“How princely are thy towers,
How fair thy vales, thy hills how beautiful!
The sun, who sheds on thee his parting smiles,
Sees not in all his wide career a scene
Lovelier, nor more exuberantly blest
By bounteous earth and heaven. The very gales
Of Eden waft not from the immortal bowers
Odors to sense more exquisite than those
Which breathing from thy groves and gardens now
Recall in me such thoughts of bitterness.
The time has been when happy was their lot
Who had their birthright there; but happy now
Are those who to thy bosom have gone home.”
SOUTHEY.
THE voice of Jose's white-haired guide mingled in the great wail that rose from the square of Cuzco. Then the old man bowed his head and wept, Jose also weeping with him.
“Come home with me," said the Indian noble at last, as the crowd began slowly to disperse.”
“We are kinsmen," José answered, and told his name, then briefly recapitulated his pedigree.
“I also am of Viracocha's ayllu," said the Indian." My name is Yupanqui. And here," he added presently, "is my house." For Yupanqui's dwelling, like most of the palaces of the Inca nobility who resided at Cuzco, opened on the great square.
Jose followed his conductor into a low, one-storied building, formed of massive blocks of stone fitted into each other with wonderful accuracy. The doorway, wide near the ground, sloped gradually inwards, the lintel being considerably narrower than the threshold. A kind of passage brought them to a court, into which many similar doors opened, each leading to a separate chamber. This arrangement was rendered necessary by the absence of windows.
The old Inca conducted his guest into one of these chambers, which was spacious, and adorned with richly-colored hangings of llama's wool. There were also niches in the walls, containing a few ornaments of gold and silver—not many, for Spanish cupidity must not be tempted: the less men had, or were thought to have, the better for them in those days. On the ground were seated a group of women of all ages, weeping and wailing, and making sore lamentation for the Inca.
On a raised seat in the midst were two young girls dressed in robes of pure white, bordered with yellow, woven of vicuña wool, soft and fine as silk. Their black and glossy hair hung over their shoulders in long plaits, while the symmetry of their slight, graceful forms, and the dark beauty of their delicate features, fully justified the admiration of the high-born cavaliers of Spain for these daughters of the Sun. A delicious sensation stole over the heart of Jose: it was as though he heard the spirit-music of the desert of Achapa, which surprises the weary traveler at sunset, coming he knows not whence, and passing he knows not whither.
He stood apart, a silent spectator. The conversation between the old Indian, his grandchildren, and their attendants, gradually revealed to him much of their history. He came to understand that one of these girls had been destined to occupy the high position of Coya (empress, or chief wife) to the murdered Inca. But some time elapsed before he could tell which, since the grief of both seemed equal. When the younger, still almost a child, clasped her small hands, and raising her dark, tearful eyes to heaven, prayed God to avenge their prince, Jose said within himself, "Surely this was the Inca's choice. No marvel,—she is surpassingly lovely" But he was mistaken.
Soon afterward, turning to her sister, who sat silent, her face for the most part hidden in her robe, she said, "Sumac, my sister, above all things I pity you that you cannot die with him, as they used to do in the old days—the good ones.”
Then Sumac raised her head, and in a low, quiet voice made answer:—"Indeed, Coyllur, that would be very sweet to me now. But—I am afraid.”
“Afraid!" Coyllur repeated in evident surprise; for never had the Children of the Sun been known to fear death for, or with, those they loved. "Afraid!—Of what?”
“Of the Lord Christ—that if I come to the gate when He has not called, He will not let me in.”
“Then they also are Christians," thought Jose.
But Coyllur, who evidently did not quite understand her sister, presently resumed, in tones of passionate grief, yet with a kind of rhythm in her sweet voice, that made the words half a song, " Alalau! my sister, my heart is very sad for thee. For thou shouldst have sat on the golden throne beside our prince and lord; sharing his dominion and his splendor, as Quilla, the spouse of the great Ynty, shares the glory of the sky with the lord of day. And, hereafter, thou shouldst have had thy place on the awful thrones in the Curi-cancha, where sit the Incas and the Coyas of days gone by, each with the royal robe, the llautu, and the scepter; and the grand, calm face, sealed with the majesty of death, that changes not throughout the ages."
“Nay, but, Coyllur," Sumac's low voice interrupted, "do not talk thus. I never cared for being Coya; I never thought that he was Inca; I only knew that he was good and brave. Had he been a yanacona, all would have been the same.”
But here Jose's attention was diverted from the conversation by the hospitable cares of Yupanqui, which were not forgotten or omitted even in that hour of overwhelming sorrow. The old Inca caused an attendant to bring him two golden cups, of exactly the same size and shape. These he filled with chica, and having given one to Jose with his right hand, emptied the other himself. Jose, out of courtesy, did likewise; but he declined other refreshment, for it was meet that all who loved the Inca should keep solemn fast that day.
The next morning he told his host that it would be necessary for him to go in search of "the patre," whom he had lost in the crowd on the preceding day.
“No great loss;" the old Indian remarked dryly. "If you want patres, you can find them here, all kinds-black, white, and gray. They swarm like ants, building their nests on the ruins of our fathers' palaces.”
Jose explained that his patre was very unlike the others, and paid a grateful tribute to the benefits he had received from him.
“He did well to make a Christian of you," Yupanqui admitted, with the sad tolerance of despair. "I also took care to have my grandchildren baptized. But for myself, I am too old to learn the white man's religion.”
“My soul is ofttimes cut in two about these things," Jose acknowledged candidly. "Yet the white man's faith seems good to me, and I truly believe all that the patre has taught me of its mysteries.”
“So say my kinsmen and my grandchildren. They have been taught by the Holy Virgins, and Sumac often prays me to listen to their words. But I answer that what was good enough for the kings and heroes who were my forefathers is good enough for me. When I die, I would rather go where they are than to the cold, strange heaven of the Spaniard.—Do you know where to find your patre?”
“I know that he intended to go to the house of a great Spanish lord, the owner of the land where we dwelt— Don Marcio Serra de Leguisano.”
“Him he will not find here. His wife is our kinswoman, aunt to the children yonder.”
“How that? She is a daughter of Huayna Capac.”
“So was their mother, dead these twelve years. They are of Viracocha's ayllu through their father, my only son—dead also; of Huayna Capac's through their mother. Don Marcio is a good man, for a Spaniard. He prayed the viceroy, on bended knees, to spare the Inca's life. When all was vain, he would not see the crime he could not prevent. He and the princess his wife are far away.”
“What shall I do then to find the patre? Must I stand in the street and watch for him? He is sure to pass some time.”
Even the phlegmatic Indian could not forbear a grave smile at the expedient Jose's ignorance in the ways of cities suggested. "You might watch for him until the great flood comes again," he said. "Nay, like always goes to like. Seek him at the house where the monks of his sort live.”
“He is a gray friar, of the Order of St. Francis.”
“One of my servants shall bring you to their house. It is built, like the rest, on the ruins of an Inca palace.”
“I long to walk through the city. I have been dreaming of it all my life.”
“Dreaming is dangerous in these days," said the old Inca. "Yesterday's scaffold was no dream, but dreaming brings a man to that,—or worse.”
“There be many things worse," Jose remarked. "What Sayri Tupac did, for instance.”
“Well said, Child of the Sun," Yupanqui answered, with grave approval. "Come, we will walk through the city together.”
Under the guidance of his new friend, Jose traversed the great square, the "pleasant hill" of the Incas, through the center of which the Huatanay flowed, crossed by numerous footbridges of stone. Then he ascended the height of Sachsahuaman, and explored, with mingled pride in the past and bitter indignant sorrow for the present, the ruins of the great Inca fortress. He made Yupanqui point out to him the spot whence his grandfather flung himself into the Colcampata.
Thence they looked down on the whole city, which lay beneath them spread out like a map. "There," said the old Indian—" there once stood the glorious Curicancha, glittering with gold and gems. What you see now is the temple and house of the Black Monks. Yet the wall on one side is still standing. Look, you may know it by its dark color.”
“But the grand golden door and cornice, the massive golden vases, the emerald-studded sun—”
“You see all the spoiler has left," Yupanqui interrupted gloomily." Yonder was the palace of our father, Viracocha. The Christians have built their great temple on its ruins. Those lofty buildings are all theirs. They take our houses, that have better walls than they can make, and set their outlandish towers and balconies upon them, as if the roofs that sheltered princes and heroes were not good enough for them.”
All this, and much more, was poured into the ears of Jose', while his eyes were feasted (a mournful festival!) with all that remained of the glories of the City of the Sun. When, after traversing nearly the whole town under Yupanqui's guidance, he reached at last the gate of the Franciscan monastery, his heart was more full than ever of the wrongs of Tahuantin Suyu and the crimes of the white man.
The doorkeeper informed Jose that Fray Fernando had left Cuzco that morning; then asked if he were Don Jose Viracocha Inca, and on receiving his answer handed him a billet from the monk. This informed him that Fray Fernando, on reaching the Franciscan monastery, found a summons awaiting him from the prior of his order at Lima. The command did not brook delay; but it was a fortunate circumstance that Don Marcio Serra's country residence lay almost in his way, so that he need not forego the opportunity of obtaining speedy justice for the poor Black people at Cerro Blanco. He added, that as he did not yet know whither the prior might intend to send him, it seemed best for his dear son Jose to remain with the friends he was certain to find or make at Cuzco amongst his own people, till he should write directing him to rejoin him, which he would not fail to do as speedily as he might.
Jose keenly regretted this sudden and unexpected separation from his beloved patre. Yet, dearly as he loved Fray Fernando, that love opposed, after all, but a feeble barrier to the fascination with which his own race was once more drawing him into its bosom. The spell of its memories, full of glory—of its wrongs, its hopes, its passions—was laid upon him more strongly than ever. Day after day did he spend wandering up and down the streets and squares of the ancient city, the home of his fathers, examining, with the eager eye of enthusiasm, the ruins of temple, palace, and fortress, until he knew almost their every stone by heart. Then he would return to Yupanqui's house, to drink enchantment of another kind, as he listened to the sweet Quechua songs of the young princesses, interchanged his store of national legends with theirs, admired their skillful spinning and weaving, or aided them in their more graceful work of fashioning artificial flowers from thin plates and wires of gold and silver.
He soon became aware that the dwelling of Yupanqui was a gathering-place for those of the Inca family residing at Cuzco who still in their hearts detested the rule of the Spaniards; as was the palace of Prince Paullu on the Colcampata for those who cheerfully accepted the present state of things. Yupanqui's guests would drop in—usually by twos and threes—to share the frugal evening meal of the family, who, like all the Incas, only ate twice a day—in the early morning, and again at sundown. When, after they had partaken of the boiled maize seasoned with red pepper, the bitter herbs, and the charqui, chica was brought in, each would dip his finger in his cup and sprinkle a few drops in the air by way of thanksgiving. Then, as they drank together, their conversation was sure to turn upon the former days that were better than these, and the crimes and cruelties of the Spaniards. Jose soon made friends amongst them, and ere long was on terms of the closest intimacy with his dusky cousins, Don Fernando, Don Juan, and Don Diego, whom however, he always called by more uncouth and less familiar ancestral names.
They had all accepted the outward badges of Christianity; indeed, the rites of their old religion were now forbidden by the conquerors. Yupanqui was almost the only person who contrived to evade their laws; or else his disobedience was connived at by the authorities through special favor. But in fact nearly all the Inca Indians had received the new faith, not only willingly, but joyfully. Jose, himself a heathen in his early childhood, and of late well-nigh moved to cast off Christianity again by the enormities he had witnessed in its professors, felt and expressed some astonishment at the unaffected (though unenlightened) devotion of his kinsmen. But an old Inca, named Maricancha, an intimate friend of Yupanqui's, and certainly no well-wisher of the Spaniards, took him gravely to task for his irreverence. "You must indeed have been bred in the desert, young man," he said, "if you never heard the last charge of the great Huayna Capac, when, in dying, he left his peace with us. These were his words, hearken well to them: In a few years after my death a new nation will invade you, and they shall become your lords and masters. Wherefore I charge you to serve them as men; for their Law is better than yours.' It was because of these words (confirmed by many omens of strange significance, which I will relate to you at a more convenient season), that, when the Spaniards came to us, we received them as messengers from heaven. We thought them the sons of Viracocha, who appeared to your father in the plains of Chita; wherefore to this day many of us call them Viracochas. And we would not hurt or offend them in any wise, but obeyed them, and believed all they told us. In truth, we were never conquered,—we were betrayed. Even at Caxa-marca, when they fell upon us without cause and without warning, in the midst of a peaceful discourse, and slew us by thousands, was there one of us that so much as raised his hand against them? Those who stood around Atahualpa (whom they esteemed for their Inca) shielded him with their own bodies, and died in silence like the rest, but never struck a blow. Since then the Spaniards have heaped upon us misery after misery. They themselves, we suspect now, are the children, not of Pacha-camac, but of Supay. Still, their Law is good and true, and it is the will of Pacha-camac that we should receive it.”
Yet these Indians had but a very imperfect knowledge of the faith they professed so heartily. It had not been difficult for them to pass from one religion of forms and ceremonies and outward observances to another. Their children were sprinkled with water instead of having their first hair cut; their youths were confirmed instead of being belted; they kept fasts and festivals with different names and at rather different seasons, but much in the same manner as their fathers; they offered cakes and flowers to the Madona instead of to Quilla; and whereas they had been used to pay homage to canopas and huacas, they now adored equally numerous santos and santas. Little had been done by their instructors to stir their intellects; less to touch their hearts. Instead of the bread of life, for which they asked, the conqueror gave them a stone.
It could not have been otherwise. God honors not hands like those of the conquistadors of Peru to build His spiritual temple; nor lips like those of the notorious Valverde, the first bishop of Cuzco, to carry His message of peace and good-will to men. But it would be unjust to forget that amongst the Spaniards there were some, both Churchmen and laymen, who not only deplored in secret, but dared to denounce openly, the crimes and cruelties of their compatriots. All honor to these truly noble men, who, if they could not redeem the Spanish name from infamy and the Spanish race from just retribution, at least delivered their own souls. In rebuking the sins of their countrymen, they bear mournful and emphatic witness to the conquered race, that they were a people singularly apt to learn, if their conquerors had only been as apt to teach. "If God in past times," writes one such large-hearted Spaniard, "had granted them men who with Christian zeal would have given them a full knowledge of our holy religion, they were a people very open to good impressions, as their works testify, which remain to this hour." But the burning anathemas that fell from the lips of divine love against those "hypocrites who shut up the kingdom of heaven against men, neither going in themselves nor suffering them that are entering to go in," belong not alone to the scribes and Pharisees of old;—they are the portion of all who tread in their footprints.