The Sun Virgin
“Besides,” the chief continued, ignoring the interruption, “I was urged
by Father Valverde who signed the death warrant....”
“This is so?” De Soto demanded of the friar.
“It is true. It was his life or ours....”
The amazed captain turned to his chief:
“I challenge you to a duel to the death, Francisco Pizarro, for this
betrayal of my rights as a judge in this matter--on guard!”
De Soto’s sword flashed in the torch light and Pizarro’s answered. But
men on each side restrained them. De Soto shook off the restraining
hands, sheathed his sword, and fixed Pizarro with a look of contempt.
“I salute you, chieftain, as a prince--_the prince of murderers!_”
He fixed his name at the head of the protest sent to Spain, and
withdrew from the expedition.
CHAPTER XXXI
Pizarro spared no pains in giving to the dead monarch the full honors
of rank at his funeral.
The Inca had renounced his faith and embraced theirs. He was entitled
to Christian burial.
Perhaps Pizarro really believed the necessity for his death. Perhaps he
believed that necessity urgent. He could remember the fate of his own
people when the enraged chiefs of Panama had poured molten gold down
their throats, crying:
“Eat, Christians! Eat your fill of gold!”
He did not propose to see such scenes reënacted in Peru. Now that the
deed was done he could at least express his Christian humanity by
placing flowers on the body of the dead Indian.
The body was carefully prepared for the obsequies. When stretched
in solemn posture on the bier, the massive head rested on a gold
embroidered pillow and he was shrouded in the most gorgeous robes of
empire.
Francisco Pizarro took his place as chief mourner, wearing his
magnificent uniform of Viceroy for the first time. Indeed, it was the
first time since his march into Peru that he had felt safe in assuming
it. There were many battles yet to be fought, but he felt his hand
at last gripping the wealth and power of a mighty empire. Verily, he
thought, he was an instrument in the hands of God! In his hour of
triumph, with millions of gold securely locked in his chests and the
crown of a kingdom on his brow, he recalled with a sense of awe the
days of his lonely pitiful childhood in Spain. The “little bastard,”
they had called him, and the pigs he tended had been his best friends.
He could begin now to see a proud world fawning at his feet.
So it is not to be wondered that he took himself seriously.
The funeral procession had wended its way into the church, the body lay
in state before the altar and the priests were celebrating the ceremony
for the dead. Pizarro stood, commanding the scene, his magnificent
figure sternly erect, his finely shaped head and full beard streaked
with gray, expressing the dignity and new found power of his position.
A sudden commotion at the door, and the droning tones of the priests
died into silence as all eyes turned. Before Pizarro realized what had
happened, Yma, at the head of a hundred white-robed Virgins of the
Sun, swept down the aisle, surrounded and seized the body of their
lord. His wives, led by his mother, followed weeping. The Sun Virgins
softly swayed from the bier and his wives rushed to the body with drawn
daggers to follow their master to the grave.
A word of sharp command from Pizarro called the startled soldiers to
their duty.
“Seize and drag them from the church!”
Heavy figures in clanging armor leaped forward. The weeping women and
white-clad Virgins of the Sun were dragged protesting from the church.
Yma sought Pizarro.
“As servants of our Lord of the Sun we claim the right to the body of
our beloved. We would embalm it and give him burial with his people in
the Temple at Quito.”
The Spaniard commanded silence.
“I will give him Christian burial in holy ground--go!”
Behind the conqueror, stood his partner, Almagro, and his brothers, who
had pronounced the sentence of death on the Inca.
The soldiers had instinctively refrained from laying hands on the dead
sovereign’s mother. She stood with her sad eyes fixed on Pizarro.
Lifting both hands above her head she solemnly prayed:
“God of the Sun, wither the Kingdom of Spain and let thy rays, as
lances of death, strike the murderers of Atahualpa!”
She was allowed to walk down the aisle and out the door without
molestation.
The conquerors in the absence of their interpreters wondered what she
had said. They were yet to recall the scene in hours of supreme tragedy
in their own lives.
CHAPTER XXXII
The tragedy done, the mind of one member of the royal family stirred
with brave thoughts of the future. To think was to act, and she acted
without delay.
On the morning following the burial of her son the Dowager called on
the conqueror. Pizarro received her with every mark of respect and
hastened to give her assurances.
“Rest assured of safety, Your Highness,” he said. “I have borne in mind
the last wishes of your son. He left you and his household in my care.
It is a sacred task. You and yours are under my protection. Your wants
will be carefully supplied.”
Pacha could but wonder at that, but she replied, “There are higher
needs than food and clothes. I have not come to speak of my safety but
of our people.”
She paused and studied the stern face of the conqueror. There was deep
sincerity in her voice as she continued and the Spaniard was not slow
to catch it.
“You must realize that a nation, to whom the word of their ruler only
is law, can not remain long without a hand to guide them.”
“I have undertaken to supply that hand, Your Highness,” was the proud
reply.
“Even so, you will need the help of one whom our people recognize as
their lord.”
Pizarro pursed his lips and searched Pacha’s fine face for a trace of
guile. He lifted his brows.
“And your suggestion is?”
“That you approve my selection of the successor of Atahualpa and crown
him Inca under your protection.”
A smile lighted the dark face. His decision was instantaneous.
“Wise advice, Your Highness! If a man can be found who will act as I
direct we may avoid much trouble. If I can speak through the Inca as my
mouthpiece the people will submit to our rule and quickly profit by our
superior knowledge and wisdom. Have you in mind the man?”
“He is in Caxamalca, commander. The Inca’s younger brother, Toparca, is
a youth of gentle disposition, and has always been a favorite of the
people.”
“You can vouch for his good faith and loyalty?”
“He will obey me without question. You can rely on my advice.”
The conqueror studied the stately woman who spoke with so much poise
and wondered if he could. There certainly was no question of the wisdom
of her plans. The Incan Empire without an Inca could not long remain
in peace. Some turbulent spirit would at last be found to lead an
insurrection. If he could speak through the lips that moved beneath
their scarlet _borla_ the people might be held in quiet until he
had consolidated his power. The moment he was established the new Peru
would swarm with thousands of Spaniards and the yoke would be set on
their necks for all time.
That this woman had back of her plan a design to consolidate the forces
of her people in due time he did not doubt for a moment. But it was a
fair risk. He would pit his Spanish brain and life experience against
her wits.
“I accept the plan, Your Highness,” Pizarro answered finally.
“It will be wise,” she further ventured, “to select as his ruling Queen
the most beautiful and popular girl in the kingdom.”
“You have her in mind?”
“There can be no question of choice in the matter,” Pacha quietly
answered. “Yma, first of all the Virgins of the Sun, is a heroine of
our people. She is young, beautiful and obedient. Toparca has been in
love with her since boyhood.”
“I leave the matter in your hands, Your Highness. Arrange the details
and I will give orders for the coronation.”
The Dowager summoned Yma to her apartment. There was no question of the
obedience of Toparca. But she was not so sure about the Sun Virgin. The
girl was the most daring leader yet developed in this crisis of the
empire. What she might do under the conditions of chaos following the
Inca’s death was a problem.
The girl approached Pacha with vague misgivings of a new tragedy.
“Surely they will not harm you, dear Mother Queen?” she tremblingly
asked.
The Dowager took Yma’s hand in hers and gently stroked it.
“No, my child. The great crime is done. I am of no importance now....”
She paused and studied the girl’s exquisite features.
“You once said in jest,” Pacha continued, “that a priest foretold that
you would one day wear the robes of an Empress of the realm.”
Yma laughed her relief.
“An old fool and flatterer who thought to get my last emerald.”
“His words will come true.”
“What! What--do you mean?” the girl gasped.
“That the conqueror at my suggestion will crown Toparca Inca and I have
chosen you his Queen....”
“But, dear mother, I do not wish to marry Toparca--”
“He is a youth of fine character and handsome as a prince should be.”
No answer.
“And he has always loved you....”
Yma turned away.
“But I love another, dear mother--that you know.”
“And he has chosen the Spanish girl. It is the law of life, dear child.
They are of the same blood. Like chooses like. So you must choose
Toparca. Your brave Alonso will tell you this.”
“I must ask him ...” the low voice murmured.
“And if he tells you to accept Toparca and the crown, you will do his
bidding?”
“I will obey him.”
“Go at once and ask his advice.”
The Sun Virgin found Molina with Teresa planning their return to
Panama. The cavalier was quick to note her grave demeanor.
“What is it?” he asked in alarm.
“Your commander will crown Toparca Emperor and I am asked to be his
Queen.”
Teresa seized the girl’s hand.
“And you, our Yma, will wear the crown of an Empress! We are glad. We
salute you!”
She kissed the Sun Virgin impulsively and turned to Molina.
“Isn’t it”--she broke off as she saw Molina’s face. He stood, watching
Yma, his eyes fixed on the girl.
Two years! Two years in a land fantastic as a myth, with beauty for
his bride--beauty he had never touched. A sharp pang pierced him as
he stood watching this beauty. His regret was soothed, he knew, by
Teresa. But hers? That, he refused to answer, but he knew. He saw the
long trail of years winding, but clear cut as a road between the Andes,
and she must follow it. And he wondered. She had not possessed him and
yet....
He shook off his revery.
“Wonderful!” he breathed, watching Yma intently.
Teresa looked away. She knew.
“But I will not marry Toparca,” Yma faltered, “unless you command me,
dear one.”
“It is best, my dear.”
The Sun Virgin gently took Teresa’s hand and looked into her face
through tears.
“You--you--will not take me with you and let me be second in his love?”
Teresa took her in her arms, held her close, and smiled at Molina over
the drooping shoulders.
“It can not be, dear Yma.”
The girl lifted her head in a last appeal.
“And I may not go as his slave, that I may serve you both--only to be
near--to see him and hear his voice?”
Molina touched her hand.
“You must stay and rule, an Empress among your own people.”
“It is your command, dear god-man?”
“It is my command,” the cavalier slowly replied.
“Then I must obey.”
She turned without further word or look, but he caught her shoulders,
took her in his arms and kissed her, a long, last kiss. She walked back
to the Dowager.
Her voice was low and dull.
“He has spoken. I am ready.”
On the day appointed for his army of five hundred soldiers to begin
their march on Cuzco, the Spaniards crowned Toparca--the fourteenth