Chapter XV The Flight
There was no response to Cristoval’s blows on the door. He waited a moment, then renewed his knocking. Still no reply but the reverberations within the room. He pounded again and again. Silence. Drawing his sword, he laid on with its hilt, but with no effect upon the guard, and he turned toward Pedro who sat staring in stupefaction. Each felt the other’s dismay. Here was a condition of matters to send hearts into boots.
“Sanctissima Maria!” gasped the cook. “I’ve been over liberal with the chicha. Pound again. That accursed sentinel hath gone dead over the bottle.”
Cristoval battered with the sword hilt until the room was aroar with the echoes. No sign without.
“They will hear it in the guard-room,” muttered Pedro, “and then we shall have the whole stew of them about, with Zapato in the middle.”
“No help for it, Pedro. I must be out at once if out at all,” and Cristoval assaulted with redoubled vigor. Pedro’s surmise was right enough, for after another storm of blows a distant voice called:—
“Ho there, guard! What is doing? What is that uproar?”
The sentinel was silent, and Cristoval pounded again. Presently there were voices and footsteps outside, the wavering light of a lantern shone beneath the door, and some one demanded: “What is wanted within there? Be done, prisoner! Give over thy din, and to bed.”
“Let me answer,” whispered Pedro, and he shouted: “Open up! Open up! Let me out, ye blockheads. D’ ye think I’m playing this door for a kettle-drum to amuse the owls? Unbar before I raise the town.”
“It is Pedro,” said the voice. “Unbolt and let him out.”
The door was unfastened and swung open, revealing to the group outside the similitude of Pedro, swaying unsteadily in the gloom, sword and basket in hand, with sombrero cocked very drunkenly over one eye. Cristoval hiccoughed once, then lurched suddenly forward, jostling the sergeant and extinguishing his lantern with a blow from the basket; reeled away from him with his point describing erratic curves near the belts of the soldiers, and broke through the circle. By good fortune Zapato was not there. The guard scattered before the uncertain sweep of his sword, and he zigzagged across the court toward the outer doors. The sentinel lowered his halberd at his approach and called to the sergeant:—
“Hola, Sargento! shall I stop him?”
“No! Pass him out. He’s drunk. If hindered he’ll have the general, staff, and clergy about us with his uproar. Let him go, and the fiend take him!”
The sentinel threw open the door, and Cristoval pegged a wavering trail out into the plaza, muttering fervent thanks to the Virgin for the smell of the blessed air of heaven. Now he noticed a chill, driving rain, but the coolness was grateful, and he filled his lungs, tingling to his marrow with the sudden joy of freedom. Across the square the dark walls of the buildings loomed through the mist, and to the right, the dim mass of the palace with a solitary lantern glimmering faintly, its rays reflected on the wet pavement. The hour was late, and the place deserted. But notwithstanding its vacancy the square was uncomfortably open, and he at once sought the nearest street leading from it. At the second crossing from the plaza he turned to the right. This would bring him close to the postern in the garden wall. He had but three blocks to go, but they were long and seemed interminable.
He had gone half the length of the first when a door opened a few yards in his front. A broad ray of light shot across the way, and he ceased to breathe as half-a-dozen soldiers came out, laughing, and shouting good-night to those within. They stood in the street after the door closed, and Cristoval slunk hastily into a doorway. They were so near that he recognized their voices. All were of the cavalry but one, and he an officer of the foot. They had been gaming, and one was recounting the story of his success. He finished at last and seemed about to leave the group, starting in the direction of the prison-breaker, who now heartily regretted the impulse which had led him to take shelter. Had he gone forward he might have staggered past unnoticed, but discovered lurking in a doorway he was sure to be questioned, and his first words would reveal the masquerade, for Pedro’s voice was too well known to admit the possibility of his own passing for it without detection. Should this man accost him he would have to be killed, and that, perhaps, before the others were out of ear-shot. In that event they would all be back, and handicapped by the wooden leg Cristoval’s thoughts were broken upon by the words of one of the cavaliers.
“A moment, Pablo! Hast heard of the game between Mendoza and Rogelio? No? Then ’tis worth thy standing in the rain to listen to the story. It is like a romance out of Italy. They played last night until the first call this morning, Mendoza losing steadily. That greasy, whimpering veedor hath a dexterity acquired only of the foul fiend himself—thou knowest it, I surmise, Pablo. Ha, ha! Well, Mendoza staked and lost his last duro, then his horse, then his share in the division of the goods of our hot-brained friend, Peralta, and was about to quit a bankrupt. But, would Rogelio take his note of promise? Saith Rogelio, ‘Impossible, my dear comrade! He, he!’—ye know his laugh, Señores—‘I’ve a family at home, Mendoza. ’T is impossible!’
“‘Then go to the devil!’ saith Mendoza; ‘thou and thy family, thy family’s family, thy posterity, and theirs!’
“‘He, he!’ squeaketh the veedor. ‘Be not hasty, my dear brother-in-arms. Wait a moment. Thou hast—he, he!—thou hast thy honeysuckle, the Princess—or shalt have her soon. What sayst to a thousand ducats against her? Eh, Mendoza? A thousand ducats! They are thine if thou dost win: she is mine if thou dost lose.’
“‘Done!’ saith Mendoza, and they play again.”
“Santo Sacramento!” exclaimed one of the group. “How did it end?”
“Mendoza lost,” replied the cavalier. “The Señorita Ñusta is a chattel of Rogelio, and with her goeth wealth untold, for she is as rich as a sultana. But Mendoza sweareth to win her back, or kill the veedor. He hath been out all day, borrowing money to play again.”
The tale was greeted with a shout of laughter, and after a few more words the party separated. The infantryman drew his cloak about his face against the rain and hurried toward Cristoval, the others going in the direction of the palace. The fugitive set down the basket and gripped his sword.
But fate and the rain were with him, for the man passed with bowed head. In a moment Cristoval would have breathed freely but for the choking rage stirred by the story to which he had just been listening. But now the way was clear, and spurred to mad impatience, he pressed on. The peg hindered his speed, and he was of half a mind to risk its removal, but thought more wisely of it and stumbled along. At last he was at the end of the street, and the gate was nearly opposite. He listened for the footfalls of the sentinel and presently heard them approaching. The soldier paced leisurely and in a moment had passed, going in the direction of the square, which Cristoval guessed would be the end of his post. Now for it; and he crossed the street toward the wall, moving quietly as possible. In a moment he was in the garden and had closed the gate.
“God bless thee, good Pedro!” he whispered, hurriedly unstrapping the peg. He laid it down gently, picked up his sword, and hastened along the path to the palace.
The low buildings were quite dark save for a light in the guard-room, but he knew the way and was soon groping along the passage which led to the women’s court. Its fountain plashed quietly, and he paused for a drink, then counted the doors and stopped at the third. He returned his sword, rapped gently twice or thrice, and presently heard a movement within with the voices of the women, evidently in trepidation. Then one asked:—
“Who is there?”
Cristoval put his mouth to the crack of the door. “It is I—the Viracocha Cristoval. I would say a word to Nuyalla. Be quick! It is important.”
“Stars of heaven!” he heard her exclaim. “The Viracocha Cristoval! Nuyalla, Nuyalla! He would speak with thee.”
A moment, then the door was unfastened and opened a finger’s breadth. “I am Nuyalla,” said a low voice, trembling. “What would you, Viracocha Cristoval?”
“Lead me to the Ñusta Rava. Quickly! Quickly! Hear’st thou?”
“But, Viracocha—I will ask her.”
“Then haste, Nuyalla! There is danger.”
The door was closed, and he heard it barred. It seemed hours before it was reopened, and he chafed and swore to himself in the darkness. At last Nuyalla peered out with a lamp above her head. Cristoval had forgotten the removal of his beard, and stepped forward that he might be recognized. At the first glimpse the girl recoiled, and Cristoval saw that she did not know him. She made a frantic effort to close the door, calling to the others to assist.
“Oh, Madre!” groaned Cristoval, in desperation as he remembered his disguise. He threw his weight against the door, forced it open, and stepped inside, closing it behind him. The movement was greeted by a scream from the frightened maids.
“Silence!” he commanded, sternly. “I am Cristoval, I tell you. Lead me to your mistress. There is danger, and no moment to lose. Where is the Ñusta Rava?”
His only answer was a chorus of shrieks from the women, who had stampeded into a corner. Nuyalla had dropped her lamp, leaving the room in complete darkness, and adding to the panic. Their cries would inevitably bring the guard, as Cristoval knew. He was stupefied as he realized the danger of the situation and felt his own impotence to cope with it; but at the crisis a door was suddenly flung open, and he beheld, to his unspeakable relief, the Princess, a lamp in hand, and pallid to her lips.
Cristoval sank upon his knee, removing his sombrero and speaking with bowed head in the hope that his voice might be recognized before she should behold his altered appearance.
“Will the Ñusta Rava forgive a rough intrusion—and in the name of Heaven, still these women before the guard is roused?”
She raised her hand for silence to the maids who had already crowded about her, then turned to him with imperious dark eyes demanding explanation.
“I have come to offer my aid, Ñusta Rava,” said the cavalier.
She found voice with an effort, beginning thrice before she was able to steady it sufficiently to say, somewhat at random, in her perturbation, “They told me you were a prisoner, Viracocha Cristoval.”
“I was a prisoner an hour ago. I have broken my bonds.”
He looked up, and she started, scrutinizing his face with anxiety. But she recovered quickly, and he arose. After this no ceremony, and he went on, speaking directly and as rapidly as his knowledge of the Quichua would allow:—
“I am a fugitive, Ñusta Rava. My aid may avail you little, but I know your danger. There is a hope to escape it. Once clear of this unhappy town you will be among your own people. Are you ready to flee? Will you trust me? You must say quickly, for seconds are worth hours, and we must lose not one.”
She made no reply, but stood regarding him intently, her clenched hand pressed to her heart. He saw that she was violently trembling, and said quietly: “Before the dawn we can be well away. It is not yet midnight, but we must hasten.”
“Oh, Viracocha Cristoval!” she murmured, looking at him piteously, struggling in agony between fear and hope. Should she trust him? Could she trust one of these terrible strangers? Were they not all beasts of prey? Yet this one seemed to have a human heart, and had been her brother’s friend. She sought the depths of his soul through his eyes. Their expression was intensely earnest, but frank and solicitous, and they met her own with un-reserve and quiet steadiness. Still—like the others he was a Viracocha.
Cristoval read her thoughts. “Ñusta Rava,” he said gently, “I promised to your brother that with the aid of Heaven I would guard you from harm. I am ready to do so at the cost of life. But we are wasting precious moments—”
He paused abruptly. The faint, quick notes of a trumpet were sounding in the distance.
“What is that?” whispered the Ñusta, turning her head.
“The alarm,” replied Cristoval, quietly. “My flight is discovered.” He strode forward, and taking her by the hand, turned her toward her door. “Go! Robe yourself warmly—and make haste!”
He urged her gently forward, but she turned, crying in anguish: “Fly, oh, fly, while there is yet time! You have risked your life in coming hither. Go! Save yourself!”
Cristoval turned to Nuyalla with authority: “Quick! Her cloak!”
It was brought in a second, and he threw it over Rava’s shoulders. The maids were kneeling about her, weeping, clasping her knees, frantically pressing her hands, their lamentations threatening to rise again to the danger point. She stood like a statue, seeing none of them nor hearing their words.
“Come!” said Cristoval. “We have yet time.”
She cast a glance at his masterful, serious face, extended her hands impulsively to her women, then tore herself from their embraces with a sob, and followed him to the door. The cavalier turned.
“If you value the life of your Princess, see that you be silent. Make fast behind us, and open to no one before the morning.” He stepped out into the darkness, followed by his ward.
He led rapidly across the patio, sword in hand. They felt their way through the blackness of the corridor, and halted at its entrance upon the outer court while Cristoval listened. There was a confusion of men’s voices in the guard-room, but the great court was vacant, and save for the drip and patter of the rain, was silent.
Cristoval took her hand, and they hurried toward the garden. Here he drew her from the walk into the shrubbery, picking his way under the low branches of the trees, which showered them with icy drops at every step. They were a few paces from the postern when the heavy report of one of the falconets on the redoubt stopped them with a shock, and startled a faint scream from the girl. The alarm gun! Rava pressed the folds of her cloak over her lips, and Cristoval shook her hand warningly, then hastened on in silence.
They reached the postern, and with the utmost caution he set it ajar and looked out. From the direction of the square came the tread of the sentinel, moving away. Cristoval turned to Rava. “Now, we go. Courage!” he whispered, and led her faltering into the street.
Sounds came from the square; lights were flitting, horsemen galloping. They hurried across to the nearest corner, turned into the side-street, then again to the right in the direction of the suburbs.
“Can you run?” he whispered. “Then we must do so.” At every corner he halted, listening. The town was up. Several parties passed on nearby streets, hurrying toward the outskirts. “They will guard the ways,” muttered Cristoval. “Bien! We shall see!” A door opened—but behind them—and a belated soldier hastened toward the square, buckling as he ran, while the two stood against a wall until he was well away. They pressed on.
At a corner they almost ran upon a squad of soldiers just entering the street they were following. But the party was going toward the suburbs, and the fugitives shrank back into the shadow unobserved, starting on again warily when the footfalls had died away. Soon the houses grew meaner, with vacant spaces between, fences of rough wicker enclosing gardens, and here and there a quinuar tree. They were in the purlieus of the town, and presently turned into a lane which wound among the scattered cottages and led off somewhat to the right, less directly toward the fields. Here they left the pavement and travelled with greater difficulty, splashing into puddles and occasionally stumbling into a fence or wall at a turn in the way, but evidently getting into a more and more thinly peopled quarter. It was an obscure thoroughfare, and as Cristoval surmised, not so likely to be guarded, so they went with less caution. Suddenly his feet struck a pavement, and he knew they were on another street.
“Halt!”
The command burst fiercely through the gloom, from what direction the startled cavalier could not tell, and he dashed forward, dragging the Ñusta, vainly hoping to evade the challenger.
“Halt!” was shouted again, more sharply, this time almost in his face, and he staggered back from a terrific thrust of a pike full in the chest. Rava’s shriek answered the rough summons, and Cristoval lost her hand. The soldier sprang forward, thrust again, and missed. Down the street toward the town was a shout, the quick, confused uproar of the hoofs of horses suddenly spurred, then the rhythm of the gallop. The soldier lunged wildly in the darkness, and now Cristoval’s blade engaged his pike. It was over in a second. The fellow thrust a few times with ferocity, instantly aware of dangerous skill in front of him, ceased abruptly, and went down with a choking cry. Cristoval whirled away from him.
“Rava!” he shouted.
An answer came faintly from the roadside, and striding in the direction of her voice, Cristoval found her leaning, half swooning, against the wall. “Quick!” he cried, seizing her hand. “We must run. For your life, run!”
The fierce energy of his tone gave her vigor. Behind was the clamor of horsemen, and fear winged her feet. Cristoval’s strength seemed to lift her from the ground, and as she sped beside him, seeing nothing, barely touching the earth, and blindly confident of his guidance, there were a few brief minutes of exhilaration.
They ran until Cristoval heard the horses reined up at the wounded soldier, then he turned to the right of the road. Here was a low wall, surmounted in a moment, and the cavalry roared past outside.
They found themselves surrounded by shrubbery and trees which rendered the night more inky black than it had been in the streets. A few paces, however, brought them to an open of some extent, and beyond rose another shadowy mass of foliage. They were in the garden of one of the numerous villas by which the town was surrounded, and they crossed the sward at a run. A few yards farther, and they came to the villa, quite deserted and dark. They passed it close and saw the doors were down. Cristoval remembered that it had been plundered months ago by the soldiery. The place served to give him his bearings, and he knew they were not far from the fields. As they stumbled through the garden in the rear they heard shouts and the gallop of the horsemen returning. They had lost the scent.
A few hundred yards brought them to the rear wall of the garden. They were as quickly over as at the other, and in the open. Now they paused a moment to listen, but save for the wind and rain the night was silent. There was no sign of pursuit, though once they heard a shout and answer, far in the rear, probably on the road where they had encountered the sentinel.
They pushed on. Vacant, sodden fields were all about, very low and level, as if the land had once been the bed of an ancient lake. This was the ground swept by the enclosing lines of the Inca’s army on the day of the massacre.