“Trust!—the blessed deathly angels
Whisper Sabbath hours at hand.
By the heart's wound when most gory
By the longest agony,
Smile!—behold, in sudden glory
The Transfigured smiles on thee!
And ye lifted up your head,
And it seemed as if He said-
' My beloved, is it so?
Have ye tasted of my woe?
Of my bliss ye shall not fail.'
He stands brightly where the shade is,
With the keys of Death and Hades.”
E. B. BROWNING.
IT was midday. Sumac lay sleeping, or seeming to sleep, on a low couch, called a pununa. A favorite attendant sat near, converting a little heap of wool into delicate threads by means of a spindle which she turned with a curiously-carved handle, and looking from time to time, with a mute and wistful sorrow, on the wasted face of her beloved nu͂sta.
It has been said that some women "have no language at all for their profoundest experiences, except to pine away and die." Of such was Sumac. We have little right to look down from the proud height of our "Aryan" or "Caucasian" superiority upon our dusky brethren and sisters, as though their love and sorrow, compared with ours, "were as moonlight unto sunlight, or as water unto wine." Well have the race to which Sumac belonged asserted their claim to the love that proves itself stronger than death. Of Sumac's own kindred was the Inca girl, Manco's young wife, who endured every torture the Spaniards could invent without groan or murmur, and died at last smiling—because she died for him. Which of us could do more for earthly, not to say for heavenly love? And frail and shadowy as Sumac looked, within her slight frame there dwelt a spirit capable of the same devotion.
Viracocha entered the room gently through the open door, opposite to which Sumac's couch had been placed. He was now dressed in full Inca costume. Above his uncu, with its belt of embroidered cloth, he wore a short mantle of vicuña wool, white and very fine, and adorned with a broad yellow border. On his head was a stately cap or coronal of egret's feathers, bearing underneath the much-prized sacred cord of yellow and carnation, the insignia of the Children of the Sun. Viracocha was "a very handsome youth, well-shaped, and of a lovely countenance, as were all the other Incas."His chest was broad, his limbs slight, his head well-formed and graceful, his complexion a comely olive-brown; the oval face smooth as a maiden's, yet thoroughly manly in expression-the parted lips revealing snow-white teeth—the nose aquiline-the eyes black and piercing, but capable of the tenderest softness—the black hair worn short according to custom, but very abundant and beautifully fine and glossy.
No wonder that such a youth was considered a highly ornamental addition to the numerous and splendid religious processions, upon the effect of which the Spanish friars seem to have placed their main reliance for the conversion of the Indians. He was also received into the best Spanish society Cuzco afforded, and pronounced by the Dons whom he enjoyed the privilege of meeting at the house of Dona Beatriz Coya and elsewhere, "Homo tan formal y complida que Nosotros"—(As formal and well-bred a man as Ourselves)—a high eulogium from Spanish lips. The Inca's son was a gentleman as truly as any European prince or noble. He had not to learn courtesy from the Spaniards; he had but to translate its outward expression from the language of one set of observances into that of another. Moreover, Viracocha was born a poet; and the perilously sensitive and susceptible organization has its compensating advantages. At least, it enables a man to adapt himself to circumstances, not hypocritically affecting what he does not feel, but throwing himself readily into different forms of feeling. Ministering to Fray Fernando, pleading with unaffected eloquence the cause of his people, planning their deliverance, making love to Coyllur, taking part in a Corpus Christi procession, or exchanging Castilian courtesies in pure Castilian speech with the gentlemen of the Viceroy's suite, Viracocha was still, for the time being, "a whole man to that one thing," doing it with all his heart, and consequently doing it well. But this, though it was not hypocrisy, might yet easily become so.
All this time he is standing motionless, patiently waiting to be assured whether Sumac sleeps or not. At last his patience is rewarded—the girl opens her large languid eyes, and looks the question she does not need to speak.
“Dear nu͂sta, I have not been successful," said Viracocha gently, as he came to her side, "although I preferred my request to the great mother of all the holy virgins.”
“To the Mother Abbess?”
“Yes. I entreated her, for the love of God, to allow Sister Maria to come and see you. But she refused me. She says it is against their law for any holy virgin to leave the house.”
“So near—only a few steps from their garden gate to this!" said Sumac plaintively.
“The Mother said that to permit it would be a great sin. But to speak plainly, nu͂sta, I think she is no better than an ugly old toad. If sin there be, what should hinder her doing penance?”
The Lady Abbess, it must be owned, had not been particularly courteous to Viracocha, whom she regarded as her nephew's rival; nor very anxious to grant the request of which he was the bearer from the sister of Coyllur, who had of late bestowed sundry spirited rebuffs on that young nobleman.
“Then I shall never see Mamallay again!" said Sumac sadly, large tears gathering in her eyes. Presently she spoke to the attendant, "Amancaes, bring me my book.”
Sumac possessed a book, which she regarded with half-superstitious awe as a wonderful and mysterious treasure, and with intense affection as the gift of her beloved "Mamallay." It was a small, brown, well-worn volume—"The Sum of Christian Doctrine," by Fray Constantino Ponce de la Fuente. Sister Maria had taught her to read, but she was far from perfect in the art; and if she had been, much that the book contained was quite beyond her comprehension.
She took it reverently in her thin hands and opened its first page. Some faded writing was there, upon which she pressed her lips fondly once and again. Then, showing it to Viracocha—"That is Mamallay's name," she said; "the name she had before she became a holy virgin.”
With some difficulty Viracocha read the name, which was traced faintly, in a delicate female hand—"Dona Rosa de Mercedes y Guevara.”
“Yes, that was her name—Rosa. It is the name of a fragrant flower that grows beyond the Mother Sea,—they say nothing like it was ever seen in our country till the Spaniards brought it over. The book was made by a good man—a great speaker, who used to tell the people to be good, as the Dominicans do in the great church on saints' days. Mamallay loved his words; she says no one else ever spoke to her heart as he did. But afterward he did something wicked: I know not what, I only know they put him in prison. Yet the book is very good, and full of words about our Lord. His name comes often. I cannot read the hard words; but I can read that, and it does me good. "She paused to take breath, then resumed—" But you are wise, Viracocha. You know the white man's learning. So I wish you, when I go away, to have my book for your own. My other things (they are not many) my grandfather will have, and Coyllur. But my book shall be yours, because you can read it, and because I love you, brother.”
“I thank you, dear nu͂sta. But I hope you will live a long time yet.”
“It is not best for me to live. The Lord Christ knows that. How good He is! He saw me standing, all this time, outside the gate. He knew I longed—oh, how sorely!—to go in. But I would not until He called; no, I would not! Now He has called. Mamallay said so the last day I saw her. She told me His words,—' Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' His own words, Viracocha!”
But Viracocha cared not for them just then. He did not labor, nor was he heavy laden.
Sumac presently resumed—"My brother, since I have grown too weak to walk to the convent garden, I have much time for thinking. And as I think, things grow clear to me. Best it seems to me now that you should wed my sister.”
“That is my dearest hope—one day.”
“But, Viracocha, life is too short to be waiting for one day.' Why not ask my grandfather to give her to you now?”
Viracocha's black eyes became coals of fire, and his cheek burned through its olive hue;—but he was silent.
“Well?"—Sumac whispered.
“Ask him to give me Chasca, the evening star, from the sky! No, nu͂sta,—no! Not till I shall have done that which may give me right to claim a boon so priceless.”
“What is it you want to do?" the dying girl asked wistfully "Nu͂sta, you know.”
“I am not sure I do, you talk of so many strange things. Yet I can guess. You want to cross the Mother Sea, Viracocha.”
"Arri! arri! And to come back with an English army, sent by the great King, to restore the Inca. And then, as the deliverer of my people, to kneel and claim Coyllur nu͂sta.”
“Viracocha! Viracocha!" said the dying girl, raising herself upon her couch, and looking with imploring earnestness into his face,—"I know where that will end. And I know, too, how the Spanish steel wounds—not the flesh it falls on—that pang was short, thank God!—but the heart that loves. One of us is enough to bear that, Viracocha; do not lay it upon Coyllur.”
“God knows I would not cause her a pang for all that earth contains.”
I see great sorrows, like great clouds, hanging over you," Sumac went on sadly." That Spaniard wants to have Coyllur.”
"Aucca! I will fight him some day, and with his own weapons. The Spaniards shall see for once how an Inca can use them. The first time I met him, he would fain have struck me with his whip." (For the young cavalier whom Jose had encountered the day of his arrival in Cuzco, proved to be no other than Don Francisco Solis de Toledo; a circumstance which intensified their mutual distrust and dislike.) "It was-that, however, does not matter now," said Jose, checking himself suddenly as he remembered what had taken place that very day.
“But he will not fight you, Viracocha. He knows better He will have you killed. The Spaniards do what they please. They are strong.”
“God is stronger, Sumac nu͂sta.”
“He is," Sumac answered quietly." But He did not bid you fight Don Francisco; nor go in search of the English.”
“That I question. I believe He calls me to seek the great King who will deliver the poor when he crieth.”
Here the conversation was brought to a close by the entrance of Coyllur, who had been visiting her aunt, and brought to her sister delicious Spanish sweetmeats flavored with orange-flower water, the gift of that kind-hearted lady.
Never again had Viracocha opportunity for quiet talk with Sumac. From that time she grew rapidly worse. Pain and weakness claimed her for their own. She bore them very patiently, and faced the quickly-approaching end with a calmness more gentle and tender than the usual stoicism of her race.
Almost to the last the frail wasted fingers sought the familiar work, and feebly twisted the threads of golden wire. If Coyllur or her attendants remonstrated, she would say, "You know they are for the Lord Christ. They must be ready for Easter.”
They were ready for Easter. They filled a place among the glittering decorations of the high altar in the Church of Santa Clara. But ere the Easter bells began to ring, the gentle Inca girl had closed her eyes upon a world she was little loath to leave.
Every rite of the creed she professed had been duly afforded her. She confessed, communicated, and had extreme unction with all the proper forms, but with a very misty and imperfect apprehension of what was being done for her. If these things cannot help, neither may they hinder, the soul that trusts in God's mercy through Christ. As the dew ascends from earth to heaven, unbidden, uncontrolled by man, so poor Sumac's simple prayer ascended straight to the throne of God—"Good Lord Christ, take me to Thyself.”
Old Yupanqui, who hid a broken heart beneath a coldly impassive exterior, could not refuse his beloved grand-daughter's last request—that he would receive Christian baptism. Accordingly he submitted to the rite on Whitsunday—though with little comprehension of its significance.
“I will do what she wished," he said to Viracocha. "And after all, if I were now to go and dwell with my fathers in the Mansions of the Sun, they might not know me, or they might look upon me with scorn, because we are not what we were, in the old days when they ruled the land.”
“At least, my father," Viracocha answered, "you cannot doubt it would be well for all of us to follow whither she is gone”