“Untrue! untrue! O morning star—O mine!
That sitteth secret in a veil of light
Far up the starry spaces—say untrue!
Speak but so loud as doth a Tyrrhene moon
To wasted waters.”
E. B. BROWNING.
ABOUT ten months afterward, Viracocha came back. He bent his steps, in the first instance, to the dwelling of Yupanqui. But there all was changed, except the familiar walls,—those adamantine Inca walls, which still defy the hand of time, and the far less gentle touch of man. Even these, however, were hardly visible through the heaps of stones, of timber, and of mortar that lay around them. With these materials, a second story, after the Spanish fashion, was being added to the Inca's house. A Spanish master-builder was overlooking the work, and directing the labors of a crowd of Indians and Black people. But no one could give Viracocha any information about the former occupants of the dwelling, turning away from them, he crossed the square towards the mansion of Dona Beatriz Coya. On one of the stone footbridges he encountered Sumac's old attendant, Amancaes. The poor woman threw herself at his feet, and kissed his dress. He raised her, spoke a few kindly words of greeting, and asked for news of the household.
Soon all was told. Less than a month after Viracocha's departure, old Yupanqui was found one morning, lying dead on the blanket of biscache wool that served him for a couch. But his death was opportune, and saved him much sorrow. Almost immediately afterward, the storm that had been gathering over the Inca family since the apprehension of Tupac Amaru, broke at last. The suspicion of the Spaniards and the tyranny of the Viceroy found expression in a severe decree, banishing nearly all the Children of the Sun from the beloved city of their fathers. Dona Beatriz Coya took the dejected and sorrowful Coyllur to her own home. Her grief for her grandfather was wild; but her aunt comforted her as best she could, promising to supply the place of a parent to her. From that day forward, the orphan girl was of necessity thrown entirely upon the protection and guidance of Dona Beatriz, and of the Spaniards, or Spaniardized Indians, who surrounded her. So the end could not be wondered at. The next day, in the Church of Santa Aria, Coyllur was to give her hand to the Spanish cavalier, Don Francisco Solis de Toledo.
Don Jose Viracocha Inca did honor to the memory of his ancestors by his manner of receiving this intelligence. A Spaniard would at least have sworn by all the saints in heaven to have his rival's blood. But the Inca's son had trained himself "the fierce extremes of good and ill to brook impassive." Therefore he spoke no word; he gave no sign. He silently emptied his coca-bag into the withered hands of the poor woman; then he walked quietly on to the door of the stately mansion of Don Marcio Serra de Leguisano.
The door-keeper was an Indian; which is equivalent to saying that he was the humble servant of Viracocha. From him he learned that the nu͂sta was at that moment in the court yard. "I would go thither, my brother," said Viracocha; and the Indian of course admitted him.
The taste of Dona Beatriz had transformed the courtyard into a pretty garden, rich with tropical glories, and having in the center a fountain of limpid water. Coyllur, who was gathering flowers, still wore her graceful national costume; but a Spanish head-dress of black silk and lace hung down over her pure white mantle of vicuna wool. On seeing Viracocha, she allowed the flowers to fall from her hands, and, trembling from head to foot, cried out in Spanish, "Santa Maria!”
Viracocha approached, knelt before her, and kissed her passive hand. Then he rose, and quietly withdrew a few paces.
“Coyllur nu͂sta," he said, of course in his native tongue, "I know all.—But will you, for the sake of the past, answer me one question this day? That done, I shall trouble you no more.”
Coyllur hung her head; and clutched nervously at the graceful bells of a tall fuchsia, near which they were standing. A spray came off in her hand, and she tore it to fragments.
Viracocha stood motionless, patiently awaiting her reply. It came at last:—"Ask what you will of me," she murmured.
“Is this thing your own free choice, Coyllur nu͂sta?" Viracocha asked, with almost as much outward calmness as if merely inquiring what she meant to do with the flowers that lay neglected at her feet.
“Why ask that?" she faltered, in a very different tone from his.
“Because—if Yes—I go home, never more to see your face. If No"-his dark eyes kindled, and unconsciously he advanced one step nearer,—"I fling this mantle round you, and thus I bear you safe to the dwellings of my people, let who will bar my way. Coyllur, star of Heaven, trust me—I will save you.”
She shrank a little, as if frightened by his vehemence; and Jose, instantly recollecting himself, recoiled also.
“I am afraid for you," she faltered. "If he should come and find you here, he would kill you.”
“Let him try," said Jose with a haughty smile. "But fear not. In your presence there shall be no bloodshed. Nu͂sta, I await your answer.”
Coyllur wrung her hands, as one in pain. "O Viracocha, Viracocha!" she cried at last, "why have you come to torture me? Why do you bring the old times back again to me? And yet—and yet—”
Jose took from his bosom Sumac's little book. Carefully preserved and pressed between its leaves lay the crimson passion-flower. This he gently removed, and placed in the trembling hand of Coyllur. "If you think the heart next which it has lain ever since worth your keeping, keep it," he said. "But if indeed you have given yours to the Spaniard, then give it back to me, for it will be all that I have left on earth.”
Minute after minute passed away, and still the shadows chased each other over the agitated face of the Indian girl, whose heart was torn by contending emotions. But at last the fight was over; the day was won. It was the proud Castilian knight who proved the conqueror;—with his fair face and splendid courtesy, and the masterful ways wherewith he seemed to rule man's will and woman's heart as easily as he controlled his noble steed. Pity, esteem, and old familiar kindness Coyllur still felt for the son of her people;—but she loved the Spaniard. Silently, tremblingly, with bowed head and sorrowful heart, she gave the withered flower back again to Viracocha.
Without a word he replaced it in his bosom. Then he said, calmly enough, "God bless you, nus͂tallay," and turned to go. But, turning again for a moment, he added, "I shall see your face no more. Unless, indeed, you or yours ever need the help of the children of your people. Then I will know it, and be near you.”
Coyllur watched him until he disappeared in the long dark passage that led to the outer door. Then she fled for refuge to her aunt, whom she actually terrified by an outburst of passionate weeping.
Doha Beatriz Coya, who had labored much to bring about this Spanish match, soothed and comforted her niece by every tender art in her power. "You have no idea, my child," she said, "with how many sad misgivings of heart I gave my hand, in my day, to the stranger. Nor was I quite so fortunate as you are. Everyone knows Don Francisco Solis is of the best blood in Spain—blue blood, as they say;—while Don Marcio Serra (whom the saints preserve!), you know, was—was not—well, no matter now; he is as good as the best of them, and better. But was it not told you how I braved the anger of Paullu, and of all my kindred, because I could not endure the thought of him? And at last, all that Paullu could wring from me, by prayers and threats and promises, was just this, 'Perhaps I will have him, and perhaps I will not.'" And the good lady indulged in a laugh at the recollection of her own girlish willfulness. "But there was no perhaps with my Uncle Paullu," she continued. "At that time he dared not, for his head, disoblige one of the conquistadors. So I was married, in spite of myself; to the best of husbands. And I have had, since then, everything my heart could desire; besides the power to help my people, which I have not failed to use, God and the saints enabling me.”
Whilst Coyllur was thus receiving from her kind-hearted aunt the time-honored conventional consolation,
“She herself was not exempt,
Doubtless she herself had suffered,”
Viracocha was wandering, with his broken heart, amongst the ruins of his ancestors' fortress on the Sachsahuaman hill.
At length he threw himself down amongst the tumbled stones, on a patch of emerald grass variegated with blue and golden wild-flowers. Then came his hour of weakness. All his proud stoicism gone, he bowed his head and wept—such tears as a man may weep un-blamed who has just lost everything that made life precious.
What dried his tears at last was not any thought of comfort, but the fierce and passionate hatred that like a bitter flood rushed over his heart, leaving no room for softer feelings there. How he hated these enemies of his race—these cruel Spaniards! His own gentler language supplied no words fit for his rage: he was fain to curse them, and that aloud, in the tongue they had taught him to speak. The crushing sense of their all-conquering power, and his and his nation's impotence, only intensified his hatred a thousandfold.
Now for the first time he thoroughly recognized and acknowledged to himself the strength that God had given to the white man. It was not their fire-breathing clubs, not their horses, not their iron tools, it was their strength that won them the victory—strength not of limb and muscle alone, but of heart and brain. They were not better than his own people,—not braver, truer, kinder,—far otherwise,—but they were stronger. And before this terrible strength, this force and weight of manhood in the pale-faced stranger, had perished, or was perishing, all the gentle grace and beauty of the old time; so fair even in its ruins, yet powerless to touch the hearts of the destroyers.
Viracocha's outburst of agony ended in a dumb, crushed hopelessness, worse than agony. Wherefore contend with this resistless might? It was the vicuña in the paw of the jaguar, the gentle dove in the talons of the mighty condor of the Andes.
Then came softer thoughts. Had all men united to tell him Coyllur could have proved untrue, he would have flung back a scornful denial. Even now, scarcely her own lips could convince him—lips that had spoken the soft musical “Vaya con Dios!" that haunted his memory still—that would haunt him forever. O Coyllur, Coyllur! Star of his life, set forever! And again his tears fell like rain, as over and over he murmured the beloved name.
Yet those tears relieved him; they did him good. They gradually recalled him to himself. He remembered his promise that she should see his face no more. This was the last service he could render her. He would leave Cuzco—and depart—whither? He knew not—he cared not. But ere he went, it behooved him to render account of his stewardship, and make full report of all he had seen and heard during the last ten months. Amancaes had informed him that Maricancha, in spite of the decree of banishment, contrived still to linger in Cuzco, under cover of a disguise, and she had told him where to find him. To him therefore he must go, and at once.
He rose and retraced his steps to the city. He was successful in finding Maricancha; but when his interview with him was over, he wandered once more towards what had been Yupanqui's house, feeling utterly desolate and alone. But near the door he met a young son of Dona Beatriz Coya's Indian porter, who had evidently been sent in search of him.
The boy brought him a sealed letter, which he said had been left for him some time ago at his master's, by a messenger from the house of the gray monks.
It was addressed, "A Don Jose Viracocha Inca, h. Cuzco." Jose cut the silk that secured it with his useless Spanish sword, and read these words:—
“MY SON,—I am sick in body and sick at heart. Come to me if thou canst. I need thee. Ask for me here at the Franciscan monastery.
“Thy unworthy father in God,
“Fernando, Brother of the
“First Order of St. Francis.
“Given at Ciudad de los Reyes, on the vigil of San Antonio, in the year of grace 1573.”
Nearly a year ago! Late in the day as it was already, Jose Viracocha had put three good leagues between himself and the Golden City ere he saw the sun drop in flame behind the snowy peak of Vilcanota.