Chapter XXXI Inca and Conquistador
The Inca Manco did not sleep. His attendants dismissed, he found himself alone with torturing thoughts. Lashed, stung, and seared by the recollection of a thousand Spanish outrages, of the humiliations during his imprisonment, his mind seethed with purpose of vengeance, with plans of action, and impatience for their execution. Most merciless of all was the thought that beneath his very roof were sheltered two of the hated aliens, harbored through the demands of a gratitude which he could not feel. And one of them (the one who had seduced Rava from her faith in the ancient gods, whom he had seen her mourning with he knew not—O, Inti!—what secret cause of grief, and whom he would have gladly given to death) had imposed upon him the final obligation! The sense of it bit to his proud soul like the thrust of a javelin. He would have seen this Viracocha hurled from a precipice as he would a common criminal, but the debt was there, burdening his heart like a monstrous incubus. He strode about, clutching his head, now resolved to issue a fell command, now restrained by the stern injunction of honor. The Viracocha was his guest; had, moreover, said Mocho, been zealous for storming the Sachsahuaman; had served Tavantinsuyu in other ways, and professed a wish to serve still further. With what motive, this allegiance? Ah! what motive could a Viracocha have but one?—the hope of gold! He was merely more astute than his fellows, and of deeper cunning; but the incentive was, could be nothing else. Then this debt could be acquitted!—should be acquitted that very hour! The Viracocha should have his gold and be gone. At once! Before the sun should find him beneath the roofs of Yucay!
Manco hastened to the door. He threw it open, restrained the sentinels with impatience from their obeisance, and sent one in hot haste for Mocho. The general was soon in the royal chamber. Manco stood in the middle of the floor, hot-eyed and scowling.
“Fetch the Viracocha!” he cried, impetuously, as Mocho appeared. “Hasten—the one called Cristoval—and—I will see him alone, Mocho.”
Mocho hurried away, wondering and disturbed. The Inca saw the door closed, and became active. On his table was his untouched supper, served on plates and salvers of massive gold. He seized them, opened an outer door, flung out their contents, and stacked the utensils in a glowing heap. In an adjoining room were toilet articles of precious weight. They were piled beside the table service. From the niches in the walls he snatched the vases, hurled out the plants and soil, and bore them, an armful of wealth, to the stack on the table. From a chest he tossed out a fortune in jewelled armlets, wristlets, and girdles. From the walls he tore their decorations, bending and crushing them into shapelessness.
He worked eagerly, casting the articles upon the heap with scorn for the object for which they were being collected, and hating them for their worth to his enemies. As he deposited the last he heard steps, and turned to face the unwelcome guest. Cristoval was ushered in by Mocho, who retired at once, closing the door. The cavalier saluted, observing the half-suppressed agitation on the Inca’s face. The monarch made slight acknowledgment, noting quickly that he wore the native costume. Manco stood beside the treasure, darkly watchful for the Spaniard’s expression at sight of the gold. Cristoval glanced at the pile as he entered, but gave it no further look, regarding Manco with calm attentiveness. Unexpectedly the latter found it not easy to begin. There was a dignity in the bearing of this Viracocha which forbade the tender of the treasure and abrupt dismissal ready to his tongue a second before. The silence had become onerous when he said at last:—
“Viracocha, I have summoned you to say once more that I am in your debt. Lord Mocho hath told me all he knoweth. I am aware of your service to—to one of my kin. Yesterday you added further to my obligation, and I desire to discharge it immediately, and if possible, to your satisfaction.”
The bitterness in the words and the curl of lip did not escape the cavalier, who replied, coldly: “Lord Inca, there existeth no obligation to be discharged. You will pardon my denial that any act of mine hath imposed a debt upon the Inca Manco.”
The Inca made no pretence of concealing the disdain with which he received the answer and waved it aside. Stepping back from the table, he pointed at the pile of gold and said brusquely, “Take it!”
But the execrable lighting of the Spaniard’s face for which he looked, and had seen so often on those of Pizarro and his companions, was absent. Cristoval ignored the treasure, but the color flashed into his face in resentment of Manco’s tone and manner. “Your gold hath no worth to me, my Lord Inca,” he said, with slow emphasis. “I ask no favor but your authority to pass, to-night, the guards about the palace.”
“Do you reject it?” demanded Manco, with a frown.
“I beg my Lord Inca’s gracious leave to decline it.”
“It is not enough!” exclaimed Manco, with contempt. “Then I will increase it.”
“I fear my lord doth not get my meaning,” replied Cristoval, with an even voice that would have cautioned one acquainted with its significance. “I repeat, the gold is of no use to me.”
Manco’s frown darkened. “Then what will you, Viracocha?” he cried, impatiently. “Name it! It shall be yours. If this gold is not enough, I will load your beast with all he can bear away. But let me acquit this debt before the sun riseth upon it again.”
The scorn was now Cristoval’s. It burned in his steady eyes as he replied quietly: “I fear, my lord, that you will compel me to speak plainly, and I would not. If I have been of service, I beg you will believe that I should feel it depreciated by the acceptance of reward. It should be unnecessary for me to say more to a soldier, my Lord Inca.”
Manco scarcely heeded his words. In his impatience to be done their sense was quite lost. His experience with the sordid and greedy Spaniards made it impossible for him to believe this one less so. He rejoined hotly: “You saved my life, Viracocha! Why?”
Cristoval answered with patience. “I was unaware that it was you, my lord. It calleth not even for your thanks.”
Manco flushed, but went on. “You were about to take part in an undertaking to release me from prison. Again, why? Lord Mocho hath said that you would offer your sword to Tavantinsuyu. Why, Viracocha? Is it without hope of reward, all this? Are you of so different fibre from the plunderers of Cuzco?” He turned away with a gesture of contemptuous disbelief.
Cristoval eyed him in silence, struggling to restrain his anger at the imputation of venality. When he spoke the Inca faced him again, and met a look grown intense.
“Lord Inca Manco,” said the cavalier, “you have questioned my motives. It is not my wont to defend them—with words; nor will I defend them now further than to say that it was my purpose to offer my sword without thought of reward, and less to aid you and your cause, just though it is, than to rescue one whom you hold dear—the Ñusta Rava.”
At the name the Inca’s face grew livid. “Ah!” he exclaimed, his voice lowered and husky with passion. “One whom I hold dear! One whom I held dear above all on earth until she came to me defiled by your accursed love, broken-hearted, wearing the symbol of your damnable belief!”
His rage was not more quick than that of Cristoval, but the latter’s years gave him better self-control. The cavalier, pausing to hold himself, replied: “Defiled, my Lord Inca! ’T is a black and shameful word, applied to the Ñusta Rava, and by the great Heaven, the man with whom I could fight on equal footing should not leave this room alive with the word unswallowed!”
The Inca snatched the llautu from his head and cast it aside. He went out, returning instantly with a pair of the short native swords. He thrust the hilts toward the cavalier.
“Choose!” he cried, hoarsely.
Cristoval’s eyes blazed, and he stretched out his hand to seize the weapon. Arrested the motion, and drawing back, stood surveying the maddened youth in silence. Fight this prince, already laden with unnumbered cares, the victim of inconceivable wrongs, and on the eve of leading a life-and-death struggle to save his people? Turn a sword upon the brother of Rava?
“Choose!” commanded Manco, passionately. “Doth the Viracocha hesitate?”
Cristoval grasped a sword, and as the Inca stepped back to guard, threw it upon the table. “My lord,” he said, “I have no mind to fight.”
Manco’s surprise gave way to quick access of anger. “What mean you, Viracocha?” he demanded, hotly. “Is this some new form of insult?”
“God forbid!” said Cristoval.
For a moment the monarch glared at him, speechless with rage and uncertainty. “Do I look upon a coward?” he asked, slowly, the scorn deepening in his eyes.
Cristoval knew that the stigma must follow his refusal, yet he started and reddened at the word. “A coward! No, my Lord Inca, not that!” he replied, meeting steadily the look of contempt and enmity. “Not a coward; and I believe you cannot think it.” During a fraction of a second he felt the penetrating gaze which might have been Rava’s. It passed, and Manco’s brow darkened again. He was about to speak, but Cristoval raised his hand. “Lord Inca Manco,” he said, gravely, “we have no quarrel. I divined but now the nature of what you hold as grievance. I call upon Heaven to witness that the Ñusta Rava hath had from me naught but honor in mine every thought.”
“Honor!” repeated Manco, with renewed scorn. “Honor in a Viracocha?”
“Nay, my lord! You have heard me say that I will not fight,” returned the cavalier. Manco colored under the reproof, and Cristoval went on, “There is honor even among Viracochas, and something more than lust of gold, God knoweth!” He paused again. “You spoke of the symbol the Ñusta Rava wore. I tell you, Prince, that if you come not to the faith, it betokeneth you will go upon your bended knees on the hot pavement of hell and give up thanks that your sister hath been spared your fate!” Then, with a gesture: “But I say once more, Lord Inca, we have no quarrel. We have a common enemy.”
Again Manco’s searching look, but he was silent, studying the man before him. Here, assuredly, was a Viracocha who differed from his kind. He had neither swaggered nor sneered. He spoke with a dignity and candor that forced respect. In his bearing was a calm pride and consciousness of strength which had baffled the unconcealed hate and bitterness with which he had been received. The frank honesty of his eyes had lent support to his words. Manco’s youth had not given him a knowledge of men, and least of all could he fathom a Spaniard; but his own ingenuous temperament, shamefully as it had been abused, made him quick in an intuition that he had misjudged. But this was in his thoughts as an under-current. Before him still was a Viracocha. He tossed his sword beside its fellow, and demanded:—
“Why are you here? Of what concern to you is the rescue of the Ñusta Rava?”
Candidly Cristoval faced the rights of a brother. “Of deep concern, my lord. So deep that I overlook the manner of your questions and answer them,” he replied, bluntly. “So deep that I have proffered my service, my life, if need be, to Tavantinsuyu in her behalf.”
Hostility returned to Manco’s eyes. He surveyed the cavalier for a moment before replying coldly, “The Ñusta Rava is the daughter of an Inca, Viracocha.”
“I am a caballero of Spain, my Lord Inca.”
In silence contended the pride of two races. On the one hand, an autocrat absolute, master of an empire, ruler of multitudes—but an Indian. On the other, a soldier, an adventurer, but a Caucasian—a Conquistador. Upon the monarch, unseen, unfelt, fell the shadow of Destiny.
There was no wavering in the eyes of either. In the stern, self-possessed cavalier the Inca saw and was compelled to acknowledge, an indefinable superiority which eluded him—the genius of a breed of subjugators. Withal, there was no arrogance in this Spaniard’s face; only the grave serenity of a lofty mind, a strength of spirit which rose above the distinction of the temporal rank of the Peruvian and all his might. On his own part, Cristoval beheld a kingliness ingrained: a majesty as natural as the air that Manco breathed.
Cristoval broke the pause. “My Lord Inca, I requested, a moment ago, your gracious leave to pass the guards.”
Manco seemed not to have heard, but stood in gloomy meditation. Cristoval was about to speak again when the Inca replied with abruptness, “It is my will, Viracocha, that you remain within the palace.”
Cristoval bowed, and again encountered the look of profound scrutiny. Manco inclined his head, and the cavalier withdrew.