The Bride of the Sun

II

Watching the proceedings from a window at the “Jockey Club Hotel” were the Marquis de la Torre and Natividad, both wild with impatience, for their only hope now lay in Garcia.

At Pisco, they had ended by discovering that the Bride of the Sun’s escort had embarked in the very steam-tug used to tow the Marquis’ own barges from the Chincha Islands to Callao. This once again proved that the scheme had been well thought out and prepared long in advance, the Indians about Maria-Teresa being in the plot.

Securing a boat in their turn, the pursuers followed to Mollendo. There they took the train, and reached Arequipa only a few hours after the Red Ponchos—Uncle Francis still supernaturally calm, and Natividad beginning to despair of everything.

Chance favored them when they landed in this city of mad people, who would not even trouble to answer questions. Dick recognized Huascar strolling through the streets, and tracked him to the house where Maria-Teresa and her brother were kept prisoners. This was a low adobe building on the edge of the suburbs, and quite close to the Rio de Chili. It was openly guarded by a dozen armed Indians in red ponchos. Dick and the Marquis soon found, however, that they could not even get as near as that line of guards. Fifty yards away from the house, Civil Guards stopped them, and ordered them back. Garcia’s own troops were guarding the Virgin of the Sun!

“Of course, Garcia cannot know,” said the Marquis. “I know him, and though he has faults, he is not a savage. He once wanted to marry Maria-Teresa. Let us go and find him.”

But Dick refused to lose sight of the adobe house. Had they listened to him, they would have forced their way to it at once. It was only after long arguing that Natividad convinced him such a step would be absurd. Lives are cheap during revolutions, and two or three corpses more or less in the Rio de Chili would not make it overflow its banks. Nor would they contribute greatly to the freeing of Maria-Teresa and little Christobal.

He promised to be reasonable, but would not go with them when they returned to the inn for a meal; instead, he took up his post in a boat on the river, and thence watched his fiancée’s prison and the armed men walking up and down before.

The Marquis and Natividad therefore, witnessed Garcia’s triumph alone. Uncle Francis had been lost, or rather, had been left alone in the middle of the street, staring up at the Misti. He was now doubtless in the crowd somewhere, taking notes.

Garcia in all his glory was a sight which did not please the Marquis.

“I never thought he was that kind of man,” he commented, “though I always suspected he had negro blood in his veins.”

“Drunk with success,” replied Natividad drily.

After the review, they followed the Dictator and his staff only to find their way barred by troops at the road leading down to the headquarters. Here the Marquis ordered the men out of the way with such insolence, and spoke with such assurance of “his friend Garcia,” that he was allowed to pass, Natividad clinging to his sleeve.

The subaltern in command at the guard-room took the Marquis’ card, and a moment later they were ushered upstairs. There were soldiers everywhere, some of them fast asleep on the staircase, their guns between their knees, so that the visitors had to pick their way upstairs over prostrate bodies.

Finally, their guide pushed open a door and ushered them into a bedroom, where Garcia was presiding over a meeting of the Cabinet he had appointed the previous day. Some of these high functionaries were seated on the Dictator’s bed, others on the table, and one on a bundle of soiled linen.

They were received more than courteously. Garcia, who was in his shirt-sleeves, and shaving, ran toward the Marquis with both hands outstretched, scattering white flakes from his shaving-brush as he came.

“Forgive me, señor,” he said. “Antique simplicity! Antique simplicity!… I receive you as I would a friend… for I trust you come as a friend, as a friend of the new Government. Let me introduce you.”

He began with the Minister of War, who was astride the bolster, and finished up with the Minister for Posts and Telegraphs, a hideous half-breed chewing cocoa-nut leaves.

“No fuss, you see,” babbled on Garcia. “Antique simplicity. Cato, and all that sort of thing.... Nothing like antiquity, sir, to make men.... The good padres taught us that, and I took the lesson to heart.” He laughed. “All that show is for outside… the crowds like it. You must amuse the crowd!… Did you see my review? Splendid, wasn’t it?… Magnificent soldiers.... And the rain., Did you see what I did? Effective, eh?”

Daring all this verbiage, Garcia was thinking hard, and watching the new-comers’ faces. He was far from being a fool. Were they, or were they not, ambassadors from Veintemilla? Would he accept a compromise, if they came to offer it? In a moment his mind was made up; he would refuse, and risk everything on the result of this rising, his large fortune and his life included.

At last the Marquis was able to speak.

“I have come to ask the assistance of the master of Peru.”

At these words the Dictator, who was washing the soap from his face, looked up in surprise over a towel. He knew that the Marquis was a personal friend of Veintemilla. Natividad looked away uneasily, for he was compromising himself horribly.

“The master of Peru,” repeated the Marquis, “whose motto is ‘Liberty for all.’ I want him to restore to me my two children, who have been stolen.”

“Stolen! What do you mean, señor? Those who have done this thing shall be punished. I swear it by my ancestor, Pedro de la Vega, who gave his life for the True Faith, and was killed by the infidels in the year of grace 1537 at the Battle of Xauxa, in which he received seventeen wounds while fighting at the side of the illustrious Christobal de la Torre!”

The Marquis had always said that Garcia was in no way descended from Pedro de la Vega, and Garcia knew it.

“Those same infidels have now carried off my daughter, Excellency.”

“The beautiful señorita! But what do you mean by infidels? What infidels?”

“She has been kidnaped from Callao by the Quichuas… as a sacrifice to their gods during the Interaymi.”

“Sacrifice!… Interaymi… but that cannot be, señor.”

“I am sure of what I say, Excellency, and she has certainly been carried off. Let me introduce señor Perez, the inspector superior of the police of Callao. Like myself, he is devoted to your cause. He will tell you the same thing. Speak, Natividad.”

Horrified at the form of the Marquis’ introduction, Natividad stammered a corroboration. If Garcia did not win now, all that was left for him to do was to cross the Bolivian frontier.

The change in Garcia’s manner was immediate. He did not want trouble with the Quichuas, his partisans and allies.

“But I can do nothing for you, señor. All this happened in Callao. Veintemilla is still master there, and you must go to him.”

“They are now in this very city, imprisoned in a house which is guarded by your own troops.”

“That is not possible. I should have known it. But if by some extraordinary fact this is so, you have not done wrong in coming to me.”

“I knew I would not appeal to you in vain. As long as I live, I shall not forget this service. I have friends in Lima, señor! And this gentleman also,” he pointed to Natividad. “The police of Callao is yours.... Only accompany us to the gates of the city, and set my children free, and my life and my fortune are yours.”

“I am afraid I cannot come myself, for I am expecting the British Consul. But I will send my Minister for War with you. You will find him just as useful.” Garcia turned and whistled for the dignitary in question, who seemed in no hurry to move. “Go and see what is happening,” he ordered, “and let me know.... I believe you are in error, gentlemen, but I will do what I can for you.”

Don Christobal and Natividad went out, followed by the Minister, whose enormous spurs made the hall and staircase echo. Garcia closed the door.

“I wonder what it all means,” he mused aloud, evidently much put out. “Ten to one, Oviedo Runtu is in it. If he really has carried off señorita de la Torre, the outlook for us at Lima is bad.”

The door opened, and an officer announced the British Consul. This official was a big tradesman of the town, who had secured the commissariat contracts to Garcia’s army by promising him the support of Great Britain.

Garcia began to speak of his soldiers, and the consul put in that the worth of an army resided more in the general who commanded it than in the men themselves. His compliment provoked a self-satisfied bow from Garcia, but he made the mistake of trying to improve it, and added:

“For, between you and me, Excellency, those troops of yours are not worth much, and if you had not been there to…”

“Not worth much! What the devil do you mean! Do you know what kind of fighting they have been doing in the mountains? Not worth much, indeed! Did you see a single laggard…”

“No, but the guard are all sound asleep now.”

“Asleep!” Garcia swore, and ran to the door.

III

Garcia opened the door, and looked down the staircase, where he both heard and saw his guards sleeping. Pale with anger, the Dictator woke them, and ordered the officer to muster his men on the landing.

“My soldiers never sleep!” he declared to the consul. “Look at them. Do they look as if they wanted sleep?… Come, my lads, a little exercise to keep you fit. Out of that window with you all!”

His outstretched arm pointed to the bedroom window, nearly five yards above the ground. The poor hussars looked at him, hesitated, and jumped. Remained only the officer.

“Well, and what are you waiting for, major? You should be with your men.”

Then, as the officer did not move, he seized him round the waist, and threw him out of the window. The watching ministers and the consul, anxious not to take the same route, laughed heartily at the jest, and went to look into the courtyard. Those of the soldiers who had landed more or less safely were picking up three comrades with broken legs. The officer was being carried off, his skull fractured.

Just as this interlude ended, the Minister for War returned, still followed by the Marquis and Natividad.

“Well?” asked Garcia, closing the window.

“The Red Ponchos,” replied the Minister, looking meaningly at his illustrious chief. “Oviedo Runtu quartered them there, and added a few soldiers to the guard. They leave to-morrow night for the Cuzco.”

“What else?” Garcia was nervously twisting his mustache.

“They know nothing of the young lady and the little boy.”

“Excellency,” burst in the Marquis, who could contain himself no longer, “you must have that house searched. I know they are in it. You cannot allow those scoundrels to go free! Your name would be tarnished for ever if you did such a thing! It would make you the accomplice of murderers!....On you depend the life of my son, the only heir of a great name which in the past has always fought for civilization, side by side with yours, and of my daughter, whom you once loved.”

The latter consideration might have had little effect on the Dictator, who did not believe in confusing love and politics, but the sentence before, appealing to his sentiments as the representative of “a great name” moved him powerfully. He turned bruskly to his Minister for War.

“But you must have seen something. I presume you searched the house?”

“If I forced that house, Excellency, every one of our Quichua soldiers would rise. Runtu has only to make a sign, and they cut all our throats. That house is sacred, for the Red Ponchos and the mammaconas are escorting the ‘sacred imprints from Cajamarca to the Cuzco for the Interaymi fêtes. It is impossible, Excellency.” One look from the Dictator drove all his ministers from the room. When the door had closed on the last one, he turned to the Marquis.

“If your children are in that house, señor, it is terrible… but I can do nothing for you.” Don Christobal staggered under the blow, and leaned against the wall.

“Listen, Garcia,” he said in a strangled voice, “if this horrible crime is allowed, I shall make you personally responsible for it before the civilized world.”

He reeled, almost on the point of fainting. Garcia ran to his side, and held him up, but Don Christobal seemed to regain his forces at once.

“Hands off, you general of murderers!” he shouted.

Garcia went white, while the Marquis walked toward the door, turning his back on the Dictator though he expected to be stabbed at any moment. But Garcia controlled himself, and his lisping voice checked Don Christobal in surprise.

“Do not go yet, señor. I can do nothing for you, but I can at all events give you some advice.”

Don Christobal turned, but ignored the hand which waved to a chair, and waited. He had already wasted too much time here.

“Speak, sir,” he said; “time passes.”

“Have you any money?” asked Garcia bruskly.

“Money? What for? To…” He was on the point of saying “to bribe you,” but stopped at a suppliant look from Natividad, who was signing desperately to him from behind the Dictator’s back.

Garcia, remembering there was somebody else in the room, took Natividad by the arm, and put him out of the room without a word. Then he sat down at a little table loaded with papers, rested his head in his hands, and began to speak in an undertone, without looking at the Marquis, still standing and suspicious.

“I can do nothing for you against the Red Ponchos and the mammaconas. Their house, or their temporary quarters, must be sacred, for they have the relics of Atahualpa with them. You say your children are in that house as well. That may be, but I am helpless to prove or disprove it. It is horrible, I agree, but I am powerless. You say that my soldiers are guarding the house? That is not true. I am nobody in all this. Who put them there? Oviedo Runtu. They are Oviedo Runtu’s soldiers.”

He paused for a moment.

“Who is Oviedo Runtu? A bank-clerk whom you may have had dealings with at Lima? Yes, and no. He is a bank clerk, but he is also the master of every Quichua in the country. Yes, he dresses like a European, and earns a humble living among us, but meanwhile he is studying all our institutions, our financial methods, all our secrets. He earns two hundred soles a month behind a counter, and he is perhaps a king. I don’t know. “King or not, all the Quichua and Aimara chiefs are his slaves. Huascar, your former servant, is his right hand.... If you ask me, a man who has dreamed the regeneration of his race! That’s what he is.... When I was preparing this revolt at Arequipa, Huascar came and offered me Oviedo Runtu’s aid, and I accepted the alliance because I could not do otherwise. Do you understand now? It is not I, but Oviedo Runtu.... He is in your way, as he is in mine.... And, believe me, I am as sorry for you as for myself.”

“That’s the man. I can see his hand in it all.”

“As I said before, force is out of the question. But though I cannot fight the Red Ponchos, you can bribe them. They are Quichuas, and any Indian can be bought. That is why I asked if you had any money.”

“No, I have none,” replied the Marquis, who had been listening to the Dictator eagerly. “We left in a hurry, and I had not time to think of it.”

“Fortunately, though, I have.”

Garcia whistled in a certain manner, and the Minister for Finance came in.

“Where is the war chest?”

“Under the bed, Excellency.” The Minister went down on his knees, and dragged an iron-bound box to Garcia’s side.

“You may go now.”

When they were alone again, Garcia took a little key from his pocket, opened the box, and took out a bundle of bank-notes, which he threw on the table. Locking the box, he pushed it under the bed again, picked up the notes, and handed them to the Marquis.

“Count them afterwards, and pay me back in Lima, when I am President. There is enough there to bleach every Red Poncho in existence. They are gentlemen who know the value of those little pieces of paper. Oviedo Runtu himself probably taught them. Good-by, señor, and good luck.”

“Excellency,” said the Marquis, forgetting that a moment before he had called this man a murderer, “I do not thank you… but if I succeed…”

“Yes, yes, I know… your life and fortune are mine.”

“One word more. I shall try to bribe your troopers with the rest.”

“By all means! By all means!”

“And if we fail, Excellency, I warn you that weak as we are, desperate as the venture may be, we shall attack those priests and their escort. Can we count on your neutrality?”

“Most certainly. And if by chance you injure Oviedo, I shall not have you hauled up before a court-martial!”

They shook hands, and the Marquis ran out. As he crossed the threshold, Garcia shrugged his shoulders.

“His daughter is lost, but he, the fool, has been bought by me. All this would not have happened if she had married me.”

At the bottom of the staircase, the Marquis found Natividad waiting anxiously. In the street, they met Dick, who had come to look for them. He was pale and agitated, and it was evident that some extraordinary event had made him leave his post.

“What has happened?” asked the Marquis.

“Back to the inn, quick! We must decide on some course of action. What did Garcia say?”

“That he could do nothing for us. But he gave me money and a piece of advice that may save them. But what made you leave your post? Are they still there?”

“Yes. Only one person has left the house. Huascar. I followed, determined to corner him, and kill him like a dog, if need he. He went straight to our inn, and asked for you. They told him you had gone out, but were returning. He then said he would wait, so I came to fetch you.”

“They are saved!” exclaimed Don Christobal. “Why else should Huascar come to see me?”

“I don’t like the man, and don’t believe in him. You must not forget that you have to do with a fanatic, and one who owes Maria-Teresa a grudge.”

“My wife found him starving in the street, and gave him shelter. I cannot believe he has altogether forgotten that.... I have always thought he was in the whole business against his will, and determined to save Maria-Teresa sooner or later. Hurry!”

“I hope you’re right, but I don’t believe it,” replied Dick. “We’ll have him cornered in a minute, and if he doesn’t answer my questions properly, he’ll be sorry.”

“You must not forget, Dick, that they have hostages.”

“Hostages which they will massacre even if we let Huascar go free, sir! I would give anything to wring his neck!”

“And I, boy, would give anything to save my children.”

The Marquis’ tone was so icy that Dick refrained from further comment.

Just before they reached the inn, Natividad noticed on the opposite pavement a tall old man leaning on a shepherd’s crook, and watching the door through which Huascar had entered. A ragged cloak hung over his thin shoulders, and a straggling white beard framed a face so white that it was deathlike. Natividad stopped, and looked at him hard.

“I know that face,” he muttered. “Who is it? Who is it?”

Don Christobal, entering the inn, told Dick that he was going to their room, and asked him to bring Huascar there. The stairs leading up to the first floor were just inside the archway, and the Marquis, putting his foot on the first step, noticed Natividad staring across the road. His eye followed, and he also was struck by a sudden vague memory.

“Who on earth is that?” he wondered. “I have seen that man before.”

IV

Hardly had the Marquis entered the room than Huascar made his appearance, followed by Dick and Natividad, like a prisoner with his two guards. The Indian swept off his hat, with a grave “Dios anki tiourata,” To wish a white man good-day thus, in the sacred Aimara language, was a sign of great respect. Then, seeing that the Marquis did not respond to the greeting, Huascar began to speak in Spanish.