“And I—my harp should prelude woe—
I cannot all command the strings;̆̆
The glory of the sum of things
Will flash along the chords, and go.”
TENNYSON.
EIGHT or nine months have glided by, all too swiftly, since Jose Viracocha became an inmate of Yupanqui's home, and no tidings from Fray Fernando have reached him yet.
One afternoon he turned his steps as usual to the cheerful apartment where the princesses, or mŭstas, were to be found. The maidens were seated near the open door; for the daylight was precious, and not too large a share fell to the lot of the Children of the Sun in dwellings built by themselves. Sumac was diligently at work on some golden flowers. Coyllur's hand was upon her much-loved tinya—the national Peruvian guitar of seven chords. Both were still dressed in soft, fine robes of gray, the Incas' mourning, for the head of their royal house; but Coyllur wore ornaments that Sumac had discarded. Bands of gold, interwoven with her beautiful hair, relieved its glossy blackness; which was still further set off by a simple yet tasteful wreath of red and white begonias.
Both sisters looked up as Jose entered; but Sumac immediately resumed her work, without the slightest change of expression in her worn and sorrowful face, while Coyllur's large dark eyes beamed with redoubled luster, and a visible blush kindled her features through their soft, dusky hue. Jose saw no one but her. He approached, and, with tender reverence in his look and manner, laid at her feet a small fowling-piece. But the young lady glanced rather doubtfully at this token of homage.
“Are you quite sure, Viracocha," she asked, "that his mother is not still inside?”
She merely meant to inquire whether the gun was not still loaded; the Peruvians styling the spiritual essence which they believed to inhabit most inanimate things their "mama," or mother; and Coyllur, not unnaturally, supposing the charge the spirit of the gun.
“Coyllur nu͂sta must know that her slave Viracocha would turn the fire-breathing club ten thousand times against his own breast, rather than suffer it to hurt a hair of her head," was Jose's answer.
“Viracocha should turn the fire against the enemies of his people.”
“Perhaps, one day—if a star shines on his path to guide him.”
The star beamed brightly enough upon him at that moment: though Coyllur's lips were sealed by pride and maidenly reserve, she was too young and artless to silence the mute eloquence of her eyes.
“How do you prosper in your attempt to teach your companions the use of that terrible weapon?" she asked presently.
“Well, nu͂sta. The difficult part of the undertaking was to teach myself first. That done, the rest is easy enough.”
“I hope the place chosen for your exercise is—safe?”
“Safe as the rocks of the Antis. It is the field of Quepaypan, which, you know, is a good league from the city. Few save our own people ever come near it; and for fear of any surprise, we have scouts stationed all around at convenient distances.”
“You should by all means procure a horse. A man looks so brave and noble upon horseback.”
“You are always right, nu͂sta. At present, however, that would be dangerous. We can learn to use our guns, and no Spaniard the wiser; but a troop of los Indios on horseback would scarcely be an agreeable sight to my lord the Viceroy—at least in his present temper.”
“The bloodthirsty Toledo? May he live to see many sights less agreeable.”
“Ay, nu͂sta; but the time is not come. You remember the words of the wise Pacha-cutec— ‘Impatience is the sign of a base mind.'”
Here Sumac's voice, low and soft as the cooing of a dove, broke in with the request—
“Wilt thou help me, sister? Thy fingers shape the delicate maize-ears more deftly than mine.”
“Chachau, since you wish it, my Sumac. But why such haste with the work?”
“I promised the flowers this evening to the nuns of Santa Clara.”
“I am tired of the nuns of Santa Clara," said Coyllur petulantly. "I think they would have us work for them like yanaconas.”
“Nay, Coyllur, they are very good to us; they teach us the holy faith. Besides," she added, in a somewhat lower tone, "you know how kind the lady abbess has been in persuading her kinsman the Viceroy to close his eyes for the present to—to what we are all sorry for.”
“at least am not sorry that our grandfather will not profess what he does not believe. But give me that silver wire, and I will help you; though I had rather the flowers were for the Inca's garden than for the shrine of Saint—I forget his name.— Viracocha, will you take the tinya, and play and sing for us while we work?”
Jose complied; all the more readily because he had a very fine "yaravi" to sing, which he had just composed in praise of his own bright star. But his performance on this occasion was brought to a premature close by the entrance of Yupanqui, who was accompanied by two chosen friends of Inca race—Maricancha and Rimac.
Yupanqui looked upon Jose with that peculiar tender fondness which the old sometimes feel for the young, in whom they see their own youth reproduced, and through whom they hope to realize their own lost hopes and ineffectual longings. He marked the budding attachment between his young favorite and his grandchild even before they had become aware of it themselves; and he watched its progress with interest and satisfaction.
If the conversation, previous to his entrance and that of his friends, had been sufficiently dangerous—treasonable, in fact, to Spanish ears—it became ten times more so afterward. Since the death of Tupac Amaru, the Indians of Inca race had been exposed to much unjust suspicion, and to many persecutions from the Spaniards; treatment which, of course, aggravated feelings of bitterness where such already existed, and excited them in other cases. Some faint, floating rumor of a defeat recently sustained at sea by the Spaniards, had just reached Cuzco. In this the Indians secretly triumphed, greatly exaggerating its importance. Much discussion followed as to who the victorious enemies could be. Yupanqui and his friends had the vaguest possible ideas on the subject. No fable could have been told them too wild or too monstrous for their faith.
Jose, who was just one degree less ignorant than the others, was listened to as an oracle. It seemed a favorable opportunity for propounding his cherished theory about the bearded, pale-faced strangers and their great King. Not that he had hitherto been altogether silent on this topic, so dear to his heart; but never before had he spoken of it so freely.
Yet the hopes that made the young, ardent heart of Jose throb and bound, but faintly stirred the pulses of the aged men, whose spirits had been crushed by nearly forty years of cruel oppression. They had learned to bow beneath the yoke with sullen endurance; not acquiescent, not resigned, but sorrowfully convinced of their own helplessness and the power of the conquerors. It would not be quite true to say that they had ceased to look for deliverance; but they looked passively, with tearful, weary eyes, in which the light of hope was well-nigh quenched. Maricancha expressed the feelings of all when he said,— “These are fine words, my son Viracocha; but the Spaniards are not conquered, nor like to be, in our day. Everything bows before them. They are strong. God is on their side, and fights for them.”
“I doubt that," Jose answered. "But the maize takes long to ripen, and God's plans may take longer.”
“If what the Spaniards tell us of His plans be true, He means them to possess the whole earth.”
“No, no, my fathers!" Jose cried with energy; "never think that. Is it not written in their own Sacred Book that the great King—who is no Spaniard, believe me—shall have dominion from sea to sea, from the river to the ends of the earth? that all kings shall fall down before Him, all nations shall serve Him? He is the mighty King, the great Inca of the East, to whom I look, and in whom I hope for deliverance. Oh, that I could but find Him!" he concluded, in tones of thrilling earnestness.
“I know who He is," said a soft, hesitating voice. All turned towards Sumac, with eyes full of curiosity and interest. "Viracocha told us those sacred words one day," she continued; "and they were sweet in our ears as the song of the tuya and wonderful as the spirit-music of Achapa. So I kept them in my heart, and asked the nuns of Santa Clara what they meant." Here she paused.
“Well, my child, and what said they?" Yupanqui asked.
Sumac crossed herself reverently. "Sister Maria told me that the great King is no other than the Lord Christ himself, the Son of God,"—she said.
But a chorus of grieved, protesting voices drowned her words. These men, so willing to hear about the Christian religion, so ready to embrace it, had yet learned from their instructors little more than a vague and awful dread of Him who is its center. They had been told of the pity and tenderness of "Our Lady," "the Mother of God." But of His pity they had never heard, save as shown through her intercession; from Him directly they expected none. Everyone except Jose, who remained silent, uttered some exclamation expressive of disbelief or disappointment.
“He is the Judge!" "He is the God of the Spaniards, who gave them our land and our people!" "He it is who will cast us into everlasting fire if we neglect to have the sacraments and pay the priests!" "Ay, truly!—If it were St. Christopher or St. James, one might understand. But the Son or God Himself! How terrible!”
Much more was said. But it is too painful to record such words. Indeed, they were not words so much as inarticulate cries—the cries of blind men, groping in the dark bewildered, and striking ignorantly against the Hand that would have saved and guided them—if they had but known!
“Sumac, my child—my dove! apple of my eye! daughter of my heart! what grieves thee?"—It was old Yupanqui who spoke, in the words of endearment and tenderness so richly supplied by the gentle lengua del Inca; for Sumac had slipped down from her seat, and was crouching on the floor, with her mantle thrown over her head, weeping quietly.
The girl's slight frame thrilled to the caressing touch of the old man, and taking his hand, she pressed it to her lips, saying with deep emotion, "Oh, my father I do not let them speak so of Him—of Him—who died for us!”
“For the Spaniards!" said Maricancha bitterly.
“For us also," repeated Sumac—her voice increasing in strength, and her eyes beaming softly through her tears;— "yes—for us also, the Children of the Sun, to take away our sins.”
“The Children of the Sun do not sin, my darling," said Yupanqui. "But pay thy devotions as thou wilt to thy favorite God; no one shall speak a word against Him.”
"He is the one God, grandfather. There is no other.”
“No other god! What canst thou mean, my child? For whose altar are those flowers of thine? Everyone knows the Christians honor hosts of gods called santos and santas, besides the great goddess, the queen of heaven. But worship whom thou wilt, my treasure, and may all gods comfort thee." Yupanqui, and indeed everyone else, had grown very tender, not to say reverent, towards Sumac, since the great sorrow had fallen upon her life.
The girl rose, carefully gathered up the completed flowers, and glided softly from the room. Coyllur seemed to hesitate for a moment whether to follow her; but the attraction of the dreams and aspirations that were being eagerly discussed by her countrymen proved too strong, and she remained.