The Sun Virgin
of the country by the Spaniards and lavished them on his kindred and
his minions; that he was guilty of adulterous practices indulging in
a plurality of wives; that he was guilty of idolatry in worshiping
the sun; and that finally he had attempted to incite an insurrection
against the Spaniards.
The young cavalier glared at the judges with scorn.
“I ask the court to strike out as irrelevant all the clauses in this
indictment save the last. What have you to do with the laws of the
Incan Empire? Atahualpa succeeded to the throne of Quito by the will of
his illustrious father, Huyna Capac. His brother declared war on him,
was defeated, lost his crown and afterwards his life in the clash. Only
the Emperor Charles V could sit as judge or arbiter in such a case.”
Pizarro lifted his hand.
“The charges stand.”
“Surely you can not consider the impudent assertion that he is guilty
of idolatry in worshiping the only god he knows, the only god taught
him by his father and mother? That he has a plurality of wives is the
custom of his country. You can not stultify yourselves by listening to
such an indictment!”
“We’ll hear them all!” Pizarro snapped. “I told the clerk to write
them. Bring on your prisoner and proceed with the trial. You talk like
a lawyer. Lawyers are forbidden to live under our charter!”
The Inca confronted his accusers with a look of dazed incredulity on
his bronzed face.
When the indictment was read to him by Felipillo, his big head sank as
if in an effort to escape the insults of a mob. He restrained his anger
and replied with dignity.
“I am Inca of the Kingdom by its laws. My brother was executed by an
order of royal council before whom his trial was held. They voted his
death unanimously.”
“Then you lied when you declared that his jailors had killed him?”
Pizarro thundered.
“I merely dissembled for the moment, commander. The jailor did execute
him but by orders of the council. My wives are my own by rights
thousands of years old. Your own soldiers have taken many women as
slaves and held their bodies their property, denying them the rights
of a wife to be loved and protected. That I never did. And you have
established prostitution in Caxamalca--”
“Silence!” Almagro shouted. “We are not on trial. We’re trying
_you_!”
The Inca bowed gravely.
“The only question on which you have the right to place me on trial is
whether I have conspired to raise an insurrection. So far from this
being true, I refused to escape when offered my freedom by a secret
organization of my young men.”
“So there _has_ been a conspiracy!” Pizarro broke in angrily.
“At my command they dispersed. I had given you my word and kept it.
Since that day there has not been lifted a single hand in my kingdom
for my rescue. My word is law. There are no warriors gathered at
Huamachuco. The country is quiet. My people await my orders. When your
noble Hernando De Soto returns he will tell you this.”
By order of the clerk the Inca was asked a number of questions which
Felipillo put with cunning and each time lied as to the answer.
Molina sprang to his feet in rage.
“I ask the court to dismiss this lying interpreter. He has given a
false answer to every question put to the accused. If you will allow me
I will ask the questions and give you the true answers.”
“You will not,” Pizarro promptly replied. “Your answers might be
colored. He is the official interpreter. You cannot act in his place.”
The Inca returned to his quarters and a number of native witnesses were
examined. In each case Felipillo supplied the fatal answers no matter
what the frightened wretch said.
Unable to restrain his anger at the farce, Molina deliberately began
a slow cross-examination designed to prolong the trial and give his
messenger time to reach De Soto. He dragged these questions through an
hour before Pizarro saw his purpose.
“No more questions, sir!” the presiding judge ordered.
The case was closed and the four Pizarro brothers with Almagro held a
brief conference before pronouncing judgment.
“The only question, gentlemen,” Francisco Pizarro declared, “for us to
decide is not whether he is guilty or innocent. We all know that he is
guilty of the crimes charged and that death is the penalty. The only
question we must ask ourselves is whether his death will bring us good
or evil?”
“The quicker we kill him, the better,” snapped Almagro. The Pizarros
agreed.
Francisco Pizarro, as presiding judge, pronounced the sentence.
“We find the Inca guilty of all charges made in the indictment and
order his death in the Plaza of Caxamalca. Our executioner will burn
him alive at the stake to-night.”
“Surely not to-night!” Molina shouted. “In the name of common decency I
beg that he be given adequate time to prepare for his death.”
Pizarro fixed his eyes straight on Molina.
“I understand your purpose of delay, Sir Knight. He dies to-night.”
“Yes, and, by God’s wounds, De Soto can talk at the funeral to-morrow!”
Almagro snarled.
CHAPTER XXIX
The mad pace at which Teresa urged her horse put her own skill as a
rider to the severest test. But she had been in the saddle constantly
since the day of the landing more than a year ago. She was now a
veteran cavalryman, and this was a race against time for human life,
and against an infinite tragedy. The Inca’s stupendous ransom had been
paid. It had made her brother a millionaire. It had made her rich. It
had made every soldier in the expedition rich. The monarch had proved
himself a man whose word was unimpeachable. That he should be so basely
betrayed by the Spaniards was to her proud young spirit a thing of
nameless horror.
She thought of his stately mother and pain stirred her horse faster.
She had grown to admire this mother beyond all the native women she had
known. There was something inherently charming in the Dowager’s regal
bearing. Her love for her son was overwhelming. In him had centered
now all her hopes and dreams. She was inordinately proud of his
achievements. She lived only in the hope of his liberation. His death
would be a blow too cruel to contemplate. At its thought she dug the
spurs into her horse’s flanks again and the fiery animal leaped ahead,
his sides dripping.
Teresa leaned low and in soothing words stroked the beautiful white
neck. The horse uttered a low whinny in answering acceptance of her
apology and stretched his neck again for the race. A storm had hurled
trees across the road where it led through a forest, but he leaped the
barriers and sped on, his silver-shod hoofs flashing in the moonlight.
He waded through rivers with an astounding instinct for the shallow
leads of the fords. But at a broad deep stream whose smooth surface
glittered in the moonlight he stopped short, shook his mane and touched
the water gingerly with his slender hoof. Teresa sprang to the ground,
caught his flowing tail in her right hand and stroked his foaming
haunches with her left. He swam the stream, and they began the last lap
of the race. There were no mountain stairs to climb. The road north led
up the valley between the _cordilleras_. She thanked God for this.
She stopped at the lights of a village, warmed herself for a few
minutes and asked news of De Soto. To her amazement she discovered that
he had stopped here for the night.
She found the house in which he was lodged without difficulty, roused
him from a sound sleep and told him the news of the Inca’s trial and
Molina’s fears.
“They’ve dared to put him on trial before I could report?” he asked in
amazement.
“Yes, and we fear that he may die before you can reach Caxamalca.”
“We’ll make it. The distance is only thirty miles. We’ll leave your
horse with the _curaca_ in charge of one of my men. Take his fresh
horse and we’ll ride.”
In half an hour the squadron, forming in single file, began a desperate
ride for the Plaza of Caxamalca.
CHAPTER XXX
The death sentence rang through the room in the deep tones of Francisco
Pizarro’s voice and a moment’s painful silence was broken by the sob of
a woman. Yma had rushed out and brought back Molina. The girl gripped
him, trembling.
“You will not let them do this crime, my beloved! You _will_ not!”
she whispered. “Your arm is strong, your sword is cold and keen. I will
help you. I have seen many men in this room who approve your words.
They will help you--”
Molina pressed her hand for silence and faced the judges. He was calmer
now.
“In the name of justice, humanity and God, I denounce this verdict and
warn you to pause before you dare to execute it!”
The Pizarros hesitated, amazed at this further audacity. But Almagro
leaped into the breach.
“The men are with us ten to one,” he muttered. “To hell with him.”
But the Chief Judge, taken with the courage displayed, listened in
silence as Molina rushed on.
“This whole procedure has been a shameless farce. If your sentence
is executed you will leave a record of infamy unparalleled in the
history of Spain. You’ve done this thing with a haste indecent and
indefensible. De Soto by his character, learning and rank was entitled
to sit as judge--”
“His voice could not have changed our verdict,” Pizarro interrupted.
“Then why this haste lest he arrive in time to be heard? The evidence
before you is too flimsy for discussion. The charges themselves were
ridiculous. I deny your right to sit thus in judgment on a sovereign
prince in his own domain. Only the Court of Charles V could try such a
prisoner!”
“Is that all you have to say?” Almagro sneered.
“No, it’s not. Your charter requires that you consult the authorities
of the Church on all matters of importance. Has this been done?”
Pizarro’s face fell at the cunning of his tormentor.
“Not yet.”
“I demand a delay that this shall be done in proper order. I appeal to
Father Valverde to hear my argument for a stay of execution.”
“Send for the friar!” Pizarro commanded.
“I demand a day in which to prepare my appeal and argument before the
Church!”
“You’ll not get it,” was the prompt decision. “Father Valverde will
appear immediately, hear you and give his decision.”
The wily commander knew that he could rely on his own chaplain.
Valverde listened to the fiery eloquence of the Inca’s young advocate
with dignity. The judges submitted a copy of their verdict and death
warrant for his signature or veto. But Pizarro knew his position.
He gave his decision without hesitation:
“In my opinion,” he said in stern accents, “the Inca deserves death.”
He promptly affixed his signature to the death warrant and returned it
to the Chief Judge. Pizarro handed it to his executioners.
“Make your arrangements and complete the task within the hour.”
Molina again felt the soft grip on his arm and heard Yma’s sobbing
voice:
“My god-man, you will not let them--”
The young cavalier drew his sword and stepped before the executioner.
The judges stared in surprise, too great for words. It was preposterous
that one man should dare thus to defy them all. And it was not until a
score of stalwart figures crowded beside Molina, their hands on their
swords, that Pizarro saw that he was confronted by an unexpected and
dangerous crisis. A fight in his court room over the verdict might
mean an attack from the attendants of the Inca at the same moment. A
protest ending in bloodshed would send their record to the Crown under
a dangerous cloud. He must use his wits and use them quickly. Almagro
and his brothers had drawn their swords and a mass of their followers
backed them.
“Sheathe your swords!” Francisco Pizarro sternly commanded his
brothers, and turning to Molina repeated the command.
The young cavalier stood with set jaw and refused to move. Pizarro