De Soto laid a bitter emphasis on his last words, but Carvahal only slapped his thigh, and chuckled—
“Cuerpo de Cristo! Did good soldiers of the Cross ever have such luck as that! Verily the Lord hath delivered the heathen into the hands of His servants.”
The little army now moved down in good order on to a level space before the principal fort, and there, at the command of the Captain, halted drawn up in battle array. Pizarro and his brother Hernando went forward with the guides and interpreters, amongst whom was the lad Filipillo, who was soon to play so important a part in the great tragedy about to be enacted, and met the party that had come out from the fort. It was led by an Inca noble, the Curaca of Cajamarca, and he, after the first courtesies had been exchanged, told the Captain-General that his lord and master Atahuallpa, in whose name he welcomed him, had bidden him offer the hospitality of the fort to him and his followers for that evening and night, as it was already too late to make the rest of the descent into the valley. The next morning he would himself conduct them into the city, and lodge them in the more suitable quarters that the Inca had already set apart for them.
He told them also that Atahuallpa himself was encamped with his army at one of his palaces on the other side of the valley, where he was performing the observances of a fast which must be completed before he could give the strangers audience. But until then they would be lodged and well cared for as his guests in the city.
The Captain-General accepted the invitation with many courtesies and assurances of friendship, and that night the Spaniards slept softer and fared better than they had done for many a weary day and night, albeit the prudence of Pizarro found excuses for planting sentries and making sufficient provision against surprise, for he was a man who never of his own free will gave odds to Fate.
The next morning with the first glimmer of light the trumpet sounded, and, horse and foot, the little army marched out and mustered on the slope beyond the fort, watched with wondering and admiring eyes by their simple hosts. Then the Fray Valverde prayed before them, and pointed his prayer with a sermon which, as Carvahal said after, was both long and strong for the stomachs of breakfastless men shivering in a keen wind on a bleak hillside. Then came breakfast, and after that the ranks were formed for the march to the city.
Before the trumpet sounded Pizarro spoke a few brief, weighty words to them, telling of the dangers that possibly awaited them, of the risk of treachery, and the enormous advantage of numbers that the Inca could use against them if once he took them for enemies. He gave them three watchwords—silence, watchfulness, and obedience, and then he rode to the head of the column and the downward march began.
With every mile the beauties of the valley opened out in ever-increasing splendour before them, but the weight and magnitude of the enterprise whose crucial hour was now so near seemed to press heavily upon their hearts and dim their eyes to the wonders that were multiplying about them. The valley that they were entering seemed a very paradise on earth, and yet, for all that they knew, it might for them be the end of their earthly journeying and the grave of all their hopes of El-Dorado.
As the column wound round the base of a green wooded hill whose summit was crowned with a building, half fort, half palace, constructed of the wonderful Inca masonry, they came in sight of the gate by which they were to enter the city. Then Pizarro waved his hand, the trumpets rang out brazen and jubilant, and, with banners waving and the bright morning sun gleaming on plate and mail and shining weapons and harness, this little handful of invaders of a mighty empire marched forward towards the gate.
They reached it and passed through it into a broad, paved street, but here there were no welcoming throngs to greet them as at Caxas and Huamacucho. As they rode through the town, and street after street opened up, they looked in vain for some sign of life. In all the city there seemed neither man, woman, nor child left. Not a sound answered the blare of their trumpets, the jingling of their accoutrements, or the clang of the iron hoofs on the stones of the silent streets. Cajamarca was, for the time being, a city of the dead, and if any of them had possessed the gift of prophecy he might well have looked upon it as an emblem of the desolation which they were bringing into the land of the Children of the Sun.
No reception could well have been more different from the anticipations of the adventurers than that which awaited them in the first of the cities of the Incas that they had so far seen, for the towns that they had passed through on their road up the western slopes of the mountains they had looked upon only as the outposts of an entrenched camp, a camp which to them was El-Dorado, and whose trenches and circumvallations were the gorges and heights of the mighty Andes themselves.
As has just been said, they entered the city in utter silence save for the blare of their own trumpets and the jingling of their own arms and accoutrements. They had already learnt from their guides that Cajamarca was the third city in importance in the whole Inca empire, standing as it did between Quito and Cuzco, and commanding the high-road running from north to south through the domains of Huayna-Capac.
It was in vain that they asked the Curaca or his subordinates for some explanation of their strange reception. There was not even an animal or a fowl left in the city. Only the wild birds flying to and fro amongst the trees which lined the squares of the city gave evidence of life within its borders. Not a house was tenanted, and every street and square was deserted, and yet this but a few hours before had been the home of many thousands of human beings. What had become of them? To all inquiries the Curaca and his officers answered in the same words—
“It is the will of our Lord, and in this land there is no other will but his. That which the Son of the Sun says is already done. The city is the home of his guests. It is ours to do our Lord’s will; it is his only to know the reason. He is the brain; we are the hands.”
And so, amidst an utter silence that at length even swallowed up the voices of their own trumpets, Pizarro and his men entered Cajamarca and took possession of the spacious quarters allotted to them by this mysterious master of men whose officers obeyed him with the unquestioning servility of dogs.
The quarters assigned to the Spaniards were at the north-western end of the irregular square which occupied the centre of the city. They were formed of low, one-storeyed buildings, massively built and containing rooms large enough for the accommodation of a score of men each, and, as there were far too many of them for the little force to occupy, some of them were for the time being turned into stables for the lodging of the eighty-five horses and eight mules which had survived the hardships of the journey.
But though the strangers had been, as it were, welcomed into an empty house, there was no lack of entertainment, and that, too, of a sort which awoke more appetites than one, for there was an abundance of roasted meats, baked cakes of maize-meal, boiled roots and vegetables and varied fruits which, once strange to them, they had now become accustomed to, all of which were brought to them in dishes and vessels of silver, and to Pizarro and his captains there was brought also the golden-yellow chicha, the royal drink of the Inca himself, in great goblets of chasened gold so massive and splendid that when they sat down to their first meal that midday Carvahal, after taking up a great golden bowl in both hands and quaffing a mighty draught of the pleasant liquor that it contained, set it down again on the table and brushed the clinging drops from his beard, and said with one of his big, chuckling laughs—
“Cuerpo de Cristo, Caballeros! what does this remind you of? Carramba! without any disrespect to your worshipful persons I should be inclined to liken the present scene to a banquet of the beggars of Seville enjoying the best hospitality served in the most sumptuous fashion that the Chamberlains of His Most Catholic Majesty could achieve.”
“A somewhat rude simile, Señor Carvahal,” said Hernando Pizarro in his dry, official voice, “and one that would scarce bear the test of logic. Surely thou art too stout a soldier of Spain to liken men who have the faith of God in their hearts, good plate of proof on their bodies, and good swords of Toledo steel by their sides, to beggars? Surely thou art confounding the worth of that which is to be won with the worth of that which is to win it?”
Carvahal had already opened his mouth to make some reply after his own fashion when the Captain-General, turning towards his brother, said—
“Thou hast there touched on a matter, Hernando, which should be discussed amongst us without loss of time. Carvahal, thou canst have thy jest hereafter shouldst thou find time to make it. Here and now there are other things to be talked of, for very grave matters claim our attention, and as true soldiers know no time so good as the present, it were better that we discussed them now. What say you, comrades?”
He paused and was answered by a silence in which every head was bowed in consent. Then, leaning his folded arms on the table, he went on to speak words which, as the event proved, decided the fate of an empire.
“We can speak here,” he said in his slow, grave tone, “with such confidence as we could on the beach of the island of Gallo or in the cabin of one of our own ships, for truly we are as lonely here in the midst of this strange land as we could be there. The safety of all depends upon the faith of each. Therefore, apart from all questions of loyalty to our king, the interest of each is the welfare of all. Let us, then, as behoves true men and adventurers embarked upon an enterprise as desperate as it is glorious, look the conditions of our situation fairly and fearlessly in the face so that we may at once make the best and know the worst of them.”
He paused again and looked about him and saw set faces and steadfast eyes such as he was accustomed to see when speaking on weighty matters. Then he went on again.
“We are here, a hundred and sixty strangers and adventurers, in the heart of an empire whose inhabitants, by all accounts, may be numbered by myriads. Between us and the sea over which we came and by which alone we could return whence we came is a barrier which we have crossed as guests and which we can never recross save as conquerors. Within a league or so of us Atahuallpa lies encamped, the leader of a conquering host that is numbered by thousands, while we are numbered by tens.
“So far we have been received as guests and friends, but the youngest of us here is too old a soldier to be deceived by such appearances as we have seen. In this wondrous land, where gold and silver and gems seem to have no value, our entertainment has cost so little that it is but a drop in the ocean of Atahuallpa’s wealth. Against that it behoves us as reasonable men to set the value of our destruction to him. You know through many rumours that these heathens have received us at the bidding of one of their ancient superstitions as beings somewhat more than human, as children of one of their gods, whose son they have by an unwelcome if somewhat useful flattery taken me to be.”
Here he stopped and stroked his beard, and Pedro de Candia, looking round at the Fray Valverde, said in a low tone that had a laugh running through it—
“That, methinks, would be but a poor warrant in the eyes of the Church for the canonisation even of your Excellency, and yet a very good reason for the excommunication and anathema of his imperial high and mightiness should it ever come to the holy father yonder to pronounce the ban upon him.”
Valverde smiled but said nothing, having said all he would say in his smile. Some of the others laughed aloud, guessing his meaning, and Pizarro went on—
“I see thou hast taken my meaning even before I spoke it, de Candia, and so thou hast left me but little more to say. We are few but strong against many whose only strength is in their numbers. It may be, as indeed seems most likely to me, that we have been decoyed by fair-seeming appearances into a trap, but if so this would not be the first time that the caged animal has turned and rent his captor. For us there is no escape save through the red road of battle and victory. These people, as I have said, are strong only in their numbers, and more than that, from what we have seen it is manifest that they are a huge body which moves and acts by the thought and will of a single head.
“To strike the body would be but to bury our weapons, as it were, in a mountain of flesh, which would be as vain a work as striking an elephant with a dagger. Wherefore it will be as plain to you as it is to me that if we are to reduce this vast body to our will and purposes—nay, if we are to prevent it from eating us, alive or dead, at a mouthful, we must strike swift and straight and strong at its head.
“In a word,” he went on, tapping with his forefinger on the table in front of him, “it is not upon this Inca empire with its innumerable legions that we must make war; it is upon Atahuallpa himself, and in that warfare our first weapon must be that of the weak: we must use cunning first and steel afterwards. Atahuallpa, himself a usurper who has divided the empire of his father in war with his brother, has, to my mind, led us here into a trap baited with a simulation of kindness and welcome and with the sight of gold and silver and gems such as we have here about us. It is for us, having no retreat, to take the fowler in his own snare.”
He paused again and looked about him as though expecting an answer from some one. But no answer came. Bold as they were, the quiet daring of this tremendous proposition was more than they could grasp at the first view of it. For a hundred and sixty men, less than half a troop of cavalry, isolated in a strange land, cut off from all resources save such as they could make for themselves, in the midst of a land whose extent they only dimly dreamt of, and confronted and, it might be, surrounded with armies of unknown numbers, to take captive the lord and master of uncounted thousands looked at first sight an enterprise such as only demigods could dare, and yet another moment’s thought showed them that the masterful genius of Pizarro had in those few weighty sentences pointed out the only possible way to victory and the only means of saving the little army of adventurers from destruction.
There was silence for a time, and Pizarro, folding his arms across his cuirass, closed his eyes and waited for his words to sink, as they did, deep into their minds. Then, as no one else seemed inclined to break a silence that was getting irksome to him, Carvahal took another deep drink of chicha from the golden bowl before him, and then, putting it down with a clash on the table, said—
“By the bones of St. Francis! it seems that, whether this heathen body has a head or not, at least this Christian body of ours has. There never yet was a maze that had no way out of it if but a single one, and the Captain has found not only the way but the thread that leads to it. Doubtless he will give that thread into our hands in good time. Meanwhile there is another view to be taken of our position. We are not only a little band of wanderers lost in the vastness of a strange land. For my own part I would rather call ourselves a wedge of steel driven by the hand of God into the heart of a mighty oak. Oak is strong, but steel is stronger. Carramba! let but the wedge be driven far enough and the tree will be split? What say you, Caballeros?”
“Spoken like a stout soldier, Carvahal,” laughed Pedro de Candia across the table, “and for once with as fine a point upon thy tongue as thou art wont to have upon thy sword.”
“And like a good and faithful Christian to boot!” cried Valverde, rising to his feet. “It is not we who are delivered into the hands of the heathen. It is the heathen who in his blindness hath been delivered into ours. What shall the numbers of this unbelieving tyrant avail if we are but true to ourselves and our holy cause. We here in the flesh are but few, yet if our hearts do not fail us, shall not all the hosts of Heaven come to our aid in the hour of need? Who can prevail against the Lord and His anointed? Hath not the Vicar of Christ himself blessed our holy enterprise, and shall not it therefore come to a happy issue? Let the wisdom of the serpent unite with the courage of the lion, and all the hosts of heathendom shall not avail against us!”
“If we find the valour,” growled Carvahal to Hernando de Soto, sitting next to him, “we may trust the holy father to find the cunning. Methinks that if we took this fair valley for Eden we should not have to look very far for the serpent. Holy Saints, what heresy am I talking!” and once more he buried his broad, red face in the golden bowl of chicha.
Then Pizarro opened his eyes again and said as quietly as before—
“Well, then, Caballeros, since none of you hath anything against my plan, we will take it as approved till a better one shall suggest itself, and, as there are few heads amongst us, it will be well to have the best thoughts of all. This afternoon, therefore, let every one ponder what I have said, let every man, gentle and simple, think himself in the greatest peril that he hath yet ventured into, which in truth may well be the case. Let us consider these lodgings of ours our fortress, let every means be taken to guard against surprise, and yet forget not that everything must be done in such fashion that no suspicion shall be aroused. To-night our council of war shall meet, and to-morrow, if Atahuallpa does not send an embassy to us, whether of peace or war, then we will send one to him. And now, Caballeros,” he went on, rising from his seat, “we have used our tongues enough for the present. Let us use our eyes and ears and learn what we can of the truth of this strange situation into which we have come. We have but scant time for thought and plan-making, for we know not how soon the moment for action may come.”
There was a little hum of conversation after this, each one talking with his neighbour and discussing the thoughts that were uppermost in his mind. Hernando de Soto, Pedro de Candia, and Alonso de Molina were seated together at a little distance from the Captain, his brother, and Valverde. Presently de Soto caught Pizarro’s eye and made a motion as if he would speak. He nodded to him as though to say that he was listening, and de Soto said in a tone loud enough for all the others to hear—
“We have been talking, Señor, likening ourselves to the warriors of Judah on the borders of Canaan. They sent men to spy out the strength or weakness of the land. Why should not we do the same thing? It is yet but a little past noon, and Atahuallpa is no more than a league or so away. There is no time to be lost, and that which we have to learn we cannot learn too quickly. I have been your envoy with some success twice already: once at Tumbez and once at Caxas and Huamacucho. Give me half a score of horse and let me ride across the valley and speak face to face with the Inca himself while you are making safe your position here. Before nightfall I shall be back with news that may be well worth the telling.”
A hum of admiration and approval ran round the chamber as he uttered this daring proposal, and Pizarro answered, speaking slowly and gravely, and yet with a gleam of approbation in his eyes—
“That would be a bold venture, de Soto, and one well worthy of him who would undertake it, but, bethink thee—an embassy of ten to one who cannot know the laws of Christian warfare, surrounded by countless legions amidst which ye would be but as a handful of pebbles dropped into the ocean! We could ill afford to lose thee, de Soto, and I would rather lose my right hand than thee and ten others. What think you, Hernando?”
His brother thought for a moment, and then he looked up and said—
“De Soto is right, and I for one see no danger in the venture. Rather would it show the Inca that we come as friends, suspecting nothing of such designs as he may have against us. If Atahuallpa seeks our destruction, believing us safe in his power, he will not alarm the whole of his quarry by offering violence to our embassy. If his friendship be genuine, then, too, there can be no danger. Let de Soto take a score of our best-mounted horsemen and set out forthwith. The venture may well look a bold one in heathen eyes, and its boldness can do our enterprise little harm and may do it much good. Let them go, say I.”
Pizarro looked down and stroked his beard in silence for a moment. Then he looked up and said—
“That is well and cunningly reasoned, brother. Thou wert ever a sound counsellor. Boldness is, after all, the best weapon of those who are at once stout of heart and few in number. De Soto, choose thy troop, to the number of not more than twenty. Take Filipillo to be thy mouthpiece, and God give thee a good return!”
The matter of the embassy to Atahuallpa having been thus decided, but little time was wasted in carrying it into execution. While Pizarro and his captains had been debating the venture in the banqueting-hall in the quarters which the Inca had assigned to them, a fierce and sudden storm of wind and hail had swept down the valley, and this, enduring only for a short time, as storms in those regions are wont to do, was followed by a swift change of temperature which melted the hail into a warm, soft rain. Then this with equal suddenness vanished, and the parting cloud-masses rolled in great shadowy billows up the mountain-sides, and down between them the sun streamed warm and bright over the humid foliage of the valley, turning it by one of Nature’s subtle strokes of magic into an enchanted realm paved with emeralds and diamonds—dazzling and yet fleeting forecasts of the fate of those whose daring had led them thus far into the unknown land which for most of them should prove at once a treasure-house and a grave.
“A good omen, comrades!” laughed de Soto as he wheeled his horse in between the chargers of Alonso de Molina and Sebastian ben-Alcazar, a tall, spare-built, dark-faced cavalier with more Moorish than Christian blood in his veins, and who was a Christian now only because his father had abjured his faith for love of a dark-eyed, fair-haired maiden of Castille. “A good omen, forsooth! Sunshine after storm. In good truth it seems to me that we have battled through storm and darkness enough from the sands of Gallo to this pleasant vale before us to earn somewhat of sunshine after our labours.”
“Sic itur ad astra!” replied ben-Alcazar gravely. “I have heard of a proverb which says that the memory of toil which is past is the best heartening brave men can have to strengthen them for future labours.”
“That is as true as thy scrap of Latin, ben-Alcazar,” laughed de Molina more gaily than he had done; “yet surely we have climbed near enough to the stars in coming here. For my own part I wish to go no nearer till I go for good.”
“We are ready—Vamos!” cried de Soto before he could get any further with his philosophical speech.
As he spoke he drew his sword and at the same moment the trumpet sounded, and at the head of their little troop of fifteen horse, the pick and flower of the whole army so far as mounting and accoutrements went, they moved across the square towards the opening of the street which led to the roadway running from the city walls to the pleasure-house round which the army of the Inca lay encamped.
This, when they came upon it, they found to be such a roadway as they had not so far met with in Peru, and forming a most pleasant contrast to the mountain paths over which they had so lately toiled. It was broad, straight, level, and well paved with evenly set stones, upon which the hoofs of their iron-shod horses rang merrily as they trotted along it. When they had covered about half of the way and had come within full view of the splendours of the Inca camp, with its thousands of brightly-coloured tents and hundreds of waving standards covering the plain beyond and sloping up the hillside on the other side of the valley, de Soto, turning in the saddle, said to the trumpeter of the troop—
“Diego, fill thy chest and give us a good honest blast so that we may give his heathen High-and-mightiness over yonder some warning of the honour that the servants of his Most Catholic Majesty are about to do him in this visit.”
The trumpeter put the shining brazen tube to his lips and sent the shrill, piercing notes ringing down through the silence of the valley, and as the echoes of the mountain wall repeated them de Soto said again—
“Caballeros, it is long since our good beasts have stretched their limbs on such a road as this, and mine is already pulling at the bridle as though a gallop were well to his taste. Give rein, then, and forward at speed. To come in good style before His Majesty will do us no harm in the eyes of the heathen.”
With that he threw up his right hand and gave his charger the rein. The troop, riding three abreast, followed suit, and with a thunder of hoofs and a rattle and jingle of arms and harness, with the afternoon sun shining brightly on breast-plate and morion, tossing plumes and waving pennon, the Spanish cavalcade swept along the causeway, as the historian of the Conquest has well described it, “like some fearful apparition on the wings of the wind.”
Thus they came into full sight of the Peruvian camp and saw long, serried lines of gaily-dressed warriors, splendid in armour of gold and casques of silver, drawn up motionless and expectant on the farther bank of a broad, shallow stream at which the causeway ended in a bridge of such light structure that it was manifestly made for nothing heavier than foot traffic.
De Soto, with an eye at once to good generalship and the value of first impressions, threw his hand up again and reined in his charger within fifty yards or so of the water.
“That bridge was never made to carry such as we are,” he said to his two companions. “We should make as foolish a spectacle as we should an easy prey to those heathens did we trust to it and fall through. For my part I would rather trust the water. Follow me, Caballeros! God and Santiago for Spain!”
With that he set spurs to his horse, galloped to the river’s edge and plunged into the water, followed with a great splashing and snorting of steeds by the rest of the troop. They crossed the river bed and gained the opposite bank with scarcely a break in their ranks. On the far side there was a broad stretch of level meadow-land, and across this they cantered in perfect order under the wondering gaze of the silent thousands drawn up on either side of the Inca’s pleasure-house.
This was a vast, low structure, white-walled and built in the form of three sides of a square, with the open side towards the river. The interior space was filled with a brilliant array, composed of the Inca’s chief warriors and the ministers of his court, and in the midst of a great semicircle, awaiting his already expected visitors, sat Atahuallpa, the most plainly-dressed man in all the glittering assembly, and yet distinguished from all by the golden throne-chair in which he sat while all the others stood about him or crouched at his feet, and by the crimson fringe of the borla which covered his forehead and half concealed his eyes. For all the sign that the Inca gave the display of the Spanish advance had been wasted, though wondering and perhaps admiring glances were not wanting among the courtiers and the bevy of bright-eyed, long-haired princesses that was gathered about the Inca’s throne. But Atahuallpa sat like an image carved in bronze, not even raising his head as the strange and terrible apparition approached him.
De Soto halted his troop some hundred paces from the Inca’s throne, and then at a word from him Diego’s trumpet rang out and it deployed into line. Then, with Molina on his right hand and ben-Alcazar on his left, he rode forward, and the three helmed and plumed heads bowed together within ten paces of the throne. Still Atahuallpa gave no sign that he was even conscious of their presence. His body was there on the throne, but his spirit was far away in Quito, whither it had travelled back through five years to the Day of Disaster to watch the darkness stealing over the face of the sun, and to hear the words which had foretold the doom of which these fair-faced, shining strangers, mounted on their marvellous and terrible beasts, were assuredly the harbingers.
Somewhat chilled by so frigid a reception, de Soto called Filipillo to him and bade him deliver to the Inca the brief speech that he had already prepared for him, telling Atahuallpa who they were and whence they came, whose servants they were and how their lord and master, His Most Catholic Majesty of Spain, had sent them to bear his greetings across many thousand leagues of ocean to his brother, the Emperor of the West.
This oration Filipillo delivered, putting more than enough bombast into his tone as though he knew that all this splendid state which surrounded the doomed monarch was but as a thin plate of burnished gold soon to be pierced and cut asunder by a dagger of steel. There had been a time when such as he would scarce have dared to enter the presence of the Inca grovelling on his face in the dust. Now he stood before him erect, almost as an equal, and as he stood so and delivered his message his bold eyes wandered from the impassive countenance of the Inca to a slender, half-clad form seated beside the throne, and a fair face framed in long, shining hair—a face whose beauty, as it happened, was ere long to prove fatal to him at whose footstool Pillcu-Cica-Ñusta, princess of the blood-royal of Peru, lay as a slave might lie at the feet of her master.
When the speech was ended de Soto awaited some reply from the Inca, but none came. Atahuallpa still sat motionless, not showing even by a movement of his eyes that he had understood or even heard what Filipillo had said. Then a tall and splendidly-dressed old warrior who stood at the right hand of the throne, and who was none other than Challcuchima, General-in-Chief of the army of Quito, said curtly—
“It is well so far, but the ears of our Lord are not for such base voices as thine, thou slave of his servants! Let thy master speak, and it may be that our Lord will hear.” This speech Filipillo, with no very good grace, translated to de Soto, and he, having already acquired sufficient of the Peruvian tongue to achieve a few words in it, prayed the Inca to answer with his own lips. Hearing this Atahuallpa looked up for the first time and said in a clear, passionless voice—
“Go back and tell him who sent you that I am keeping a fast which will be ended this midnight. To-morrow I will come and speak with him. Till then let him remain in the lodgings that have been given him and await my pleasure with patience.”
It was no very kindly greeting, and one that gave but little encouragement to those who received it. Whatever effect the strangeness of the embassy might have had on the minds of his soldiers and courtiers, it had none upon the frigid composure of the Inca himself. But the Spanish leader in the midst of his discouragement caught a gleam of interest in Atahuallpa’s eyes as he looked upon the splendidly caparisoned war-horse that stood nodding his plumed head and pawing the ground impatiently before him. Seizing the opportunity, de Soto, who was the finest horseman and best-mounted cavalier in the army, suddenly drove his spurs into his charger’s flanks, and, wheeling him sharply round, sent him careering away at full gallop over the level plain in front of the courtyard, and then, before the wondering eyes of the assembled thousands, he galloped and cantered, wheeled and caracoled and curveted in wide circles round the flanks and rear of his own motionless troop, and then, plunging in again at full gallop, he reined his charger up and pulled him back upon his haunches so close to Atahuallpa’s throne, that the foam flying from the bit was blown by the breath of his nostrils on to the skirts of his imperial robes.
Faint screams broke from the lips of the frightened women about the throne, and some of the nobles shrank back in something like terror from the strange sight—a weakness for which, as the chronicles say, they paid that night with their lives—but not a muscle of Atahuallpa’s form moved. He had cast his eyes to the ground again, and did not even raise them as de Soto finished his show of horsemanship. He who had sat unmoved amidst the falling ruins of Quito might well look without disturbance upon such a spectacle, strange and even terrible as it might seem in other eyes.
But when de Soto, feeling somewhat foolish after his arrogant display, had retired to his place in front of the troop, Atahuallpa looked up and made a sign with his hand, and immediately refreshments of cakes and fruit and roasted meat were brought out in dishes of silver, but these de Soto, on behalf of his men, declined with the best grace he could, for his reception had not been such as to persuade him to risk the danger of dismounting in the midst of all those armed thousands about him. Still, as the historian truthfully says, they did not hesitate to quaff the sparkling chicha from golden vases of wondrous size which were presented to them by the dark-eyed beauties of the Inca’s harem.
This they took as their dismissal, and so they made their salutations and departed with heavier hearts than they brought with them, and, having crossed the river more soberly than before, they took their way back to Cajamarca along the causeway, saying little among themselves, yet thinking much of the majesty and power that they had seen, and wondering how they, but a handful of strangers in a strange land, should overcome the innumerable hosts which the next morning might see arrayed against them.
Night had fallen when they got back to their quarters, and from thence they looked across the valley and saw the countless camp-fires of Atahuallpa’s legions sprinkled over the fields and up the distant hillsides, “as thick as the very stars of heaven.”
Later on that night Challcuchima was standing with bowed head before his master’s seat in his private apartment. Atahuallpa, buried in thought, was sitting with hands clasped in his lap and chin resting on his breast. His old servant and General had been giving him such counsel as few save he would dare to give, and now he was making a last effort to save his Lord and the son of his brother from the consequences of the gloomy fatalism that had robbed the conquering ruler of his wisdom and the absolute master of many regions of his strength.
“Think once again, Lord, I beseech thee!” he said in solemn and yet impassioned tones. “This resolve of thine is a resolve of ruin and death. These strangers are no gods, or sons of gods. Do they not eat and drink like men? More, have we not heard how some of them have fallen and died amidst the snows of the upper mountains? Have not some of these strange beasts of theirs also fallen and died by the wayside? It is true that the weapons they bear are potent and terrible, yet have not tidings come to us from the North telling us how they have turned them against each other? Would the true sons of Viracocha have done that? Would they have ravaged and plundered our towns on the seaboard as these men have done who come to us with words of friendship on their lips and lies in their hearts?
“I tell thee, Lord, as I have told thee oft before, they are but plunderers who have come to rob thee of this metal by which they set such store, and for which they will endure all toils and risk all dangers. By the memory of thy father and lord, who is even now looking down upon thee from the windows of the Mansion of the Sun, I conjure thee to speak the word that shall bid me lead thy legions to Cajamarca, and take these white-face plunderers in the trap that they will lay for thee to-morrow. Have not our spies told us of their intention? To-night all may be saved. They are few and we are many, and the darkness will cover us from the aim of their lightning-bolts. Ten thousand to-night will gladly die to save thee and destroy those who would rob thee of the inheritance of thy fathers. But to-morrow, once thou hast set foot in the snare they have prepared for thee, not all thy legions could save thee, and if thou art lost, Lord, then all is lost, for thou art all we have.”
Atahuallpa heard him in silence, and when he had finished the silence continued. Minute after minute passed and the doomed Inca gave no sign that he had even heard the warning that might have saved him. Then at length Challcuchima’s broad breast heaved with a great sigh that ended in a choking sob, and then, knowing that all further argument must be in vain, he bowed himself in silent farewell, and walked with slow steps and down-bent head towards the curtained doorway. There for a moment he paused and looked back at the unmoved figure of his Lord, and then, making the silent sign of appeal to the Unnameable, he turned again and left the Last of the Incas to his thoughts and the near impending doom from which his whole army would joyfully have died to save him.
It may well be believed that there was but little sleep for the Spanish army in Cajamarca that night, for the tidings which de Soto and his embassy had brought back, and which it is easy to see would lose nothing in the telling, were sufficiently heavy and full of grave import to convince the lightest-minded of the adventurers that the task of the morning would be no child’s play even if it succeeded, and that if it failed, as it almost certainly must have done had the Inca taken the wise advice of Challcuchima, it would infallibly involve the ruin of every man’s hopes, and most likely the loss of his life to boot.
It were idle to say that no man thought of sleep, since old Carvahal said with truth that he never closed his eyes for a wink without opening them in fear of seeing the Peruvian legions swarming round the town. There were, indeed, some who talked almost openly of a retreat to the hills while there was yet time to escape from the city which to them seemed no better than a death-trap, and among these was Alonzo Riquelme, the king’s treasurer himself, who, strangely enough, was that same “fat man” from whom, together with the one-eyed Almagro, who had not yet come upon the scene, Atahuallpa was hereafter to pray to Pizarro for deliverance.
News of this possible defection was speedily carried to the Captain, and no sooner did he hear of it, having already made the arrangements which, according to his resolve, nothing less than a convulsion of Nature should alter, he sent for all the chief men of the little force, together with the officials of the Church and the empire, who were with him to attend to other interests than those of the mere adventurer, and when these had gathered in the banqueting-hall he stood up in his place and said to them with that grave, simple eloquence which such men as he are accustomed to use at such moments when life or death, fortune or failure, honour or infamy, all hang trembling in the balance of a brief decision—
“Gentlemen and soldiers of Spain, champions of the holy Faith and comrades who have followed me thus far through storm and calm, hunger and plenty, cold and heat, I have called you here to speak to you with such plainness as the occasion demands. To my sorrow I have heard that there are some in the army who have talked of going back.”
As he said this he fixed his eyes on Riquelme, whose official assurance quailed visibly under his cold, steady gaze. Then, after a little pause, he went on—
“Let me deal with them first. They are, few as we all are, but a few among many. You all know with what difficulty we came here, even with the friendship and assistance of the servants of Atahuallpa, false though that may have been. How much harder would it be for us all to go back even if we went united? But for a few it would be impossible, for they would not only have the hosts of the Inca to fight their way through over those long and weary leagues that we have traversed, but—in the name of God and Santiago, in the cause of his Most Catholic Majesty and our own high enterprise—I swear on the faith of a true man that one Christian sword at least, held by one Christian hand, will bar their way should they seek to tread the path of the recreant and the coward—so help me God and His holy Saints, I swear it!”
As he said this he brought his mailed glove down with a crash upon the table, and then in the silence that followed he looked from face to face awaiting an answer.
“And by all the host of Heaven thy sword shall not be the only one, Señor Capitan!” cried Carvahal. “My blade, however unworthy, shall go with thine on such a mission.”
“And mine! and mine! and mine!” went the cry down each side of the long tables as one by one the captains of the troops sprang to their feet, hand on hilt.
“As I expected, comrades,” said Pizarro quietly. “That is enough. Now let us go to business. There are none of us here who are not aware of the bold stratagem with which the most admirable Captain Cortez made himself master of the person of Montezuma of Mexico, and, through him, of his whole empire; but there is this difference between our situations. Cortez was lodged in a palace in Tenochtitlan, which was to Mexico as Cuzco is to Peru. He had with him some four hundred Spanish swords and some five thousand allies of Tlasclalan. We are here but a hundred and sixty fighting men all told. We have no allies, and this deserted city into which we have been invited savours to me far rather of the trap than the guest-chamber, wherefore it follows that we must act with the greater boldness and the more instant decision. My plans are already known to you all. I have no more to say save to bid every man who carries the fear of God and the honour of Spain in his heart to do the best that in him lies to carry this our holy enterprise to a good and happy end.”
“And the blessing of God and the benediction of His holy Church—absolution in this world and beatitude in the next—be on all who worthily fulfil that most worthy behest!” rolled in solemn tones through the vast chamber as the lean, ascetic form of Vincente de Valverde raised itself erect at the other end of the table. His hand went up with three fingers pointing to the roof. Every head was bowed in silence as he spoke. “And the curse of God and the ban of holy Church on each and all whose heart shall faint or whose hand shall fail when the time comes to strike for the glory of God and the honour of Spain. Amen!”
“Amen! Amen!” came from every bowed head at once, and so the wound, which with other treatment might speedily have proved fatal, was healed, and Pizarro, seeing that the danger was past, stood up in his place again and said—
“That is well, comrades. We have had talk enough. Let us now to prayer and watchfulness that we may be the better ready for the work that lies before us.”
With that he took up his sword, which he had laid on the table in front of him, and strode out of the hall, followed by the rest of the Council of War.
The next morning, which was the morning of the 16th of November, 1532, the sun rose up in a cloudless sky to look down upon the pleasant vale of Cajamarca, and to behold as base and bloody a deed as all the red-written history of Spain can tell of.
The houses which had been allotted to Pizarro and his troops consisted of a range of low buildings along the eastern side of the great square. Their interior was composed of spacious chambers opening by wide and lofty doorways on to the square, and within these all the troops, horse and foot, were disposed. The footmen, armed from head to foot, with sword and halbert ready to hand; the horsemen, standing by their ready-saddled steeds; and the arquebusiers with weapons loaded and matches alight. The two falconets which composed the artillery of the force, were loaded and trained, placed out of sight, one in the little fort above the town and the other in one of the houses, and yet so that their discharge would sweep the square in a diagonal direction.
Very early in the morning a man-at-arms and a trumpeter had scaled the walls of the little fort overlooking the town, and stationed themselves there to give timely warning of the Inca’s approach. The last act of the night, or, as it might better be said, the first of the morning, was the solemn celebration of the Mass, and with his own hands the Fray Valverde carried the Host from troop to troop, giving absolution for all that might be done to each man as he partook of it, and when this was over he raised the solemn chant: “Exsurge, Domine, et judica causam Tuam!” in which all most fervently joined, as though, as the historian puts it, “they had been a company of martyrs about to lay down their lives in defence of their faith instead of a licentious band of adventurers meditating one of the most atrocious acts of perfidy on the record of history.”
Yet, though all was ready soon after sunrise, it was nearly noon before the sentinel on the fort announced the approach of the Peruvian army along the causeway. As it advanced legion after legion deployed in orderly array over the fields on either side, covering them, as the Spanish chronicler says, as far as the eye could reach. Within the city all was anxiety and expectation, though, in obedience to the last injunctions of the Captain, no sound was made, nor did any soldier show himself outside of the guard of honour that Pizarro had appointed to receive the Inca.
Then suddenly the sentinel gave the news that the army and the escort had halted a little distance outside the city walls, and presently there came runners from Atahuallpa to inform Pizarro that it was his intention to camp in the open that night and enter the city at daybreak the following morning.
Pizarro saw in an instant that such a delay meant ruin. He knew that his soldiers were already overstrung with suspense, and that another night must prove intolerable to them, knowing that they were closely surrounded by the innumerable hosts of the Inca, even if under cover of the night the armed legions did not close in upon them and overwhelm them with a resistless flood of numbers. In this moment’s thought he had penetrated the true design of Atahuallpa. Challcuchima had renewed his entreaties in the morning, and had so far prevailed upon his master to cause the halt, which even at that last hour might have saved the Land of the Four Regions from the grasp of the invader.
Pizarro instantly called his brother Hernando to him, and sent him with de Soto and Molina to bid the Inca welcome in his name, and entreat him to come forthwith into the city, as he had prepared an entertainment for him, and had many weighty matters to discuss with him which would ill brook delay.
“Tell him that I hope to sup with him to-night,” he said as Hernando mounted his horse.
And so, as will be seen, it came to pass.
It has been well said that whom the gods would undo they first make mad, and so it must have been with the Last of the Incas, for a writer of romance would be laughed at as an outrager of all the possibilities were he to relate what followed as his own story. Yet it is but sober fact that Atahuallpa, impelled by what impulse none may know, listened with open ears to the persuasions of the treacherous embassy, and not only left the protecting shelter of his army, but set out for the city attended by an unarmed escort.
Hernando and his companions rode swiftly back to tell of their good fortune.
“It is not the least of thy services to our master that thou hast done to-day, Hernando,” said Pizarro as his brother told him of the result of his embassy, “for now truly hath the Lord delivered the heathen into our hand.”
It was nearly an hour later that their expectant eyes caught sight of the head of the Inca’s cavalcade advancing up the broad street into the square. First came a body of some two or three hundred slaves carrying brooms of feathers, with which they removed every particle of dust and dirt from the path. These were followed by a band of gaily-dressed girls, crowned with garlands and carrying baskets of flowers, which they strewed in the way, chanting songs of strange and yet sweet harmony, which the pious chronicler tells us sounded “like songs of hell” in the ears of the faithful.
Then came the advance guard, brilliant in gorgeous liveries and plumed head-dresses, and after these rank upon rank of nobles with plumed casques of burnished silver on their heads and their bodies covered with armour of golden scales from shoulder to thigh. Then a body of priests, bare-headed and robed in flowing garments of snowy whiteness. Then followed a brilliant and orderly throng of nobles and warriors blazing with gold and silver and bright-hued uniforms shining with gems, and, borne aloft in the midst of these was the open litter, gorgeous with bright and many-tinted feather work, in which Atahuallpa sat in his golden chair, blazing with gold and gems, and motionless as a statue hewn out of pale bronze.
Not a Spaniard was to be seen as the splendid pageant reached the entrance to the square. Those who came in front separated into two long lines, and between them the Inca’s bearers advanced into the great open space. As they reached the middle of it the Spanish trumpets rang out, and the guard of honour sallied forth in all the bravery of polished steel and gay caparisons to meet it.
The first salutations were exchanged with a gravity befitting the occasion, and, these being over, Vincente de Valverde, Bible in hand, and attended by Brother Joachim bearing the great crucifix on his right hand, and the interpreter Filipillo, carrying the recollection of the fair face and bright eyes of the Princess Pillcu-Cica in his heart, on his left, advanced with slow steps towards the side of the Inca’s litter.
Atahuallpa now for the first time turned his head and stared in cold surprise at this strange apparition, and Valverde, giving him little time for wonder, plunged forthwith into an exhortation long enough to have wearied out anything more sensitive than the stony indifference of the Inca. In fervent heedlessness of the fact that every word had to pass through the mind and the lips of Filipillo before it could be understood, he expounded the whole Christian faith from the Fall of Man to the mystery of Pentecost, and from thence he deduced the descent of the Pope as the successor of the Apostles, and, passing from this to the Divine right of kings under the sanction of the Vicar of Christ, he proved to the satisfaction of any good Catholic that His Majesty of Spain was the true lord and rightful owner of all the lands of the West, including Atahuallpa’s empire, since he who sat in the chair of St. Peter had given them to him. Finally, seeing at length some signs of impatience on the frowning countenance of the Inca, he held up the Bible, proclaiming it as the Word of the Most High which he and those with him were commissioned to preach in every land under the sun.
When he had at length come to an end Atahuallpa turned his eyes on to Filipillo and said—
“Speak, slave, and if thou understandest the speech of this strange creature tell me what he says that I may answer.”
Filipillo bowed himself almost to the earth, and then, standing erect again, replied—
“Son of the Sun and Lord of the Four Regions—the man who has spoken is a priest of the Strangers and the servant of a strange God whose name hath never been honoured by coming to thine ears. This God is one and three, so far as my poor senses can understand, and that makes four. Further, this God has given the whole earth to a man who reigns in a place called Rome, and he, so the priest here says, has given them that part of the earth which is illuminated by thy presence and blest by thy rule. How this may be I know not, but he says that the black thing which he holds in his hand there is the Word of his God with which He speaks His will to men.”
“Bid him give me the thing and let me hear it!” said Atahuallpa curtly.
“The Inca would fain take the holy book into his hands, Father. Doubtless the touch of it will soften his heart and open his ears,” said Filipillo in Spanish to Valverde.
The priest gladly held it out with both hands towards the litter. The Inca took it and held it to his ear for a moment or two. Then his black, heavy brows came together in an angry frown over his gleaming eyes. With a contemptuous gesture he flung the book to the ground and said to Filipillo—
“Tell the false priest that he is a liar. The thing is dumb. My land is mine, and none can give it away. If the strangers have come only to tell me such children’s tales as that let them go back whence they came while my mercy leaves them alive. I want no god but the god of my fathers, and he is yonder!”
As he said this the Inca turned his face towards the sun, now, as though for a fatal omen, as the chroniclers put it, sinking on its downward path towards the western mountains, and bowed his head, moving his lips as though in unspoken prayer.
“Anathema! Anathema! Shall the word of God be trodden under-foot of the heathen?” cried Valverde, his voice rising almost to a scream as he plunged forward with both hands outstretched to rescue the sacred volume from the feet of the Inca’s bearers and escort, who, as though fearing that some violence was about to be done to their Lord, were beginning to crowd round the litter. He seized it in his right hand, and then, drawing himself up to the full height of his meagre stature, and spreading his arms out wide above his head, he turned his face up to the heavens and cried in a voice that rang loud and shrill through the silent square—
“Fall on! Fall on! Strike for God and for Spain! The Church absolves you. Strike, strike, and spare not, for the hour has come!”
Then, turning towards the Spaniard’s quarters, he ran with his hands still above his head to Pizarro, who, at the head of the troop that had been called the guard of honour, was slowly advancing towards the Inca’s litter and cried again—
“Son of the Church, fall on! Do you not see how the fields on both sides are filling with the host of the heathen? Strike now, straight and swift, ere it is too late.”
Even at this supreme moment it seemed as though the soldier-soul of Pizarro made a last revolt against the treachery which he himself had planned. He knew that the splendidly arrayed guards of the Inca and the people who were now crowding fast into the square were unarmed, that they had not even taken the precaution of bringing those simple weapons which, however effective in their own warfare, would be but as children’s playthings if pitted against the shot and steel of his own troops. As Valverde reached his horse’s head he drew rein, and threw up his right hand to stop those behind him, saying, in a low, husky voice—
“Is there no other way, Father? These poor people have no arms. There are many of them, but they would only be as a crowd of children before our charge——”
“There is but one way with the enemies of the Lord!” cried Valverde, raising his voice again to a shrill scream. “Fall on, I say, fall on! By my lips the Church absolves you! God Himself, whom this heathen hath insulted by casting His holy Word into the dust with contumely, will see whose hand is first raised to wipe the shame away, and ere long the king must know whether to-day an empire has been won or lost for him. Fall on! Fall on! for God and Santiago!”
The words, impassioned as they were, were skilfully spoken, and they left Pizarro with but one course open to him. A scarf of white silk, the colour of peace and truce between honourable enemies, was lying across his saddle-bow. With a hand that trembled as it had never done in battle, he took it up and waved it once aloft. Pedro de Candia, who had mounted one of his guns on the little fort above the square, was standing beside it with the lighted match in his hand, and as he saw the scarf wave he raised the smouldering match to his lips, blew on it and laid it on the priming.
The next instant the ears of the thronging thousands who had followed the Inca into the city were for the first time thunderstricken by the hoarse roar of cannon. For the first time their eyes saw leaping from the throat of a gun the flash which foretold the coming of the iron messenger of death.
Candia had trained his piece with all too deadly certainty. The little ball struck a golden-armoured, gaily plumed Peruvian who stood at the head of a column of guards within a few paces of the Inca’s litter. He happened at the moment to be looking up towards the fortress. The shot struck him full in the face, burst his head asunder as though it had been a rotten orange, and ploughed its way through the files behind him, leaving a long row of bloody and mangled corpses to mark its path.
To the soldier of to-day such a thing would seem but a trifling and common-place incident of warfare, but to the Peruvians it was the revelation of a new power of destruction so strange and terrible, that its effect upon their minds was as great as would be that of a bolt falling from heaven upon a modern battlefield and annihilating a whole regiment.
But de Candia’s cannon-shot was but the prelude to the dreadful tragedy that was to come. Almost at the same moment the other falconet, which had been mounted in the banqueting hall, belched forth its spurt of flame and cloud of smoke through one of the windows, and sent its ball into the midst of another dense mass of people that had rushed together at the sound of the first shot, impelled by that strange instinct which is common to both sheep and men when faced with some new and therefore more appalling danger.
Then, a moment later, from every window and doorway in the Spanish quarters jets of flame and waves of smoke gushed forth, and a storm of bullets from the arquebuses swept across the square and plunged into the crowded masses of the unarmed and helpless Peruvians. The thick and stifling smoke made by the crude and imperfect powder rolled across the square, blown by an easterly wind into the faces of the panic-stricken people, blinding and choking them. Then the roar of the cannon and the rattle of the musketry was followed by the hoarse, roaring battle-cry of the Spaniards.
“Santiago! Santiago! At them for God and Spain! Ohé! Ohé! At them! At them! Cristo y Santiago!”
Now rang out the clattering thunder of hoofs and the swift, orderly tramp of mailed feet on the stone pavement of the plaza, as the Spanish horse and foot rushed forth from their concealment, and flung themselves with murderous fury and resistless impetus upon the struggling, screaming swarms, which scattered before them in a vain attempt to escape from the crowded square. The cavaliers leapt their iron-shod horses into the shrinking masses of men and women, swords rose and fell every moment, gleaming ever redder and redder in the light of the afternoon sun. Pikes and halberds and axes thrust and hacked their way with pitiless swiftness through the unresisting crowds, and high above the screams of terror and agony that came from the helpless victims still rose the hoarse and murderous cry—
“Dios y Santiago! Ohé! Ohé! Strike for Spain and El-Dorado!”
And still the horses reared and plunged, leaping hither and thither as the spurs of their riders drove them on, stamping the gaily-dressed throngs down and crushing them out of all human shape against the stones till they were more than fetlock deep in blood. And still the cruel steel did its murderous work, wielded by hands that knew no mercy, and ever and anon the cannon boomed out again, and the arquebusiers, reloading their cumbrous pieces, sent their bullets wherever they could aim them without hurting their comrades.
On the western side of the plaza there was a high wall of mud and stone stretching between two buildings some two hundred paces apart, and against this was pressed a vast throng of panting, struggling wretches, hemmed in on all sides by the Spanish horse and foot. The bullets tore their way through the dense mass, the stamping horse-hoofs struck them down by dozens, and the sweeping, thrusting steel mowed them down by scores. At length the vast throng surged outwards for a moment, and then, like a wave beaten back by the rocks, recoiled upon the wall. For one awful moment it remained motionless, pent in between the closing ring of steel and the wall. Then the wall swayed and tottered, and with a rumbling crash fell outwards, and over its ruins and through the cloud of dust that rose over them the wave of human agony and terror surged forward and scattered into broken and flying units over the open field beyond.
Some of the cavalry, foremost among whom was old Carvahal, his broad face purple-red with the lust of slaughter, rolling to and fro in his saddle, shouting hoarse battle-cries and invoking every saint in the calendar as he laid about him to right and left with his long sword, spurred forward over the ruins of the wall and spread out over the plain, careering hither and thither, and trampling and cutting their screaming victims down; but the greater part turned back to take their share in the still more bloody work that was going on round the gorgeous litter of the Inca.
This was now tossing to and fro above the human flood like a boat labouring in the sea, and in it Atahuallpa sat clinging to his golden chair, staring with dazed eyes at the hideous scene about him, thinking, it may be, of that other scene in far-off Quito, and remembering those last words of Mama-Lupa as she stood above the prostrate body of Zaïma, his mother, on the terrace—
“Sacrifice! Sacrifice! The Divine Ones are wroth, and only sacrifice can appease them!”
And sacrifice it truly was, such sacrifice as human ruthlessness has seldom exacted or human loyalty and devotion paid. The nobles and princes of the doomed empire, their trappings of gold and silver and gems splashed and spattered with the noblest blood in the Land of the Four Regions, crowded round the litter of their Lord, opposing their bare hands to the steel of the Spaniards, and making a wall of their bodies to protect him from the plunging, trampling chargers. They clung with despairing heroism to manes and bridles, they strove to drag the riders from their saddles, and even flung their arms round the horses’ legs, as though with their puny strength they would wrestle with these strange and terrible war-beasts and overthrow them. No sooner did one go down trampled to death or cloven to the chin than another sprang forward to take his place and meet his doom.
So the bloody, ruthless work went on, and ever the devoted throng round the Inca’s litter grew less and less, and the Spaniards forced their way nearer and nearer towards the sacred and hitherto inviolate person of the Son of the Sun. At length one of the men-at-arms, Michael Asterre by name, a soldier of huge frame and giant strength, burst through the last ring, struck down one of the bearers with a blow of his iron mace and, standing on his body, reached up and grasped Atahuallpa by the left arm. The litter rocked and swayed more violently than before, and just as Asterre was dragging him down a horse was driven close up, so close that the foam from its bit dripped upon the splendid feather work, and the deep voice of the Captain shouted—
“On thy life harm him not! Let go, I tell thee, or, by our Lady, I will cut thee down myself!”
As Pizarro said this he stretched out his hand to save the falling Inca. At this moment Atahuallpa’s stupor vanished, and the flame of the old warrior spirit seemed to blaze out again at such an insult as no Inca had ever before suffered—the touch of a hostile hand. He snatched a dagger of polished copper from his girdle and struck at Pizarro with it, but before his hand fell a sword blade, whose hilt was in de Soto’s hand, leapt across the litter and struck the dagger from his hand. Yet the forceful stroke of the Inca’s arm beat the sword-blade down and drove the point into Pizarro’s wrist.
“Well meant, de Soto, and I thank thee!” laughed Pizarro, as he saw the blood flow. “Yet I never thought that blood of mine would be shed by Spanish steel.”13
Years afterwards he thought of this when the crime of that moment of his greatest triumph had been assessed at the bar of Eternal Justice, and the penalty of the ancient law, blood for blood, was about to be duly exacted.
At the same moment de Soto’s horse, forced forward by the press behind it, stumbled against the litter and overturned it. Pizarro gripped the falling Inca and pulled him across his horse’s neck and, as he fell, Michael Asterre put out his hand and snatched the imperial borla from his brow. And thus was the Last of the Inca’s, the son of the great Huayna-Capac, and lord and master of many millions, discrowned by the hand of a common soldier who had embarked upon this wondrous enterprise for no better reason than to save himself from a debtors’ cell at Panama.