The Sun Virgin
The Sultan of Turkey is mobilizing another army to march on Vienna and
he must defend his crown of Austria.”
Pizarro murmured his thanks and suddenly found himself before the
Emperor and his gracious young queen, Isabella of Portugal--whom he had
married but two years before--the robed Archbishop of Toledo, and a
throng of courtiers.
He trembled for an instant, but recovered his poise in the details of
exhibiting the live llamas, at whose odd shape the court was greatly
amused. Charles felt the quality of their wool with keen interest. The
fine fabrics of cloth woven from their clip he studied carefully, and
whispered to the queen:
“There may be more in this than all the gold of the Indies.”
She nodded her approval.
The specimens of gold and silver manufacture he examined carefully,
with enthusiastic praise for their workmanship and solid weight.
“And now, Francisco Pizarro, the court will hear your plea. Speak fully
and openly.”
Pizarro approached the royal group with firm step and told his story in
the plain crisp words of a soldier, a man who had played the leading
rôle in the drama which he unfolded. He made no attempt at eloquence,
but felt from the moment he began that his personality had made an
appeal to the Emperor. His life and future were in his own hands.
He realized at moments a strangling consciousness of the fact, and
breathed a voiceless prayer for the right words.
He told of his strange adventures on land and sea, his long, cruel
training in Darien and Panama, his struggles in forests, his
shipwrecks, his battles with savages, his comrades dropping by his
side, and yet ever pressing on, the banners of Spain upheld. With
resistless pathos he told of the sufferings on the Islands of Gallo and
Gorgona, the hunger, the loneliness of long months, the desertion by
his colonial governor, the deathless determination of his handful of
followers to extend the Empire or die, and of Molina, now plunged in
the vast unknown of Peru.
When at length he saw the young Emperor’s eyes swimming in tears, he
bowed and withdrew into the crowd.
His Majesty rose, smiled, called Pizarro to his side and seized his
hand:
“As a true soldier of Spain you have honored our banners with your
faith and loyalty. I will commend your cause to the Council of the
Indies. Your petition for a royal charter is granted. In my absence in
Italy the Council will work out its details. I shall expect great deeds
of you, Francisco Pizarro!”
The friendly courier gripped the adventurer’s hand as he passed from
the royal presence.
“A great speech, Señor! I couldn’t have done better myself.”
Pizarro’s dark face lighted with a puzzled smile.
“But this Council of the Indies!”
The courier shook his head in a gesture of pity.
“God help you, once in their hands. A bunch of snails. A pity His
Majesty is leaving for Italy. You’re in for a siege. The Queen is your
hope.”
Pizarro hurried to his room at the tavern with a proud sense of
triumph. And back of it forebodings of a struggle with the Council.
As the sun set the adventurer looked out at the glowing, shimmering
splendor of royal Toledo, absorbed in dreams of the far land of
mystery, of the gallant young cavalier somewhere in its vast and
bizarre expanse, and of Teresa, who yearned for her lover.
And his eyes were wet with glad tears.
CHAPTER VI
Molina found himself in a house whose appointments were amazing. Built
of cement, high on the side of a cliff, its comforts exceeded anything
he had known in the new world. Its walls were dry, the furnishings
adequate for every want, and the view from the terrace on which his
room opened, one of entrancing beauty. Below lay the city of Quito, its
huge palaces and fortresses of stone flashing in the tropic sun, and
beyond in the distance the snowy peaks of the Andes.
The only thing he missed was the use of glass. The windows were closed
by wooden shutters or were merely open spaces through which light and
ventilation passed. The even temperature of the altitude at which the
city was built made this but a slight inconvenience.
The beds were of bamboo slat that yielded as a spring. A heavy mattress
of wool was covered by clean cotton sheets finely spun and woven.
The best wool blankets were on every bed. The table service--plates,
cups, knives, bowls and pitchers--was of gold. The food served under
Yma’s watchful eye was deliciously cooked, the bread of corn meal most
palatable and satisfying. The llama mutton was done to please the
palate of a king. Large, white potatoes roasted through and through
were dry and mealy and to him a thing unseen or tasted before on any
table in the outside world.
A golden bowl was filled with bananas, pineapples, plums, cocoanuts and
mangoes.
The swift feet of voiceless serving maids scarcely made a sound as they
moved through the halls and rooms at their tasks.
As the shadows of evening fell, Yma led her new master into the court
about which the house was built. A fountain splashed in the center.
In huge earthen pots dazzling flowers bloomed and an orchestra of
soft-stringed instruments made weird music.
The table for the evening meal was set beside the fountain. Yma took
her place at its head and presided with simple grace. Her orders
were silently and swiftly obeyed. She watched Molina with keen eyes,
anticipating his every want. And when he sighed with satisfaction at
the close, she smiled and asked through his interpreter:
“My Lord is pleased?”
“Delighted, dear Virgin of the Sun. You work wonders.”
“And I have another--”
She waved her bare arm and from a room opening on the court, swept a
chorus of dancing girls who circled the table in number after number of
graceful dances. Their lithe young bodies seemed the incarnation of the
soft strains of the hidden music.
The Sun Virgin watched the effect on the Spaniard with an interest
that was half pain and half joy. The girls were dressed exactly as
the chorus of five hundred at his royal reception, except that the
skirt of silver spangles was a little shorter and the dancers had been
selected with more care, each one a marvel of sensuous beauty. Each one
a smiling challenge to the man before whom they swept.
But there was no look of jealousy in Yma’s lustrous eyes. To her simple
mind she was celebrating a festival of love. Her Lord was worthy of
the best the Sun God could give. She had selected these girls with the
pride of an expert.
A look of care clouded her brow at Molina’s lack of interest. Not
exactly bored, yet he lifted his eyes to the stars sometimes with a
far-off expression as if his mind were in another world.
“My Lord is not happy?” she asked plaintively.
“Oh, yes,” he responded cordially, “but I was just wondering if your
people dance all the time?”
“They work sometimes, but they manage to dance every night--”
“Every night?”
“And why not? They are carefree. They are happy. Their feet rejoice.”
“I see!” he laughed.
The table cleared, and the last dance ended, Molina bade his charming
hostess good-night and retired to his room.
He opened the window, blew out the taper and sat watching the full moon
flood the valley with the glory of its tropic light.
The rich delicate food, the splash of water, the sigh of music and
the swaying of the beautiful bodies had found him at last. It thrilled
him and he tingled with the delight its sensuous effect produced. He
thought of Yma and he caught his breath.
Yet he was sick for the girl he loved in Panama. He wondered if she
missed him with the sharp pain that he felt to-night? How little he
had dreamed at their parting how long it would be before he saw her
again. The waiting now might be an eternity. He regretted his carrying
her back to her home. Suppose his captain failed to build his fleet
and recruit his army? Then he was trapped for life. The way across
the trackless wilderness and mountain barriers could not be made
alone. Only a madman would dream of taking it. A sense of intolerable
loneliness caught his heart.
A soft footfall echoed within the room and he turned in amazement to
see a vision of unearthly beauty standing before him. The moon’s rays
lighted her white robe with a shimmer of silk. She came close and her
dark eyes glowed with flaming tenderness.
She stretched toward him her bare arms. He stood, rooted and
fascinated. The lithe arms encircled him and drew him to her, against
firm breasts. His senses swam. For one red instant he crushed her to
him. Teresa--! He broke away, his brow cold with starting sweat. Then
he led her to her room and closed the door.
But she returned with the interpreter, her face flushed, her eyes dim
with tears.
“Surely my Lord understands that I am his wife by command of the Inca,
whose word is the law of God?”
“I--I can’t quite understand. I--”
“But I adore you, my god-man. I am all yours, soul and body--”
Molina turned away, avoiding her gaze. He was silent. Yma spoke again.
“Am I ugly?”
“You are very beautiful, dear Virgin of the Sun.”
“But you dislike me?”
“No.” The cavalier turned, faced her and said slowly, “I love another
in Panama.”
Yma stared a moment in surprise and laughed happily.
“Then I can be second. You will love us both!”
The Spaniard shook his head.
“But the Inca has many wives,” the soft voice pleaded. “The three
thousand Virgins of the Sun are called his brides. You are surely a
god-man--even greater than our Lord--you are fairer than the sky at
dawn. Surely you may have as many brides as you like?”
Again, her nearness set him trembling. But he set his jaw.
“It is not permitted to a Christian, dear Yma.”
She looked at him in hurt amazement, turned slowly and left him, her
shoulders drooping.
For an hour the cavalier stood before his open window and watched the
moonlit valley shimmering below. He had spoken his vows and he loved
the girl he left behind in Panama, and yet the beauty he had just
denied himself half maddened him. He turned and started for the door
Yma had closed behind her. And then he thought again of the high-strung
Spanish girl to whom he had given his word. He had spoken his vows. He
was yet a Cavalier of Spain.
He walked back to the window and stood, his head bowed in the moonlight.
CHAPTER VII
Pizarro’s fears of the Council of the Indies were more than justified
by the events which followed the departure of the Emperor for Italy.
For more than six months the restless adventurer was forced to cool his
heels in the anteroom of the council chamber. And with each day his
slender means sank under the strain of his expenses and futile efforts
at bribery.
He thought of Molina with vague misgivings. He thought of Almagro with
distinct and painful fears. The impulsive firebrand had more than once
threatened to organize an expedition of his own and defy all authority
until the deed was done. He had sworn they would all then fight to
recognize such an achievement. And if Almagro once got the ships and
the men, he might elude the opposition, do the great deed and achieve
the immortality Pizarro had dreamed for himself.
The more he thought it over, and the longer the delay, the more
unbearable became the strain.
Again he found himself in a position where he must risk all by a leap
over the heads of petty officials to the source of power. He dreaded
the chance of mishap but had to face it. If he appealed to the Queen
and she referred him back to the Council, they would drive him out of
Toledo. The Emperor was now in Austria recruiting an army for war on
the Sultan, and had forgotten the llamas and the golden vessels.
He decided to appeal to the Queen. And in spite of his fears, her
gracious young Majesty received him cordially and expressed surprise