The Bride of the Sun

“When they told their leader of what they had seen, the splendor of the Inca’s camp, the number of his troops, despair entered the soldiers’ hearts. At night they saw the Inca’s camp-fires lighting up the mountain-sides, and blazing in the darkness like a multitude of stars.”

The Indian paused again, then went on:

“But the Stranger, intent on evil, went among his men spreading the shameful words which gave them new courage. The next day, at noon, the Inca’s bodyguard advanced toward the city. The King could be seen above the multitude, carried on the shoulders of his princes. Behind him, the ranks of his own soldiers stretched as far as the eye could reach. The city was silent, save for the cry of the sentinels on the citadel walls, reporting the movements of the Inca’s army.

“First there entered into the city three hundred servitors, chanting songs of triumph to the glory of the Inca. Then came warriors, guards, lords adorned with silver, copper, and gold. Our Atahualpa, Son of the Sun, was borne above all on a throne of massive gold. Now, when Atahualpa, with six thousand men, had reached the great square without seeing a single white man, he asked: ‘Where are the strangers?’ And a monk, whom none had seen until then, approached the Inca, a cross in his hand. With the monk was an interpreter of our race. The Inca listened while the priest told him of his religion and urged him to abandon the faith of his fathers for that of the Christian. Atahualpa replied: ‘Your God was put to death by the men to whom he gave life. But mine lives still in the Heavens, and shines upon his children.”

At these words, the Indians surrounding the little band of Europeans turned toward the sun, just about to vanish behind the Andes, uttering a strange cry, a cry of mingled farewell and hope handed down by generations as the salutation of their faith to the God of Day. Above the reverently bowed throng, a purple sky awaited the coming of night.

The scene was so grandiose that Dick and Maria-Teresa could not restrain a movement of admiration. There could be no doubt of it: the Sun god still had his true worshipers, as in the tragic days of Atahualpa. To know it, one had only to look at this trembling mass of men, who had kept their language and their traditions through so many centuries. They had been vanquished, but not conquered. Perhaps it was true after all that back there in the mountains, in some city unknown to all but themselves, guarded by the rampart of the Andes and the eternal snows, there lived priests who passed their lives feeding the sacred fires.

After their salutation to the Sun, the Indians resumed their kneeling posture, many, strangely enough, making the sign of the cross as they bent to the ground. Where did that sign come from? Was it only another instance of the extraordinary mingling of cults and creeds so often seen, or did it go even further back? Historians there are who say that the conquerors found it already used by the Incas. Did some early Christian adventurers, then, found the twin empires of the Americas? While Uncle Francis dreamed on, lost in such conjectures, the priest in the red poncho, took up the broken thread of his narration:

“Pizarro and his men, armed for battle, were hiding in the halls of the vast palace surrounding the square. There the monk who had spoken to Atahualpa rejoined the Stranger, and said to him: ‘Do you not see that we wrestle in vain with this dog’s pride? His troops are coming up by the thousand. Strike while it is not too late!”’

The silence became, if possible, more intense. The man in red, about to tell of what he called the Crime of the Stranger, straightened himself on his pedestal till he dominated the whole assembly.

“‘St. James and at them!’ With that accursed battle-cry, Pizarro’s men hurled themselves on the Inca and his guard. Horse and foot charged out of the palace in which they had been hidden, smashing in the indian ranks. A terrible panic seized Atahut and his followers, who fled in all directions. Nobles and servants, princes and guards, fled before the terrible horsemen, who trampled down all before them.

“They made no resistance. They could not, for they were unarmed. Nor could they flee, for all the doors and streets were barred by the corpses of those trampled to death in a vain effort to escape. So terrible was the press, the whirling swords driving our people ever further back, that one wall of the square fell. Hundreds fled through this opening and scattered in all directions, the Spanish horse in pursuit.

“Atahualpa’s throne, borne hither and thither in the crowd, was finally reached by the Spaniards. He would have been killed there and then had not Pizarro intervened. In doing so, he was wounded in the hand by one of his own men. The nobles carrying the royal litter were cut down, and the Inca was seized by Pizarro. A soldier named Estete tore the borla from his forehead, and the captured monarch was conducted to a hall near by.

“With the capture of the Inca, all resistance ceased. The news spread through the country like wildfire, and all thought of real resistance was gone. Even the thousands of soldiers encamped round the city took fright, and scattered.

“The only being which might have kept the Indians united was cut.

“That night, the Inca supped with Pizarro. He showed surprising courage, and remained impassible throughout the meal.

“The next day, the sack of the city began. Never had the Spaniards seen so much gold and silver. Atahualpa, quick to see their greed, offered Pizarro to buy his liberty by covering with gold the floor of the room in which they were. Finally, he declared that he would not only cover the floor, but also fill the room as high as he could reach.

“With that, he made a mark on the wall with his fingertip; and Pizarro, accepting, ordered a red line to be drawn round the room at that height. The room was seventeen feet by twenty-two long, and the line was drawn nine feet from the ground.”

At this point, the red priest stopped and walked slowly to a ruined wall. “Here,” he said, pointing to a still faintly visible line, “was the mark of the ransom.

“Atahualpa, moreover, promised to fill a neighboring room with silver, and asked for two months in which to fulfil the task. His messengers, chosen among the Spaniards’ prisoners, were despatched into all the provinces of the Empire.

“Meanwhile, the Inca was closely watched, for his captivity meant not only Pizarro’s security, but also fabulous riches for the Conquistadors. The room filled gradually, Indians arriving daily with golden goblets, platters, vases and bar gold to lay at the feet of their prisoned ruler. On some days, we are told, as much as 60,000 pesos of booty was brought in.

“To hasten the gathering of the ransom, Pizarro sent his brother Fernando to Cuzco, the greatest city of the Incas. With them went a messenger from Atahualpa, at whose orders the priests stripped the Temple of the Sun, and the inhabitants gave up every scrap of precious metal in their possession. Fernando brought back with him, besides a mass of silver, 200 full loads of gold.

“Now faced with the problem of taking his plunder from the country, Pizarro ordered the melting-down of the hundreds of objects massed in the treasure-room. The finest pieces sent from temples and palaces were set aside for Charles V., to show the Emperor what a wonderful land had been added to his possession—all the rest was to be reduced to ingots.

“The native jewelers, obeying Atahualpa, worked night and day for a month to carry out this task. When the ingots were weighed, the Spaniards found that they had gold to the value of 1,326,539 pesos de oro. This would mean, in modern currency, and taking into consideration the altered value of money, more than three and a half millions sterling, or close on fifteen and a half million dollars.

“But now that the ransom had been paid, Atahualpa was not set at liberty. His captors accused him of fomenting a rebellion against Charles V., and threatened him with death. Atahualpa replied: “‘Am I not a poor prisoner in your hands? Why should I do so, knowing that I should be the first to suffer if my people rose? And unless I give the order, none will raise a hand against you. Even the birds in my states hardly dare fly against my will.

“But his protestations of innocence had little effect. Pizarro’s men were convinced that a general rising was being prepared. Patrols were doubled, and every man of the little army slept under arms.

“Pizarro did all he could, or pretended to do all he could, to save the Inca’s life, but in vain. His followers demanded it, and Atahualpa, brought to trial, was found guilty and sentenced to be burned alive. On the 29th of August, 1533, his fate was proclaimed in the great square of the city to the sound of bugles, and two hours after sunset he was taken to the stake.

“Atahualpa left this hall loaded with chains! He passed through this door on his way to martyrdom!”

Once again the red priest left his rude rostrum, walking here and there through the crowd, evoking by deed as well as word the last hours of the last Inca. The silence was intense, and his voice, alternately grave and impassioned, rang out like a clarion note.

In the sad story, the Indian orator had omitted all that showed, the immense courage of the Conquistadors and the cowardice of the Inca’s followers. Everything was attributed to the treachery of the Spaniards.

“So Atahualpa died at the stake!”

Menacing and prophetic, the priest turned toward the spot where Christobal de la Torre and his companions, hemmed in by the crowd, had listened, as motionless as any of the faithful present.

“And I say unto you, cursed be all the sons of those who came to us with a lie in their hearts! They shall die like dogs, and never know the blessed palaces of the Sun. They shall die unblessed, the liars who say that Atahualpa abjured his faith! The Son of the Sun remained true to the God of Day!”

There was a threatening murmur in the crowd. Round the Sacred Stone, it grew to a roar. How dared those strangers come there at such a time? Centuries of slavery can never bend backs so low that they will not straighten at certain hours. The descendant of Christobal de la Torre had met one of those hours.

IV

Men, women and children began to press toward the group of riders. Dick, first to realize the change in the humor of the mob, spurred alongside Maria-Teresa.

“We must get out of this! Steady, and forward all!”

The Marquis, superbly cool, followed as if reluctant to show his back to any horde of Indians. The menace in the voices grew clearer. He looked round him, and drove his spurs home, till his mount reared and plunged into the crowd, clearing a space around it.

The mob was howling now, and knives were being drawn on all sides, when a giant Indian pushed his way toward the Spaniards. Maria-Teresa, Don Christobal and Dick recognized Huascar, before whom his countrymen made way with evident respect and dread.

“Back!” he shouted, taking the young girl’s mule by the bridle. “Who touches the Virgin of the Sun is a dead man!”

At these words, the crowd parted. Silence succeeded the tumult of a moment before.

“Let the strangers pass,” ordered Huascar, and himself escorted them to the ancient palace gates.

Outside, on the plaza, they met a police patrol. The sergeant, in undertaking to escort them to the inn, was eloquent on their imprudence in coming into a quarter peopled by fanatical Indians on the eve of the Interaymi.

The Marquis wished to thank Huascar, but the Indian had vanished. Maria-Teresa and Dick, both very white, had not a word to say. Uncle Francis was also dumb, and did not take a single note.

At the inn they found only one vacant room, in which they all gathered. Dick was the first to utter the thought which was worrying them all.

“Suppose it was true!”

“Yes, suppose it was true!” repeated Maria-Teresa,

“What? Suppose what was true?” demanded the Marquis, refusing to understand.

“The Virgin of the Sun!”

They were all silent for a moment, bent under the weight of one amazing, absurd, monstrous thought. And they exchanged anxious, frightened looks, like children who are being told some terrifying fairy-tale. Dick broke the spell:

“You heard what Huascar said. ‘Who touches the Virgin of the Sun is a dead man!’ Those were his own words!”

“Just a manner of speech,” hesitated Uncle Francis. “It cannot be anything else.”

“Anything else? What do you mean?” demanded the Marquis violently.

“Well, it could not be… the other thing. If Maria-Teresa was… was the Virgin of the Sun, they would not have let her pass out.”

“Are we all going mad! After all, we are masters here!” burst out Don Christobal. “There are the police, and the troops. All those rascals out there are our slaves. ‘Pon my soul, we are all raving!”

“Of course!” exclaimed Maria-Teresa.

“All the same, I think we ought to get out of Cajamarca as soon as we can,” said Dick, going to the window and looking out. Night had fallen, and with it silence. The square outside was deserted.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and a servant brought in a letter addressed to Maria-Teresa. She tore it open and read aloud:—“Return to Lima at once. Leave Cajamarca tonight.”

“It is not signed,” she said, “but this warning comes from Huascar.”

“And we should follow his advice,” said Dick. There was another knock at the door. This time, it announced the arrival of the Chief of Police, who was anxious to know what had happened.

He had heard of the incident at Atahualpa’s palace, and had moreover been warned by an Indian, an employee at the Franco-Belgian bank at Lima, that it might be dangerous for the Marquis and his companions to show themselves in the streets on the following day.

It was obvious that the man feared trouble, and would have given anything to see the party a hundred miles away. When he learned that they were ready to leave at once, he busied himself about finding them fresh mules and a guide, and furthermore detailed four troopers to escort the party as far as the railway.

Cajamarca was left at eleven o’clock that night, and the return journey was made at double the speed at which they had come. Dick would let nobody rest, and forced the pace throughout. It was not until the following night, safe in the train for Pascamayo, that they realized the ridicule that attached to their hasty flight. “Just like a pack of children frightened out of their lives by Agnes’ stories,” said the Marquis.

Back in civilized life again, they were all surprised at their panic. After all, the whole thing could be so naturally explained—fanatics resenting the presence of strangers at a religious festival, and nothing more. The best thing they could do was to forget it as soon as possible. Uncle Francis restored the party’s gaiety by going through the same performance which he had rehearsed on landing.

Forty-eight hours in Lima completely dispelled the cobwebs. Maria-Teresa found a great deal of work awaiting her, and forgot her fears in a maze of figures which took her to Callao early, and kept her busy at the offices until late in the afternoon, when Dick came to fetch her.

One afternoon, about eight days after the adventure at Cajamarca, the tap at her window which announced Dick’s arrival came earlier than usual. Maria-Teresa got up, and threw open the shutters. Dick was not there.... Then she retreated with a half-strangled scream. Was it possible? In the rapidly gathering darkness, she could not be sure, and leaned out of the window to see better.... That thing, swaying in the darkness, looked just like the sugar-loaf skull.... She retreated into the room, trembling in every limb, and turned round. From the dark corners of the chamber two other shadows, the valise and cap skulls, were advancing slowly, swaying as they came.

For a moment, Maria-Teresa thought she had lost her reason. Then she made a violent effort to regain control of herself. Dead skulls could not come to life like this. And yet, they were coming toward her, swaying horribly, above shadowy bodies! A desperate scream for help was choked in her throat. “Dick!…” and nothing more. The three living skulls had hurled themselves upon her, gagged her, and now, throwing the inanimate girl over their shoulders, hurried through the black hole of the open window. Maria-Teresa’s own motor was waiting there, her negro boy at the wheel, smiling strangely.

Their mummy hands, horribly living, lifted the girl into the tonneau, and the three monsters, like three larvae, climbed in after her. Then the car shot down the street.

BOOK III—THE TRAIL OF THE PONCHOS

I

Meanwhile, Dick, wandering through Callao until the time came to call for Maria-Teresa, was strolling up the Calle de Lima. He had just come from the Darsena docks, where the harbor engineers had been giving him news the reverse of cheerful. In the present condition of the country, they said, any venture in the deserted gold-mines of the Cuzco was hopeless.

The last two days had brought news of fighting from the other end of the country. Or, at all events, cartridges were being used up, even if there was no attendant damage. Everybody had thought Garcia feasting at Arequipa, but the pretender had evaded his enemies and attacked the Republican forces between Sicuani and the Cuzco. It was even rumored that Cuzco itself had fallen into his hands.

Were all this true, the outlook for Dick’s affairs was bad. His company, thanks to the influence of the Marquis de la Torre, had obtained a concession from President Veintemilla, This would not be worth the paper it was written on if Garcia proved victorious. Super-active by nature, the young engineer could not endure the thought of the long months of enforced idleness before him until the revolution had been settled in one way or another.

As he came into the Calle de Lima, Dick pulled out his watch. He found that he still had a few minutes to spare. Much as she loved him, Maria-Teresa did not like being interrupted at her work, so he turned into the Circulo de los Amigos de las Artes for a drink. This establishment, though baptized a club, was in reality a huge café and reading-room. The ground floor was packed with people discussing the latest events. Cuzco was in every mouth, and it was noticeable that Veintemilla’s warmest partizans now had a good word to say for Garcia.

A stampede of shock-headed newsboys, shouting the latest edition of an official paper, tore past the café, scattering still wet sheets and collecting coppers. One of the customers climbed onto a table and read out a proclamation by the President, urging calm and giving a categorical denial to the report of the capture of Cuzco. General Garcia and his troops, the President announced, were bottled up in Arequipa, all the sierra defiles were in the hands of Government troops, and the traitors would be hurled into the sea or chased into the great sand deserts. The proclamation concluded with a reference to Indian troubles in the suburbs, attributing them to the usual Interaymi effervescence, and dismissing them as negligible. Cheers for the President ended the reading of his manifesto. Wavering allegiances were at once restored, and it was generally agreed that his statement was superb.

Dick left the café a little happier, though he did not really place a great deal of faith in the official denial. Night had fallen and he walked briskly, now fearing that he might be late. As he went, he remembered his first day’s walk through this same labyrinth of narrow streets. Then he caught sight of his fiancée’s verandah in the distance, and noticed that the window was open, as on the first day.

There she sat, the little business-woman, with her brass-covered green registers. What a manly little brain it was! And to think that the pair of them had been such fools over that Golden Sun bracelet… Something to laugh about in after years, that!

“Hello, Maria-Teresa!”

There was no answer, and Dick walked up to the window.

“Maria-Teresa!”

Still no answer. He peered into the room, trying to see where she was hiding. Nobody there.

“Good God! Maria-Teresa!”

He walked into the room. There could be no doubt of it. That table knocked down, those books on the floor, that curtain torn from its rings, this broken pane in the window told the story. Silence greeted his shout for help. Not a servant, not a soul in the place, and all the doors open! “Maria-Teresa! Maria-Teresa!”

Hardly knowing what he did, Dick ran into the deserted courtyard, and then back into the office. There could be no doubt of it. Huascar and his Indians had carried her off. That dog Huascar, whom she trusted, and who loved her, not as a dog should, but as if he were a man. Horror-stricken, furious, Dick searched the room for some clue.

The scoundrels! He swore aloud as he pictured Maria-Teresa struggling in Huascar’s arms and calling for help in vain. That was where he should have been, instead of listening to all those fools in the café. He could have laid his hands on Huascar then! That was the man they should have watched instead of being thrown off the scent by all those wild-cat legends about the Bride of the Sun.

An Indian in love with a white girl and thirsting for revenge! Of course! He saw it all now, and remembered how Huascar had last left that same room, driven out by Maria-Teresa. The insolent dog, with his fist raised in menace!

As idea after idea swept across his brain, Dick stared helplessly at the blank walls about him. What could he do? He jumped back into the street and hesitated. No clue here—only the doors of closed stores and sightless walls—a pit of gloom.

Suddenly he heard voices, and leaped into action. At the corner of the street there, under that lantern, was a wine-shop, the only living thing in this dead street. He ran toward it, kicked the door open, and almost fell on top of Domingo, the night watchman.

“Where is your mistress?”

Domingo, taken aback, mumbled indistinctly. He thought that the señorita had returned to Lima as usual with the señor. The motor had gone by just a little while ago.

“What motor?”

Domingo shrugged his shoulders. There were not so many motors as all that in Callao and Lima.

“Who was driving?”

“The boy.”

“Libertad?”

“Si, señor, Libertad.”

“Did he say anything to you as he went past?”

“No, señor, he did not see me.”

“Did you see your mistress?”

“The hood was up, señor, and the motor was traveling fast.... Nay, señor!… That is the truth. I swear it!”

Dick seized the man by the collar, and shook him like a rat

“What were you doing here? Why were you not with your mistress, at your post?”

“I meant no harm, señor. A Quichua offered me a drink here… real pisco, señor.”

Dick, without listening, dragged the protesting man through the streets and into the empty office. When he realized what had happened, Domingo would have torn his hair out with grief, but Dick, seizing him by the throat, drove him to the wall and looked into his eyes. A fool or a traitor, which was he?

Told to speak, and speak quickly, Domingo answered Dick’s volley of questions without a minute’s hesitation. The señorita could not have been carried off without the aid of Libertad, a rascally half-breed to whom the señorita had given work out of pity. The day and hour had been chosen by some one who knew the place well, for on Saturday afternoons there were no workmen or clerks on the premises.

“When you went out to drink, was the motor already waiting?”

“Yes, señor. It had been there half an hour.”

“Was the hood up?”

“No, señor. Libertad was sitting in it alone.” Releasing his grip, Dick dashed into the street again and started running toward the main avenue. If Maria-Teresa had been carried off in her own motor, it would be easy to trace her part of the way. As Domingo had said, there were not so many cars about.

As he dashed round a corner, Dick came into sharp collision with a man emerging from a doorway, who swore vigorously. Dick recognized him at once, and gave such a shout that the chief of police, for it was he, fell into a posture of defense.

“Forgive me, señor.... I am Dick Montgomery… the fiancé of Señorita de la Torre.... She has been carried off by the Indians!…”

“Doña Maria-Teresa? That is not possible!” In a few words, Dick told the little old gentleman what had happened, and gave him his suspicions. He found ready sympathy and belief.