The Sun Virgin
by and struck from points of vantage. Alligators, lying on the banks
of sluggish streams, snapped their jaws with fatal aim. A man sank in
a deadly morass and disappeared before the terror-stricken eyes of his
comrades.
Pizarro was compelled to halt and spend the night in the jungle,
determined now to retreat and find a better way in a flank movement
toward the mountain ranges.
His men were for the moment overwhelmed with the weird atmosphere of
the tropic jungles. The coloring was terrifying. It struck them with
resistless force. They had just moved from the sterile wastes of the
seacoast, a barren desert of sand, except for the verdure along the
streams. And now a smothering wilderness burst in their faces. On
its rich background were splashed great sheets and huge bouquets of
unbelievable colors, daubs of lurid yellow, crimson, blue and dazzling
white. Such colors used by an artist on canvas might drive a beholder
to violence; their combined effect in the jungle was one of positive
terror. It made the flesh creep. Its beauty was unearthly.
The bare stalk of a tree shot straight into the air without leaf or
limb to end in a cluster of giant buttercups, each half a foot across;
the _lignum vitæ_ was covered with myriads of tiny flowers the
color of wisteria; the royal poinciana towered in flaming glory among
a dozen others. One variety in particular seemed to break into endless
billows of honey-yellow as far as the eye could penetrate.
And swinging through all and over all were the orchids. The white
variety Teresa named “The Tears of the Virgin.” A startling red variety
she named “The Seventh Deadly Sin.” Another “The Annunciation,”
and still another, “The Bride of Christ.” And yellow varieties of
daffodils waved everywhere in thousands.
The feet of the invaders sank into masses of rotting leaves that seemed
but half developed before being pushed to death by the surge of endless
new life. And back of it all, pervading all, hovered the soul of the
jungle, a thing of terror indescribable, yet fascinating--a beauty
haunted with lurking death!
To Teresa the experience was one of rich emotion and uplifting faith.
Beyond the language of reason, she yet felt its kinship with the wild
beat of her heart for the man she loved.
On the following day Pizarro devoutly thanked God to find his way back
to the open world with the loss of so few of his men.
A half day’s march on leaving the jungle brought him in sight of
orchards laden with strange Indian fruits and fields of yellow grain.
The adventurer suddenly found himself among a people who had developed
the arts of agriculture to a point of beauty and fruitfulness beyond
anything known in Europe. They marched through a veritable paradise.
And everywhere the Peruvians received them with kindness. Their
“allotment” of natives was yet too novel an event to have made any
impression on the interior. In fact it had not yet fully dawned on the
simple people “allotted” that they were held as slaves. Their labor in
assisting the wonderful beings who had come had been freely given as a
sort of welcoming hospitality. And acting under strict orders of their
leader the Spaniards vied with each other in winning the good opinion
of all the people along the line of march.
In every village of any size was found a royal commissary, whose wide
halls and stored grain gave unusual comforts. Their every want was thus
supplied by the generous government against which they were marching.
The uniform politeness of these receptions by the royal officials,
however, began, at length, to excite Pizarro’s suspicion. It was
too smooth to be spontaneous. He had a growing conviction that his
receptions had been arranged from Caxamalca. He now moved cautiously,
preceded by swift scouts.
The richer the cultivated fields became, the denser the prosperous
population that watched his progress, and the more restless grew a
portion of his followers. On reaching the road which turned from the
main highway leading from Quito to Cuzco to cross the _cordillera_
to Caxamalca he halted his troops for a few days’ refreshment and a
council of his officers.
It was now plain to all that they were penetrating the heart of a
great, prosperous empire of a strong, united, happy people. The
evidence of wealth and power was gradually sapping the nerve of some
of his followers. Murmurs of fear and discontent had reached his ears
daily. The enterprise on which he had now embarked called for a united
front. His men must be of one mind. To a man they must be fired with
faith in their leader and his sure triumph.
When Cortez faced such a situation on his landing in Mexico he had
burned his own ships and ordered his men forward. Pizarro was now deep
in the interior of a strange, powerful kingdom with but a handful of
men under his command and they indifferently equipped. His little
army numbered but one hundred and seventy-eight and he possessed but
four muskets, the one weapon that struck terror to the natives. His
swords were of the best steel, his lances strong and the riders of his
sixty-seven horses wore the best mail and carried every weapon except
the new firearms. His artillery under Pedro de Candia consisted of two
small mountain cannon carried on the back of sure footed mules. But he
must cure discontent or his daring march would end in disaster. The
longer he lingered in the village at the parting of the ways, the more
lowering became the glances of some of his men. Discontent, of course,
was a mild word for their troubles. They were scared. The farther they
got into this rich, mysterious kingdom the farther they were from home,
and the longer the tramp to possible safety.
An officer suggested to Pizarro the plan of a swift march down the
great highway against the rich capital of Cuzco. The story of its
dazzling temples and palaces they had heard at every stop.
The grizzled commander, fifty-seven years of age, faced his comrades
with a frown:
“Surely you cannot advise this madness. Declare war and march for
the capture of a great city without knowledge of its defenses or the
size of the army we will encounter on the way? And leave in our rear
the emperor of the realm with an army to cut off our retreat? No,
gentlemen, we have set out to find the Inca and present ourselves at
his court. We’ll face the issue and cast our fortunes and lives on the
outcome. Call the men together!”
A trumpet summoned the soldiers and Pizarro faced them calmly. His
voice was smooth and genial with no hint of the gravity of the
situation.
“Soldiers,” he began slowly, “we have come now to the parting of the
ways in more senses than one. Before us lies the road to Caxamalca
where the sovereign of the kingdom is encamped with his army. Its size
we do not know.
“Let no man enter on this daring final march unless sure in his heart
of success. We have left a weak garrison at San Miguel. More men are
keenly needed there. If there is one among you who has a doubt of the
wisdom of my order to march at once to Caxamalca, he may now volunteer
to reënforce the garrison of Navarro with full honors of a soldier.
Those who wish may now return to San Miguel and have the same allotment
of land and natives as given to those who are there. All who wish to
follow me on this dangerous and unknown road will see the matter to an
end.”
But nine men faltered and chose to return, four from the infantry and
five from the cavalry. The remaining one hundred and sixty-nine crowded
about their leader and shouted:
“Forward!”
Pizarro had cleared his camp of discontent and advanced with closed
ranks. His army was now a unit and its heart beat with a single
stroke, the stroke of the heart of its commander.
At Zaran the _curaca_ received him with kindness and quartered his
troops as usual in the royal commissary. The governor could give him no
information as to the exact spot of the Inca’s camp but had heard that
a division of the army lay at Caxas, a village among the hills at no
great distance.
The leader sent a strong force of scouts forward under Hernando de Soto
to reconnoiter the ground, determine the size of the army before them
and their disposition towards the visitors. The commander urged Teresa
to remain in camp, but as he did not forbid her joining De Soto, she
was in the van of the party when they rode gayly forward towards Caxas.
The course of empire meant little to her. She was nearing, now, the
man she loved--her kingdom and her conquest. And she was making good
her proud boast to Pizarro. She was laughing at danger, flouting the
elements, and challenging death itself.
CHAPTER XI
The news of the landing of the strangers at Tumbez, coming at the
moment of his triumph, profoundly disturbed Atahualpa. He sent back
urgent commands that the number of the invaders be reported to his
summer capital at Caxamalca without delay.
He entered the city in triumph to the loud acclaim of the people,
hastened to his palace, and summoned Yma. He told her the startling
news of the arrival of the white invaders.
Her face blanched and she caught her breath in a low sob. The Inca
bored her with his commanding eyes:
“Tell me the whole truth now? You are a daughter of the Sun. I have
spared your life in the service of your God, your sovereign, and your
country. Dare I trust your god-man with this secret? He will learn it,
yes, but I have yet time to make sure that the dangerous knowledge he
possesses of our army and defenses shall not be given the invaders.
Answer me truthfully as you value your life.”
Her wits were clear in a moment. The first news had stunned. She must
fight now to save Molina. Unless she convinced the Inca of his love and
loyalty he would be put to death before the sun rose. The coming of
Pizarro sounded the death knell of her own hopes unless she could win
his love before he heard the news. And she must keep her wits now and
fight both foes. She meant to fight--and she meant to win.
“Answer me truthfully as you value your life!” Atahualpa sternly
repeated.
“By all I hold dear and sacred, my Lord of the Sun, the stranger is
your loyal friend as he is my beloved!” the girl sobbed.
“See to it then. If he dares to leave without my command, I have posted
guards along every roadway with orders to kill him on sight. And if he
goes, you die the moment I hear it.”
“He will not go, my Lord,” the small voice assured him.
Yma returned to Molina’s house on swift feet. She warned each waiting
maid to guard the secret of the landing of the invaders at Tumbez.
She determined to take Congo with Molina on a journey she had long
planned to a shrine in the mountains overhanging the city. An important
fortress crowned the summit of the range and he was deeply interested
in every work of defense. And there, in the vastness of the ranges,
she would attack, for she was interested in every work of _his_
defense.
Her voice was casual as she broached the subject to the cavalier.
“Now that the people are making their feasts over the Inca’s triumph I
will take you to see the fortress hidden on the summit of the mountain.
You will go, Señor?”
Her most insinuating utterance of the word “señor” again brought a
laugh from Molina.
“My dear Señorita, I accept your thoughtful invitation with joy.”
“Congo may carry our luncheon, and we will spend the whole day.”
Yma gained permission for Molina to inspect the fortress and promised
to return in time to make the descent before sunset. She would visit an
old friend who lived a little way down the opposite cliff.
While Molina examined and sketched at leisure the fortress whose stone
walls would have done credit to a European engineer, Yma scrambled down
a narrow pathway to the old love shrine that clung to the cliffs on the