III
The Marquis de la Torre’s residence was half modern, half historical, with here and there quaint old-fashioned rooms and corners. Don Christobal was something of a collector, and had adorned his home with ancient paneling, carved galleries several centuries old, rude furniture dating back to before the conquest, faded tapestry—all so many relics of the various towns of old Peru which his ancestors had first sacked and then peopled. And each object recalled some anecdote or Story which the host detailed at length to all willing listeners.
It was in one of these historical corners that Mr. Montgomery and his nephew were presented to two old ladies—two Velasquez canvases brought to life, yet striving to retain all their pictorial dignity. Attired after a fashion long since forgotten, Aunt Agnes and her duenna might almost have been taken for antiques of Don Christobal’s collection: they lived altogether in another age, and their happiest moments were those passed in telling fear-inspiring legends. All the tales of old Peru had a home in this ancient room of theirs, and many an evening had been whiled away there by these narratives—the two Christobals, father and son, and little Infanta Isabella listening in one corner, while Maria-Teresa, at the other end of the room, went over her accounts and wrote her letters in a great splash of yellow lamplight.
Uncle Francis was delighted to meet in real life two such perfect types of the New Spain of yore, set in the very frame they needed. They were great friends at once, and the savant, taken to his own room, changed his clothes hurriedly to be able to rejoin them. At dinner, installed between the two, he begged for more legends, more stories. Maria-Teresa, thinking it time to talk of more serious matters, interrupted by telling her father of the trouble between the Indians and coolies.
When they heard that Maria-Teresa had discharged the Indians, Aunt Agnes shook her head doubtfully, and Irene openly expressed her disapproval. Both agreed that the young girl had acted imprudently, and particularly so on the eve of the Interaymi festival. This view was also taken by the Marquis, whose protest took an even more active form when he learned that Huascar had also left. Huascar had always been a very faithful servant, he argued, and his brusk departure was strange. Maria-Teresa explained shortly that for some time past Huascar’s manner had displeased her, and that she had let him know it.
“That is another matter,” said the Marquis.
“But I am no more comfortable about it... there is something in the air... the Indians are not behaving normally.... The other day, in the Plaza Mayor, I heard extraordinary remarks being made by some half-breeds to a couple of Quichua chiefs.”
“Yes, we did not meet a single Indian on the way from Callao, and I have not seen one in the city,” said Dick. “Why is that, I wonder?”
“Because of the festival,” interjected Aunt Agnes. “They have their secret meetings. They disappear into the mountains, or some warren of theirs—catacombs like the Early Christians. One day, the order comes from some corner of the Andes, and they vanish like shadows, to reappear a few days later like a swarm of locusts.”
“My sister exaggerates a little,” said the Marquis, smiling. “They are not so very dangerous, after all.”
“But you yourself are worried, Christobal. You have just said so.”
“Only because there might be some rioting....”
“Have they got it in them?” asked Mr. Montgomery. “They seem so nerveless....”
“They are not all like that.... Yes, we have had one or two native rebellions, but it was never anything very serious.”
“How many of them are there in the country?” put in Dick.
“About two-thirds of the population,” answered Maria-Teresa. “But they are no more capable of really rebelling than they are of working properly. It is the Garcia business that has unsettled them, coming after a long period of quiet.” She turned to her father. “What does the President think of it all?”
“He does not seem to worry a great deal. This Indian unrest recurs every ten years.”
“Why every ten years?” demanded Uncle Francis.
“Because of the Sun Festival,” said old Irene. “The Quichuas hold it every ten years.”
“Where?” Dick took a sudden interest. “Nobody knows,” replied Aunt Agnes, in a nervously strangled voice. “There are sacrifices... and the ashes of the victims are thrown into rivers and streams... to carry away the sins of the nation, the Indians believe.”
“That is really very interesting!” exclaimed Uncle Francis.
“Some of the sacrifices are human,” half groaned the old lady, dropping her head to her plate.
“Human sacrifices!”
“Oh, Auntie!” laughed Maria-Teresa.
“Curious,” remarked the savant. “And there may be some truth in it. I know that they were customary at the Festival of the Sun among the Incas. And Prescott makes it clear that the Quichuas have kept not only the language of their ancestors, but also many of the ancient customs.”
“Yes, but they became Christians when the Spaniards conquered their country,” suggested Dick.
“Not that that affects them much,” commented the Marquis. “It gives them two religions instead of one, and they have mixed up the rites and beliefs of the two in a most amazing fashion.”
“What do they want to do, then? Re-build the Empire of the Incas?”
“They don’t know what they want,” replied Maria-Teresa. “In the days of the Incas every living being in the Empire had to work, were practically the slaves of the Sons of Sun. When that iron discipline was removed they gradually learned to do nothing but sleep. Of course, that meant poverty and misery, which they attribute, not to their laziness, but to the fact that they are no longer ruled by the descendants of Mono-Capac! From what Huascar told me, they still hope for a return of the old kings.”
“And they still go in for human sacrifice?” asked Dick.
“Of course not! What absolute nonsense!” Aunt Agnes and Irene both turned to Uncle Francis.
“Maria-Teresa was brought up abroad, and does not know.... She cannot know.... But she is wrong to laugh at what she calls ‘all these old stories.’... There is plenty of proof, and we are sure of it.... Every ten years—all great events were decennial among the Incas—every ten years, the Quichua Indians offer a bride to the Sun.”
“A bride to the Sun?” exclaimed Uncle Francis, half horrified, half incredulous.
“Yes... they sacrifice a young girl in one of those horrible Inca temples of theirs, where no stranger has ever gone!... It is terrible, but it is true.”
“Really... it is so difficult to believe.... Do you mean to say that they kill her?”
“They do... as a sacrifice to the Sun.”
“But how? By fire?”