Chapter XII Vengeance Foiled
Although Cristoval could not share the Inca’s mistrust of Pizarro’s faith, he was profoundly impressed by his words of farewell, spoken with such firm conviction. They saddened him despite his confidence in his commander, and as he crossed the court his steps lagged while he pondered the possibility of remaining in Caxamalca. His deliberation was ended by the trumpets of his troop sounding in the plaza. It was too late now, at any rate, and he hurried on. He was arrested by hearing his name called timidly, and turning, saw one of the Princess Rava’s maidens hastening toward him.
“Viracocha,” she said, “my mistress sendeth greeting, and prayeth a few words.”
“Most gladly,” replied Cristoval. “Wilt lead me to her?”
He followed her to the garden, and a few paces brought them to the princess. She rose as they approached, and Cristoval regarded her with new interest. He noted with sympathy the traces of care and grief, wondering at the heightened womanliness they had produced, and suddenly recognizing in her that rare nature whose gentlest and fairest attributes are perfected by sorrow. Cristoval had not known many good women in his adventurous career, but he had discovered this quality with increased reverence for womankind. He observed it now in this girl of a strange and new-found race, and thought to himself, “Well, God save them, they are all sisters, whatever their blood—and the burden of sorrow worked by men’s misdeeds falleth always most heavily upon them!”
As he drew near he was struck more than ever by her beauty, which had impressed him at first by its warmth and exuberance. Now, softened and chastened by sadness, the fire and pride which had once shone in her dark eyes had given way to a gentle pathos and appeal which touched his kindly heart. As he bent over the extended hand he renewed to himself the vow he had made to her brother a short while before.
“Viracocha Cristoval,” she said, with hesitation, “I am sure that you will pardon my sending for you. I have just learned that you are going away.”
“For a short journey, Ñusta Rava.”
“I pray it may be a safe one,” she answered. “I will delay you only a moment. I would ask if you can tell me aught of the fate in store for my brother, the Inca.” She looked up to him with eyes deepening with anxiety, and faltered, “He will say nothing, but I can see his sadness, which hath grown upon him with every day of deferred hope since the payment of his ransom. Hath he cause for this? Do you know, Viracocha Cristoval?”
“I know nothing, Ñusta Rava, to cause him apprehension. On the contrary, General Pizarro hath renewed his promise to give him freedom, and, we trust, in a very few days. I have told him this, but he rejecteth the offered hope. He saith he hath been forewarned of pending evil. I know not how.”
“Alas! Said he so?” moaned the princess, her eyes filling. “Then what I have been told is true! Ah, my unhappy brother!” and she sank sobbing upon the bench.
“What hath she been told?” demanded Cristoval, turning to the maid; but the girl, too, was in tears, and incapable of reply. He stepped to Rava’s side. “Ñusta Rava,” he said urgently, “pray tell me. Is it anything of evil from Pizarro regarding the Inca? If so—”
She shook her head. “No, no!” she replied, brokenly; “but a few evenings ago he beheld a falling star of unusual splendor, and called to mind that shortly before the death of our father a similar sign was given. The death of an Inca is heralded by strange portents, Viracocha.”
Cristoval was relieved. “Nay, my princess!” he said consolingly, “heed it not. Such signs are but the wiles of the devil—are but chance appearances. I have seen a thousand falling stars. They are for children and old women to talk about at firesides. Oh, I beg of you, restrain your tears! Take courage! Hear me, Ñusta Rava! De Soto and myself and half-a-score of others have witnessed Pizarro’s oath to set your brother free. He awaiteth only assurance that your people are at peace. A few days hence the Inca shall have his liberty. Pizarro is a man of honor.”
She controlled herself with an effort, and, brushing away her tears, presently looked up. “Forgive my weakness, Viracocha Cristoval. I fear my heart is overburdened. One blow hath fallen upon another until the world is dark.”
“I know what your sorrows have been,” replied Cristoval, kindly, “but I believe one, at least, is near its end.”
“Oh, I thank you for your words of hope!” she murmured. “I feared that a change in your leader’s purpose had brought my brother’s heaviness of heart. I will try to cheer him.”
“Do so. Assure him that he hath other friends among Spaniards besides myself. It is true.”
“He is sure of you, Viracocha Cristoval,” she said gratefully. “But now, let me keep you no longer. I heard a trumpet some minutes ago. It called you, did it not?”
“It called me, Ñusta Rava.”
“Then you must go. I pray the Sun may brighten your way and give you safe return.”
“Farewell, and Heaven guard you, Ñusta Rava!” He touched her fingers with his lips and hastened away.
As he passed up the avenue the trumpets were sounding the “Mount,” and in his haste he failed to notice a burly figure in the shelter of a by-path. It was Mendoza. He had been waiting Pizarro’s return from seeing the departure of De Soto’s troop, and, presuming upon the commander’s determination to make away with the Inca, whom Mendoza already considered as good as dead, he had invaded the forbidden precincts of the garden. Perceiving Cristoval and the Princess Rava, he had stepped unobserved into the shrubbery, and watched the interview with a scowling sneer.
“Aha, my conscientious buck cavalier!” he muttered, peering out as Cristoval strode away. “Stolen meetings with Her Highness? Tears and kissed hands at parting? By the fiend, that smelleth of romance!—And we have been wondering at thy continence, thou cursed sly dog, whilst thou hast been spreading thy net for the very pick of the flock! Oho! But wait!—let us see, amigo mio! Methinks the cards are to be dealt again, and thou’lt have no hand.—And thou dost nurse so charitable an interest in the Señorita Ñusta’s brother? Hum! And I have stumbled upon its source thus unexpectedly? Even so! Bien! But, adiós, my gallant. Thou’lt find more than one change on thy return to Caxamalca,—among others, a division of spoil upon which thou ’rt not counting, whereof I see a pearl to which I’ll lay claim in Pizarro’s ear this very morning.—She cometh this way, now! I’ll step out and give her greeting. Curse me! why have I not learned a few words of her heathen tongue? I know but three,—curi, gold; collque, silver; and chicha. Good words, but not suited to the present need. However, no importa—let it pass. Much can be said in dumb show. We’ll make it answer. Now, let us see if we cannot be made to forget our Cristoval.”
Giving a twirl to his mustachios and a touch to the sallow ruff around his neck, Mendoza stepped into the avenue, and made a well-feigned start of surprise when his eyes rested upon the approaching princess. Off came Mendoza’s sombrero, and he bowed until its plume lay on the ground.
“Your gracious Highness,” he murmured in Spanish, with his hand on his heart, “I am your slave. The devil take me if I know how to make you understand it, but ’t is so, my lady bird, my chickadee, and I would swear it, could I but formulate an oath which you could grasp in your benightedness.”
The princess, happily unconscious of the disrespect in the words, but indignant at his intrusion, responded with a barely perceptible inclination of her head, and passed on. But Mendoza was not to be easily rebuffed. Striding after her, he gained her side.
“But stay, my haughty pagan lady!” he exclaimed, his forced smile only half concealing the wickedness in his eyes. “Not so fast, pretty one! Let us talk;—or if we cannot talk, let us make signs. Caramba! Let us be acquainted!” and he placed his hand upon her arm.
The princess shrank as if from a reptile, turning with a look of indignant scorn that daunted even the case-hardened Mendoza, while a scream from the maid brought him fully to his senses. He halted, and Rava went her way with burning cheeks, leaving the Spaniard staring after her discomfited.
“Jesu!” he exclaimed, beneath his breath. He replaced his sombrero over one ear and spread his legs wide apart, one hand upon his hip, the other depressing the hilt of his rapier until its point rose to the level of his shoulder.
“Cara! There is a sudden chilliness hereabouts. Did I feel a cool breeze from the mountains, or was it a freezing glance? No matter, Señorita Ñusta Rava, my dark beauty—no matter! We’ll score that in the account against this Cristoval. And, withal, proud loveliness is much to my taste. There’s a zest in subjugating.—Hola! Who the devil is this?”
Pedro, crossing the lower end of the court, had met the princess, and noticing her indignation and the trepidation of her maid, suspected that some drunken soldier had been trespassing. He stepped quickly through the shrubbery and came upon Mendoza, still in his jaunty pose. Pedro divined the situation in the instant. Halting, he tilted his toque over his ear, placed his hand upon his hip, spread his good leg wide from its fellow, and stood surveying Mendoza with concentrated insolence, in a grotesque caricature of the latter’s attitude. Mendoza, in turn, regarded the cook in surprise, then colored with anger as he realized the tableau in which he was taking part. He adjusted himself hastily and opened his lips to deliver an imprecation upon the cook’s head. He thought better of it, remembering Pizarro’s stern order against intrusion upon the privacy of the garden, and an injunction, yet more stern, against affronting the women of the court. He swallowed the curse for discretion’s sake, and in the effort produced a grimace which he hoped Pedro might accept for a smile.
“Thou ’rt a droll fellow, Pedro,” he said with forced lightness, and stalked away. Pedro followed him with his eyes, his attitude unchanged.
“Ah!” he growled. “A droll fellow, am I not, thou scurvy picaroon! Had I my blade thou shouldst find me twice more droll, my dastardly rough-handler of women, for I would tickle thy ribs most humorously before thou shouldst leave this garden. Slink off, caught-dog! I’ll have an eye on thee.—A droll fellow! By the faith, it must be so, for naught but drollery could wrench a smile so misbegotten, crump, and bandy as that of thine! Thou didst grin like a kicked hat. An old boot could smile more mirthfully. Pedro must be droll, to give thee such a toad’s smirk, Mendoza!” He straightened his toque and stumped back to his quarters.
Meanwhile De Soto’s troop, with armor glinting, guidon and pennons fluttering, and trumpets sounding a spirited quickstep, marched out of the square on its way to Guamachucho. At the end of the second day the Spaniards entered the town. They found it a small place, unfortified, and without a sign of the reported rising of the people.
A thorough reconnaissance of the country about occupied the next two days, for De Soto was determined that no doubt concerning its quiet should remain. At midnight of the second day he was seated with Cristoval in the latter’s quarters, discussing the expedition and planning for the morrow, to be spent in reconnoitring the country farther south,—then a day of rest, and the return march to Caxamalca. Cristoval rose to make his rounds when they heard a hurried step in the patio, and a soldier entered, followed by a chasqui. The youth was breathing heavily, and as he entered the lamplight his body glistened with perspiration.
“The Viracocha Cristoval?” panted the chasqui, looking from one to the other and drawing a paper from his pouch.
“Here!” said Cristoval. Taking the paper, he hastily broke the seal, reading the contents with alarm and rage. He finished and thrust it toward De Soto, who was anxiously watching his expression.
“Read that, Soto!” he shouted, “and learn the black treachery we have left behind!”
De Soto seized the paper. It was from Pedro.
“CRISTOVAL: The Inca hath been brought to trial. Return with all speed. It is said that his conviction is determined, and that he is to be burned at the stake.
“PEDRO.”
De Soto looked up at his friend, their faces reflecting consternation and anger.
“’T is for this Pizarro ordered us away—curse his perfidious heart!” cried De Soto.
“A thousand times curse him!” exclaimed Cristoval. “By Heaven, if ’tis true, I’ll kill him! Soto, I go to Caxamalca! Juan, have my horse saddled! Pronto!—quick!” he commanded, and hurried to his room. De Soto reread the message, muttered an oath, and followed him out. He met Cristoval buckling on his rapier.
“Hold, Peralta!” he exclaimed; “thou ’rt not going thus, without thy harness! Wear thy corselet, at least.”
“No! I’ll ride light,” returned Cristoval.
“Wait! come to my room,” said De Soto. Hurriedly opening his portmanteau, he drew out a package wrapped in oiled silk. He cut its fastenings with his dagger and unrolled a shirt of chain-mail. “Here! Off with thy doublet and on with this. It is Moorish, and of the best. It may serve thee, as it hath many times served me.”
It was on in a moment, and Cristoval quickly resumed his doublet. His horse was already at the door, surrounded by three or four troopers, tightening buckles and rubbing his legs, for he had been under saddle since morning.
“Adiós, Peralta!” said the captain, grasping his lieutenant’s hand. “Be not rash, and guard thyself until I come. I will follow at dawn.”
Cristoval made no reply to the warning. “Farewell, Soto,” he said, and swung into the saddle.
Soon he was in the open country, his horse’s hoofs ringing on the pavement of the great highway in a rhythm which he knew would not vary for miles. Shadowy trees swept by, cottages and groves were dimly seen and left behind. The walls of a chasqui-post threw back a short chorus of reverberations, and were lost again in the darkness and silence. Presently the streets of a village clamored with the measure, and relapsed into stillness before the startled peasant could open his door. Onward he flew, the night breeze fanning his hot cheeks, the words of Pedro’s message repeating themselves over and over in the cadence of the gallop: “The Inca brought to trial—Return with all speed. The Inca brought to trial—return with all speed!”—while a thousand thoughts mingled with the refrain, chasing one another through his fevered mind, with a deep undertone of purposed vengeance if evil had befallen the captive prince.
Mile after mile down the sleeping valley, and at last the gray of dawn. Another half-league brought him to a hamlet. The people were astir, and smoke was rising from their cottages. He halted at one and dismounted, the villagers staring from their doors. His horse drooped his head, nostrils wide. Cristoval surveyed him with anxiety. No help for it, he must rest. A cottager advanced from his door with a friendly morning greeting and offered his hospitality. The cavalier accepted with gratitude, found grain for his horse, and an hour later was once more in the saddle. The rest and refreshment had done much for both steed and rider, but the leagues were covered slowly, for the animal was weary and his flanks in lather. The halt had given a brief respite to Cristoval’s sombre thoughts, but as he looked forward down the valley they returned with full force; and when, late in the day, he descried distant Caxamalca, the fever of his anxiety and rage came back with double strength. At last he was in the suburbs of the town, urging his exhausted horse to fresh speed. He reined up before a sentinel. The halberdier saluted, and Cristoval demanded hoarsely:—
“What of the Inca? Am I in time—doth he live?”
With exasperating deliberation the infantryman ordered his weapon; raised his hand without a word, clutched his throat, distorted his face into a hideous grimace, and emitting a gurgle, closed his eyes and lopped his head to one side. Then he opened his eyes and resumed his position, surveying the blowing steed with critical interest. Cristoval turned pale.
“Speak, fellow!” he shouted. “What of the Inca?”
“Dead!” returned the soldier. “Garroted! Gone to join his fathers in the mansions of the Sun, say the Indios; but ’t is more like,” he continued, as Cristoval put spurs to his horse and galloped away with an oath, “’t is more like he hath gone to hell—and mayst thou follow him!”
With jaws set, lips compressed, and oblivious of the pedestrians, Spaniards and Indios, who barely escaped being run down, Cristoval careered madly up the narrow street and across the plaza to the palace. Reining up so sharply that his horse went back upon his haunches, he threw himself from the saddle, and ordering a soldier to look after the animal, strode into the building.
He had an indistinct impression of passing Mendoza, of an expression of surprise on the soldiers of the guard in the great hall, of a hurried salute from the sentinel in front of Pizarro’s office as he crossed the anteroom, and he jerked open the door and stood before the commander. Pizarro in half-armor was seated at his table, facing the entrance. At the end of the table on his left was his sergeant-major, Dominguez. Both looked up in astonishment at Cristoval’s precipitate intrusion, the surprise on Pizarro’s face followed quickly by a scowl of displeasure. Surveying Cristoval coldly for a moment, he asked:—
“Well, what dost thou here, Peralta? I thought thee at Guamachucho. Where is thy troop?”
Ignoring the question, Cristoval advanced to the table and leaned forward.
“Is this report true that I have heard?” he demanded in a tense voice. “Hast slain the Inca?”
Pizarro’s scowl deepened at the bluntness, but after a moment, in which he seemed to hesitate whether or not to resent it, he answered shortly, “The Inca hath expiated his crimes.”
Cristoval was fully prepared for the reply, but it came, nevertheless, with a shock. His face paled, then flushed hotly. Unconsciously he hitched the hilt of his sword a trifle forward. The motion was not unnoted by Pizarro, who now watched him with the vigilance of a hawk. Cristoval’s voice shook as he returned, with suppressed vehemence:—
“Hath expiated his crimes! Then it is true!—and thou hast put upon the arms of Spain a blot which a hundred years will not efface. Great God! Was not the atrocity of the plaza enough to glut thee? I tell thee, Pizarro, thou hast done foul murder!—Hath expiated his crimes, sayst thou!—Hath received the penalty of trusting a thing so scant and beggarly as thine honor, which, by Saint Michael, did underfit thee, thou perjured and lying miscreant, when thou wast a swineherd!”
Pizarro had risen. He was silent, but the deathly pallor of his countenance and the sudden cat-like contraction of the pupils of his eyes, burning with animosity in the shadow of his scowl, spoke his rage more plainly than an outburst. And they were more dangerously significant. A scar across his forehead, which Cristoval had never noted before, now showed itself in a thin line and blue, the color of his lips. The sparse black beard seemed more than ever straggling against the sickly yellow-white of his cheeks, and the muscles about his mouth twitched in a ferocious semblance of a grin, as if to bare his teeth. But he spoke no word. He grasped for his sword. It was not at his side, and with a curse he leaped toward his chamber where it lay. Dominguez sprang to his feet with sword half drawn. Pizarro shouted to him in a voice of fury:—
“Call the guard! Kill him, Dominguez! Kill him!”
Dominguez dashed to the door and threw it open, calling: “Ho, the guard! The guard!” and turned upon Cristoval with his sword. The latter sprang forward to meet him, and engaged his blade before he had made a step. There was a second’s sharp play, and Dominguez went down with a groan, senseless from a cut which laid open his head. The sentinel rushed in, and stood for an instant transfixed.
“Kill him! Kill him, dolt! Why standest thou?” bellowed Pizarro, charging from his door sword in hand. The soldier stepped back and swung his halberd. The weapon swished viciously, narrowly avoided by a sidestep, and before he could recover for another stroke Cristoval closed upon him and ran him through. Then, throwing his weight against the heavy door, he closed it with a bang and shot the bolt. Pizarro was upon him, and he sprang back barely in time to avoid a lunge. So impetuous was the commander’s onslaught that Cristoval was forced several paces to the rear, put to his best to ward the rapid cuts and thrusts which followed. Pizarro, unaware of the mail beneath his adversary’s doublet, and emboldened by the security in his own armor, threw caution to the winds. He crowded with dire impatience to avenge the recent insult. He attacked like a demon, pressing forward in so fierce and disorderly assault that Cristoval’s defence was for a time disorganized and wild. He strove desperately to gather himself, and to feel and hold Pizarro’s blade with his own, or to check his impetuosity by riposte; but for the last there was no time, and the savage lunges came in so swift succession that he avoided them only by giving ground, until he was driven back almost to the wall. At last Pizarro, feinting a cut at his head, reached him with the point full in the breast, so heavily that the blade, catching in the links of the mail, bent nearly double, and Cristoval was hurled by the impact bodily against the wall. At the unlooked-for resistance encountered by his sword and its revelation of the unsuspected armor, the commander uttered a grunt of surprise, suddenly aware of the rashness of his attack. He paused for the briefest instant. It was Cristoval’s opportunity, and in a second he had assumed the offensive with a vigor that caused a sudden deepening of the lines around his opponent’s mouth.
Pizarro was a good swordsman, but of a school which, in Europe, was already passing. His guard was high, with point depressed, most suitable for his favorite attack, the cut. Now Cristoval, abruptly becoming the aggressor, brought into play a later skill acquired from the French. He assaulted on a lower line, with arm partly extended, hand at the height of his breast, and point on a level with the eyes. Instantly the advantage became his own, and he pressed his attack with such fierceness that Pizarro found no opportunity to regain the offensive. Compelled to lower his guard to engage Cristoval’s blade, he was hampered by the unwonted position. The weight of his rapier counted against him, and he was unprepared for the lightning movements of Cristoval’s more slender and swifter sword, which played before his eyes like a thin lambent tongue of pale flame.
Cristoval in his mail, and Pizarro defended by his corselet, the only vulnerable points offered were their throats and heads. Here, again, the commander was at a disadvantage. With that keen, swift point menacing and perilously near, he dared not disengage for a cut. Repeatedly he essayed a thrust, but each time a riposte came like a flash, barely guarded. Cristoval directed his attack wholly at his adversary’s throat, and time after time Pizarro escaped a fatal thrust only by a hair’s breadth. But at length he felt a quick sensation of burning as he was grazed, then presently another. Goaded to desperation, he cut heavily at Cristoval’s head. Vainly, and again the burning sting, this time deeper, and he felt the hot blood trickling slowly to his breast. Savagely exultant, Cristoval pressed him more closely, eager to end it before his own strength gave out, for now he began to feel the effect of the long night in the saddle.
So intent was he that he failed to note the sounds of an effort to open the door, but they did not escape Pizarro. Cristoval redoubled the energy of his assaults, not free from concern regarding Dominguez, who was but slightly wounded and now showed signs of returning animation.
Pizarro had been forced back upon a corner of his table, when the door rattled again, and after a few seconds resounded with a crashing blow. There were shouts outside, and the blow was repeated. Again, and this time it was accompanied by a rending, splitting sound, and Cristoval knew that it was being battered in. He saw Pizarro’s face brighten, then both redoubled the vigor of their blood-seeking work. Cristoval was desperate at the thought of interruption. The commander was now intent only upon defence until the promised rescue should reach him. Both combatants were breathing heavily and reeking with sweat. Blow followed blow upon the door, and now a burst of splinters succeeded every impact.
The meaning of this. Mendoza was leaving the palace when Cristoval rushed in. He looked after the cavalier in astonishment, surmising at first that he had returned with important news, perhaps confirmation of the rumors of an uprising. But Mendoza passed out, intending to return as soon as practicable. As he crossed the square, however, he recalled Cristoval’s expression, which was one of hot passion recently aroused, as was evident from his flushed face and blazing eyes. Half-way across the plaza he halted, considered a moment, then returned to the palace. Crossing the great hall, he hurried direct to Pizarro’s anteroom and looked in. The sentinel was not at his post. He hesitated briefly, traversed the apartment, and quietly tried the door. It was fast. He listened and heard rapidly shuffling feet, no voices, and the clash of steel. He tried the door again, then rushed to the guard-room.
“Hola, soldiers!” he shouted. “Follow! There is trouble in the general’s room!” and he dashed back, followed by the guard. At the door they halted.
“Listen!” commanded Mendoza. “Do ye hear it?—There is fighting within!” He threw himself against the heavy door. “Furies of hell! Lay on here, men! we must break through!”
Again and again they hurled themselves against the resisting wood without avail, wild now with excitement. Pikes and halberds were brought to bear, thrust into the cracks to prize it open, Mendoza urging and swearing. In vain! That door had been built by Pizarro’s direction, to guard the treasure lying in the room beyond his office.
“Fetch a timber!” shouted Mendoza. “A beam—anything heavy! Go! Jump about it!” He sprang at the soldiers, waving his arms, and they went out with a rush. There were no timbers but the beams of the ceilings. They were inaccessible. Finally Mendoza cried, “A bench-top from the garden! Veloz! Veloz!”
It was brought by as many as could lay hands upon it. They hurried into the anteroom and charged the door, Candia had rushed in, stared for a second, and thinking a mutiny had arisen, drew his sword and collared a soldier.
“Here!” he shouted, jerking the man around, “what’s to do?”
The soldier wrenched himself free, shouting back excitedly, “Hell is to do! Peralta is loco, and is murdering the general!”
“Santa Maria!” ejaculated Candia.
Now the door was tottering, and another blow brought it down. The crowd surged through, led by Mendoza, Candia following close. Pizarro’s drawn, anxious face and labored breathing showed that he was desperately hard pressed. Cristoval with merciless, silent determination upon his death, was pushing him closely, but weariness clogged his movements, and the fatal thrust was undelivered. Neither of the combatants seemed to see the inrush of the soldiers. Cristoval’s back was toward them, and Mendoza drove at him without a word, putting all his strength and hate into a lunge with which he meant to settle all scores. His point caught in the links of the mail, the blade bent and snapped close at the hilt. The lunge whirled Cristoval half around and sent him full length upon the floor. Pizarro sank back against the wall in exhaustion, while Mendoza drew his dagger and with an oath sprang upon his prostrate enemy. Before he could use it Candia had seized him, hurled him back, and stood over Cristoval, facing the circle of soldiers.
Pizarro, half inarticulate with weariness and rage, found breath enough to gasp: “Kill him! Kill him!—In God’s name!—will none of you put an end to that accursed mutineer?”
The circle closed a bit nearer, but Candia poised his sword, and they hesitated. Cristoval had regained his feet and placed himself back to the wall, panting, but undismayed. At this juncture Almagro hurried in and breaking through the crowd, demanded:—
“What is this? Our swords turned against one another? What meaneth it?” He was answered by an excited and unintelligible chorus. Pizarro started forward, his face distorted with frenzy.
“Kill him, I say, ye damned gawping sheep!” he bellowed again. “What!—will ye disobey? Fall upon him, or I’ll flay you to the last man!”
“Nay!” interposed Almagro. “Stand back! All in good time and order. Peralta, thou ’rt a prisoner. Take him away, Candia.”
“Out of the way, Almagro!” thundered Pizarro, struggling to pass him. “I’ll have his life! Strike him down, ye dogs!”
“Away with him, Candia!” commanded Almagro, sturdily opposing the general and thrusting him back. “Fall in about him, men, and make him secure.”
“Come!” said Candia, in a low voice, and seizing Cristoval by the arm, hurried him out, surrounded by a dozen pikes, leaving Almagro to quiet the infuriated Pizarro. In the hall outside Cristoval surrendered his sword.
Word of the affair spread rapidly over the town, and as prisoner and escort left the palace they encountered a throng already gathered at the door, held back by the crossed halberds of the sentinels, whom they besieged with questions. As Cristoval stepped out, still breathing heavily and disordered from the struggle, their clamor ceased, and they stared at him in silence, hardly able to believe they beheld the stanch Cristoval in arrest for having turned his sword against his general.
“Insano—gone mad!” muttered an old arquebusier, and his neighbors agreed to it as the only explanation. Cristoval saw them only vaguely, and scarcely heeded the groups passed on his march across the square. At the doors of the building at its lower end which had been put into service as a prison he halted mechanically, marched again at the command when the doors had been swung open, and only awoke to himself when, having traversed the patio, he was led into one of the rooms opening upon it and felt the oppression of its sudden chill and gloom. The old sergeant of the guard eyed him gravely for a few seconds, then shook his head and retired. The door swung heavily shut, and Cristoval was alone.