“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 t
he 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.
“Señor, I bring you news of the señorita and your son. If the God of the Christians, whom the benefactress worshiped, aids me, they will both be restored to you.”
Don Christobal, though seething within, forced himself to the same calm as the Indian.
“Why have you and yours committed this crime?” he questioned, crossing his arms.
“Why did you and yours commit the crime of not watching over them? Had you not been warned? Huascar, for your sake, twice betrayed his brethren, his god, and his country. He remembered that the mother of the señorita once befriended a naked child in Callao. That is why he has sworn to save her daughter from the terrible honor of entering the Enchanted Realms of the Sun.”
Don Christobal half held out his hand, but the Indian did not take it, smiling sadly.
“Gracias, señor.”
“And my son, Huascar?”
“Your son is in no danger. Huascar watches over him.”
“You say you watch over them! But to-morrow I may have neither son nor daughter.”
“Neither son nor daughter will you have if you do not obey Huascar.” The man’s tone had become somber and menacing. “But if you obey, I swear by the head of Atahualpa, who awaits your daughter should I betray her, I swear by my eternal soul, that the señorita will be saved!”
“What must we do?”
“Nothing. You must abstain from all action. Do not pursue the Red Ponchos and put them on their guard. I will do everything if you and yours promise not to come near that house again. They know you, and when you appear, the mammaconas form the black chain round the Bride of the Sun. If a stranger appeared, they would offer her up to Atahualpa dead, rather than see her escape. Be warned, and do not leave this inn. If you promise me that, I swear that I will bring your son here, unharmed, at midnight. For your daughter, you must wait.”
Don Christobal took down a little crucifix from a nail over the bed, and came toward Huascar.
“The señora brought you up in our holy faith,” he said. “Swear upon this that you will do as you say.”
Huascar held out his hand and took the oath.
“I have sworn,” he said proudly, “but for me, your word is enough.”
“You have it,” replied Don Christobal. “We await you here at midnight. Gentlemen,” he added, as Huascar’s steps rang on the staircase without, “I have given my word, and you must help me keep it. I believe in Huascar.”
“So do I,” added Natividad.
Dick was silent. He had been watching the Indian, and was unconvinced.
“What do you think, Dick?”
“I don’t like it. Perhaps I am mistaken, though. I feel that Huascar hates me, and I do not love him particularly. We are not in a position to judge one another. Midnight will show.”
Natividad, going to the window, had opened it, and was leaning out into the street.
“I tell you I have seen that face somewhere before,” he reiterated.
“So have I,” added the Marquis, going to the window as well.
Dick joined them, and watched the skeletonlike old man across the street He was tracking Huascar, like a little boy playing at brigands, childishly taking ineffective cover behind carts, pedestrians and trees. The Indian had noticed him, and turned once or twice; then continued on his way openly, quite unconcerned.
Suddenly, the Marquis, pensively leaning against the window, straightened himself with an exclamation.
“That is Orellana! The father of Maria-Cristina de Orellana!”
Natividad started.
“You are right. That’s who it is.... I remember him well now.”
They remained as if stunned by this apparition from the terrible past; this ghost come to remind them that he too had had a beautiful daughter; that she had vanished ten years before, during the Interaymi, and that he would never see her again. The Marquis, crushed by a flood of old memories, sat inert in an armchair, deaf to Natividad’s reassuring words, and refused to
touch a mouthful of the meal prepared for them.
Dick, at the Marquis’ exclamation, had dashed down into the street, caught up with the mysterious old man at the corner of the square, and put a hand on his shoulder. The stranger turned, looking at the young man fixedly.
“What do you desire, señor?” he asked in a toneless voice.
“I want to know why you are following that man.” Dick pointed to Huascar, just disappearing at another corner.
“Do you not know, then? The great day of the Interaymi is near. I am following that man because he commands the Red Ponchos, who are taking my daughter to the Cuzco. She is the Bride of the Sun, you know. But this time I shall not let her die! I shall save her, and we will return together to Lima, where her fiancée is waiting. Adios señor!”
He stalked away on his long legs, leaning on the crook.
“Mad!” said Dick aloud. Then he clenched his fists as if to hold his own reason. This inaction would drive him insane! To think that in the very heart of a supposedly civilized city there was nothing to do but to wait And wait for what? Huascar’s good pleasure; his good pleasure to keep his word or break it. Could he force that house alone? He could at all events try, and fight his way to Maria-Teresa’s feet, even if he was killed the minute afterwards.
He stopped, and pulled himself together.
What good purpose would that serve? No, he must wait; wait until midnight, when Huascar would return. That was the only thing to do; ruse for ruse, and the golden voice of money to talk to those Indians. But midnight was a long way off. Ten times the young man paced round the square, wondering and raging. Surely there were behind all these beflagged and festooned windows a legion of Christian men who would rise like a hurricane if they knew the abominable truth!
Dick’s thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a dancing, singing, howling mob at the end of the neighboring calle. This, then, was the populace which he would have raised against Garcia, and which obeyed Garcia, while the Dictator, like Pilate, washed his hands of it. The mob approached, to the thunder of drums and bugles, while flaming torches and swaying paper lanterns lit up the scene, for night had now fallen. Overhead fluttered banners adorned with crosses and strange symbols perhaps two thousand years old. Christians, this crowd? Perhaps!
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 328