Chapter XXXVIII A Tie of Mingled Blood
Cristoval became languidly conscious of the swaying of a litter; then he was being lifted to a couch in a tent softly aglow with morning sunshine, and heard friendly voices around him. He opened his eyes, and with an effort whispered an inquiry for Pedro.
“He is being cared for, my lord,” said an officer, bending over. “He is badly hurt, but hath asked for you. Otherwise, his mind seemeth to wander, for he muttered something which Markumi translated as a request to be stewed. We did not heed him, Lord Cristoval.”
Cristoval smiled faintly and dozed again.
When he awoke the tent had grown dim with the declining day. As he lay with partly open eyes he became aware of clasping something in his hand that pressed his own and trembled. He raised it weakly, and his eyes travelled from a wrist to a rounded arm. A face hovered over him, lovely as a vision, with dark eyes deep with tenderness and solicitude.
“Rava!” he whispered; and she knelt, pressing her cheek against his own, her form, as he passed his arm around her, quivering with a passion of joy. He would have spoken, but she pressed her fingers upon his lips, murmuring an injunction and nestling closer. Cristoval was content, and lay marvelling that contentment could be so perfect.
But if he could not speak, he could listen, and he hearkened to whispered words, mere incoherencies, broken by faintest of sighs, coming from the depths of a heart which beat with love without reserve. They are not to be set down here, those sweet, disordered fragments, nor are their like to be comprehended save by the ear into which they are breathed.
The interview was short. A mere swift glimpse of happiness, and she had torn herself away, lingering in a final caress, and gone. Cristoval was left with the memory of her presence and touch, ineffably sweet, until submerged in the pain of helpless longing.
The next morning the old man who attended him brought news. Pedro was low, and his chances for recovery not yet determined, but there was hope. Abul Hassan had crept into Matopo’s barricade during the night, mortally hurt. Ocallo and Markumi had both been wounded, the former seriously. Not a man in contact with the Spaniards came out unscathed, and the total losses of the night were grave. What the enemy had sustained could only be guessed, but they had since lain inactive, though apparently doubly vigilant, and strengthening their defences.
Before midday Rava came with Paullo and remained an hour or more. She forbade Cristoval’s speaking, and talked little herself, but it may be said that the silence was not constrained. The day dragged after her departure, but the cavalier slept, and was without fever. The following day they came again, and Rava remained long. By a blessed fortune Paullo was called away on three several occasions, and the moments were not lost. Still she permitted few words, touching his lips and bidding him wait. As she left she looked back with a swift, bright glance, full of some meaning which he could not fathom, but withal, most agreeable to remember. Later, came the Inca with Mocho and the Villac Vmu, but their stay was short. Pedro, said Mocho, was better.
The day passed slowly, quietly. Night fell, and Cristoval prayed for fortitude to endure the wait for the morrow and Rava’s visit; his patience inversely proportioned to his gaining strength. He slept to awake toward midnight stronger and more refreshed. The attendant dozed with his back against the tent-pole. Cristoval was staring at the feeble light, musing on the fatuity of a number of demented moths there courting a painful death, while he wondered whether their singed wings would smart as he had smarted after his own encounter with fire; and whether, furthermore, they too fancied themselves impelled by love. He forgot the moths in counting the hours before seeing her again. His eyes were closed. They opened at a faint rustle, and he beheld an apparition. Within the tent door stood Rava, her eyes dark with excitement, but smiling as she touched her lips for silence. The attendant glided from his seat to his knees in an ecstasy of amazement. She whispered, and he vanished as if he himself had been an apparition. Cristoval saw a flush of color mount to her cheeks. The next instant she had extinguished the light, and was kneeling beside his couch in the darkness. No phantom, this, but living, palpitating flesh and blood, warm arms that crept about his neck, and a heaving bosom to which his head was pressed.
Rava drew away and whispered breathlessly, passing her hand over his face: “Oh, Cristoval, what canst think of me? But I could endure no longer, and now I will tell thee why I have come—”
The pressure of Cristoval’s arm told his thought. “What can I think, my own! Only of thy love and mine, and my gratitude. God make me always worthy of the joy thou givest, dear heart!”
“Worthy of it, Cristoval! Of what hast thou not shown thyself worthy, over and again?—and thy gratitude, my love! Ah, then what must mine be to thee? But I must tell thee why I have come to-night: It is to say farewell—Nay! but hear me—not a long farewell—to-morrow I go to Yucay.”
The darkness deepened for Cristoval. “To-morrow!” he groaned. “No, no! It cannot be, Rava. How can I live? The hope of seeing thee hath kept me alive. Thou’lt not leave me!”
She touched his lips again. “Be patient, Cristoval. Yucay is not distant, and it is the Inca’s wish that I go. Bethink thee! This is a camp.”
“Ah, true!” he said, sorrowfully. “No place for thee, and there might be danger. Thou must go, though it is despair for me, Rava. But say we shall meet soon again.”
“Could I leave thee else, Cristoval?”
They were silent until Cristoval asked: “Is there other reason for thy going, Rava? The Inca knoweth my love for thee. Is not that in part the cause?”
“I know not. He knoweth mine for thee.”
“Hath he said?”
“No: he hath said naught of thee to me, and from his silence I am sure. I know not what is in his mind. He is as tender as he used to be in earlier days—he parted from me in anger, Cristoval, months ago, in the Amarucancha, when he learned I had become a Christian. His anger hath gone, but he regardeth me always with strange sadness and gloom. I fear it is because of our love.”
Cristoval partly raised himself. “Rava, dost think he will forbid our marriage?”
“Oh, my own, I do not know! By the law of Tavantinsuyu I can be married only to one of royal blood. Manco holdeth the laws as sacred as the ancient rites. In these perilous times he would dread their violation as like to provoke the wrath of Inti. I know not!” she moaned, pressing her cheek to his. “I know not, Cristoval!”
The cavalier’s arm tightened in its grasp. “And if he should forbid,” he whispered, sharply, “if he should, then we must fly again. Wilt go with me?”
“Thou knowest, my own! But whither? The uttermost parts of the empire would be searched.”
“Once on the coast—” said Cristoval.
“We should never reach it!” she replied, pressing him closer. “We should never reach it, my love—but, we can die together.”
They said little more, but clung together as if the morrow’s parting would be final. Minutes passed, when Cristoval felt her shudder as she raised her head in a sudden recollection. “Cristoval, oh, Cristoval!” she faltered, “Father Valverde threatened thee!”
“Ah!” muttered the cavalier, gloomily. “Thou didst guess his meaning? I hoped it had escaped thee. The words were Latin.”
“I know. I have had time to learn much since Xilcala. But, oh, my heart, dost think he will excommunicate thee?”
Cristoval hesitated. “If he should,” he said, with courage, “thou’lt pray for me, child. I’ll have no fear that the Virgin will not hear thee.”
“It is dreadful, dreadful!” she murmured, sobbing.
“Nay: think not of it. It were more dreadful, far, to have obeyed his command to leave thee.” And in Cristoval’s mind an eternity in hell was naught in comparison. The certainty itself would not have forced him to relinquish her.
It seemed but a moment before her trusted maid came to whisper that the sky was growing light. A sweet, bitter instant of parting, and Cristoval was alone.
Before the sun had touched his tent the cavalier heard preparations for departure,—hastening steps, the rattle of camp gear, and soon, the marching of the escort and the commands of its officers as it formed on the parade in front of the Inca’s quarters.
Accompanied by Paullo, Rava went first to Pedro’s tent to say farewell.
“God bless thy sweet life!” said Pedro, weakly, as he pressed her hand. “I shall miss thy visits sorely—and another will miss them more. But thy going is sudden—doth Cristoval know?”
Rava colored, replying, “I am on my way to him now, Pedro. Shall I take him a message?”
“Why, my greetings to him as a noble. Doth the llautu become him?—No doubt of it!—Poor boy, poor boy!”
“But he is hurt less than thou!” said Rava.
“The wound in his shoulder? Ah! But he hath another below it—and harder to cure.” Again came Rava’s color, and she took her leave somewhat in haste.
The parting with Cristoval taxed her to the extreme, and only Paullo’s presence saved her from breaking down. As it was, her distress and the cavalier’s depression were apparent to the youth, and he gently and wisely hastened her departure, but resolving to accompany her a part of the way himself.
Rava had never confided to her younger brother her attachment for Cristoval; and he, though staggered by the revelation of it on the night of the rescue, had thus far refrained from questioning; but on the journey with Paullo beside her in her hamaca, she confessed, with an account, sufficiently heartfelt, of the cavalier’s golden qualities. The youth, already predisposed toward his brother’s gallant ally, listened with sympathy, promising to aid the lovers to the full in case of the Inca’s opposition. He gave what hope he could, though this was slight, and Rava pursued her journey with heavy heart.
To Cristoval the succeeding days were of torment. The fighting was incessant, and the Inca rarely at his quarters, though he sent frequently to ask for the two Spaniards, and to express his good wishes. Opportunity for an interview, feverishly awaited by the cavalier, was not offered, and he tossed in an agony of suspense. At last his attendant informed him that Manco was in council with his generals. Directing the old man to report their departure, Cristoval struggled with his impatience. It was late when the orderly announced that the council was dissolved.
“Give me thine aid, Tocache,” said Cristoval. “I will rise.”
“But, my Lord Cristoval, you will do yourself injury,” deprecated the old man. “Whither would you go?”
“To the Inca’s tent. Come! Help me to my feet and to dress.”
“My lord—”
“Nay, Tocache; I must go. I am strong enough, man, and thou shalt lend me a shoulder to lean upon.”
Tocache demurred earnestly, but shortly Cristoval was clad and sandalled, and with the other’s support, left his tent. The Inca was standing with Paullo and the Villac Vmu when the sentinel announced his visitor, and he turned in surprise when the cavalier, uncertain in his steps and quite pale, entered the tent and saluted.
“Thou, my Lord Cristoval!” exclaimed Manco, advancing. “Thou ’rt welcome, my friend, though I fear, imprudent. What hath brought thee at this hour?—but sit. Thou ’rt weak—too weak to have ventured.” He led the visitor to a chair. Having greeted the Auqui and the priest and seen the Inca seated, Cristoval sank into it. Manco observed him with evident interest while waiting to hear his errand, which proved a difficult one to begin.
“Sapa Inca,” said Cristoval, at last, unable in his weakness fully to control his voice, but approaching the matter with his usual directness, “I have come to you concerning the Ñusta Rava.”
Manco’s animated expression vanished, and he regarded the cavalier with no sign of emotion as he answered, in tones equally impassive, “What of the Ñusta Rava, my lord?”
Cristoval felt the ill omen of the change, but did not flinch, and his voice steadied at once. “I have spoken to you of the Ñusta Rava before, my Lord Inca, at Yucay. I think you cannot be unprepared for what I am about to ask.”
Manco felt the candor of his eyes and their demand for it from him. “My Lord Cristoval,” he said, frankly and regretfully, “I am not unprepared—for what I fear thou art about to say. I confess to thee that I have foreseen this very moment, which bringeth me infinite pain.” He rose and crossed the tent; returned and seated himself. “But, my lord, I will not anticipate thee. Thou wouldst ask—”
“The hand of Rava, Sapa Inca,” replied Cristoval.
Manco looked upon him thoughtfully before answering. “It is what I had reason to expect, and, with mine obligation to thee, to dread. Thy service to Tavantinsuyu hath been such that any return in my power to make must be inadequate.”
“Nay, pardon me, my Lord Inca,” rejoined Cristoval, quickly: “I beg you will not think that in this request it is in my thoughts to presume upon any service it hath been my fortune to render. That hath already been doubly rewarded by this mark of your confidence.” He touched the llautu. “I ask no further return.”
“That was not my meaning, my Lord Cristoval,” replied Manco, gravely. “I was about to say that mine obligation and gratitude make it hard to answer thy request in the way I am compelled. Compelled—for it is beyond my power to grant. It is the ancient law of Tavantinsuyu that a princess must marry one of the royal family; or, in the event of a prince being wanting, then one of nobility by birth. This law is as old as the empire, and hath been violated but once. I dare not, whatever mine inclination, my Lord Cristoval,” his eyes grew kindly “repeat its violation. My august father set aside a law as ancient as this one, and it hath been followed by calamities, of part of which thou art a witness to-day. May the great Inti forfend that I do aught further to provoke his wrath. I must refuse thee, my lord.”
Cristoval rose unsteadily, his face more white than it had been left by his wound. Manco rose and took his hand. “My friend,” he said, “believe, this grieveth me to the heart. I thought to tell thee these things when thou didst plan to take the Acllahuasi. I did not, for I knew well that it would not have altered thy purpose, nor dulled thy courage.”
“I thank you, my Lord Inca,” replied the cavalier, and added with an effort: “I will not urge aught that is against your conscience—God forbid! With your leave, I will return to my tent.”
Paullo, who had listened with color coming and going, stepped forward. “Stay, Lord Cristoval!” he cried. “All hath not been said.” He snatched the vari-colored llautu from Cristoval’s head and, his dark eyes blazing, threw it aside. While the cavalier’s face flushed at the seeming indignity, and the Inca’s with surprise and anger, he lifted his own yellow diadem and placed it upon the Spaniard’s brow. Seizing Cristoval’s hand, and facing the Inca and the Villac Vmu, he said gravely, “My lords, I call upon you to witness that, by virtue of the law of the Inca Tupac Yupanqui, I claim brotherhood with the Lord Cristoval, an Inca of Tavantinsuyu by Privilege.” He drew his dagger, and with a quick movement slashed his own arm; then, glancing into Cristoval’s astonished eyes, wounded him at the wrist and, pressing together the two gashes, joined the ruddy streams. “Thus,” he continued, solemnly, “have we a mingled blood! Only thine edict, Sapa Inca, can dissolve this tie and abate the princely rights of the Auqui Cristoval, whom I have made a brother.”
It was a long minute before the monarch recovered from the prince’s unexpected action. The pause was hardly less dramatic. Manco looked from one to the other, bereft of utterance, while the cavalier stood silent, scarcely comprehending the significance of what had happened. Paullo, gripping Cristoval’s hand, with eyes still afire, waited for Manco. The Inca’s brow was clouded. Notwithstanding his gratitude and friendship, the thought of admitting the Viracocha into the pure Incarial line taxed his generosity. Had Paullo’s move been less impetuous he would have arrested it. But the thing was done, and to be undone only by his own formal decree. Erect and attentive, Paullo watched his brother with something nearing defiance, while the Villac Vmu, after his first start of surprise, had remained with his eyes upon the ground. To Cristoval the situation became intolerable, and he said quietly, doffing the yellow llautu:—
“Sapa Inca, consider this as not having occurred, I pray you. Could I have anticipated the Auqui Paullo’s purpose it should have been prevented.—Paullo,” he continued, turning to the youth and placing his hands upon his shoulders, “I thank thee more for thy generous intent than for thy deed. Thy good-will hath taken the lead of thy sober judgment; but I shall cherish the memory of it, do thou be sure, and shall feel myself thy brother no less dearly bound to thee than thou wouldst have made me. My Lord Inca Manco, I crave pardon for his warm-hearted folly. Let it end thus, and permit me to retire.”
Manco regarded him with grave thoughtfulness, wholly inscrutable. At last he said abruptly to Paullo, “Assist the Lord Cristoval to his tent, and have the nobles summoned at once.” He bowed dismissal and they left the tent.
During the remainder of the night the grim old warriors were gathered about their young lord in council. Toward dawn Cristoval was roused by a summons. The lamps were burning low when he paused at the door of the Inca’s tent, glancing at the circle of faces, some familiar, many strange, but all turned toward him in stolid dignity and silence. Paullo greeted and led him to the Inca. For the solemn expectancy about him, Cristoval might have been approaching to receive the sentence of death. Manco met his eyes in a swift glance, deep and inscrutable as before, and took from the Villac Vmu the yellow llautu. He placed the diadem upon the head of the cavalier, saying as he did so:—
“Witness, my lords! and give your homage to the Auqui Cristoval. It is my will.”