The news that they had returned without the Inca had apparently preceded them by some means, for they met Carvahal at the door of the palace, and in answer to their greeting he looked up and said with one of his deep, growling laughs—
“So you have seen his Majesty safely home, Señores! By my faith, a right worthy Christian escort for a heathen king who was yesterday a captive! Did I not say that it would have been better to try the tight collar on him as we did on Atahuallpa? If I mistake not the lad is worth a score of Atahuallpas. I fear me it will go hard now with the lad’s mother and sweetheart. Don Hernando is in a towering rage, and I believe the punishment is to be a flogging first, and then shooting to death with arrows. It would have been greater mercy to have strangled the lad himself.”
While the old ruffian was running on in this way de Soto and his companions had flung themselves from their horses and mounted the steps.
“Is Don Hernando within?” said de Soto roughly, and seeming to take no heed of what he had said.
“He is, Señores,” replied Carvahal, bowing with a clumsy attempt at mock politeness, “and he is awaiting you in a humour that seems to have more of brimstone in it than of the milk of human kindness. You will find him in the banqueting-hall—and methinks you will find the feast already spread for you.”
Without noticing the sally the four cavaliers strode past him hands on sword-hilts, and looking more like men going to battle than soldiers about to account for a grave failure to their commander. De Soto went first, and as he entered the room Hernando Pizarro, who was sitting at a table with three or four of his officers, looked round and then started to his feet. He was a big, heavily-built man with a low, narrow brow, large and fleshy nose and mouth, and a pallid skin which the most ardent sun had been unable to tinge with bronze. His black eyes were small but very bright, and as he looked at de Soto they flashed with unmistakable anger. His voice, always unpleasing, seemed to grate roughly over his yellow uneven teeth as he said with the air of a judge addressing culprits brought up for judgment—
“How now, Señores? Where is he who was entrusted to your keeping? A tale brought by an Indian reached me to-day telling me that you had permitted his escape. I trust you come to tell me that that is false. If not, it will be my duty to show you how we deal with traitors.”
“Don Hernando,” said de Soto very quietly, as he always spoke when he had weighty words to say, “good soldiers do not draw their swords upon each other in the face of the enemy, and we have come to tell you that every moment brings the enemy closer, else there are four swords here ready for thine and those of any three friends at your choice. At proper time and place mine will be at your service. Meanwhile let me remind you with all respect that you are speaking to your peers and not to your men-at-arms. If you think otherwise we can find another use for our swords and the right arms of our friends and followers. You forget that we already have the Governor’s permission to join ourselves to his forces at Los Reyes.”
Angry as he was, Don Hernando was too shrewd not to see that this was really a serious threat. De Soto and his companions were not only very popular among the men, but they were, with the exception of the Pizarros themselves, the principal leaders of what were already called the Old Conquerers. As it was the balance of power between what were afterwards known as the Pizarro and Almagro factions was held too evenly in Cuzco just then for his liking. He knew that such a defection as this would place his party in a hopeless minority, and he knew too that the Almagrists, if they could do it with safety, would think no more of flinging him into prison, as indeed they afterwards did, and proclaiming their leader Governor of the city, than they would think of sending an arrow through a flying Indian’s body, for it must be remembered that the conquerors were not a regular army under the rigid discipline of a European camp. They were simply a body of adventurers held together by nothing but common interests and common perils, isolated in a hostile land and far removed from any centre of real authority. Their leaders were chosen by themselves, and, as the civil wars in which the two factions afterwards rent each other to pieces clearly proved, their tenure of office was by no means a secure one. No one knew this better than the titular Governor of Cuzco, and he knew, too, that if these four men chose to raise the standard of revolt and throw in their lot with the Almagrists his dead body might within an hour be lying in the streets pierced with a dozen sword-thrusts.
Such considerations as these, flashing as they did through his active mind during the pause which followed de Soto’s bold words, instantly brought back his habitual self-command and that tactful control of his feelings and manner which made him the best diplomatist and perhaps the only statesman among the Conquerors. He smiled as pleasantly as such lips as his could smile, and said with a not ungraceful wave of his hand—
“Señores, I spoke hastily and I ask your pardon. The loss of the Inca’s person is a very serious one to us. From the reports that have reached us it might even mean our ruin. It was natural, then, that the tidings should affect me deeply, but no doubt you have a report to make. If so, we are all attention. Will you be seated?”
“Señor,” replied de Soto, still in the same cold, quiet voice, “I have a somewhat strange tale to tell you for myself and these caballeros here, and after the greeting you have been pleased to give us, we would prefer not to sit in your presence lest perchance we might be taken for your guests.”
Don Hernando frowned at the coolly-spoken insult, but he was too politic not to see the danger of exasperating de Soto and his companions any further, so he simply nodded his head and waved his hand again and said—
“Very well, Señores. As you will. And now for the report.”
“What happened first,” said de Soto without any further preamble, “was this. In the darkness of the night and just as we had reached the edge of a level plain beyond the mountains, the Inca, who sits a horse as well as any Christian cavalier, suddenly spurred forward into the midst of the fore-guard of Indians. He clove the skull of one with his battle-axe, rode half-a-dozen others down, and went for his life across the plain with us hard after him. The horse he rode belonged, as you know, to the Señor de Molina here, and as you know also, five thousand pesos would not buy such a horse south of Panama. He had the better animal, and he knew the country to a yard. To be brief, he outrode us and escaped. We rode on, hoping to gain some knowledge of the position of the Indian army, which by all accounts is about to attack us. Soon after sunrise we found ourselves in the entrance to that valley of Yucay on which we had doubtless stumbled by accident in the chase, and there we found the Inca.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Hernando with just the suspicion of a sneer. “You found him and you did not bring him back—you, four Spanish cavaliers, to one puny Peruvian!”
“Señor,” replied de Soto as calmly as ever, “he who hears a tale but half told knows little of the truth of it. We were not four to one. We were more like four to forty thousand, for no sooner did the Inca show himself than the whole valley was alive with armed men. Moreover, there was a fortress on each side of us, a river in front of us, and behind us leagues of country swarming with the enemy. We had already given ourselves up for lost when the Inca waved a white scarf and made a sign that he wished to speak with us. Señor de Molina leapt his horse into the stream and swam to him. What happened, let him tell himself.”
He stepped aside, and the young cavalier strode forward, pale, angry, and defiant. But before he could speak Don Hernando waved his hand again and said—
“A moment, Señor. Your friend the Inca would seem to have forgotten that he left certain hostages with me in pledge for his return. I did not tell him what would befall them if he broke faith with me, but I will send one or two meaner prisoners that I have in my hands to him at once, to tell him that unless he is back here, alone and unarmed, by sunset to-morrow they shall be taken out at sunrise into the great square, and there, in the presence of the army, they shall be stripped and flogged and then shot to death with arrows. That is their doom, and I will abate no jot of it.”
“Then, Señor,” said de Molina, his ruddy face white to the lips, and his whole frame trembling with passion at the atrocious words, “if that is your irrevocable decision you have no need to release any of your prisoners to take the tidings of it to the Inca, for we ourselves will take it, as we have already pledged our Christian faith and knightly honour to do.”
“How? What mean you? You will take it?” exclaimed Don Hernando, staring at him in blank astonishment. “Surely, Señores, this is neither time nor place for jesting.”
“It is a jest that we are ready to put a point to with our swords, Señor,” replied de Molina, clapping his hand on his sword-hilt. “If it will please you to hear my story I will make few words of it, and my meaning shall be plain enough.
“When I met the Inca on the other side of the river he pointed out what was plain enough to see, that our lives were at his mercy. Then he told me of the pledge that he had left behind him in your hands, and he offered us our lives and liberties in exchange for those of his mother and his betrothed, and we, seeing no better way out of the business, accepted the offer.”
“How now, Señor?” cried Don Hernando angrily. “Whose authority had you to make such terms?”
“The authority of necessity, Señor,” replied de Molina, bowing slightly, “and if you know of a better you may tell us.”
“Whether I know of a better or not, I tell you that I will not recognise it!” cried Don Hernando, bringing his fist down on the table. “The lives of the women are forfeit, and they shall die unless Manco returns. I have sworn it.”
“And we have sworn, Señor,” exclaimed de Soto, stepping forward again, “that these ladies shall be sent scathless to Yucay, or that we will ourselves return according to our oath. Is that not so, Caballeros?”
The others bowed, and de Candia, placing himself between de Soto and de Molina, said in his deep, powerful voice—
“It seems to me, Don Hernando, that unless you think we are standing here lying to you, you are setting the gratification of a needless and cruel revenge against the honour and safety of four Christian knights and gentlemen of Spain. It is yet to be seen whether the Council of the Army will endure that, and if they do, whether the soldiers will. It maybe that they will think there is shame enough on our army already.”
“Is this your earnest, Caballeros?” asked Don Hernando somewhat anxiously, for he saw that the matter was now getting serious. “Have you in sober truth sworn to do so mad a thing? Is it possible you would go back and give yourselves up to this heathen?”
“Ay, by God and Santiago we will!” replied de Candia solemnly. “Our honour is pledged and our oaths are passed, and though we had to cut our way through the whole army we would do it to redeem them. Now what say you, Don Hernando? Which think you will have the more worth in the eyes of our sovereign lord when the news gets home to Spain—the honour and the lives of four cavaliers who have fought and bled for him, or the torment and death of two helpless and innocent women?”
It was an awkward situation plainly and skilfully described, and Don Hernando looked up with something very like admiration at the four cavaliers; for, making allowance for the age he lived in, and the profession he followed, he was a kindly-hearted man save when his passions were aroused, and, moreover, he was well enough skilled in the ways of the Spanish court to know how terribly black an accusation might be made against him out of such a circumstance. Still, having spoken so positively, he did not see his way to yield to such a peremptory summons, and he was looking round the table somewhat anxiously when his eye caught that of his half-brother Juan, the noblest youth and most gallant knight of all the Pizarro family. His ready wit grasped the situation instantly—the more quickly since he was entirely on the side of the four cavaliers. He rose to his feet and said, speaking to them all through de Candia—
“Caballeros, good as your motives are, and merciful as your errand is, it is yet a hard thing for one placed as my brother is in authority to turn aside from his path because he is threatened with certain pains and penalties. Nevertheless, speaking for myself, I will say as a private cavalier and not as Don Hernando’s brother, that he did not do this thing of his own will and judgment. He will not deny that the evil thought was put into his mind by that lying knave, Cepeda, who is himself a living proof of the wisdom of that decree of our august master which forbade lawyers to set foot in this land, and which has since, to my sorrow, been repealed. He, as you know, is heart and soul with the Almagrist faction, and he has no more a human heart in his breast than the mummies of the Incas which we found in the Temples of the Sun. The plan was his, and its object was not only the getting of more gold, but also the possession of the person of the Princess Nahua by himself——”
“Cuerpo de Cristo!” cried de Molina taking a couple of strides up the room and half drawing his sword from its scabbard. “What! Has that lean and scoundrelly anatomy of law and lying dared even to dream of that? Then, by the glory of God, am I the more fixed in my oath. Now, Don Hernando,” he went on, turning to the Governor, “we want you, not to yield, but to do justice. It cannot be that you knew of this thing. It cannot be that you, Governor of the city and brother of his Highness, could have entered into a league with this vile quill-driver to dishonour the promised bride of a prince who, be it remembered, received us as friends and honoured envoys.”
“It is true,” said Juan, “for I know it of my own knowledge, and so does Gonzalo here, and had you never returned we had determined that if Cepeda persisted in his intention he should not live to accomplish his infamy.”
“That is true,” added Gonzalo, with a nod; “for I was captain of the guard over the palace where the queen and princess are lodged, and the sentry told me how Cepeda went to them but to-day with an interpreter to tell them at what price he would save them from the punishment decreed against them did the Inca not return. When I heard of it I ordered him to be thrown out of the palace if he would not go for less persuasion, but he had already gone, looking as black as the gates of his future abode.”
“Then if that is so, Caballeros,” said Don Hernando, who meanwhile had been industriously reviewing all the aspects of the case, “since we do not make war on women or trade with their honour, I will willingly take back what I have said. The anger that I showed on your first entry you will doubtless take as natural in one who has lost an almost priceless prize. But now, in cooler blood, I am willing to confess that, situated as you were, you could have done only what you did, since the loss of four such gallant cavaliers to our little army would have been even graver than the loss of the Inca’s person. As you have sworn so shall you do, granted always that you will faithfully uphold me against these Almagrists.”
“Ay, that we will, Don Hernando!” exclaimed de Soto, well pleased that the seemingly difficult matter had been after all so easily settled; “and we shall do so with none the less heart and strength for that we were firmly resolved to keep our oath to Manco. That being kept we are more than ever devoted to your person and our holy cause.”
“Then, Señores,” replied Don Hernando, rising from his seat, and bowing gravely towards them, “you are at liberty, so far as your loyal duty to his Majesty permits, to provide for the present safety of the queen and the princess and their restoration to the Inca as may seem best in your eyes. But I pray you let there be no trouble with Cepeda if possible. I will answer to him for what is done, but we can afford no divisions in the camp now.”
“He is not worth an honest man’s steel,” replied de Soto as they all returned the bow, “so you may rest assured of that. In the name of my companions I thank you for permitting us to redeem our oath in peace and good fellowship. Señores, adios!”
“Adios, Señores!” replied Don Hernando and his brothers, and the four cavaliers swung round and marched with jaunty strides and cocked swords out of the palace, to the great astonishment of Carvahal, who had waited all this time for the joke of seeing them brought out under arrest.
De Soto’s first care naturally was to seek out the Villac-Umu, and through him to convey to the queen-mother and the princess, who were already preparing themselves to meet with becoming dignity and fortitude the shameful fate from which they believed nothing could save them, the welcome news of their unexpected and indeed incomprehensible salvation. At the same time runners were dispatched to Yucay, or, to be more correct, to Chinchero, the great fortress at the entrance to the valley where the Inca had posted himself with the advance guard of his army. Their mission was to tell him that the four cavaliers had redeemed their promise, and that as soon as might be convenient for them the two royal ladies would set out from Cuzco under a suitable escort.
This they did betimes in two of the royal litters magnificently adorned with gold and jewels and feather work, and on either side of each rode one of those to whose chivalry and generosity they owed even more than life and liberty.
When the cavalcade had proceeded some two leagues or so beyond the city, and had reached the rugged plain on which Manco had made his mock escape, they saw several long, glittering files of men rapidly approaching them, and Gonzalo Pizarro, to whom the command of the escort had been given, looked round suspiciously at de Soto and said—
“Señor, your friend the Inca must have a good many men at his disposal to be able to send an army as an escort for his bride. To my eyes it has more the look of an ambush.”
“There is no need for fear, Señor,” replied de Soto, laughing, “for de Molina here carries in his morion a talisman that would take an unarmed foe scathless through all the Inca’s hosts. If it please you to bid him ride forward you shall soon see that this is so.”
“Very well,” said Gonzalo, “I shall be glad to know it. Let him go.”
So the young cavalier, who so far had been riding in moody silence on the right hand of Nahua’s litter, scarcely trusting his eyes to rest upon her, although she had drawn the curtains partly aside, touched his horse with the spurs and cantered off to meet the approaching host. As he rode on they saw file after file come into view from behind until the whole of that part of the plain seemed covered with the splendidly dressed soldiery. But the moment that the sacred feather in de Molina’s helmet became visible every file stopped motionless, then a rippling sea of fire seemed to run across the plain as the sunlight gleamed upon thousands of weapons of polished copper waved in greeting to him, and a mighty shout from thousands of throats came rolling over the plateau. Then, as though by magic, the shining files separated and swung back, and in a few moments the paved causeway was lined on either hand as far as the eye could reach with an endless array of warriors silent and rigid as bronze statues.
Between these the two litters with their escort passed at a rapid foot-pace for nearly four hours. As the cavalcade proceeded the two files behind fell into marching order on the roads, and so it went on, with an ever-increasing rearguard, until at length the huge black walls of the fortress loomed up in the distance.
“Yonder is our journey’s end, Señor!” said de Soto to Gonzalo Pizarro. “That is one of the fortresses guarding the river of which we told you. I doubt not that the Inca will meet us there and relieve us of our charge. There too you will see something of the strength of the position that we shall shortly have to force, unless indeed his Majesty takes the bolder step of besieging us in Cuzco.”
They were now on the sloping, zigzag pathway which led down towards the river, and Gonzalo’s soldierly eye had already noted that the lower they descended the worse the ground became for horses and the stronger the defences of the ravine appeared.
“I would rather his Majesty came to Cuzco, even though he came at the head of a hundred thousand men, than we should meet him here with only ten thousand at his back,” he replied. “I doubt if the world holds another so lovely a spot so ably defended.”
“So would I,” said de Soto. “It is well for us that these people have neither steel nor gunpowder. If they had they could hold this valley for years, in spite of all the soldiers Spain could send against them.”
“I believe you, Señor,” said Gonzalo, “but, mira! is not that a brave show. Look, the garrison are turning out to receive us, and yonder is our late guest, the Inca, armed cap-à-pie, and, Santiago! yonder is another clad in good steel and mounted on a piece of good Spanish horse-flesh. Por Dios, these people learn quickly! Methinks if we do not bring the war swiftly to a close we shall be conquered with our own weapons.”
“The other will no doubt be old Ruminavi—him they call Stony-Face,” replied de Soto. “Next to Huayna-Capac himself he is said to have been the greatest general in the land. The Inca warned me that we should find fighting him a graver matter than taking Atahuallpa prisoner.”
The cavalcade had now reached the last of the slopes in the roadway, and presently it turned from it on to the plain in front of the fortress. As it did so the shrill notes of trumpets and horns rang out along the mountain-sides, and instantly not only was every terrace and rampart lined with men but a vast array seemed to spring out from the ground behind the two mailed figures on the other side of the river. The stream was now bridged by a quadruple row of balsas or rafts of reeds lashed tightly together and covered with neatly-dressed planks of a size which showed that they must have come from the vast forests which clothe the eastern slopes of the Andes.
The Inca and his companion drew up at about forty paces from the river bank and remained motionless until the whole cavalcade had crossed it. The Peruvian escort, as before, separated and fell back into two files, between which the Spanish cavaliers rode, Gonzalo Pizarro at the head and the others on either side of the litters. When all had crossed Manco threw up his vizor and cantered forward alone. He pulled his horse up with admirable grace within a couple of paces of Gonzalo, and when he had saluted he held out his hand to him saying—
“Señor, you are welcome since you have come to bring me the greatest of all the treasures that our land contains. And welcome to you too, Señores,” he went on with a wave of his hand and a stately bow to either side of the litters, “since your coming proves that your tongues are as straight as your right arms are strong. For this day at least we are friends. I have been your guest,” he went on with a laugh, “now you must be mine if you will accept such hospitality as my poor palace can afford.”
“Since, as you say, there is truce between us, Señor Inca,” replied Gonzalo, “there is no reason against our accepting the honour with all due gratitude, and I trust we shall sup together none the less heartily that ere long we may be exchanging honest blows.”
The Inca bowed gravely, wheeling his charger without, as far as the Spaniards could see, so much as having glanced at the litters, the curtains of which were now closely drawn, and led the way towards the palace which formed the northern half of the fortress. The great array of warriors separated into two solid, shining masses as they approached, and old Ruminavi, sitting his horse like a statue of steel, threw up his vizor and saluted with his sword as they passed.
At the foot of a broad flight of steps leading up to a wide terrace running the whole length of the palace Manco dismounted and asked the Spanish cavaliers to do the same. Then he led the way on to the terrace. He now made a sign to the litter-bearers, who at once set their burdens down, and then for the first time he approached them. He went first to the one in which Mama-Oello was lying, and with gracious deference helped her to rise. Then he went to the other, and as Nahua rose and stood beside him a mighty shout burst from tens of thousands of throats and went echoing across the river and along the rock-walls of the valley, and at the same instant every warrior within sight of the terrace dropped on his knees and spread out his arms towards it, and Nahua’s name, uttered at the same instant by tens of thousands of lips, went up to heaven in one great cry of joy and thankfulness.
“You see, Señores,” said Manco, turning to the Spaniards, “that mine would not have been the only heart that you would have filled with darkness and sorrow had you not been as brothers rather than as enemies to one who hereafter, even if he should fall by your hands, will take none but loving memories of you with him to the Mansions of the Sun.”
Toil-worn and battle-hardened as they were the Spaniards were still men, and for the most part gentlemen, and more than one of them looked at this touching spectacle of thankful devotion through a mist which was certainly not in the clear sky or the translucent air of the Sierras, and this mist was not far from becoming veritable tears when Nahua, at a word in Quichua from Manco, left his side and went to them one after the other, beginning with de Soto, and took their rough right hands in hers and bowed her lovely head over them till her lips touched them.
It was her act of public thanks for the great service they had done her and her people, and although the army knew that ere many days were past they must meet these same men in bitter and unsparing battle every man of all the thousands within sight sprang to his feet again, waving his weapon and making the rocks and the fortress’ walls ring with his cheers. It was a moment in which a lasting peace might have been made and the greatest empire and the most perfect civilisation of the New World saved from utter and irretrievable ruin. If the majority of the Spaniards had been such men as those who were now standing with the Inca on the terrace of his palace they might have been to Peru what two centuries and a half later the English became to India. But this was not to be. They had brought with them into the land the twin curses of insatiable greed and invincible religious intolerance, and these were ere long to prove the utter undoing of both conquerors and conquered.
For the rest of that day and far into the night the Spaniards were treated with a royal and splendid hospitality worthy of the great race from which Manco sprang. They were feasted in gorgeous chambers, seated on chairs of silver, and eating and drinking from dishes and vessels of gold. They were carried in litters up to the rocky ledge beyond Chinchero, where the tableland ends and whence they could see all the glories of the lovely valley spread out laughing in the brilliant sunshine four thousand feet below them. Then, descending into the valley, they were taken without reserve from palace to palace and fortress to fortress, and at night they were amused with dances and martial displays. Then, after feasting splendidly again, they went to rest on couches of cedar and silver covered with the finest and softest furs and inclosed by bright-hued curtains of the silken vicuña wool.
The next morning they found their chargers ready groomed and caparisoned for them and their native escort drawn up to receive them in front of the terrace. As soon as the morning meal was over the trumpets and horns sounded and the garrison turned out in silent and perfect order to do honour to the departing guests, and the Inca, accompanied by Nahua and the queen, and attended by old Ruminavi, still clad in steel, and a brilliant array of his nobles, came out to bid them farewell in sight of the assembled host.
Behind the Inca came an attendant bearing a great plate of gold, on which was a heap of gems which flashed gloriously in the sunlight, and from this Manco took five long strings of emeralds and rubies, each of which in another land would have been of almost priceless value, and one of these he hung round each of the astonished Spaniards’ necks, and immediately afterwards Nahua left the side of the queen, with whom she had been standing, and went shyly up to de Molina and stood before him blushing rosy red through the pale olive of her skin.
On her upturned palms there lay a magnificent ruby cut in the shape of a heart and attached to a golden chain of exquisite workmanship. As soon as he saw it the young cavalier flushed red to the brows and, with the true instinct of a Spaniard and a cavalier, he instantly doffed his morion and dropped on one knee before her, and she took the two ends of the chain and with trembling fingers fastened them around his neck.
“That is the gift of my betrothed wife and promised queen,” said Manco, who had come to her side, “and she asks your acceptance of it as a token of the great love that we both bear you, since without you we should not have been together to-day and both of our lives would have been darkened with a great darkness until we met hereafter in the Mansions of the Sun, and therefore we both pray that our Father may keep you to wear it in honour and happiness until we shall meet you as well, no longer enemies, in the land where men do not make war upon each other.”
While he was speaking de Molina had caught Nahua’s two little hands in his and pressed them in turn gently and respectfully to his lips, as he might have done had he been kissing the hands of his own sovereign’s consort. Then he rose to his feet with his morion under his left arm and said in a voice that he had hard work to keep steady—
“Señor, I would that I could thank her Highness in her own musical speech, but since I cannot you must do it for me, and doubtless her ears will receive the words more gladly from your lips than mine. Tell her that as long as Alonso de Molina lives her gift shall be the most priceless of his possessions, even as the memory of her beauty and graciousness shall be the sweetest, if also the saddest, that life holds for him. Whether I die in battle, as is my hope, or in bed, as may be my fate, those who find me dead shall find this next to my heart.”
As he said this he took the splendid gem and pressed it to his lips, and then throwing back his scarf, he dropped it out of sight under his breastplate.
“And now, Señor,” he went on, taking the sacred plume from his morion, “there remains, alas, but this to do. To-day we are your friends and guests. To-morrow we may meet as enemies, each bound by his duty to slay the other if he can. When you gave me this you bade me wear it, and you promised me that it should bear me scathless through every battle. That, Señor, is what no soldier of Spain could accept. I may rely on no protection save the mercy of God and my own right arm. Therefore I pray you take it back, not because I would part with it, but because I must.”
“That is spoken like a true warrior and an honest man,” said the Inca as he took the feather from him. “I take back my gift since you have shown me that you cannot wear it with honour, yet should it be our fate to join battle a hundred times for each time our hands have met in friendship, before each onset I will pray to our Father that he may keep your lance and mine far apart. And now farewell, Señor, y amigo mio. The way is long and the sun is getting high. When you come to the City of the Sun give my greeting to Anda-Huillac and the rest of my people that are there, and tell them, and your people too, that it will not be long ere I shall visit them.”
So the last farewells were said and the Spaniards and their auxiliaries, escorted by a splendid array of the Inca’s own body-guard, crossed the little plain and the bridge of boats and ascended the winding causeway, ever turning to look back with regretful eyes at the brilliant throng on the terrace which stood watching them and waving their farewells until the spur of the mountain had shut them from sight. After a hard ride over the bare, bleak puna they reached Cuzco shortly after sundown and at once made their report to Don Hernando.
They found him presiding over a Council of War, and when they had delivered their report, and de Soto and Gonzalo Pizarro were beginning to urge, in the interests of both humanity and policy, that an honourable peace, or at the least a lengthy truce, should be if possible concluded with the Inca until the whole situation of affairs could be laid before the King of Spain, with a view to preventing further bloodshed and destruction, Don Hernando cut them short by saying curtly, and with no great good-humour—
“Señores, though you doubtless come with the best of intentions you yet come too late, since it hath already been decided by a great majority in full council of war to attack this revolted prince forthwith in his stronghold, and before he hath time to further increase the hosts which he means to bring against us. I regret that you were not here to take part in the deliberation, though your voices would not have been numerous enough to have changed the decision. But since you have now been twice the guests of the Inca none can know the approaches to his fastnesses so well as you, and therefore none can be better fitted to direct the expedition. It leaves at sunrise to-morrow, and I do not doubt that in furthering the work in hand you will prove yourselves at least as good friends to Spain and our holy cause as your laudable chivalry has lately led you to show yourselves such good friends to her enemies.”
Later on that night Michael Asterre became the richer by two bars of gold of the value of 500 pesos each, and Alonso de Molina became the poorer by these and by the exchange of one of the best suits of armour in the city for the iron cuirass and greaves and battered plumeless morion which had so far been the property of the stalwart man-at-arms.
That same night, when the last of the escort had returned, the bridge was taken up out of the river and all the dispositions for the defence of the valley against an attacking force were made as complete as possible. The Inca and his General personally inspected the vast stores of arrows, javelins, and spears that were accumulated in the fortresses. Between twenty and thirty sets and half-sets of armour, with as many swords, pikes, and battle-axes which had been taken from the Spaniards in the skirmishes of the last six months, were distributed among the bravest and most stalwart of Manco’s body-guard, and great stones and fragments of rock were laboriously carried up from the river bed and collected from the mountains and plateaus surrounding the valley, to be piled up on all the points of vantage ready to be hurled down on the heads of the attacking force.
Then towards midnight, when all the preparations had at length been completed, Manco and Ruminavi assembled their princes and chieftains on a high plateau of bare rock overlooking the valley.
Three hundred torchbearers formed a wide circle round them, and in the midst were two huge golden vases full of chicha. About these the nobles and chief warriors were grouped, and between them stood Manco clad in his Spanish armour, saving only for the helmet, in place of which he wore the scarlet Llautu surmounted by a plume of coraquenque feathers.
He looked round the ring of torchbearers and then upon the two groups of princes and warriors which had silently ranged themselves round either of the vases. But for the space of several minutes not a word was spoken. At length the broad yellow disc of the full moon began to show itself above the eastern ridge of the mountains. Instantly all eyes were turned towards it; then every head was bowed as the brilliant orb rose into full view.
As soon as its lower edge was clear of the mountain-tops Manco drew his sword and held it aloft so that the moonlight fell upon the long, polished blade, making it look like a slim shaft of burnished silver, and then he began to speak in tones very different from those in which he had that morning bidden his Spanish guests farewell. Then they had been gentle and courteous; now they were deep and full, instinct with majesty, and thrilling with indignant emotion.
“Brothers of the Sacred Blood and warriors of the Four Regions,” he said, addressing each of the groups in turn, “the ancient glories of our race and nation lie behind us, and between us and them there is the shame of division and the sorrow of defeat. But if the division had not gone before the defeat would not have followed after. Had not the Usurper—whose name shall be for ever accursed in the ears of the Children of the Sun—divided the armies of my conquering father into hostile factions, these calamities could never have fallen upon us. Is it to be believed that if the great Huayna-Capac had still commanded the united armies of the Sun these strangers, falsely called the sons of Viracocha, would have crossed those mountains which our Father in his wisdom raised up as bulwarks to guard the homes of his children? Would not they have been overwhelmed in the narrow passes? Would not they and their war-beasts have been starved on the bare and wind-swept punas; and would not those who might have been left have perished amidst the ice and snows through which the servants of the Usurper guided them in safety?
“But all that is past now,” he went on, with an added note of passion in his voice. “The conquering Strangers are here in our midst. They have plundered our treasure-houses, they have defiled our temples, and dishonoured the holy vestals of the Sun. They have proved themselves, not the descendants of gods, but of demons, and yonder, in the heart of the empire of our fathers, in the sacred City of the Sun itself, they are even now perpetrating their vilest abominations and wreaking their cruel will and sating their foulest lusts like masters and conquerors in a land of slaves!”
The Inca paused for a moment, and as he looked about him he saw by the light of the torches frowning brows, dark, gleaming eyes, and white, clenched teeth shining through parted lips, and he heard a low, growling, hissing sound that would have boded but ill in the Spaniards’ ears. Then he went on again—
“But as the Ancient Wisdom says, out of evil there may often come good, and out of the grave evils that have befallen us and our people there has come this good—that, though defeated and broken, we have become united, and so are still unconquerable. Now, for the first time since the death of the great Huayna, the heart of every warrior within the Four Regions is beating high and true for his lawful Lord and his beloved country. It has fallen to me, the unworthy bearer of the Divine Name, to lead you, my brothers of the Blood, in the last struggle with the invader of our country and the dishonourer of our holy things. Before two more suns have risen and set that struggle will have begun, and we have come here unto this holy place, where the Divine Manco held his first war-council, to take the most solemn oath that the lips of the Children of the Sun can utter that, when that struggle has once begun, it shall not end while an invader is left alive in the land or one of us has power to do him harm.
“Henceforth there is war without rest or mercy between us. Where any of this accursed race are found within the confines of the Four Regions, be they man, woman, or child, death, swift and pitiless, must overtake them. As they have dealt with us, so shall we deal with them. We will give blow for blow, death for death, and dishonour for dishonour, until the last of us shall have fallen in the holy strife or the last of them shall have paid the last penalty of their countless crimes—and that I, Manco-Capac, Inca and lawful Lord of the Four Regions, swear by the glory of our Father the Sun and his sister-wife the Moon, who now beholds my oath, and by the might and Majesty of That which may not be named, and in token of my oath I give my blood that it may bear witness for me or against me as I keep my oath or break it in that hour, be it soon or late, when my foot crosses the threshold of the Mansions of the Sun!”
As he said this the Inca lowered his sword and sheathed it. Then he drew his dagger, and baring his left arm he made a slight cut in it and held it over one of the bowls of chicha until a few drops of his blood had fallen into it. Then he gave the dagger to Ruminavi, who did the same and passed it on to the prince next in rank to himself, and so the dagger went round until a few drops from the veins of each one of the Blood had fallen into the vase. Then the dagger was passed to the other group, for it was not lawful that the pure blood should be mingled with any other, however slightly tainted, and the same ceremony was performed over the second bowl.
Then Manco raised the great goblet to his lips and drank and gave it to Ruminavi, and so the two goblets were passed round the two groups till they were drained to the last drop. And so the taking of the Oath of the Blood was completed.
There was not much rest that night for prince or warrior in the valley of Yucay and its guardian fortresses, for every hour runners came in from all parts of the country, some bringing news of new regiments marching up to the scene of action, some telling of isolated settlements of the Strangers cut off and given over to fire and sword, of detachments of the enemy making their way to the mountains overwhelmed in narrow gorges and on the brink of precipices, or caught on bridges and flung headlong into the torrents, and others again of the safe removal of stores and flocks of animals into parts of the mountains inaccessible to the heavy-footed Strangers and their war-beasts.
The next day the defences of the valley were once more inspected, outposts were thrown out, and ambushes laid, and so another day and another night passed, and at length, in the twilight of the second morning, there came runners in from the way of Cuzco bringing the news that a body of nearly a hundred horse were within two leagues of the fortress of Chinchero.
There was no need to give any further orders, for every man already knew what was to be done. All the way from Cuzco the Spaniards had not seen a single living thing. The whole country was silent and seemingly deserted. The great guardian fortress was as still and lifeless as a house of the dead.
They halted before it, and Juan Pizarro, who was in command of the troop, ordered half a score of his men to dismount and summon it to surrender. There was no answer to the summons, and when at length they entered it they found the vast halls of the palace stripped bare and deserted. Then they cautiously entered the fortress, only to find it in the same state. They had no men to spare for a garrison, for they knew not what work lay before them, and so, not a little mystified and not without some misgivings, Juan Pizarro ordered his men to re-mount, and then the difficult descent of the zigzag road began.
“I would sooner have seen that fortress swarming with men and have fought our first battle under its walls,” said de Soto, who was riding beside Pizarro, “than leave it empty like that in our rear. Methinks we shall find it full enough when we come back.”
“Ay, that is like enough,” said Juan, “but we could spare no men to keep it. We should have had a half-score of archers and as many arquebusiers to hold it for us, but they could ill be spared from Cuzco now, so we must take our chances of the retreat, if retreat we must.”
They accomplished the descent amidst an unbroken and ominous silence, and even by the time they reached the river they had not seen a single warrior. Fortress, palace, and terrace seemed alike deserted, and as they halted about thirty yards from the river-bank, Juan Pizarro said to de Soto—
“I like this but little. Yonder valley looks to me more of a trap than a battlefield. What if the Inca has left us to entangle ourselves here among these unknown mountains while he has gone to Cuzco? He knows full well that the city can ill spare as many swords as we have here from its defence.”
“That may be so,” replied de Soto, “yet the daylight is precious to us, and it were not wise to lose too much of it making vain guesses here. Would it not be well to send a party across the river to reconnoitre?”
“The river looks deep and flows fast,” said Pizarro, shaking his head. “It would make a bad way of retreat were this bank well held by the enemy.”
“I have swum it twice, Señor, and will answer for taking a troop across and back safely.”
It was Alonso de Molina who spoke, though few would have recognised the gallant young cavalier who was wont to take such fastidious pride in his armour and accoutrements in the meanly-armed trooper who now reigned his horse up alongside Pizarro’s.
The reason for this strange freak may be told in a few words. After the council Hernando Pizarro had jested with him somewhat rudely on the promise that the Inca had made to spare him when he gave him the sacred plume, and de Molina, who had been strangely silent and cast down ever since he had left the palace of Chinchero, had there and then sworn that he would go into the first battle that should be fought so disguised that not even his own companions should know him. Among themselves his three companions had said more than this—that he had resolved to make this disguise of his a short way to death, for it was plain to all of them that he was sorely stricken with hopeless love for the Princess Nahua, who was now, through his own act, lost to him for ever.
Juan Pizarro gladly accepted his offer, and he called for twelve volunteers, on which a score immediately rode out of the ranks, and among them Michael Asterre, looking very gay and gallant in his captain’s armour. He chose his twelve men, Asterre among them, and at once rode to the brink of the river and plunged in at the same spot where he had entered it before.
They reached the other side without catching a sight of an enemy or hearing a hostile sound, and when they had got on to firm ground again de Molina said to Asterre—
“Now, Michael, thou art leader for the time being. Keep thine eyes and ears open, and do not believe that there are no enemies here because thou canst hear and see none.”
They rode past the guardian fortress, scanning it closely and listening intently without seeing the glint of a weapon or hearing anything but the wash of the river behind them. As they rounded the angle the ground became rougher, and presently they came to a very narrow place where there was nothing but a steep, rugged footway leading close under an ancient and seemingly tottering fortress wall, and fenced in on the other side by the fast-flowing river. Beyond this they came to another bend in the river, and here the valley widened out again, leaving a broad and fairly level plain of some considerable size on either side of the stream. This plain was completely walled in on all sides, save the one on which they had entered it, with tiered fortresses built into the rocky mountain-sides, and as they came in sight of it Asterre pointed ahead with his sword and said to de Molina—
“Ha! yonder they are at last, Señor! And this is the death-trap in which they would fain give us battle.”
De Molina looked ahead as he rounded the point and saw the whole of the upper end of the valley covered with glittering ranks of silent warriors, conspicuous in the midst of whom were the figures of Manco and Ruminavi mounted on their Spanish war-horses and clad in their shining Spanish mail.
“A goodly array and well posted, friend Manco!” he exclaimed, “yet if you do but bring it out to fight us on the plain the end will not be long in doubt.”
“It is not the fight, Señor,” said Asterre, “but rather the getting back after it that looks the worst to my eyes. If they give us battle here it will be but as a feint. They will entangle us here with their multitudes. Yonder fortresses are unscaleable for us who have no ladders. The horses cannot work among those rock-strewn slopes that line the hills, and some time, whether victors or vanquished, we must get back.”
“Then let us get back now, good Michael,” said de Molina abruptly. “Those are matters for the commander to decide, not for us.”
And with that he turned his horse’s head and led the way back through the narrow path under the fortress wall. Their retreat was watched without a sound or a sign from the hosts of the Inca, which remained under their entrenchments silent, terrible, and portentous.
When they reached the main body again de Molina told the commander exactly what they had seen without proffering any advice.
“Well, friend Alonso, that is not very good hearing,” said Juan Pizarro when he had finished his description of the valley and the preparations that the Inca had made for their reception in it. “It would seem to me that, unless some miracle like that of Cajamarca happens, we shall discover that our erstwhile guest in Cuzco has invited us to a feast where we shall find the viands somewhat hard of digestion. Hast thou any advice to offer—or let me say rather, what wouldst thou do wert thou in my place?”
“To put it quite plainly, Señor,” said de Molina bluntly, “and to speak as one who has already devoted himself to such death as may be honourably found in battle, were I myself commanding this troop I would send my men back to Cuzco under a trusty lieutenant, then I would swim the river and fight the champions of the Inca, beginning with himself, on the condition that if I overcome three of them in succession this whole land should henceforth be held as tributary to our Sovereign Lord. But if I were Juan Pizarro, and yet knew as much as I do of the Inca and the dispositions he has most evidently made to receive us, I should without further ado turn my horses’ heads back to Cuzco and fight my way thither with as little loss and delay as might be.”
The young captain looked at him long and seriously before he replied, then he said, almost solemnly for him—
“De Molina, that sounds but little like counsel of thine—thou whose blade was ever wont to show red earliest in the battle. Moreover, it is such counsel as I, entrusted now with my first command, could not accept without dishonour. I have been sent here to bring this proud young Inca back a captive, and I must do it. To return without striking a blow would be to make my name—and that is his Highness’s name, mind you—a by-word in the camp. No, whatever be the odds or the hazards, we must fight.”
“Very well, Señor,” replied de Molina, with a somewhat ceremonious bow, “you asked for my candid counsel and I have given it. The rest is nothing to me. Did you go back I would cross the river alone and fulfil my oath. If you fight, I may still hope to do so. But in this case, since you have more than half the day left, I would most earnestly counsel you to lose no time. Cross the river at once. It may be that the Inca’s troops, flushed with conquest, may give us battle in the plain. If so we may inflict so crushing a defeat on them that Yucay will be another Jauja, though you will never take the Inca alive. If we camp here till morning we shall find the fortresses behind us occupied, and, when we are in the thick of the battle, another host behind us waiting till we are wearied with fighting to cut us off from all retreat. Nevertheless,” he went on, speaking still more earnestly, “my best counsel to you is to go back to Cuzco, for by the time you reached it you would find it already beleaguered. That is my reading of the Inca’s last words to us.”
“Nay, friend Alonso,” replied Juan Pizarro, reaching out his hand and laying it on de Molina’s shoulder, “that cannot be. We were sent here to fight, and fight we must, whatever the odds and whatever the upshot.”
Within ten minutes of this decisive pronouncement Alonso de Molina had once more led his little troop of scouts across the river, followed closely by the whole company. But scarcely had they made good their footing on the opposite bank and begun their cautious march towards the narrow path at the river bend than a file of spearmen came round the corner at a quick run and drew a treble line of spear-points across the entrance to the narrow passage. There were neither archers nor arquebusiers among the Spaniards, for none could be spared from the defence of the city, and so Juan Pizarro could do nothing more than dismount a portion of his troop and send them forward as pikemen to clear the way with pike and sword, since horses would have been worse than useless. The Peruvians disputed the passage obstinately and several severe wounds were given and taken and a few lives lost on either side before they at last broke and ran.
The footmen pressed them back at a run and Juan Pizarro cried exultingly—
“Mira! Mira! So—they fly already! When could the infidel withstand good Christian steel! After them, gentlemen and soldiers of Spain! For God and Santiago—forward!”
“For God and Santiago, back, Señor!” shouted de Molina, who, still full of suspicion, had been watching, not the little skirmish, but the rocks and fortress walls about him, and had seen that these were now swarming with hidden men.
But the warning came too late to be heeded. The pikemen were already round the bend and chasing the Peruvian spearmen over the plain. Juan Pizarro had galloped round, waving his sword above his head, and the whole troop, some of them leading the horses of the dismounted men, were streaming along under the fortress wall. He himself held back till the last man had passed, and then he drove his spurs into his horse’s flanks and went after them at a gallop.
Just as he cleared the bend and swung out into the open plain he heard a dull rumbling crash behind him. He reined his horse up sharp and looked round. The whole of the front wall of the old fortress had fallen outward, completely blocking the path between the hillside and the river, and over the ruins hundreds of men were streaming down into the plain, swinging their weapons aloft and screaming out their shrill and savage war-cries.
“There closes the death-trap!” he laughed. “Well, now it is just a question of who lives longest. There is nothing much to be done with these fellows. There is better work than that to do in front. Adios, Señores!” and with that he put spurs to his horse again and, waving his sword as though in invitation to the shouting throng behind him, he galloped away over the plain and joined the troop.
Juan Pizarro had by this time got his men into battle array—that is to say, he had divided them into three divisions in the invariable Spanish style, a main body or “battle” in the centre and two wings a little in advance of it. But the gleaming wall of soldiery in front made no move as they rode up to it, and when they came within some thirty paces they found a rising ridge of ground running from the mountain-side to the river across the plain strewn and piled so thickly with stones that no cavalry could charge across it without being broken, and as they halted before this showers of arrows and stones from slings were rained upon them, and then bands of javelin-men ran out almost up the ridge of stones and hurled their heavy weapons pointed with tempered copper at the horses’ heads and flanks until the maddened animals, already galled by the arrows and bruised by the stones, began to rear and plunge and swerve aside in somewhat ominous fashion, and Juan Pizarro, seeing that not much good could come of this, drew his troop back and ordered a score of men to dismount and cross the barrier on foot.
Nearly twice the number obeyed, and then, sword and dagger in hand, the grim, iron-clad Spanish soldiery leapt through the stones and sprang at their assailants. It was steel against copper, iron cuirass against quilted cotton mail, European discipline and training against mere savage valour, and what followed was butchery until the Inca himself led a troop of his own body-guard down into the plain and drove the Spaniards back nearly to the barrier.
But meanwhile the right wing had scrambled through the stones, and, as they were forming to charge, old Ruminavi led a column of spearmen across their path while another moved out to cut them off by the rear. The spearmen took the charge kneeling with their spear-butts planted firmly in the ground. They were ridden over and slain almost to a man, but when the charge was past four of the dreaded war-beasts were writhing and kicking on the ground, screaming with pain and gashed with fearful wounds inflicted by the barbed copper lance-heads, and this was a greater loss to the Spaniards than a hundred men to the Peruvians.
Old Ruminavi himself rode at the first man who broke the line, caught his sword-thrust on his own Spanish buckler, and then dealt him so shrewd a blow with a huge, copper-headed mace that he hammered in the iron of his cap as though it had been parchment and broke his skull like an egg-shell beneath it. Almost at the same time the Inca, seeing three troopers playing sad havoc with their long swords among his own guards, put his Spanish lance down and charged one of them so strongly and so truly that he drove him from the saddle and flung him down among the struggling footmen, there to be speedily stabbed to death. And then, letting go his lance and unhooking his battle-axe, he clove another through helm and skull to the chin. Then he wrenched his axe out just in time to take a sword-cut from the other on his shield and drove the blade under his still up-lifted arm and hurled him too, crippled and bleeding, to the ground.
“Santiago! that was well hit, Señor Inca!” shouted Michael Asterre through the bars of his vizor.
He had just forced his way through the press towards the mounted and mailed figure, longing to find some worthy foe to prove his new armour and weapons, and when he saw the third man go down under the Inca’s fierce attack he made sure he had found one; but to his amazement and disgust the Inca only turned in his saddle towards him and then leapt his horse over the dead and dying and flung himself into another part of the battle.
All through the long burning afternoon the fight raged fast and furious, and until sundown Michael Asterre sought to close with the mailed figure that carried the sacred plumes in its helmet, but ever without success. Once only they came to blows, and then the Inca contented himself with taking the savage sword-cut on his buckler, and once more avoided the single combat without returning it.
There was another of the Spaniards, a man clad and armed like one of the meanest troopers, who also seemed to the Inca to meet him at every turn in the battle and three times he wounded him without taking a scratch back. Indeed so light and half-hearted were his blows that Manco took him at last for some soldier enfeebled by disease, and so avoided him too as not worthy of his own royal steel.
So the Battle of the Valley raged on until the sun drooped towards the western ridges and the long shadows of the mountains began to fall across the river and the now bloody plain. Yard by yard the Spaniards had driven the Peruvians back under their fortress walls. Superiority of discipline and weapons had now, as ever, proved better than superiority of numbers; and although neither the Inca nor Ruminavi had been captured or even wounded, so far as was known, yet when the Peruvians at length retreated into their impregnable fastnesses and Juan Pizarro took the remains of his troop back across the stony barrier to form his camp in the middle of the plain, where he would be secure from a night attack, he was fain to confess that, if all the battles to come were to be like this one, even victory would leave the Spanish forces so weak that it would be worthless to them.
Hundreds of the enemy had been slain, but more than half a score of his own men were dead, a score more were badly wounded, and no less than eleven horses would never carry a rider to battle again. Still, they had fought the enemy on his own ground and driven him back, as usual with heavy loss, and the young commander hoped all through the anxious, miserable night that followed that the lesson would prove stern enough, and that he would at least be able to go back to Cuzco with the news of a victory.
But when morning dawned grey and calm over the mighty hills that seemed to shut them in from all the rest of the world, he saw what had happened the day before was only the beginning of the tragedy. The whole of the valley as far as they could see was filled with innumerable hosts which surrounded them on every side, and one despairing look about him sufficed to show him that his expedition was now nothing more than a forlorn hope.
His battle-worn and wounded men had laid down in their armour beside their horses, and with the first glimmer of light all who could mount were in the saddle. There were only two ways out of the fatal valley. One was over the narrow pathway, blocked and cumbered by the stones of the fallen wall which had been pushed by the sheer weight of the men behind it out from its foundation. The other was across the river, and already the plain on the other side was filling up with regiment after regiment of the Inca’s soldiery.
“I would to God I had taken thy advice yesterday, Alonso!” said Juan Pizarro, as he swung himself up into his saddle. “Those of us who get alive out of here will have but a sad tale to tell in Cuzco.”
“There are no eggs in last year’s nests, Señor!” replied de Molina, as he too, stiff and sore with his wounds and weak with loss of blood and lack of food and sleep, dragged himself up to the saddle. “The only question for us now is how many of us may get back. If my advice is still worth having, you will take all the men and horses that are now fit for hard service and fight your way back with all haste that you may, for you will be sorely wanted ere long in Cuzco. As for us who are not of much further account, we will do what we can to keep the enemy at bay while you make good your retreat.”
“And what of you after that?” said Pizarro. “Do you think, friend Alonso, that we are going to desert wounded comrades in arms in that fashion?”
“Señor,” said de Molina, with a brave attempt at a laugh, “we are wounded, and our horses are well-nigh crippled, and without sound beasts escape is hopeless. When it is over what is left of us will not be worth the taking home. It is a hard thing to say and a harder thing to do, but it is the need of battle and our duty. There are fourteen or fifteen of us here who are still men enough to keep the enemy back while you lead your horses over the stones yonder. Ride over them you cannot. Once on the other side and remounted, your way is open to the river, though doubtless you will need your swords to keep it open.
“You cannot pass the river here. It is too deep and the banks are too steep. There is but one way and that is over the fallen wall. For God’s sake and Spain’s, Señor, take it quickly or it will be too late. Do you not see those clouds of men up yonder gathering on the mountain-side? If you are not past that corner before they come above us they will rain down such an avalanche of stones and rocks as will not leave a man or horse unmaimed among us. Go, Señor, go, for God’s sake, while you can!”
Juan Pizarro looked up at the towering slopes above him and saw that, bitter as de Molina’s counsel was, in it lay the only hope of saving the troop. The other bank of the deep, swift stream was swarming with men, and already arrows and darts and stones were flying across in ever thickening showers. Their hands met for a moment in a last clasp, and then the troop moved forward towards the pass. In front went the thirty-five men who were still unwounded or only slightly hurt, taking all the sound horses with them, and in the rear went Alonso de Molina with his forlorn hope of wounded men and horses.
While they were on the plain the Inca held his men back by the strictest orders, for he knew full what would happen if the retreating enemy turned and caught them on the open plain. He was well content with what had been done so far, and he knew what was still in store for the Spaniards before they got back to Cuzco. But the moment that the troop had reached the narrow pathway and the men began to dismount he gave the order to advance, and his regiments went forward at the run, not over the plain, but round along the mountain slopes, while he rode with Ruminavi along the open directing their movements with word and gesture.
But when he reached the pass he saw that all the Spaniards were not crossing it, for a line of them were drawn up across the approach, half on horseback and half on foot. He could see that they were wounded and weary, and that their beasts were gashed and spattered with dried blood. One of their mounted men a little in advance of the others was the sorry-looking trooper who had again and again the day before seemed to seek death at his own hands.
Before half Pizarro’s troop was over the stone-encumbered pathway the first of the Inca’s regiments had gained the high ground above it, and instantly the hillside was covered with leaping stones and masses of rock which crashed and thundered into their midst, sending horses and men down with maimed and broken limbs. Hoarse shouts of triumph thundered along the valley, showers of arrows and darts and sling-stones rained rattling upon the harness of the Spaniards, who could strike no blow in return till they had got the trembling, frightened animals, on whom they were depending for their escape, over the stones.
At the same time the Inca ordered another regiment to come down and charge the rear-guard, and on they went, rank after rank, yelling their war-cries and hurling themselves with spear and axe and mace on the thin, ragged line of wounded men.
But, few and wounded though they were, they were made of stern stuff. With the first onset wounds and weariness were forgotten, and the long, keen Spanish swords struck out hard and true, and the heavy Spanish axes swung fast and bit deep, and every warrior who came within their reach went down. But more and more came on, and then one by one the Spaniards, overwhelmed by weight of numbers, began to go down, till at last only the mounted men were left.
But now the last of the troop had passed the stones, and they could hear the shouts of their comrades telling them that all was well and bidding them come and join them. De Molina shouted to his remaining companions to give up the unequal fight and make the best of their way back, and this they did, nothing loth to end it, though only two of them reached the other side alive.
Then de Molina, facing the whole host alone, drove his spurs into the flanks of his jaded, wounded beast, and made for the river brink. But old Ruminavi was too quick for him, and charged him when he was within two yards of it. De Molina, better skilled in horsemanship, swerved aside, and Ruminavi very nearly charged into the river instead, but the next moment the Inca was on him, with axe uplifted.
“Yield, Señor!” he cried, in Spanish. “Whether you be gentle or simple, you are too gallant a man to throw your life away thus. We are two to one, and there are thousands behind us.”
“I have already got my death-blow, so your axe will but make the end a little quicker. Therefore strike, friend Manco, for I could wish to die by no nobler hand than thine.”
As de Molina said this he threw up his vizor, and the Inca saw his face already ghastly with the grey hue of death and his once bright blue eyes already dim and glazing.
“They are safe, are they not?” he said faintly, looking over the pass he had so gallantly held. “Then the work is done. Well, since you will not strike, friend Manco, I yield.”
But even as he said this he reeled in the saddle, and the Inca, calling to Ruminavi, sprang from his horse just in time to catch him in his arms as he fell. As he laid him down on the sand he saw that there was scarcely a part of his body in which he had not received a wound, and that blood was flowing from him in nearly a score of places. He at once took his morion off and bade one of his men go to the river for water. A draught of it revived him for the moment, and he put his hand to his neck and pulled out the gem that Nahua had given him.
“You can tell your princess, friend Manco, that I spoke truly when I said that this should only leave me with my life. I have not many more moments left. When they are over take it back to her and tell her that I died happier holding this dear token of her friendship than I could have lived without her love. As a loyal Spaniard I cannot wish you victory, but for her sake I can wish you safety and happiness when this evil war is over. Farewell, friend Manco! May your last fight be as hard a one as mine has been, and may you come better out of it. Mother of God, pray for one who is a sinner!—Dios y Santiago, they are coming!—Stand fast, gentlemen, for God and Spain! They are on us! Now strike! Ah, that was my death-wound, yet we must hold them a few minutes longer. It will not be long—not long——”
As the delirium of death had come on him he had struggled up into a sitting posture and waved his right hand above his head as though it still held a sword. Manco threw himself on his knees beside him, but just as he clasped him in his arms his head fell back heavily against his shoulder, and there, on the breast of his best-loved enemy, Alonso de Molina breathed out his gallant soul with a sigh so soft that even Manco’s strained ears could scarcely catch it.
He laid him down with gentle reverence on the sands, and when he had taken Nahua’s jewel from his neck he ordered one of the royal litters to be instantly brought that he might be taken back to the fortress, and while it was being brought he stood over him with bent head and wet eyes, mourning for him as man seldom mourns for his enemy, and, for the time, heedless in his sorrow of the battle which was still roaring away up the valley.