cook entered. Pedro sank into a chair.

"Ho! Pedro, what is to do?" demanded the cavalier, surveying his agitation with concern. "What hath happened?"

Pedro stared at him in silence, with parted lips, and in abstraction. He seemed not to have heard the question, nor to see his questioner, in the absorption of contemplating the tacit revelation of a moment before, with the possible complexities to follow. Señora Bolio's avowal was unspoken, but how long would the silence be preserved? And with the ardor of that impetuous nature turned to tender passion, with her boundless powers of utterance directed against him as its object!—ah, Dios! what would become of him?

Again Cristoval demanded, more than half alarmed: "What is it, Pedro? Name of a saint! Why dost stare in that ghastly way? Come! Speak, man! Hast lost thy tongue?"

Pedro, still speechless, gathered up his apron and wiped his forehead; placed a fist upon either knee, and glowered at the floor. Cristoval leaned back in astonishment. Never before had Pedro's language failed. Once more the cook passed his apron across his brow, glanced again at Cristoval, arose abruptly, and went as far as the door. Here he paused, hesitated, then turning back, whispered hoarsely, "Señor Cristoval, by the gods of heathens, I've—I've overdone it!"

"Overdone it! Overdone what, thou mysterious cook?" But Pedro had gone.

He regained his kitchen by stealth, moving by short dashes, with many a halt to reconnoitre. His boy-helper, Pedrillo, was there, and approaching, Pedro clutched him by the arm. "Pedrillo," he said solemnly: "Pedrillo, have I been good to thee?"

Pedrillo looked up with wide-open eyes. "Why—bodkins!—of a surety, Master! Who saith not?"

"No one hath said. But hear me, Pedrillo!—as thou hopest some day to be a cook, stay by me! Stay by me! Dost understand? Until we are safe aboard ship, leave me not for a minute!—not a minute!"

"Cielo!" exclaimed the astonished boy. "What is wrong, señor? Do—do you have fits?"

"It will be worse than fits, Pedrillo," replied Pedro, seriously, "if thou failest me an instant. Promise!"

Pedrillo promised, swore to it, and for the rest of the day watched his patron in mystification. Thereafter the cook slept with his heavy furniture piled against the door.

Pedrillo kept his word as far as possible; but vigilance cannot be eternal, and sometimes Pedro was alone. On one of these occasions the worst befell. The señora entered. That she came with fell purpose Pedro divined at a glance. He saw flashes of soft lightning in her eyes, more dreaded now than the blaze of her ire. Instinctively he placed himself with the table between.

The lady looked quickly about, and approaching, said in a tone he had not heard her use before, "Pedro, I have a word for thee."

"Oh, the fiend, señora!" he interrupted, paling slightly and looking for Pedrillo. "Say it to some one else—now do! There's a good woman! I—stew me!—I am a busy man. I have a roast on the point of burning, I swear it! Come, now, I—"

"It is for thee, Pedro," she said with resolution, but Pedro noted with relief that she spoke slowly. He had expected a storm of tender protestations without prelude, as vehement as her upbraidings of the men. "It is for thee," she said again, and Pedro quailed.

"Nay, Señora Bolio," he pleaded. "Be discreet, I pray thee! Talk of it first to—to Father Gregorio, now. Thou'rt young, and—" The señora blushed, and Pedro cursed the slip. Said she:

"I will talk to Father Gregorio later, Pedro; but first to thee."

Pedro groaned, and swore under his breath. "Hold, señora!" he cried. "Thou 'rt making a mistake. Say it not to me—to some other man. To Peralta—to De Soto! They are good men both; but I—"

"And so art thou!" she said hastily, "though once I did think thee a knave, like the rest."

"Ah! So I am! So I am!" cried Pedro with impetuosity. "That and worse, my word for it! I am a very Turk—a basilisk! Señora, thou knowest not the depth of mine iniquities—and moreover, I have but one leg. Consider that! Peralta hath two good ones. I am incomplete—a cripple—a—"

"Oh, Pedro, thou 'rt the only man I ever knew!" interrupted the lady, with fervor; then, rapidly: "Thou 'rt a good man, Pedro, and hast a kindly heart. Not once beneath this roof hast thou used an unbecoming word to me. Whilst these scapins of soldiers have tried my patience with their insolence, thou hast spoken only with gentleness—and 'tis rare enough to me—rare enough, God knoweth!" She brushed away a coming tear. "But I have come to tell thee, Pedro—"

"Do not say it! Do not say it!" shouted Pedro in desperation. "I tell thee, señora—"

"But I will say it," she said with a sudden return of firmness. "And why not? I've come to tell thee—I am going to Peru. Why should I not say it?"

Pedro staggered. "Is that all?" he exploded. "Is that all? Naught else?"

"Numskull!" retorted the lady. "Is it not enough? What more wouldst have me say?"

"Nothing more, by the Sacrament! 'Tis enough! Why didst not say it in the beginning?" and Pedro's good knee grew suddenly weak, as if he had been snatched from death. The señora regarded him kindly for a moment, and went on:

"I am going to Peru—not now, for De Soto hath denied me passage—but later. I'll find thee, good Pedro. We shall meet again." Pedro's jaw set, but he said nothing.

She took a step forward and said gently, "Pedro—" Pedrillo entered, almost embraced by his master, who at once became feverishly occupied in a variety of duties. The señora tarried a moment and withdrew, with a smile to Pedro, who sank into a chair and used his apron on his forehead with industry, pausing at intervals with his hands on his knee to glower at the floor. The señora was going to Peru!

De Soto took command a few days later, and the force marched to the Cathedral, where solemn High Mass was celebrated and the sacrament partaken of by every soldier. The two brigantines for the expedition rode at anchor off the town; before midday they were standing out to sea.

You may learn, Reader, from history, how Pizarro, strengthened by De Soto's reënforcement, descended upon the Peruvian city of Tumbez, and how he found it in ruins, the result of a civil war between the two heirs of the Inca Huayna Capac. The old monarch had left his domain to be divided between the princes Atahualpa and Huascar, fatuously hoping that either would be content with less than the whole. For five short years the brother kings had reigned in peace. Atahualpa, younger of the two, was son to a princess of Quito, a kingdom conquered by his grandfather. He was an ambitious and warlike ruler, and to him fell Quito as Huayna Capac's bequest. To the elder brother, Huascar, fell Cuzco, the ancient capital, and the southern part of the empire. Huascar was the son of the legitimate wife of Huayna Capac, a woman of the Inca blood; and although a wise and generous king, he was inferior to Atahualpa in aggressive energy. Causes were not long wanting for war. Huascar was vanquished, and when Pizarro landed at Tumbez, was prisoner in the fortress of Xauxa. Thus much, briefly, Pizarro learned concerning the country he was invading, and that Atahualpa with his victorious army lay at the interior town of Caxamalca, some three hundred miles to the southward.

You may read, furthermore, how the Spaniard, tarrying not long at ruined Tumbez, marched down along the coast, peaceably for the most part, by rigid restraint of his men, and was hospitably welcomed by the wondering natives. Three weeks he marched, proclaiming the temporal sovereignty of the King of Spain, the spiritual sovereignty of the Pope of Rome, unfolding his banners, and formally recording as acknowledgment of vassalage the acquiescence of the Peruvians to manifestoes of whose sense they had no inkling. Fine hardihood! With a handful of men—fewer than two hundred and fifty—Pizarro was invading an empire of whose civilization and warlike character there was ample evidence. He was calmly laying claim to the realm of a prince whose power he could not guess!

Toward the end of May he halted in the fertile vale of Tangarala, near the sea, and announced his purpose to build a town. And build a town he did! He pressed the natives into service, and they quarried the stone and hewed the timber for buildings as solid as his own intrepidity. He named the place San Miguel.

Four months were consumed in establishing this base. On the twenty-fourth of September the Army of the Conquest took up its march to meet the legions of the Inca. The command, reduced by the number left at San Miguel, mustered seventy horse, one hundred infantry, and two small pieces of artillery.

CHAPTER III

Nipping a Conspiracy

The column found convenient halting places in the caravansaries, or tambos, established for the troops of the Inca. These were of great extent, with barracks, magazines, and extensive fortifications. They afforded more than ample security for Pizarro's force, and he availed himself of their shelter and stores of food without scruple.

Five days out from San Miguel there occurred an incident but for which this story had not been written,—an incident, not only of momentous import to the fortunes of Cristoval in its sequence, but one which threatened as well to end Pizarro's dream of conquest.

The command had halted at a tambo, finding it, as usual, ungarrisoned. Details were quickly made for guard and other duties, and Cristoval was assigned to command a patrol to reconnoitre the neighboring village. An hour after sunset the detachment returned, and Cristoval went to his quarters to disarm. De Soto entered a moment later, and together they repaired to Pedro's.

The portly cook had already established himself as no mean adjunct of the expeditionary force, and at every halt set up his cantina, opened his wineskins, and served whatever broils, fries, or stews his unscrupulous energy as a forager made possible. He was a good cook, his kettles and spits always held something more savory than the kitchens of the companies afforded, and as a consequence he was well patronized by the soldiers, of whatever rank. On the march, with Pedrillo leading his two pack mules, himself astride of an ambling gray, his peg-leg in a stirrup specially contrived, his saddle festooned with vegetables and other predatory trophies, he brought up the rear or jogged along beside the column, bantering the soldiers, telling droll stories, or singing ballads of doubtful propriety. When camp was made, headquarters were not established more promptly than Pedro's cook shop, and from sunset until closed by the rounds it was full of men, eating, gambling, or drinking chicha, the native beverage distilled from maize.

Places were made for the two cavaliers at one of the tables, and soon Pedro limped across the room, wiping his hands on an apron once white. "Well, Señor Cristoval," said he, lounging against the table, "what news?"

"News? I'm hungry."

"No news at all!" retorted Pedro. "Who ever knew thee otherwise? I have better. A few more turns, and I'll have a haunch of llama done to a brown; and it will taste none the worse for the fact that it is a misdemeanor for anyone but an Inca—a noble, that is—to eat of it."

"Oh, Pedro, thou prince of foragers!" exclaimed Cristoval. "How camest thou by it?"

"Why," said Pedro, "I made an excursion this morning with my boy."

"Unhappy Peru! Well?"

"Well, we met a herder on the road, a few miles back, with a beautiful drove. We dismounted, my boy and I, and I paraded my wooden leg to the marvel of the Indio; took a pack of cards from my saddle-bag and wrought divers tricks of magic—vanishing cards and the like—thou knowest; swallowed a horseshoe nail and took it out of mine ear; swallowed it again and took it out of his ear. He was spellbound with wonder—turned to stone, as if he had looked upon the ægis of Minerva,—and at this juncture my boy threw his jacket over the head of one of the calves, or lambs, or colts, or pups, or whatever Heaven may be pleased to call the offspring of these heathen quadrupeds, and vanished into the bush. He might have removed the herd entire! I patted the Indio on the back, embraced him as a brother—found he had no pockets!—and sent him on his way. When last we saw him his jaws were still agape!"

As Pedro finished, his face grew red, his eyes closed in a convulsion which gradually extended over his broad body, and from the depths came a succession of wheezes that shook his frame. He made no other sound. Apoplexy seemed imminent, and Cristoval exclaimed:—

"Gods, man! Be sparing of thy laughter, if that is the form it taketh. Thou 'rt too plethoric to do it safely, Pedro!"

Pedro's symptoms subsided, and he stumped away to send Pedrillo with the roast.

A few minutes later an orderly entered, seeking De Soto. The latter rose, and, saying that he would return presently, followed the messenger, leaving Cristoval dawdling over his supper. There were few besides himself in the room—a spacious apartment with walls of unadorned stone, a flagged floor, and great doors opening upon the court. In the rear Pedro had his fire on the pavement, the smoke escaping through a hole in the roof, which, like all thus far seen, was of thatch. Rough tables and benches had been thrown together by the soldiers, always willing to do Pedro a service, and in the corner sat two troopers and three or four of the infantry. They had been conversing over their chicha, with heads together, and evidently occupied with a subject of interest. After De Soto went Cristoval noted casually that they were referring to him and glancing in his direction. Finally Moreno, one of the troopers, caught his eye, and beckoned him to join them. He sauntered over.

"Sit, compañero, and have a cup with us," said the trooper, pouring for him. "We would have thine opinion."

"My opinion!" said Cristoval, in slight surprise. "In what connection?"

"Regarding this," replied Moreno. "Thou hast soldiered enough to think with a cool head—to estimate chances for and against in a campaign. Now, what are thy views here? Thou knowest our strength,—some three-score horse, well equipped; a hundred foot, miserably equipped; two pieces of artillery, three arquebuses, a handful of arbalests. What force hath this Señor Inca whom we seek? God knoweth! We have heard, ten thousand warriors; again, fifty thousand; again, one hundred thousand. Por cierto, he may have at the beck of his finger every man and boy in his kingdom, not to say the women! Now, what will the Inca do with the Army of the Conquest some morning after breakfast? He will wipe it out! He will eat it up! We shall dance one merry fandango to his piping, and—pouf!—Adiós, la Conquista!"

"And copper-colored dames will rock their copper-colored brats in Spanish bucklers," added an infantryman named Juarez.

"And make soup in Spanish morions," growled another.

"Hast thought of these things?" asked Moreno.

"Aye, I have thought of them," replied Cristoval, "and I confess your prophecy seemeth not unlikely; but—"

"But the worst of the matter is that the farther we go the smaller our chance of plunder," continued Moreno. "At Coaque every varlet of the natives wore his gold and silver. They shed it at a poke of the finger in the ribs. Hereabouts the people are as innocent of precious metal as a flock of sheep."

"At Coaque, moreover," said Juarez, "we were not far from Quito, and if there was aught in the rumors concerning that city, the looting of it would load us all with what we seek. At any rate, if the Inca with his army lieth beyond these accursed mountains, he is not at Quito. We might have sacked the city and been away ere this, and getting the worth of our gold in pleasure at Panama."

Cristoval quietly sipped his chicha. "Well," said he at length, "what would you, Señores?"

"In brief, this," responded Moreno, emphatically. "Give over this harebrained purpose of bearding the lion and being made meat for his whelps, and go back where we found gold in plenty."

"But the general hath planned otherwise," remarked Cristoval, revolving his cup. "Dost think he is a man to alter at our discontent? I think not."

"Most certainly he will not alter—so long as he hath followers," replied Moreno. "But if we refuse to follow?"

Cristoval eyed him for a second before answering. "But we have given oath to follow, Moreno."

"A witch's blessing upon our oaths!" exclaimed Juarez, hotly. "Have we given oath to jump into fire after this loco? I, for one, set value on my hide. Let him lead with his senses about him, and we will go! Otherwise, by—"

"Softly, softly, amigo mio!" interrupted Moreno, unwilling that the disaffection should be too outspoken until Cristoval was more thoroughly sounded. "As thou sayest, we will go with him, Juarez, but," he turned again to Cristoval, "we are losing time and golden opportunity. If we but drop this insane purpose of conquest, a month's campaigning, rightly directed, will make us all rich men—thee as rich as the rest, Peralta."

Cristoval pushed away his cup. "Waste not thy breath, Moreno. If you men are discontented, quit the expedition. Return to San Miguel without spreading your dissatisfaction. It were better."

Moreno bit his lip. "Art thou, then, as mad as Pizarro? Canst not see that every league we march toward the Inca doubleth our peril? Dost not see this seeming friendliness on the part of these heathens is only to lure us farther into the trap? And what have we gained thus far? Not a maravedi!"

"Enough, Moreno!" exclaimed Cristoval, with impatience. "I see the danger, seguramente! But better the danger than perfidy."

The last word was unwelcome. A foot-soldier swore, and a murmur rose from the group.

"Peace!" commanded Moreno, glancing at his fellows with darkened face. "Thou hadst best consider, Peralta. Listen," he lowered his voice and leaned over the table. "As a matter of truth, there is dissatisfaction among the men at rushing blindly against the Inca's unknown strength. They would have a more prudent leader, Cristoval, and—several have spoken of thee."

Cristoval blurted a sudden oath and pushed back from the table, glaring from one to another with kindling eyes. "What! Hath it gone so far?" he demanded. "Have ye settled the details of your treason? Furies and devils! And ye would have me one with your cursed scheme of mutiny? A more prudent leader, forsooth! By the saints, ye should have a swineherd! Ah! Have ye smelled an enemy, that ye've so suddenly lost your bowels for going farther? Then go back!—sneak back with your tails between your craven legs!"

Moreno sprang to his feet. The others rose with him, and a growl went up as they turned upon Peralta, several with swords half drawn. He remained seated, contemptuously ignoring the menace, and continued:—

"Thou hast asked mine opinion, Moreno, and, by Saint Michael, thou shalt have it to sleep over!—and these pig-driver's dogs of thine shall have it as well!"

However, they did not have it. His words were not uttered before a confused gleam and the sinister ring of steel went round the table, as every weapon was bared. In a flash Cristoval was on his feet, sword in hand. Moreno and Juarez vaulted over the table. The others came round its end, pell-mell, stumbling over one another in blood-thirsty eagerness. The soldier nearest was too close to use his blade, and before he could step back Cristoval felled him with the heavy hilt of his own; but felt the steel of the man behind as it grazed his side. He sprang back of the overturned bench and placed himself in the angle of the wall, his right partly protected by another table. They were upon him in the instant, but the confusion of their combined attack was in his favor. There was a lightning play of steel about him, but each of the assailants impeded the others. Aided in defence by a poniard in his left hand, Cristoval warded cut and thrust, and after a short moment of rapid clash and glitter his opponents fell back, one with a cheek laid open, another coughing from a thrust in the chest.

"Damn your zeal, learn a lesson of caution!" muttered Cristoval, and they were upon him again. This time the assault was circumspect. Moreno, by far the most formidable, had been hampered in the first attack by the crowding, but now he assured himself of ample room. Cristoval found himself hard pressed, and thrice he felt the burning of their points.

Meanwhile Pedro, who had gone out before the conflict began, reëntered and stood for a moment transfixed. The confusion was so great that he was unable to distinguish the sides opposed; but when he saw the danger of Cristoval he broke into a stream of oaths, dancing about, frantic at his own unarmed helplessness. His boy stood petrified, a fork in hand, gazing at the battle. Pedro sprang at him.

"Fetch Pizarro!" he shouted. "Call the guard! Quick! Jump, thou imp, or I'll spit thee!"

The boy dashed out, and Pedro jerked a kettle of boiling soup from the fire, seized a ladle, and threw himself into the fight. A flood of the scalding liquor descended upon a pikeman, and he whirled upon the cook with a howl of rage, to be promptly knocked down by a blow from the heavy ladle. Shower after shower fell upon the group in front of Cristoval, carrying scalds, dismay, and demoralization. Blinded and smarting, they fell away from the attack, and Moreno, recognizing the source of the hot counter assault, lowered his head and charged the cook with his rapier. Pedro's ammunition was exhausted. He hurled his kettle, missed, fell backward over a bench, and rolled under a table, where Moreno was thrusting at him ineffectually when a heavy hand jerked him back, and Pizarro stood before him, black with anger. The guard had followed him in, and was already making the other combatants secure.

"How now?" Pizarro demanded hoarsely. "Fighting among ourselves? Name of God! Is Spanish blood so cheap that we can waste it in brawls?—Seize this man!" he commanded, turning to the guard.

Pedro had gathered himself together, and was lifting Cristoval out of the corner where he had fallen. A sentinel was posted at the door, and a soldier despatched to summon the officers. De Soto and José, the old armorer, had followed Pizarro, and Cristoval's cuts were quickly bandaged. The officers hurried in, a summary court was organized for inquiry, and the assailants, with the exception of three who were receiving rough surgical care, were lined up under guard, blistered and sullen.

Pedro's testimony was the first to be taken, but it gave no enlightenment regarding the origin of the affray, and Juarez was examined. He was disposed to be recalcitrant, but Pizarro ordered thumbscrews, and the sight of the instrument loosed his tongue. Discipline was enforced in those days by effective means. Juarez well knew what was coming. He glanced at the screws, at Pizarro, and shrugged his surrender; then, with apparent candor, he told of the conversation and of the growing discontent among the men. Pizarro ordered the prisoners into confinement, and they were marched away by the guard, their relief at escape from the thumbscrews marred by a vision of a courtmartial and the garrote on the morrow.

Cristoval was conveyed to his quarters, and Pedro immediately turned the management of the cantina over to Pedrillo, assuming the role of nurse as a matter of course.

About midnight he stepped outside the cavalier's door and stood for a moment enjoying the freshness of the night. The tambo was silent except for the footfalls of the sentinel at the gate, a murmur of voices from the guard-room, where the affair was being discussed, and an occasional sound from the distant stables. A light shone through Pizarro's door, and as Pedro stood a shadow passed and repassed within. An hour before dawn he again stepped into the square. The light still burned, and still the shadow came and went. Clearly Pizarro was having a bad night. Pedro shook his head and muttered an anathema upon all traitors.

In fact, Pizarro was having a bad night. On his stone table, weighted down by one of his steel gauntlets, lay the record of the summary court, left there by his secretary hours before. He could not read it, for he was unlettered; but he knew every word of its content. It told of sedition. He could only guess how far disaffection had spread, but the knowledge that the spirit was abroad had come with stunning effect. Hour after hour he paced the room, his footfall a dismal accompaniment to dismal reflections. After years he had almost reached his goal with an army at his back, only to feel the earth crumbling beneath him, undermined by cowardice and treachery. As he walked, his thin lips moved as if in prayer. But Pizarro was not praying. He was heaping black curses upon his riffraff soldiery.

José relieved Pedro at daybreak, and an hour after reveille the cook returned with breakfast for the wounded man. His jovial countenance was perfectly blank.

"Well, what news?" asked José. "Do the conspirators get the rack or the garrote?"

Pedro put down his burden with deliberation. "Thou 'rt a fool at guessing, José, and I another. Neither rack, nor yet garrote! Let me tell thee. After roll-call and reports the general stepped forward. He looked along the line, and the line stopped breathing. Torres, of the infantry, let fall his pike. Then Pizarro began to speak—as quietly as I am speaking now. He said it had come to his attention,—had come to his attention, José!—that there are certain ones among us who have lost enthusiasm—not that they are damned traitors, José, but have lost enthusiasm! He would say to these that the hour is critical; that it is big with events which it will need all our courage to meet bravely, as becometh Spaniards. He would have no man go forward who goeth not with a whole heart, and to such as had liefer return the road is open. With those who choose to follow him, few or many, it is his purpose to pursue the adventure to its end."

José resumed tearing bandages. "Jesucristo!" was his only comment.

"Stew me to rags!" observed Pedro with slow emphasis. After a pause he continued, "Didst ever see such a man, José? He staked much on a single throw. On my oath, I should not have been surprised to see half the army take the route to San Miguel! Hah! He would have no coacted, weak-kneed service, quoth he; but to my mind he chose a perilous way of stiffening it and weeding out discontent. The rack were better. However, every cook hath his own way of cooking."

Before noon nine malcontents slunk out of the tambo and started back to San Miguel. Three wore bandages.

In a few days the march was resumed. Little fever resulted from Cristoval's wounds, and José pronounced him in condition, to go forward, borne in a litter.

CHAPTER IV

The Inca's Encampment

Six weeks later the Army of the Conquest was descending the eastern slope of the Maritime Cordillera into the interior valley of Caxamalca. Here, Pizarro learned, the Inca Atahualpa lay with fifty thousand warriors.

The march over the mountains had been one of toil and hardship, but the few Peruvians encountered had displayed nothing but hospitality. Two embassies from the Inca had met the invaders, bearing presents and assurances of welcome. The messages were translated by a young native, called by the soldiers Felipillo, who had been picked up on a former expedition, taught the Spanish language, many Spanish vices, and retained as interpreter. Through him the commander sent courteous replies, and, while neglecting no precaution, marched with a sense of security always.

To Cristoval, stretched helpless on his rude litter, the first few days had been torture. Later, however, a halt was made at a mountain village whose friendly curaca, or governor, proffered the use of his sedan with native bearers. They were hardy, sure-footed mountaineers, and thereafter Cristoval swung along with little discomfort. Halts were frequent, and some were protracted, for Pizarro hoped for reënforcements from San Miguel if ships should come from Panama, whither his partner, Almagro, had sailed in quest of fresh recruits. He tarried in vain, but the halts were favorable to Cristoval. His rugged health, aided by the bracing mountain air and the vigilant care of Pedro, hastened his recovery; and by the end of October his wounds were healed, though he had yet to regain his strength. He bore his inactivity with what patience there was in him, but with no prevision of the gratitude he should one day feel for those very wounds.

The Fifteenth of November saw the last day's march in the mountains. The column had for hours trailed down a rocky gorge, which at last opened upon a full panorama of the valley of Caxamalca. It stretched out far below, a fertile and verdant plain, checkered with fields, damaskeened with the silver of rivulets and canals for irrigation, and traversed throughout its length by a fair river. Near its centre, gleaming in its setting of green, lay the town of Caxamalca, surrounded by orchards and gardens, and groves of willows, quinuars, and mimosas, in whose shelter could be descried the tinted walls of the cottages and villas of the suburbs.

Involuntarily, when the scene burst upon him, Pizarro reined his horse. His trumpeter sounded a halt, and De Soto, whose troop was in advance, rode up beside him, joined straightway by the officers of the staff. They surveyed the valley with amazement. Pizarro was the first to speak.

"Maravilloso!" he exclaimed. "Ha! Señores, what say you to it? Have your eyes ever beheld a fairer vale? Did I not know better, I could think myself in Andalusia—but, Santa Madre!—look beyond the river—at those hills!"

"Tents, as I live!" ejaculated De Soto, "and by the ten thousand."

"By the soul of me!" growled Hernando Pizarro, the eldest of the commander's four brothers. "Methinks, Francisco, thy dreams of conquest have overreached. Ho! good Father," he continued, turning with a grin to Valverde, the square-jawed chaplain of the expedition, "I'll presently call upon thee for a shrift. Meanwhile, do thou pray a little."

"Aye!" muttered Candia, the Greek captain of artillery, "pray a little, and have the other frocks at it with thee. We'll need all your supplications, and,"—to himself,—"the devil's aid besides."

The priest did not reply even with a glance. The commander had ridden a few paces in advance and was looking over the vast encampment below with as little emotion in his thin, sallow face as if the Inca's army were a flock of goats.

When the leading files of the column first caught sight of the distant encampment a shout arose and was quickly carried to the rear: "El Inca! El Inca! El ejercito del Inca!" and pikes and halberds were brandished with fierce enthusiasm. But as realization of the magnitude of the host came over them the demonstration gave place to ominous silence, and they gazed with something akin to consternation. Pizarro noticed the change, and looked back over the ranks with a barely perceptible curl of his lip. "Forward!" he said to the trumpeter, and moved down the trail.

The command wound its descent through the foothills, and at midday halted again. Pennons were affixed to lances, plumes to helmets, and the banners were uncovered and spread to the breeze. Here Cristoval demanded his horse, and, when Pedro protested, declared with emphasis that he was well, and if not well, then well enough; that in any event he would not go into the presence of an enemy borne in a litter, like a woman. So he mounted, though without his armor. The formation most favorable for action in case of attack was now adopted. The infantry and artillery were placed in the middle of the column with cavalry in front and rear; and, with a small advance guard, the army debouched upon the plain.

No hostility met the Spaniards. As on the coast, they came upon knots of the natives gathered at the roadside, and these gazed upon the glittering, bannered pageant as if stupefied. When the outskirts of the town were, reached the afternoon was late, and rain, for some time threatening, set in with dreary steadiness. To their surprise they found here no sign of life. The last group of Indios had long been passed, and as the troops plashed along the muddy highway through the suburbs they were greeted only by silence and desertion. Cots and villas were numerous, but all closed and tenantless. They marched through a desolation emphasized by every mark of recent habitation. The people had fled at their coming as from a pestilence.

At length they were in the town. Here, too, vacancy and silent thoroughfares, awakened now to unwonted echoes by the ring of horses' hoofs and the rumble of the guns on the pavements. They entered through one of the poorer quarters, where the dwellings were of bricks of sun-dried clay, heavily thatched with straw, all of a single story, substantial, and severely plain. Toward the middle of the town they passed larger buildings of heavy masonry, whose blank walls, unbroken by window or decoration, wore a dull gloom and mystery which, indeed, pervaded the very air. The gray streets, depressingly regular and paved throughout, were unrelieved by a single tree or shrub or patch of sward. Over all a sombreness profound; no sign either, of welcome or hostility; only the apathy of abandonment everywhere.

The thoroughfare opened into a great plaza. Pizarro rode to the centre to direct the deployment of the column: on the right, cavalry; in the centre, artillery and foot; on the left, cavalry again; and in the rear, the pack train. The line formed in silence—a spiritless, sullen line, rain-soaked, mud-splashed, with drooping plumes and dripping banners; and oppressed withal by yonder vast encampment and the sense of being in the toils. The march was ended.

Patrols were detailed, scouring the town and its outskirts to make sure the desertedness was not merely apparent. Pizarro assembled his officers. He began with his customary terseness:—

"Señores, I purpose sending an embassy to the Inca at once. We must know better than we can judge from the cold reception he hath seen fit to accord to us how he regardeth our coming. We must know to-night. To-morrow we will govern our actions accordingly. So do thou go, Soto, and tell him we have come. Say that we have sailed across the seas from a great prince,—God save him!—to offer service and impart to him and his people the True Faith. Put it in a courtly way, but with no servility—thou knowest how—and say that we pray he will honor us with a visit to-morrow.

"Remember that to these people we are superior beings, almost more than mortal. Carry thyself as a superior even to this emperor, and he'll not fail to credit thy assumption. Did he know our estate, do not doubt that he would hotly resent our pretension. In a word, by every look, gesture, and tone of thy voice strive to impress him. Display thy horsemanship, if there be opportunity,—he hath never seen a horse,—and hold thy chin well in the air. 'Tis important, Soto! Now go, and Dominus vobiscum. Take Felipillo and a dozen lances,—more if thou wilt."

The captain saluted, and, turning his horse, cantered to his troop to select a following for the perilous mission. In a few minutes, with fifteen chosen cavaliers, he was clattering down the street. Pizarro looked after him, and said, turning to his brother:

"Hernando, take twenty more and go with him. He hath too few."

The second detachment followed at a gallop.

Pizarro briefly surveyed the place. The plaza was enclosed on three sides by low stone buildings, thatched like the others, with great doors opening upon the square. At the western end, toward the Inca's encampment, rose a redoubt or citadel, overlooking the country and commanding the plaza, from which it was entered by a flight of steps. Hither Pizarro rode, dismounted, and ascended to the terre-plein, followed by his officers. Here he could view the Inca's position with the intermediate plain and its river. The road followed by De Soto led over a causeway extending from the town to the bank of the stream, and from time to time the watchers caught glimpses of the cavalcade, until it was finally lost to sight.

It was twilight when the detachment returned, but the dusk could not conceal its gloom. The result of the mission had not been cheering. De Soto and Hernando Pizarro dismissed their detail, and hastened to the commander to report the interview.

Cristoval was in his quarters in one of the large buildings on the square, seated with José over a flask of chicha when, an hour later, Pedro entered.

"Good evening, Señores," said he, smiling benignly. "My blessing—a cook's blessing. Ah, Cristoval, thou 'rt the first cheerful-looking man I've seen this night! 'Tis most commendable. Put a good face on 't, and discountenance the devil. Hilarum semper fac te et lubentem!—which meaneth, gentlemen, be cheerful and good-humored always—a good maxim just now, is it not?"

"Excellent!" replied Cristoval. "Sit and have a cup with us, Pedro. These be serious times."

"True!" said the portly cook, squeezing himself between the bench and the table with difficulty. "And there is something like demoralization abroad among the men. So many are clamoring to Father Valverde to be shriven that the good priest is beside himself. Terror incidit exercitui, bonum facit militem—fear striketh the army and maketh the soldier good. They have just consecrated the building next the infantry quarters for a chapel—and 't is well placed, I'll swear, for not a pikeman but is a thief!—and there will be services all night. Pizarro goeth about among the men like their own father, blowing upon the embers of their extinguished courage. What a man! He knoweth neither fear nor doubt, and he can talk both out of any man who weareth ears. Cara! To-morrow might be a fiesta so far as it fasheth him. Just now I met him on the square. 'Hola, Pedro!' quoth he, 'hast heard? This pagan king cometh to-morrow for a visit, and I would give him a taste of Christian cooking. Canst scrape up a meal?' What d'ye think of that, Señores?—with the army in a cold sweat from looking at the Inca's camp and counting his tents!"

Cristoval smote the table with his fist. "By the fighting Saint Michael, he hath not his peer in armor!"

"No!" Pedro concurred with emphasis. "Thou sayst right, Cristoval. But the poor veedor! Have ye seen him? He hath been waddling about the square, swollen with consternation, now climbing to the fortress to stare at the campfires on the hills, now scuttling down again to tell how many there are; one minute praying, the next swearing, and the next bellowing like a calf that he is a civilian, no fighting man, and is misplaced. And misplaced he is, I'll take my oath! Pizarro locked him up at last, to prevent the panic he was beginning to spread. Gods, gentlemen! were I the commander I'd melt him and make him into tallow dips."

A bugle sounded in the square, and Cristoval exclaimed, rising, "Officers' call! The general hath something to say."

Pizarro had something of moment to say, and was in council with his officers through the night.

CHAPTER V

The Monarch and the Princess Rava

The entry of the Spaniards into Caxamalca had not been spirited, nor jubilant. But the rain, which had conspired with other depressing circumstances to dishearten them, ceased during the night, and the sixteenth of November broke with a cloudless sky. Its first light was greeted in the Peruvian camp by the clamor of trumpets, the wailing of conches and horns, and the thunder of drums—a warlike and mighty dissonance which struck faintly upon the listening ears of the invaders in the town, and set many a good Christian making the sign of the cross and murmuring his prayers. The army of the Inca was portentously astir.

The monarch was quartered in a villa at the edge of the eastern foothills. Not far away, their position marked by columns of rising steam, were the hot mineral springs which had made the place a resort of the Incas for generations.

The villa itself differed little in its severe simplicity from other structures of the country. It was massively built of stone, with the usual high-pitched covering of thatch—a form of roof far from primitive in this instance, for the thatches of Peru were artfully and durably constructed, often highly ornate in the weaving and gilding of their straw. The building was without exterior decoration except for the sculptured geometrical design bordering the entrance. This doorway, like the small windows set high up under the eaves, and the numerous niches with growing plants, which served to modify the severity and blankness of the walls, narrowed from threshold to lintel as in the architecture of ancient Egypt. The walls, too, broad at the base and sloping inward as they narrowed to the top, further suggested the comparison.

On either side of the villa entrance stood sentinels in the blue of the Incarial Guard, in heavily pourpointed tunics or gambesons, similar to those worn by the European men-at-arms of the fourteenth century. Each wore a casque of burnished silver, with heavy cheek-plates descending to the point of the jaw, and surmounted by the figure of a crouching panther, the device of their corps. Above the head-piece rose a high crescent-shaped crest, not unlike that on the helm of the warrior of ancient Greece. Their arms were bare to the shoulder, but encircled by heavy bands of silver above the elbow and at the wrist. Their legs were protected only by the blue and silver lacings of their sandals, which entwined them to the knees. They were armed with javelins, small round shields of polished brass, and from their broad, heavily plated belts hung small battle-axes and short swords of bronze, an alloy which the Peruvians tempered almost to the hardness of steel.

At an early hour the throne-room was filled with officers and nobles costumed as brilliantly as the court of an Oriental potentate. The majority were Quitoans, but among them were a small number of the nobles of Cuzco, recent adherents of Huascar, who had tendered their allegiance to the successful Atahualpa, or whose presence at the court the latter had commanded. All were in the sleeveless outer garment of the country, belted at the waist, with skirts falling to the knees, and not unlike the tunica of the Roman. The stuff was of wool, woven in fanciful and often elegant patterns, and not infrequently decorated with elaborate passementerie, or with braid or scale-work of gold and silver. Every stalwart form glittered with jewelled armlets, bracelets, necklaces, and girdles in the precious metals, while the nobles of Cuzco wore, as a distinguishing mark of their order, heavy discs of gold let into the lobes of their ears.

The apartment in which they awaited the coming of the monarch was no less splendid than the assemblage, and showed the same lavish use of gold and silver, which in the empire of the Incas had no value except for ornamentation. It was a lofty chamber with walls of polished porphyry, divided by pilasters into panels bordered with vines in precious metal, perfect in leaf and stem. Suspended from silver brackets wrought in forms of serpents, lizards, and fanciful monsters, were lamps burning perfumed oil, filling the room with faint aroma, and dispelling the obscurity of the early morning with their radiance. The ceiling, panelled by heavy rafters, was of rushes, gilded and elaborately woven in squares and lozenges. At intervals the walls were niched like those of the exterior, to receive natural plants or imitations of them in the metals.

In the rear of the apartment, beneath a canopy resplendent with embroidery and featherwork, was a dais of serpentine on which stood the Inca's seat, a low stool of solid gold, richly chased and jewelled. Back of this, against the wall, was the imperial standard, on whose folds blazed and sparkled in embroidery and precious stones a rainbow, the insigne of the Incas.

The room was nearly bare of furniture, but its marble floor was softened by richly dyed rugs and the skins of animals. In a word, in this country villa of the ruler of an empire of the farthest West was a wealth of decoration that would have dimmed the splendor of the palace of a maharajah.

Presently, a door in the rear swung open, and a silence fell as a grizzled veteran in the splendid uniform of a general of the Quitoan troops entered and raised his hand. He was followed by two officers of the Incarial Guard, who halted and took post at each side of the doorway. A breathless moment, then came the Inca Atahualpa, attended by his personal staff. The nobles went upon their knees, bending until their foreheads touched the floor, and so remained until the monarch, moving with brisk, soldierly pace, had gained the dais, where he turned with a brief command that they arise.

Atahualpa was then close to his thirtieth year. His countenance was one which would have been striking among men of any race. He had the warrior-face of the American aborigine—the aquiline nose, the high cheekbones and firm jaw and mouth, the calm pride and dignity of expression—but refined by generations of Inca culture. It was the face of a fighter, and a slumbering ferocity was perhaps lurking in the dark and somewhat bloodshot eyes; but it was also an intellectual one, clear-cut in line and contour, and backed by a well-formed head, handsomely poised. His complexion, of the usual bronze of the Indian, was yet not more swarthy than that of many Spaniards. His black hair was closely trimmed, and on his head was the royal diadem, the llauta, a thick cord or band of crimson, wound several times around, with a pendant fringe covering his forehead to his brows from temple to temple. Set closely in the llauta above the fringe, diverging as they rose, were two small white feathers, each with a single spot of black. These were taken from the wings of the coraquenque, a rare bird sacred to the Incas. He was simply clad in deep red, the royal color. His tunic was quite devoid of decoration, but the cloak thrown over his shoulders glittered with embroidery and scales of gold, and besides his heavy ear-ornaments he wore at his throat a collar of emeralds worth an emperor's ransom.

A powerful man, well and serenely accustomed to his power, mentally and physically equal to its exercise, and sufficiently wonted to it not to be self-conscious, is truly a fit object of admiration. There is nothing more sublime, in its way, on earth: nothing more majestic, and only suggested by the brute kingliness of the lion. Atahualpa, the descendant of a long line of absolute monarchs, a line believed by the Peruvians to have sprung from Inti, the Sun-god himself, wore his majesty as naturally as he wore his cloak and with as little thought of it.

On this occasion the audience was short, and the Inca did not seat himself. Having heard the reports of his generals, he directed that supplies be sent to the Spaniards in Caxamalca, gave a few orders concerning the disposition of his troops and the formation of his escort for the visit to Pizarro that afternoon, and retired, while the nobles went again upon their knees until he had quit the apartment. In the court outside he dismissed his staff and descended a terrace into the garden in the rear of the palace.

It was an alluring place at any hour, and to its quiet seclusion the young monarch often resorted when he wearied of councils, the affairs of government, and the endless formalities of the court. From the rear of the villa an avenue, bordered with flowering shrubbery and spreading palms backed by tall quinuars, led to an open lawn in the middle of which played a fountain. Around the margin of the green, set in shady niches in the foliage, were marble benches. Over one of these rugs had been thrown, and leaning sadly on its arm with her cheek resting on her hand sat a maiden of seventeen. A few paces away were half-a-dozen attendants, seated on the sward, arranging armfuls of flowers. So busy were they, and so deep the maiden's reverie, that the Inca's coming was unnoted, and he paused, surveying the group and hesitating to interrupt. At that moment, slightly turning her head, the girl observed him; with sudden pallor and a movement of her hand to her heart she arose.

She was handsome and womanly, and as she stood timidly awaiting her monarch's approach he did not fail to note her beauty with brotherly pride; for she was his half-sister, the Ñusta[1] Rava. Her dark eyes, heavily veiled by their lashes, were downcast, and her color came and went with every step of his advance. Her cloak, falling back as she arose, had left partly uncovered one dimpled arm and shoulder, and the low-cut white robe, or llicla. This garment, made of the soft wool of the vicuña, was loosely and gracefully draped about her form, caught in at the waist by a richly jewelled girdle, and secured by golden topus, or large, broad-headed pins. A necklace of pearls and the jewelled band of gold about her head were her only other ornaments, save those necessary to keep in place a wealth of black tresses coiled in a form of Grecian knot.

[1] Ñusta = Princess.

As the Inca drew near she would have knelt, but he stayed her quickly, and taking her hand, reverently carried it to his lips.

"May the sun shine brightly upon thee this day, my sister," said he. "Thou 'rt abroad early. I thought to find the garden deserted."

"I have been walking, my lord," she replied, with eyes still lowered, and drew almost imperceptibly away. "I was about to return."

"Nay: let me walk with thee. Perhaps I can tell thee something to lighten thy heart. Come."

"Ah, my lord," she sighed, raising her eyes to his with a swift glance, and turning them away filled with tears.

"I know—I know! Thou grievest for our unfortunate brother Huascar," he said kindly. "It was partly on his account that I had thee come to Caxamalca. I would not have thee mourn needlessly, nor think me a monster in holding him in brief imprisonment. It is against my wish, believe me, and only to prevent renewal of the late unhappy war."

"Oh, most unhappy, most dreadful, my lord!—and between my brothers!" she answered with a sob.

"Most dreadful!" repeated Atahualpa, gravely. "Yet thou knowest how it was forced upon me."

"Forced upon thee, my lord? They told me different."

"They told thee falsely!" he exclaimed. "Dost thou not know how it was brought about?—I fear not, in its truth. Then let us walk whilst I tell thee." He passed his arm about her fondly, and led her down the avenue.

"Thou knowest, Rava," he began after they had taken a few steps, "the will of our father, given at Cuzco some months before his death, by which the kingdom of Quito was bequeathed to me, and Cuzco to Huascar. Thou knowest that for several years we reigned in peace, each in his own domain. So it might have continued had Huascar been content. But, chafing under the loss of Quito, which but for me would have been one of his provinces, he sent an ambassador demanding that I acknowledge myself vassal and feudatory. It was a challenge, and what reply could there be but war? Huascar's misfortunes flow from his misguided ambition and impious disregard of our father's will."

"Oh, pardon him, pardon him, my brother!" implored the princess, turning to him and pressing her clasped hands to her breast. "He was ill-advised. He was hounded to his fault, I know, by wicked ministers. Most bitterly hath Cuzco repented it!"

"Cuzco!—it may be," replied Atahualpa, slowly; "but Huascar—However, it is my purpose to pardon him, Rava; so banish thine unhappiness. For the present, for the sake of the tranquillity of the empire, we must hold him. But when that is assured he shall be free. Weep no more."

"Oh, Atahualpa, what words will tell thee my heart's gratitude!" sobbed the young girl, taking his hand in both her own. "Thou knowest not what my grief hath been!"

"Nay! but I do know, my dear. Since the war began I have thought often what it must be. But do not thank me. No need of words. Thy happiness is more than thanks enough. I always loved thee, Rava, when we were together in the old palace at Cuzco. Now, thou 'rt no less dear to me than mine own daughters in far-off Quito. I trust soon to remove the nearest cause of thy sorrow. It was for this, as I have said, that I sent for thee to come to Caxamalca."

They were interrupted by a youth of twenty years, in the uniform of a Quitoan general. As he drew near he removed his helmet, disclosing the yellow llautu worn by the princes of the blood royal, and knelt as he placed a pebble upon his shoulder in the customary sign of homage. It was the Auqui[2] Toparca, brother to Atahualpa, and like the latter, a half-brother of the Ñusta Rava. Not even his exalted rank permitted him to approach the sovereign otherwise than in the attitude of a subject; but the obeisance performed, he arose and was embraced by the two, and the trio strolled on together. The conversation turned at once upon the strangers in Caxamalca. The purposed visit of the Inca was deprecated with timid earnestness by the Ñusta, and with energy by the Auqui; but Atahualpa waved aside their objections with a smile, and soon afterwards returned to the palace.

[2] Auqui = Prince.

CHAPTER VI

The Massacre

It was after midday when the Inca gave the order for the formation of his troops, and the brazen notes of trumpets rose from the parade in front of the villa. As the last measure died away the call was taken up in one quarter after another, and the air trembled with the din of the horns of the legions from Quito, the hoarse bellow of the conches of the coast tribes, the shrieking pipes of the mountaineers from the highlands around Chimborazo, and the growl of the drums of the fierce hordes from the eastern slopes of the Andes,—a huge wild diapason that sent another chill to Spanish hearts as it floated over the valley.

The tumult died away on the distant flanks of the encampment. Presently, company after company was sweeping into the low plain between the camp and the river, and forming into battalions. Here they stood motionless, broke at last into columns, and marched down to the fords, the earth shaken by the feet of their thousands, the air hideously vibrant with the fierce music of their instruments and wild chanting. A sound as of surf breaking on a shingled beach rose above the stream, its silver turned into yellow turbidity which stained its course for many a mile below, while the dark columns crept up the eastern bank and deployed on the plain in front of Caxamalca.

Pizarro, standing with a small group of officers on the parapet of the redoubt, gazed upon the dense, sinuous line of masses, silent now, stretching up and down the valley. From tens of thousands of spear-points and from myriads of brazen shields and helmets, the rays of the western sun were thrown back in a restless, quivering infinitude of scintillations. Slowly, but with a terrible steadiness, the line rolled forward, now obliterating a canal or roadway, now a garden or a field of grain; here, a battalion losing itself in a grove; there, in the aisles of an orchard; to reappear on the hither side, perfect in alignment. At length, at a distance of something less than a mile, the central battalions halted, but the wings swept on until a vast, dark semi-circle confronted the town.

Pizarro watched the progress of the movement in silence, speaking only to give an order, or in brief reply to some remark or inquiry from one of his companions. With him were several of his staff, Father Valverde, Felipillo the interpreter, and two or three orderlies. At the head of the stairway descending to the square were Candia's two cannon, commanding the place. Close at hand was a brazier of burning charcoal for the matches of the cannoneers, who were clustered at the parapet, barefooted and stripped to the waist, watching, half-stupefied, the advancing hordes.

Below, the sunlit square, with its shadows now stealing out from the westward, was deserted—peaceful as on a Sabbath. And the Sabbath it might have been, for from one of the buildings came the unceasing murmur of the priests at prayer. All night long priests had knelt in pious invocation of the aid of the Lord of Hosts and the Holy Virgin upon this day's undertaking. Thus, too, they had knelt since dawn, when mass had been celebrated, the soldiers joining devoutly in the hymn, "Exsurge, Domine, et judica causam tuam."

"Rise, O Lord, and judge thy cause!"—so they had chanted, with hearts swelling with the exaltation of faith that the cause was just, with the sublime confidence that the Holy Cross must triumph. Through the night Pizarro had been among them, had spoken with simple eloquence, had inspired their zeal by his own; and had roused alike the fires of religious fervor and the lust of conquest and of pagan gold. Through the night the ecclesiastics had given themselves to discipline, had shed tears and blood while they scourged themselves and cried to Heaven to give victory to the soldiers of the True Faith. Such was the prelude!

And now, behind the great doors giving upon the square the companies waited in grim readiness: in one of the buildings, the infantry; in another, De Soto's troop; in a third, that of Hernando Pizarro. The hours had lengthened through the morning, and still they waited in suspense. Under prolonged tension their enthusiasm had waned, and now many a villanous face, recently alight with devotion, grew anxious or lowering. Some time after midday a chasqui, or runner, had arrived from the Inca with the announcement that he would come with warriors fully armed, like the Spanish emissaries the day before. Replied Pizarro, "Say to your Señor that in whatever manner he cometh he shall be received as a friend and brother." Then he turned to Hernando with a black scowl: "Let the infidel come as he will!—only Heaven grant that he may not come tardily! Delay is more to be dreaded than an onslaught. A few more hours of this waiting, and the blood of our men will turn to water."

Hernando shrugged gloomily, and turned his eyes upon the advancing lines.

It was late afternoon before the movement of the Inca's troops was completed. For any sign of perturbation Pizarro might have been observing a parade; though his thin lips were more than usually compressed, his face a bit more pallid, his taciturnity increased. De Soto was conversing in a low tone with Candia as they surveyed the field. Hernando Pizarro was standing beside his brother on the parapet, muttering occasional oaths.

"Caramba!" he exclaimed, as the wings of the approaching army began to close in. "It appeareth that the Inca accepteth thine invitation with some emphasis, Francisco! Had we better not change our plans and prepare to defend the town whilst there is yet time? That is a pretty formation for attack, if I ever saw one, and more promising of a fight than of a neighborly visit, I'll be bound!"

"Wait!" replied the commander, shortly.

"By the saints, we have little time for waiting! They will be upon us in half an hour; and not even a barricade! Let me take my troop and show them our metal, at least."

"Wait!" repeated Pizarro, sternly.

Hernando sprang down with a curse, and strode away. At this instant an exclamation broke from De Soto.

"Look!—The causeway!"

The head of a column had pushed out from the trees which hid the approach to the bridge. The distance was too great to disclose its nature, but soon the highway was covered with thousands. Presently Pizarro noted with relief that the movement of the encircling line had been arrested, and the approaching column had advanced beyond it. He could hear the rolling of drums and the weird strains of heathen marching music. Soon no doubt remained that it was the escort of the Inca. About half a mile from the edge of the town the column turned from the causeway and halted, and the anxious watchers saw they were pitching tents. A chasqui was seen speeding toward the town. Pizarro descended to the square with his officers. A soldier from the exterior guard hurried in with the chasqui, a half-naked, clean-limbed, intelligent-looking youth, lithe and supple as a panther. He bore a message, translated by Felipillo, to the effect that the Inca would camp for the night on the plain, and would enter in the morning. An impatient oath, quickly suppressed, escaped Pizarro, and he replied coolly:—

"Tell him that our disappointment will be immeasurable. We have made all preparations for his reception, and hope to have him sup with us."

The chasqui darted away.

After an interval another arrived. The Inca would be pleased to come; and as he would remain overnight, would bring his attendants, but without arms. The chasqui departed. Pizarro, his pallid face lighted for an instant by a smile, sinister and triumphant, turned to his officers.

"Now, gentlemen, the quarry! Remember—everything, our lives, all, hang upon the absolute and implicit observance of my instructions. If we fail," he waved his hand toward the menacing dark semicircle outside the town, "ye know what to expect. But we shall not fail. Now, to your posts, and may the Virgin have us all in her keeping! I believe every man knoweth his duty. Candia, art ready?"

"More than ready, General!"

"Then, to thy guns!"

Candia returned to the redoubt, occupied now only by his cannoneers and the sentinel.

On the plain the tent-pitching is given over, the column has regained the causeway, and is again approaching the town. In front are a multitude of sweepers, clearing the way of every pebble, fallen leaf, or twig, singing as they work. In their rear are a hundred drummers beating, in a strange cadence, long-bodied drums of varied size and pitch of tone. Following these, the imperial band of five hundred musicians, gorgeously liveried and resplendent with trappings of burnished metal, playing on trumpets, pipes, and stringed instruments of divers forms, the wild but not unmusical march sung by the sweepers. Then, at an interval, follow a thousand nobles in white tunics, bearing small mallets or hammers of copper and silver. Another interval, and a second body of nobles of higher rank, in tunics of checkered white and red, ablaze with ornaments of gold. Now, two battalions of the splendid warriors in the blue of the Incarial Guard, but without arms. Between them, and guarded by a platoon of nobles, floats the standard of the Inca. Immediately after the detachment of the guard, seated upon an open litter, or sedan, borne on the shoulders of half a score of nobles of the highest rank, and surrounded by his attendants, counsellors, and priests, is Atahualpa, a most imperial and commanding figure, as we have seen. In the rear, follows a great column of guards and nobles no less splendid than those of the van.

Treasure enough here, Pizarro, to whet the greed and nerve the arms of your ravening, plunder-hungry companions, could they but behold it from their concealment! Let us see. Twenty-five thousand ducats in the seat on which the Inca sits. Thousands more in the decorations of the sedan. Thousands more in the gem-encrusted standard, and every noble in the train wearing a small fortune on his person. Such a display never before met the eyes or brightened the dreams of your Spaniards, whom the chasqui has reported, not without truth, as huddled, panic-stricken, in some of the buildings of the town.

The pageant has passed the suburbs and is in the streets, deserted as Pizarro found them yesterday; for the exterior guards have been withdrawn, to be of use, presently, elsewhere. Now the column has entered the great square, opening its files to the right and left to permit the passage of the Inca and his suite, who move to the middle of the place and halt, the escort massing on the flanks and rear. Company after company of the guard, and body after body of the nobles, march into the plaza and take position with a celerity and precision of movement showing the highest discipline; and it is long before the rear has deployed from the narrow street. Meanwhile the Inca has looked about, at first with expectant interest, then with growing suspicion and impatience as he perceives no sign of welcome, nor any living being outside of his own following. The silence is strange, in truth, and not reassuring,—even it is ominous. The great doors facing upon the square are closed and blank. At the head of the stairway entering the redoubt two bronze muzzles overlook the plaza, but these are quite without significance. At last the Inca demands, with increasing ire at the too evident discourtesy:—

"Where are the strangers?"

As if in answer to his question a door opposite partly opens, and the dingy, gray-black figure of Father Valverde, in march-worn cassock, bearing crucifix and breviary, enters the square. A soldier follows, in complete armor. He is known to history as Hernando de Aldana—introduced and dismissed for all time by a dozen brief words. Behind him comes the malicious, spoiled renegade, Felipillo, shaking now in his Spanish boots, and scarcely fit to perform his office of interpreting.

Slowly, and with priestly dignity, the gray-black figure approaches the Inca as no man ever approached him before, with unbended knee or back, bearing no burden or symbol of one, and no doubt regarded curiously and contemptuously enough by the monarch, who is not done with considering the quality of his reception.

Father Valverde, informing the Inca that he has been ordered by his general, Pizarro, to teach him the doctrines of the True Faith, at once sets about that undertaking, expounding its tenets briefly and as convincingly, perhaps, as could have been done under the circumstances. Then, following the formula customarily used by the Spanish conquistadores, he announces the spiritual supremacy of the Pope, and the temporal power of the Emperor Charles the Fifth, and urgently recommends that the Inca acknowledge himself tributary to the latter, forthwith.

No doubt the father expounded the doctrines as convincingly as possible under the circumstances; and with as much effect, probably, as was expected of the perfunctory mockery by the Spaniards themselves: at any rate, not convincingly enough, but with the effect looked for and desired; for Atahualpa, firing at the suggestion of vassalage, reddens with anger, and demanding of Valverde his credentials and authority, seizes the breviary, turns its pages rapidly, then casts it upon the ground with right kingly scorn and rage.

"Tell your general," says he, with hot pride, "and let him say it to his emperor, that I am no man's vassal! And say further that before I leave this place your people shall account to me for every act of presumption or violence done within my territories!"

Shocked at the sacrilege offered the holy book, the good father snatches it from among the feet of the heathens. The doughty Aldana claps hand to his sword with Spanish bravado,—even draws it, says one,—but the priest is scuttling across the plaza to Pizarro, who is waiting in the building occupied by the infantry. Aldana follows. The wretched farce is ended—a farce truly Spanish, as what follows is truly and characteristically Spanish.

The door opens again, and Father Valverde, pale to the lips, enters and stands before Pizarro, who is no less pale, but infinitely more composed. Back of him in the dim obscurity of the great hall is massed the infantry, every sword bared, every pike and halberd clutched with nerves strained by long suspense. The priest, his voice husky with excitement and rage at the indignity put upon the holy book, and, it may be, at the unconcealed contempt with which he was received by the monarch, exclaims:—

"Dost not see—dost not see what is taking place? Whilst we are engaged in courtesies and parley with this dog full of pride, the plains are filled with his warriors! Fall upon him! Fall upon him!—I absolve you!"

Pizarro makes no reply, but flushes with unaccustomed color, and steps out of the door into the plaza, in his hand a white scarf. The Inca, with the frown deepening upon his stern, calm face, sees him raise it over his head, and wonders what new idleness——

A quick, sudden flash, half perceived, a sharp, ear-stunning explosion, as of lightning striking near, and an unseen messenger of death ploughs a mangled, horrid furrow through the dense ranks of the Peruvians. A plunging, white sulphurous cloud has burst from one of the guns on the redoubt, and rolls low and stifling over the square. There is a brief instant of stillness, then a moan of terror, broken quickly by yells of wounded men, answered by a second flash and roar. The great doors swing back, their blankness giving place to sudden fell activity as charging columns crash into the open with the battle-cries of Spain. An avalanche of steel-clad men and horses here; another there; a rushing, bellowing phalanx of infantry between. "Santiago à ellos!" "Cristo y San Miguel!" They strike the fear-numbed mass of the Peruvians, cutting, thrusting, slashing, with resistless fury. The ranks of nobles, silent and motionless a moment ago, are whirled by the shock into a seething, shrieking tumult. Those on the edge of the concourse are hurled back upon their fellows by the tremendous impact, and cut down while they reel. The mail-clad Spaniards, released from the nervous strain of hours' duration, are seized of blood-madness. Their battle-cries are lost in an infernal chorus of screams of agony, overtopped by the reports of the cannon which thunder savage accompaniment. A pandemonium! An outbreak of hell itself! A horror not to be dwelt upon!

The worst of the slaughter is around Atahualpa, whose person the Spaniards are making most desperate efforts to gain; but a large number of his escort, cut off by the charge of De Soto's troop, have stampeded in wild panic down the narrow streets leading from the plaza. A few escape, but in a moment these avenues are blocked by the crush. De Soto, having perceived at once that the Peruvians are unarmed and that victory—if this atrocity can be so called—-was assured by the very first collision, essays gallantly to check the worse than useless butchery. His commands are unheard. He snatches his trumpeter's instrument and blows the recall—blows again and again. As well shout injunctions to a tornado, or call to a pack of wolves. He drives among his men, striking up their weapons. De Piedra, enraged by his interference, aims a cut at him, and is unhelmed and unhorsed by a blow from the captain's mace. Well struck, De Soto! Pity it had not been better; for Piedra will be breathing again before an hour has passed. But De Soto finds it perilous work. In a moment his horse is wounded by a pikeman, and rearing, slips and is down. Steed and rider are lost in the confusion: at last, up again, the captain unhurt. It is some minutes before he is mounted, and meanwhile a wall of stone and adobe forming part of the enclosure of the square has given away before the crush of the fear-driven horde, and they burst through the break in a huge struggling torrent. They reach the plain outside the town, pursued with relentless ferocity by the cavalry. The Inca's troops, already in consternation at the uproar in the village, the shrieks, the cannonade, and the overhanging cloud of smoke, take the panic and scatter as chaff before the wind.

In the square the din has lost its volume. Candia has ceased firing, for the smoke impedes his view of the shambles, where friends are endangered by his guns. Around the Inca the unequal struggle goes on under his horror-stricken eyes, and he stands, benumbed and helpless, tottering on his reeling litter. In the anguish of their despair his nobles cast themselves to death with a loyalty of devotion the gods might envy; but the bulwark they interpose before their beloved lord grows steadily less. Several of the Spaniards now are making frenzied efforts to reach him with their weapons, and one has hurled his pike. Pizarro sees the movement and shouts, hoarse with weariness, unheard and unheeded, "Strike not the Inca, on pain of death!"

But he is heard by Cristoval, who, with two or three sick men, has been left as a guard for the priests, still at their supplications. Since the first thundering charge he has watched the long tragedy, at first with tense excitement at the onslaught, then with deepening horror and loathing when he saw the defencelessness of the Peruvians, until he has turned away, sick to his very soul, hating his race, his blood, his parentage, himself. He has cast his sword upon the ground. Now he seizes it and bounds toward the scene with a curse at every stride.

The enclosing line of Spaniards has drawn near to the Inca. One of his bearers goes down, then another. The sedan plunges wildly and sinks, throwing its royal burden almost upon the weapons of his enemies. He is down. A pike is at his breast, but swept aside by Cristoval's sword, whose savage thrust the infantryman barely escapes. An axe flashes overheard, and crashes upon Cristoval's buckler. But Pizarro is beside him. As the general stretches out his hand to raise the Inca, a pike-thrust rips both hand and arm—the only wound, be it known to the everlasting infamy of this band of murderers, received by a Spaniard in the day's affair!

Pizarro's voice rises above the tumult: "Back, dogs! Back, or, by God, ye shall suffer!"

De Soto has dismounted, and dashes through the rabid pack. His buckler touches that of Cristoval, and the two shields ring with a shower of blows aimed at the Inca. It is minutes before the murderous zeal is quelled, and a circle cleared around the captive prince.

A stillness has settled over the plaza—alas! not a stillness; for the din has given place to sounds yet more dreadful, in the shrieks and groans of the wounded and dying.

There are many prisoners, and Hernando Pizarro is directing the work of making them secure in the buildings. Surrounding the group about the Inca is a turbulent circle of soldiers, panting yet from their work, and jostling one another for a view of the royal prisoner. They make a savage and grewsome picture as they glare, red-eyed, faces flushed, reeking with sweat and splashed with blood from head to foot, leaning upon their gory weapons. Atahualpa stands silent, proudly erect, his features immovable as bronze, seemingly devoid of emotion as if his heart were of that metal. His dark, stern eyes overlook the encircling mob, but as if they see no man. He is no less kingly now than a few hours ago, when surrounded by the splendor of his court. Those guarding him are equally silent in the stupor of weariness and reaction. At length Pizarro speaks:—

"Come, gentlemen, let us move! Guard him closely!"

They close round him. As they are about to leave the square, Atahualpa turns toward the heaps of his people who vainly gave their lives in his defence, and raising his hands, speaks a few words in Quichua, broken by one great sob that shakes his frame. Then he turns away, his countenance as sternly impassive and inscrutable as before.

As they enter the building which is to serve as his temporary prison, the sun is setting—setting forever upon the empire of the Incas.

CHAPTER VII

Cavalier and Cantinero

Night fell before the cavalry returned from pursuing the wretched fugitives, whom they hunted almost to the confines of the Peruvian camp, riding them down in their flight, and slaying without mercy. The troops of the Inca had fled without striking a blow. It would be difficult to explain their complete demoralization did we not consider the superstitious awe with which the Spaniards had been regarded from their first landing upon the Peruvian coasts. Their aspect and the supernatural powers ascribed to them bore out the ancient tradition of the fair-faced god, Viracocha, who, it is said, had once appeared upon earth, and whose reappearance had been foretold by the oracles. The white men were his descendants and agents. Already they were known as Viracochas. A mere handful, but armed with thunderbolts, they had seized the sacred person of the Inca and destroyed his nobles and generals at a blow. The keystone, the arch itself, of the empire had crumbled and fallen under the dire calamity. The people were without a ruler, the army without leaders. The authority which had held the tribes together was dissolved in an hour. Accustomed for generations to the rule of the most absolute despotism the world has ever known, they were now incapable of initiative. The Empire of Tavantinsuyu was a rudderless ship. The army resolved itself into its elements and fell in pieces.