The Bride of the Sun. Гастон Леру

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II

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      The man went out, signing as he went to a stalwart Indian who walked quietly into the office. Maria-Teresa, back at her desk, hardly raised her eyes. The newcomer, who took off his straw sombrero with a sweep worthy of a hidalgo of Castille, was a Trigullo Indian. These are perhaps the finest tribe of their race and claim descent from Manco-Capac, first king of the Incas. A mass of black hair, falling nearly to his shoulders, framed a profile which might have been copied from a bronze medallion. His eyes, strangely soft as he looked at the young girl before him, provoked immediate antagonism from Dick. He was wrapped in a bright-colored poncho, and a heavy sheath-knife hung from his belt.

      “Tell me how it happened,” ordered Maria-Teresa without returning the Indian’s salute.

      Under his rigid demeanor, it was evident that he resented this tone before a stranger. Then he began to speak in Quichua, only to be interrupted and told to use Spanish. The Indian frowned and glanced haughtily at the listening engineer.

      “I am waiting,” said Maria-Teresa. “So your Indians have killed one of my coolies?”

      “The shameless ones laughed because our Indians fired cohetes in honor of the first quarter of the moon.”

      “I do not pay your Indians to pass their time in setting off fireworks.”

      “It was the occasion of the Noble Feast of the Moon.”

      “Yes, I know! The moon, and the stars, and the sun, and every Catholic festival as well! Your Indians do nothing but celebrate. They are lazy, and drunkards. I have stood them, so far because they were your friends, and you have always been a good servant, but this is too much.”

      “The shameless sons of the West are not your servants. They do not love you....”

      “No, but they work.”

      “For nothing... They have no pride.

      “They are the sons of dogs.”

      “They earn their wages.... Your men, I keep out of charity!”

      “Charity!” The Indian stepped back as if struck, and his hand, swung clear of the poncho, was lifted over his head as if in menace. Then it dropped and he strode to the door. But before opening it, he turned and spoke rapidly in Quichua, his eyes flaming. Then, throwing his poncho oyer his shoulder, he went out.

      Maria-Teresa sat silent for a while, toying with her pencil.

      “What did he say?” asked Dick.

      “That he was going, and that I should never see him again.”

      “He looked furious.”

      “Oh, he is not dangerous. It is a way they have. He says he did everything he could to prevent the trouble.... He is a good man himself, but his gang are hopeless. You have no idea what a nuisance these Indians are. Proud as Lucifer, and as lazy as drones.... I shall never employ another one.”

      “Wouldn’t that make trouble?”

      “It might! But what else can I do? I can’t have all my coolies killed off like that.”

      “And what of Huascar?”

      “He will do as he pleases.... He was brought up in the place, and was devoted to my mother.”

      “It must be hard for him to leave.”

      “I suppose so.”

      “And you wouldn’t do anything to keep him?”

      “No.... Goodness, we are forgetting all about your uncle!” She rang, and a man came in. “Order the motor.... By the way, what are the Indians doing?”

      “They’ve left with Huascar.”

      “All of them?”

      “Yes, señorita.”

      “Without saying a word?”

      “Not a word, señorita.”

      “Who paid them off?”

      “They refused to take any money. Huascar ordered them to.”

      “And what of the Island coolies?”

      “They have not been near the place.”

      “But the dead man... and the wounded?”

      “The Chinamen take them back to their own quarters.”

      “Funny people.... Tell them to bring the motor round.”

      While speaking she had put on a bonnet, and now drew on her gloves.

      “I shall drive,” she said to the liveried negro boy who brought round the car.

      As they shot toward the Muelle Darsena, Dick admired the coolness with which she took the machine through the twisting streets. The boy, crouching at their feet, was evidently used to the speed, and showed no terror as they grazed walls and corners.

      “Do you do a great deal of motoring out here?”

      “No, not very much. The roads are too bad. I always use this to get from Callao to Lima, and there are one or two runs to the seaside, to places like Ancon or Carillos—just a minute, Dick.”

      She stopped the car, and waved her hand to a curly gray head which had appeared at a window, between two flower pots. This head reappeared at a low door, on the shoulders of a gallant old gentleman in sumptuous uniform. Maria-Teresa jumped out of the motor, exchanged a few sentences with him, and then rejoined Dick again.

      “That was the Chief of Police,” she explained. “I told him about that affair. There will be no trouble unless the Chinamen take legal proceedings, which is not likely.”

      They reached the steamers’ landing stage in time. The tugs had only just brought alongside the Pacific Steam Navigation Company’s liner, on board which Uncle Francis was still taking notes:—“On entering the port of Callao, one is struck, etc., etc.” He lost precious material by not being with Maria-Teresa as she enthusiastically descriRed “her harbor” to Dick.... Sixty millions spent in improvements... 50,000 square meters of docks.... How she loved it all for its commercial bustle, for its constant coming and going of ships, for its intense life, and all it meant—the riches that would flow through it after the opening of the Panama Canal... the renascence of Peru.... Chili conquered and Santiago crushed... the defeat of 1878 avenged... and San Francisco yonder had best look to itself!

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