Chapter XXIV Pedro Seeks Tidings of Cristoval
Pedro cantered into town and dismounted in front of the great, heavily walled, low-roofed edifice that had been the Temple of the Sun,—the Temple of the Sun for centuries, but now surmounted by a cross, the interior shorn of its symbols of pagan worship and its splendor, and consecrated to the Holy Faith. Beside the gray old building was the ancient palace of the priestly attendants, now sheltering the good Father Tendilla and his assistants in the pious work of saving heathen souls.
The gentle-mannered old priest was shocked at Pedro’s revelation of the veedor’s iniquity, and made instant preparations.
“Good Father,” said the cook, as he held the stirrup for Tendilla to mount, “if you can learn aught of Cristoval——”
“I will, my son. Come to-night,” and the priest rode away.
Arrived at the fortress, he went directly to the commandant, and in half an hour was at Rogelio’s door with a squad of halberdiers. It drew an outbreak of squeaky protests from that worthy, but the priest, leaving him grovelling in fear of the punishing hand of the Church, ordered a sentinel posted at his door and sought the señora. She admitted him at once to Rava’s room.
The girl was asleep, her tear-stained cheek resting on her clasped hands. Even unconsciousness did not release her from her sorrow, for she sighed heavily and moaned as Tendilla knelt for a brief prayer beside her. He arose, and stood regarding her with compassion. With deeper compassion still, when, awakening, she drew back with eyes wide and deep with the unutterable fear of a creature hunted and caught. But her recognition of his silvery hair and benevolent face was quick, and with a sigh, the faintest smile, and a movement entirely queenly, she extended her hand. He took it, and touching the dark head, murmured a benediction. Rava raised her eyes, studying his with the unconscious intensity and directness of gaze that had often given Cristoval the feeling that she looked beyond; then the lines of anxiety softened into an expression of trust. But that kindly old face brought a train of recollections of dreadful days, and she turned away in sudden weeping. If Señora Bolio had at first impressed Father Tendilla with some doubt of that lady’s fitness for her post beside the prisoner, she dispelled it now by the tenderness with which she soothed the storm of grief. With whispered words—words that might have sounded strangely enough to the priest could he have heard them,—she pressed the shaking form to her bosom, while with moistened eyes he waited for the return of calm. When the girl was able to hear him he approached.
“My child,” he began, in Quichua, and Rava turned quickly with joy in her tears at the sound of the tongue which she had not heard since the wild night at Xilcala. “My child, I have come to tell thee thou hast friends, and thy dangers are past. As soon as thou ’rt composed we will go from this unhappy place to one of safety, and I hope in a few days to place thee in thy brother’s care.”
“Oh, Viracocha—my father!” she cried, rising and nearing him with hands pressed to her heart. “Is it true? is it true? Hath the sweet Virgin Mother answered my prayers? Ah, Cristoval promised it would always be! I believed him, and it is so! She hath heard me. She hath not turned from Rava in her sorrow!” She drew the crucifix from her bosom and kissed it passionately. “And he said thou wast good, and merciful, and kind, my father. Oh, I know it is true. And thou wilt save me? Wilt save me? Wilt take me from this wicked place—beyond the reach of these cruel Viracochas? Ah, I thank thee, Blessed Mother! I thank thee, I thank thee!” and she sank upon her knees, pressing the crucifix to her breast.
Father Tendilla raised her gently and led her back to her couch. “It is all true, my daughter. Thy prayers will never be in vain. Now, compose thyself, and rest until I return. I go but for a moment.”
He left the room, offering earnest thanks for her faith, and ordered the hamaca. It was ready in a moment, and with the escort of halberdiers, and the resolute señora riding close beside her litter, Rava left the fortress.
Early in the evening Pedro went to the priest. He found his old confessor pacing the floor and full of mild enthusiasm.
“Ah, my son,” said the father, beaming upon his visitor, “we have done a good work this day. I shudder to think of the infinite wrong that might have been but for thy prompt action in placing so rare a guardian as Señora Bolio over this injured girl, and apprising me of her peril. The señora, Pedro, is a remarkable woman. Where didst find her?”
“Stew me!—your pardon, father—I found her not. She found me—as the avalanche findeth the wayfarer.” Pedro shook his head with a trace of gloom in his jovial face, adding, “Yes, she is a remarkable woman. No doubt of it! She hath powers and attributes, Father Tendilla. But, the Ñusta Rava—she doth well?”
“Much more tranquil, and though most unhappy, beginneth to show commendable patience and resignation. I have talked with her as my time allowed, and would say from what I have seen, Pedro, that she is one of the earth’s choicest blooms. Poor Peralta hath been a humble agent in her salvation, but his task was well acquitted, and he shall have many masses for his soul’s repose.”
“Ah, Madre!” faltered Pedro. “Then Cristoval is dead?”
Father Tendilla shook his head sadly. “I fear it, Pedro. Duero hath so said to Saavedra. I have forborne to ask the Ñusta, for the mention of his name seemeth to pierce her heart. Alas! The old sad story of mortal love and grief.”
Pedro rose and stumped nervously about the room. When he seated himself again his face was flushed and his hands were unsteady, but he said nothing, and the father went on.
“I have told the Ñusta of thy part in her rescue, Pedro, and she would see thee. She holdeth thee in kindly recollection.”
“I am easily remembered,” said Pedro, briefly. “I’m pegged in memories wherever I roam,” and he looked glumly at his wooden leg.
“For more than that, my son,” said the priest, kindly. “Peralta never forgot thee, and made the Ñusta partaker in full of his affection. But thou must see her soon—not to-morrow, for she is much in need of quiet; but possibly on the day following.”
“Bien!” said Pedro, and his voice was hoarse.
“And now,” continued Tendilla, “we must communicate with the Inca Manco.”
“No better way than by chasqui,” said the cook, “though there is uncertainty of his reaching Cuzco. It is said there are roving bands of Quitoans—remnants of Atahualpa’s troops—still in the mountains. Since Manco’s coronation they have been hostile. But have you learned, father, where the Ñusta was found?”
“Only that the place is called Xilcala, and is some six days’ march from here.”
“Xilcala,” repeated Pedro, and fixed the name in his memory. When he pegged back to his cantina he meditated a purpose.
Two days later the cook was admitted to Rava’s presence. She was expecting him, and if he had been disposed to think disparagingly of the grounds on which he was favored in her recollection, his modesty was gently reproved by her evident pleasure. He found her changed. Her pallor was sadly heightened, and the proud fire had gone from the dark eyes. Sorrow seemed indelibly impressed upon the gentle face; but with it a dignity strangely at variance with her youthfulness, and a refinement of beauty almost startling to the good Pedro, who whispered to himself, “Blessed saints! ’t is the face of an angel.” As she greeted him her eyes lighted with a faint smile, but he noted with a twinge the quiver of lip and chin and the scarcely controlled tremor in her voice.
“Ah, Pedro,” she said, after bidding him to sit, and observing the diffidence in his honest eyes, “Father Tendilla hath told me all. I would that I could tell thee my gratitude, but thou knowest. Thou didst come to mine aid at the moment of despair, when I thought that even Heaven had forsaken me.”
“I have done naught, Ñusta Rava. Father Tendilla and the señora——”
“Thou didst send them, Pedro; and it is twice, now, that I have owed thee the means of my rescue. But for thy help at Caxamalca——” She shuddered, then presently went on: “I know how our escape was made possible, my friend. Cristoval—Cristoval told me. Ah, Pedro, he loved thee well!” A choking sob shook her frame, and covering her face with her hands, she turned toward Señora Bolio, who hastened to her side. Poor Pedro dashed his hand across his eyes, and sat bolt upright, his lips compressed. In a moment Rava was able to proceed.
“He spoke of thee often, Pedro.”
Pedro bent forward. “Ñusta Rava, is there no hope that Cristoval still liveth? Do you know that it cannot be?”
“Oh, I know not, I know not! Once, on that dreadful night, I thought I heard his voice rising above the clamor. I heard no more.” She covered her eyes as if to shut out the memory of the horror.
Pedro silently cursed himself for the stupidity of the question, and it was moments before he could say something to divert her. He did so at last, and soon took his leave. Rava said earnestly, “Thou’lt come again, good Pedro?”
“I’ll come again, Ñusta Rava; and meanwhile, keep courage.” He added to himself as he crossed the court, “I would I might say, hope! Ay de mi, Cristoval! if I could but know.”
He tarried at the cantina only while Pedrillo was saddling his mule, then mounted and struck toward the fortress. Again his errand lay beyond; and he drew rein at the huasi of Municancha. The old Indio gave him welcome, and to him Pedro narrated Rava’s flight from Caxamalca with the gallant Viracocha Cristoval. He told of her recent perils and deliverance, and begged Municancha’s aid in learning from Xilcala whether the good soldier still lived, and if not, where lay his grave. He found a willing helper. The old man, overjoyed by the news of the safety of Rava, who had been mourned as dead throughout the empire, did not hesitate. He had a nephew, Ocallo. Ocallo was summoned. He would gladly accompany, would organize a company at once, and would be ready to start the following dawn. They agreed upon a meeting place, and having enjoined secrecy, Pedro rode back to Xauxa, grateful to the peg which had won him so good a friend as Municancha.
Night had fallen before he reached the town. He told his plan to Father Tendilla, arranged for his absence, received the confessor’s blessing, and departed to prepare for the journey. Pedro worked late, completed his preparations, and lay down for a few hours’ sleep. Long before dawn he was up, and having breakfasted, was assisted by Pedrillo to arm. His mule was brought, and with a few parting instructions, he was away. In half an hour he was clear of the town, on the road going north. A brisk trot for a mile or more, and he halted at a cross-road. A dim figure rose out of the darkness and was hailed by Pedro in Quichua. After a brief greeting, the man summoned half-a-dozen companions from a thicket beside the road.
“Are we all here?” asked Pedro, looking over the group.
“All here, Viracocha—four archers and two carriers,” replied the one who had first approached.
“Good! Then we will move. Take the lead, Ocallo. We should be well in the mountains before the light.”
Thus Pedro set out on his search for Cristoval.