The Bride of the Sun. Гастон Леру
as the wildest deeds of their knights-errant, a handful of men, señores, without clothes or food, almost without arms, left by their comrades on a deserted mountain-side to start on the conquest of one of the most powerful empires ever known.
“And among those men there was a Christobal de la Torre.... señor Don Marques, it is a glorious descent to claim.... And allow me to present myself: your servant Huayna Capac Buntu, head clerk of the Franco-Belgian Bank of Lima.... But we may fittingly travel in company, señor, for I am of royal blood. Huayna Capac, King of the Incas, who succeeded his father at the age of sixteen, married first Pillan Huaco, by whom he had no children. He then took two other wives, Bava-Bello and his cousin Mama-Buntu. I am the descendant of that Huayna Capac and that Mama-Buntu!”
“Now on leave from your bank?” queried the Marquis, almost insolently.
There was a flash in the Indian’s eyes as he answered somberly:
“Yes, on leave, for the Interaymi.”
Dick started at these words, already repeated so often in connection with the Golden Sun bracelet. He glanced at Maria-Teresa, who was evidently ill at ease at the turn taken by the conversation between her father and the stranger. She now remembered him quite clearly as a clerk with whom she had had dealings over a consignment of phosphates for Antwerp. An insignificant little body, she had thought—not at all the haughty Indian of to-day, discarding the disguise of his European clothes and proclaiming himself for what he was. Knowing by experience how susceptible Trujillos are, and fearing that a careless word from her father might provoke a storm, she intervened:
“The Interaymi! Of course, your great festival. Is it to be particularly celebrated at Cajamarca?”
“This year, señorita, it will be particularly celebrated throughout the Andes.”
“But you do not admit outsiders? What a pity.... I should so like to see.... One hears so many things....”
“Old wives’ tales, señorita,” rejoined the Indian, with a complete change of manner. He smiled, disclosing a line of teeth which Dick mentally compared to those of a wild animal, and added in a slightly lisping voice: “There is a lot of nonsense talked.... Human sacrifices, and so forth.... Do I look as if I were going to such a ceremony?… I and my clothes by Zarate?… No, señorita, just a few little ceremonies to keep alive the memory of our lost glories… a few pious invocations to the God of Day, a few prayers for poor Atahualpa, our last King, and that is all.... At the end of the month, señorita, I shall be back at my bank in Lima.”
Reassured by the matter-of-fact level reached by these words, Dick growled at his own absurd fears. A smile from Maria-Teresa and a grumbled comment on kings and bank clerks from Uncle Francis completely dispelled the cloud raised by the mention of the Interaymi.
Their train was now traveling along the bed of a ravine, closed in by dizzying heights. High up above, in a band of blazing blue sky, giant condors could be seen winging their way in heavy circles.
“To think of Pizarro facing country like this!” exclaimed Dick. “How on earth was it that they were not simply wiped out by the Incas?”
“They came as friends, señor,” answered the Indian.
“That is all very fine, but still does not explain it How many men were there with Pizarro when he marched on Cajamarca?”
“He had received reenforcements,” interjected the Marquis, twisting his mustache, “and there were then a hundred and seventy-seven of them.”
“Minus nine,” corrected the Indian.
“That is, unless I am mistaken, only a hundred and sixty-eight,” put in Uncle Francis, busy with his note-book.
“Why minus nine?” questioned Maria-Teresa.
“Because, señorita,” replied the descendant of Mama-Buntu, who seemed to know the history of the conquest of New Spain better than the descendants of the conquerors themselves, “because Pizarro gave his new followers the same chance to draw back that the others had received. He had halted in the mountains to rest his band and make a careful inspection. As you have said, señor, they were then only a hundred and seventy-seven, including sixty-seven horse. There were only three arquebusiers, and a few crossbowmen—not more than twenty altogether. And with this band Pizarro was marching against an army of 50,000 men and against a nation of twenty millions! For, under the Incas, Peru included what are to-day called Peru, Ecuador, Bolivia and Chili. At this point, señores, he decided that his soldiers were still too many. He had noticed that some faces were dissatisfied, and, fearing that the discontent might spread, he decided to cut away the weak limbs before the gangrene reached the main body. Marshalling his men, he told them that they had reached a crisis in their fortunes—not a man must go on who doubted its ultimate success/ It was still not too late for waverers to return to San Miguel, where he had already left some of his companions. He was prepared to risk all with those who still wished to follow him. Nine men took advantage of Pizarro’s offer—four infantrymen and five from the cavalry. The others stopped with their general.”
“And cheered him to the echo at the call of Christobal de la Torre, who served the Conquistador like a brother!” exclaimed the Marquis.
“We know, we know!” repeated the clerk. His tone roused the Marquis again.
“And might I ask why you are pleased to recall all these things?” demanded Don Christobal haughtily.
“To prove to you, señor, that the vanquished know the history of their country even better than the conquerors,” retorted Runtu with an emphasis not a little ridiculous in a man of his dress and calling.
“Look! How beautiful!” exclaimed Maria-Teresa, anxious to divert their attention to the landscape.
Their train was passing over a bridge from which a panorama of unparalleled beauty could be obtained. Before them stretched the giant chain of the Andes, peak heaped on peak. On one side, a rent in the ridges opened onto green forests, broken by little cultivated plateaus, each with its rustic cottage clinging to the rugged mountain-side And there, above, snowy crests sparkling in the sun—a chaos of savage magnificence and serene beauty to be found in no other mountain landscape of the world.
It was almost more terrible than beautiful, and as the train crossed abyss after abyss over quivering bridges, Maria-Teresa, clinging to Dick’s arm, could not help murmuring: “And even this did not daunt Pizarro.”
Unfortunately, she was overheard by the stranger, who took up the broken conversation with evident hostility:
“We could have crushed them easily, could we not?”
The Marquis, turning superciliously, flicked the questioner’s shoulder with his glove:
“And, pray, why did you not do so, then?”
“Because we, sir, were not traitors!”
Dick had only just time to stop the Marquis, who was on the point of rushing at the insolent Indian. Maria-Teresa, knowing her father’s pride, calmed him in a moment by urging in an undertone that it would be ridiculous for a man of his rank and age to pay more attention to an Indian bank-clerk.
“You are quite right,” said Don Christobal with a gesture of contempt under which the Indian stood motionless as a statue. He had not been without guessing the sense of Maria-Teresa’s remarks, and might have said more had not the stopping of the train definitely closed the incident.
The railway line, then still in course of construction, went no farther. The remaining thirty miles to Cajamarca had to be covered on mule-back, for they were still in the heart of the mountains, and the defiles were steep.
It was too long a journey, however, for the tired travelers to undertake until the following morning. Clinging to the flanks of the rocks were a few rude sheds in which were lodged the men working on the line. Near by, surrounding a canteen, stood a dozen fairly comfortable tents, in which they themselves were to pass the night In a meager pasture just beyond, some thirty mules wandered at liberty, grazing. Above, the omnipresent galinagas flew in circles against a purple sky.
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