ROMANCE OF CID RAMON.
I remember thee, Granada!
Cid Ramon spurr'd his good steed fast,
His thousand score were near;
And from Sevilla's walls aghast,
The watchmen fled with fear:
For Afric's Emir lay around,
The town was leaguer'd sore,
And king Mohammed wept with shame
To be a king no more.
I remember thee, Granada!
The Emir's powers were round and nigh,
Like locusts on the sward;
And when Cid Ramon spurr'd his steed,
They struck him fast and hard.
"But," quoth the Cid, "a knight am I,
With crucifix and spear;
And for Mohammed ride I on,
And for his daughter dear."—
I remember thee, Granada!
"Cheer up, dark king, and wail no more,
Let tears no longer flow;
Of Christian men a thousand score
Have I to smite thy foe.
The king Alfonso greets thee well:
Kiss thou the cross, and pray;
And ere thou say'st the Ave o'er,
The Emir I will slay."
I remember thee, Granada!
"Or let the African be slain,
Or let the Emir slay,
I will not kiss the cross of Christ,
Nor to his Mother pray.
A camel-driver will I live,
With Yussef for my lord,
Or ere I kiss the Christian's cross,
To win the Christian's sword."
I remember thee, Granada!
"Mohammed, now thou griev'st me much—
Alfonso is my king:
But let Suleya kiss the cross,
And let her wear the ring.
The crucifix the bride shall bear,
Her lord shall couch the spear;
And still I'll smite thy foe for thee,
And for thy daughter dear."
I remember thee, Granada!
Then up Suleya rose, and spoke,—
"I love Cid Ramon well;
But not to win his heart or sword,
Will I my faith compel.
With Yussef, cruel though he be,
A bond-maid will I rove,
Or ere I kiss the Christian's cross,
To win the Christian's love."
I remember thee, Granada!
"Suleya! now thou griev'st me much—
A thousand score have I;
But, saving for a Christian's life,
They dare not strike or die.
Alfonso is my king, and thus
Commands my king to me:
But, for that Christian, all shall strike,
If my true love she be."
I remember thee, Granada!
"Ill loves the love, who, ere he loves,
Demands a sacrifice:
Who serves myself, must serve my sire,
And serve without a price.
Let Yussef come with sword and spear,
To fetter and to rend;
I choose me yet a Moorish foe
Before a Christian friend!"—
I remember thee, Granada!
"Ill loves the love, who pins his love
Upon a point of creed;
And balances in selfish doubt,
At such a time of need.
His heart is loosed, his hands untied,
And he shall yet be free
To wear the cross, and break the ring,
Who will not die for me!"
I remember thee, Granada!
The Emir's cry went up to heaven:
Cid Ramon rode away—
"Ye may not fight, my thousand score,
For Christian friend to-day.
But tell the king, I bide his hest,
Albeit my heart be sore;
Of all his troops, I give but one
To perish for the Moor."
I remember thee, Granada!
The Emir's cry went up to heaven;
His howling hosts came on;
Down fell Sevilla's tottering walls,—
The thousand score were gone.
And at the palace-gate, in blood,
The Arab Emir raves;
He sat upon Mohammed's throne,
And look'd upon his slaves.
I remember thee, Granada!
"The lives of all that faithful be,
This good day, will I spare;
But wo betide or kings or boors,
That currish Christians are!"—
Up rode Cid Ramon bleeding fast;
The princess wept to see;—
"No cross was kiss'd, no prayer was said,
But still I die for thee!"
I remember thee, Granada!
The Moorish maid she kiss'd the cross,
She knelt upon her knee;—
"I kiss the cross, I say the prayer,
Because thou diest for me.
To buy thy thousand score of swords,
I would not give my faith;
But now I take the good cross up,
To follow thee in death."
I remember thee, Granada!
"Holy Maria! Come to us,
And take us to the blest;
In the true blood of love and faith,
Receive us to thy rest!"—
The Emir struck in bitter wrath,
Sharp fell the Arab blade;
And Mary took the Cid to heaven,
And bless'd the Christian maid.
I remember thee, Granada!
"I like that ballad well," said De Morla, with a pensive sigh, when the singer had finished, "and, to my thought, no handsome maiden, though such always makes the best ballad-singer, could have trolled it with a more tender and loving accent than Jacinto. 'The Moorish maid,'" he continued, humming the words in a sentimental manner,—
"The Moorish maid she kiss'd the cross,
She knelt upon her knee.—
To my mind, it would read better, if we could say, 'The Mexican maid.'—
The Mexican maid she kiss'd the cross—
But, pho upon it! that spoils the metre.—Is it not thy opinion, señor, the princess Suleya would have shown more true love as well as wisdom, to have kissed the cross before the Cid came to his death-gasp?"
"By my faith, I cannot doubt it," said Don Amador; "yet, considering that she avowed herself a proselyte, when the sword of that accursed Emir was suspended over her head, and so provoked and endured the death of a martyr for Don Ramon's sake, it must be acknowledged she acted as became a loving and truly devout lady. But what I chiefly esteem in this ditty, is the magnanimous art with which the Cid Ramon both preserved his faith to his king, and devoted himself to death for his mistress,—a reconciliation of duties which some might have considered impracticable, or, at least, highly objectionable."
"Amigo querido mio," cried De Morla, grasping the neophyte's hand, and speaking with a voice half comical, half serious, "if thou livest a hundred years longer than myself, thou wilt hear some such mournful madrigal as this sung in memory of my foolish self; only that, in place of a Moorish Infanta, thou wilt hear the name of a Mexican princess; and Minnapotzin will doubtless be immortalized along with De Morla."
"Minnapotzin!" exclaimed Don Amador, with a stare rendered visible enough by the distant flashings of the volcano. "I swear to thee, my brother, I understand not a word thou art saying!"
"To make the matter clear to thee then," said De Morla, with forced gayety, "conceive me for a moment to be the Cid of whom we have been singing; and imagine my Suleya to be wandering by the lake side in the figure of a certain Minnapotzin, received to our holy faith under the name of Doña Benita,—a princess among these poor barbarians."
"Dost thou indeed love one of these strange maidens, then?—and is she baptized in our holy faith?" demanded Don Amador, with much interest. "If she be worthy of thee, Francisco, I pray heaven to make thee happy with her."
"Now, may I die!" cried De Morla, grasping Don Amador's hand warmly, "if I did not fear thou wouldst either censure or laugh at me,—or perhaps turn thy ridicule upon Benita,—a wrong I never could have forgiven thee. For I protest to thee, there is no such gentle and divine being in all the world beside. I make thee my confidant, hermano mio, because I shall have much need of thy friendship and counsel; for though I come not, like Cid Ramon, with 'a thousand score' to rescue her pagan father, sure am I, I cannot love the princess, and yet be blind to the miseries of the king."
"Assuredly," said Don Amador, "I will aid thee, and, for thy sake, both the fair princess and her unconverted sire, wherever, in so doing, I may not oppose my allegiance and religion."
"I will not claim any sacrifice," said De Morla, "unless so much as will rob thee of thy prejudices against this deluded people. In fact, I desire thee more as a confidant, than as an abettor; for there is nothing to oppose my happiness, saving the present uncertainty of the relations betwixt ourselves and the Mexicans. Minnapotzin is a Christian;—I dare be sworn, the Cid was not better beloved than myself;—and Cortes hath himself promised to ask the consent of our Christian king to the marriage, as soon as Montezuma has properly confirmed his vassalage. No, there is nothing to oppose me," continued De Morla, with a sudden sadness, "saving only this uncertainty I have spoken of,—and the darkness that hangs over my own destiny."
"I vow to thee, I am as much in the dark as before," said Don Amador.
"In good faith, my friend," said the young cavalier, with a faint smile, "it is promised me, I shall die very much like Don Ramon. Did I never tell thee what Botello hath prophesied?"
"Not a jot," said the neophyte. "But I trust thou puttest no faith in that worthy madman?"
"How can I help it?" said De Morla, seriously. "He has foretold nothing that has not been accomplished, from the quarrel of Cortes with the Adelantado Velasquez, even to the fall of Zempoala."
"I have reflected on this prediction with regard to Zempoala, as well as all others whereof I have heard," said the neophyte, with a sagacious nod, "and I have settled in mine own mind that there is nothing in them beyond the operation of a certain cunning, mingled with a boldness which will hazard any thing in prognostic. Much credit is given to Botello for having, as I am informed, predicted, even before the embarkation of Cortes, the rupture between him and his governor that afterwards ensued. Now, any man, acquainted with the unreasonable rashness and hot jealousy of the governor, might have foretold a quarrel; and I see not how it could have been otherwise. So also, as I may say, I did myself, in a manner, foretell the disaster of Narvaez, as soon as I perceived his foolish negligence, in choosing rather to divert his soldiers with legerdemain dances than to set them about his city as sentinels. The victory comes not to the indiscreet general."
"All this might have been conjectured, but not with so many surprising particulars," said the cavalier. "How could Botello have predicted, that, though Narvaez should sally out against us, no blow should be struck by daylight?"
"Marry, I know not; unless upon a conviction that Cortes was too wise to meet his enemy on the plain; and from a personal assurance, that the rocks wherein the general had pitched his camp, were utterly unassailable."
"How could he have guessed that flames should drive the Biscayan from the tower?"
"Did he guess that, indeed?" said the neophyte, staring. "He could not have known that; for the brand was thrown by mine own rogue Lazaro, who, I know, was not his confederate."
"How could he have averred that Narvaez should lose his eye, and come blindfold to his conqueror?"
"Is it very certain Botello foretold that?" demanded Don Amador, his incredulity shaking.
"The señor Duero was present, as well as several other honourable cavaliers, and all confirm the story," said De Morla. "Nay, I could give thee a thousand instances of the marvellous truths he has spoken; and so well is Cortes convinced of his singular faculty, that he will do no deed of importance, without first consulting the magician."
"When my head is very cool," said Amador, musingly, "I find no difficulty to persuade myself that the existence of the faculty of soothsaying is incredible, because subversive of many of the wise provisions of nature; yet I will not take upon me to contradict what I do not know. And surely also, I may confess, I have heard of certain wonderful predictions made by astrologers, which are very difficult to be explained, unless by admission of their powers."
"What Botello has said to me," said De Morla, with a hurried voice, "has been in part fulfilled, though spoken in obscure figures. He told me, long since, that I should be reduced to bondage, 'at such time as I should behold a Christian cross hanging under a pagan crown.' This I esteemed a matter for mirth; 'for how,' said I, 'shall I find a pagan wearing a crucifix? and how shall I submit to be a captive among strange and cruel idolaters, when I have the power to die fighting?' But I have seen the cross on the bosom of one who wears the gold coronet of a king's daughter; and now I know that my heart is in slavery!"
Don Amador pondered over this annunciation; but while he deliberated, his friend continued,—
"When Botello told me this, he added other things,—not many but dark,—to wit, as I understood it, 'that I should perish miserably with my enslaver,' and, what is still more remarkable, with an infidel priest to say the mass over my body! Señor, these things are uncomfortable to think on; but I vow to heaven, if I am to die in the arms of Minnapotzin, I shall perish full as happily as did Cid Ramon in the embraces of Suleya!"
De Morla concluded his singular story with a degree of excitement and wildness that greatly confounded Don Amador; and before the neophyte could summon up arguments enough to reply, a voice from the bottom of the pyramid was heard pronouncing certain words, in a tongue entirely unknown to him, but among which he thought he recognised the name of Minnapotzin. He was not mistaken. De Morla started, saying, hastily,—
"I am called, señor. This is the voice of one of the envoys of Montezuma, with whom I have certain things to say concerning Doña Benita. I will return to thee in an instant." And so saying, he descended the stairs of the mound, and was straightway out of sight.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The moon had now risen, and was mingling her lustre with the blaze of the volcano. The shouts of revelry came less frequently from the city, and, one by one, the torches vanished from the house-tops and the streets. A pleasant quiet surrounded the deserted temple; a few embers, only, glowed in the sacred urns; but the combined light of the luminary and the mountain covered the terrace with radiance, and fully revealed the few objects which gave it the interest of life. In this light, as Don Amador turned to his youthful companion, he beheld the eyes of the page suffused with tears.
"How is it, Jacinto?—What ails thee?" he cried. "I vow to heaven, I am as much concerned at thy silly griefs, as though thou wert mine own little brother Rosario, who is now saying his prayers at Cuenza. Art thou weary? I will immediately conduct thee to our quarters. Is there any thing that troubles thee? Thou shouldst make me thy confidant; for surely I love thee well."
"Señor mio! I am not weary, and I am not grieved," said the stripling, with simplicity, as the good-natured cavalier took him by the hand, to give him comfort. "I wept for pity of the good Don Francisco and the poor Minnapotzin; for surely it is a pity if they must die!"
"Thou art a silly youth to lament for evils that have not yet happened," said Amador.
"But besides, señor," said the page, "when Don Francisco made me sad, I looked at the moon, and I thought how it was rising on my country!"
"It is now in the very noon of night, both in thy land and mine," said the neophyte, touched by the simple expression, and leading the boy where the planet could be seen without obstruction;—"it is now midnight over Fez, as well as Castile; and, perhaps, some of our friends, in both lands, are regarding this luminary, at this moment, and thinking of us."
The page sighed deeply and painfully:
"I have no friends,—no, neither in Fez nor in Spain," he said; "and, save my father, my master, and my good lord, none here. There is none of my people left, but my father; and we are alone together!"
"Say not, alone," said Amador, with still more kindness,—for as Jacinto made this confession of his destitute condition, the tears fell fast and bitterly from his eyes. "Say not, alone; for, I repeat to thee, I have come, I know not by what fascination, to love thee as well as if thou wert my own little brother; and there shall no wrong come to thee, or thy father, while I live to be thy friend."
Jacinto kissed the hand of the cavalier, and said,—
"I did not cry for sorrow, but only for thinking of my country."
"Thou shouldst think no more of Fez; for its people are infidels, and thou a Christian."
"I thought of Granada,—for that is the land of Christians; and I longed to be among the mountains where my mother was born."
"Thou shalt live there yet, if God be merciful to us," said the cavalier: "for when there is peace in this barbarous clime, I will take thee thither for a playmate to Rosario. But now that we are here alone, let us sit by the tower, and while I grow melancholy, bethinking me of that same land of Granada, which I very much love, I will have thee sing me some other pretty ballad of the love of a Christian knight for a Moorish lady;—or I care not if thou repeat the romance of the Cid: I like it well—'Me acuerdo de ti'—'me acuerdo de ti'—" And the neophyte seemed, while he murmured over the burthen, as if about to imitate the pensiveness of De Morla.
"If my lord choose," said the page, "I would rather tell him a story of Granada, which is about a Christian cavalier, very noble and brave, and a Christian Morisca, that loved him."
"A Christian Morisca!" said Amador; "and she loved the cavalier?—I will hear that story. And it happened in Granada too?"
"In one of the Moorish towns, but not in the royal city.—It was in the town Almeria."
"In the town Almeria!" echoed Amador, eagerly. "Thou canst tell me nothing of Almeria that will not give me both pain and pleasure, for therein—But pho! a word doth fill the brain with memories!—Is it an ancient story?"
"Not very ancient, please my lord: it happened since the fall of Granada."
"It is strange that I never heard it, then; for I dwelt full two months in this same town; and 'tis not yet forty years since the siege."
"Perhaps it is not true," said the stripling, innocently; "and, at the best, 'tis not remarkable enough to have many repeaters. 'Tis a very foolish story."
"Nevertheless, I am impatient to hear it."
"There lived in that town," said Jacinto, "a Moorish orphan—"
"A girl?" demanded the neophyte.
"A Moorish maiden,—of so obscure a birth, that she knew not even the name that had been borne by her parents; but nevertheless, señor, her parents, as was afterwards found out, were of the noblest blood of Granada. She was protected and reared in the family of a benevolent lady, who, being descended of a Moorish parent, looked with pity on the poor orphan of the race of her mother. When this maiden was yet in her very early youth, there came a noble cavalier of Castile—"
"A Castilian!" demanded Don Amador, with extraordinary vivacity,—"Art thou a conjurer?—What was his name?"
"I know not," said Jacinto.
"Thou learnest thy stories, then, only by the half," said the neophyte, with a degree of displeasure that amazed the youth. "And, doubtless, thou wert forgetful also to acquire the name of the Moorish orphan?"
"Señor," said the page, discomposed at the heated manner of his patron, "the Moorish maiden was called Leila."
"Leila!" cried the neophyte, starting to his feet, and seizing Jacinto by the arm—"Canst thou tell me aught of Leila?"
"Señor!" murmured Jacinto, in affright.
"Leila, the Morisca, in the house of the señora Doña Maria de Montefuerte!" exclaimed Don Amador, wildly. "Dost thou know of her fate? Did she sleep under the surges of the bay? Was she ravished away by those exile dogs of the mountains?—Now, by heaven, if thou canst tell me any thing of that Moorish maid, I will make thee richer than the richest Moor of Granada!"
At this moment, while Jacinto, speechless with terror, gazed on his patron, as doubting if his senses had not deserted him, a step rung on the earth of the terrace, and De Morla stood at his side.
The voice of his friend recalled the bewildered wits of the neophyte; he stared at Jacinto, and at De Morla; a deep hue of shame and confusion flushed over his brow; and perceiving that his violence had again thrown the page into tears, he kissed him benevolently on the forehead, and said, as tranquilly as he could,—
"A word will make fools of the wisest! I think I was dreaming, while thou wert at thy story. Be not affrighted, Jacinto: I meant not to scold thee—I was disturbed.—Next—next," he added, with a grievous shudder, "I shall be as mad as my kinsman!"
"My brother! I am surprised to see thee in this emotion," said De Morla.
"It is nothing," responded Amador, hastily and gloomily: "I fear there is a natural infirmity in the brains of all my family. I was moved, by an idle story of Jacinto, into the recollection of a certain sorrowful event, which, one day, perhaps, I will relate to thee.—But let us return to our quarters.—The air comes down chilly from the mountains—It is time we were sleeping."
The friends retired from the temple, leaving the torch sticking in the platform; for the moon was now so high as to afford a better illumination. They parted at the quarters; but Don Amador, after satisfying himself that the knight of Rhodes was slumbering on his pallet, drew Jacinto aside to question him further of the orphan of Almeria. His solicitude was, however, doomed to a disappointment; the page was evidently impressed with the fear, that Don Amador was not without some of the weakness of Calavar; and adroitly, though with great embarrassment, avoided exciting him further.
"It is a foolish story, and I am sorry it displeased my lord," said he, when commanded to continue the narrative.
"It displeased me not—I knew a Moorish maid of that name in Almeria, who was also protected by a Christian lady; and, what was most remarkable, this Christian lady was of Moorish descent, like her of whom thou wert speaking; and, like the Leila of thy story, the Leila of my own memory vanished away from the town before——"
"Señor," cried Jacinto, "I did not say she vanished away from Almeria: that did not belong to the story."
"Ay, indeed! is it so? Heaven guard my wits! what made me think it?—And thy Leila lived in Almeria very recently?"
"Perhaps ten or fifteen years ago——"
"Pho!—Into what folly may not an ungoverned fancy lead us?—Ten or fifteen years ago!—And thou never heardst of the Leila that dwelt in that town within a twelve-month?"
"I, señor?" cried Jacinto, with surprise.
"True—how is it possible thou couldst?—Thou hast, this night, stirred me as by magic. I know not by what sorcery thou couldst hit upon that name!"
"It was the name of the lady," said Jacinto, innocently.
"Ay, to be sure!—There is one Mary in heaven, and a thousand on earth—why should there not be many Leilas?—Did I speak harshly to thee, Jacinto? Thou shouldst not kiss my hand, if I did; for no impatience or grief could excuse wrath to one so gentle and unoffending. Good night—get thee to thy bed, and forget not to say thy prayers."
So saying, and in such disorder of spirits as the page had never before witnessed in him, Don Amador retired.
Jacinto was left standing in a narrow passage, or corridor, on which opened a long row of chambers with curtained doors, wherein slept the soldiers, crowded thickly together. In the gallery, also, at a distance, lay several dusky lumps, which, by the gleaming of armour about them, were seen to be the bodies of soldiers stretched fast asleep. As the boy turned to retire in the direction of the open portal, it was darkened by the figure of a man, entering with a cautious and most stealthy step. He approached, and by his voice, (for there was not light enough yielded by the few flambeaux stuck against the wall, to distinguish features,) Jacinto recognised his father.
"I sought thee, my child!" he whispered, "and saw thee returning with the hidalgos.—The watchmen sleep as well as the cannoniers.—It is as I told thee—art thou ready?"
"Dear father!"—stammered the page.
"Speak not above thy breath!—The curs, that are hungering after the blood of the betrayed Mexicans, would not scorn to blunt their appetites on the flesh of the Moor. Have thyself in readiness at a moment's warning: Our destinies are written—God will not always frown upon us!"
"Dear father!" muttered Jacinto, "we are of the Spaniards' faith, and we will go back to our country."
"It cannot be!—never can it be!" said Abdalla, in tones that were not the less impressive for being uttered in a whisper. "The hills of thy childhood, the rivers of thy love—they are passed away from thee;—think of them no more;—never more shalt thou see them! In the land of barbarians, heaven has willed that we should live and die; and be thou reconciled to thy fate, for it shall be glorious! We live not for ourselves; God brings us hither, and for great ends! To night, did I—Hah!"—(One of the sleepers stirred in the passage.)—"Seek some occasion to speak with me, to-morrow, on the march," whispered Abdalla in the page's ear; and then, with a gesture for silence, he immediately retired.
"Fuego! Quien pasea alli?" grumbled the voice of Lazaro, as he raised his head from the floor. "Fu! el muchacho!—I am ever dreaming of that cursed Turk, that was at my weasand, when Baltasar brained him with the boll of his cross-bow. Laus tibi, Christe!—I have a throat left for snoring." And comforting himself with this assurance, before Jacinto had yet vanished from the passage, the man-at-arms again slumbered on his mat.
CHAPTER XXV.
In the prosecution of his purpose, our historian, the worthy Don Cristobal Ixtlilxochitl, though ever adhering to his 'neglected cavaliers' with a generous constancy, is sometimes seduced into the description of events and scenes of a more general character, not very necessarily connected with his main object, and which those very authors whom he censures, have made the themes of much prolix writing. The difficulties that beset an historian are ever very great; nor is the least of them found in the necessity of determinating how much, or how little, he is called upon to record; for though it seems but reasonable he should take it for granted that his readers are entirely unacquainted with the matters he is narrating, and therefore that he should say all that can be said, this is a point in which all readers will not entirely agree with him. Those who have acquired a smattering of his subject, will be offended, if he presume to reinstruct them. For our own part, not recognizing the right of the ignorant to be gratified at the expense of the more learned, we have studied as much as is possible, so to curtail the exuberances of our original as to present his readers chiefly with what they cannot know; for which reason, it will be found, we have eschewed many of the memorable incidents of this famous campaign, in which none of the neglected conquerors bore a considerable part; as well as all those minute descriptions which retard the progress of the history. We therefore despatch in a word the glories of the morning that dawned over Tlascala, the gathering together of the Spaniards, who, upon review, were found to muster full thirteen hundred men, and their savage allies, two thousand in number, commanded, as had been anticipated, by Talmeccahua of the tribe Tizatlan.
Amid the roar of trumpets and drums, and the shouts of a vast people, the glittering and feathered army departed from Tlascala, and pursuing its way through those rich savannas covered with the smiling corn and the juicy aloe, which had gained for this valley its name of the Land of Bread, proceeded onwards towards the holy city, Cholula.
What rocky plains were crossed and what rough sierras surmounted, it needs not to detail: before night-fall, the whole army moved over the meadows that environ Cholula; and there, where now the traveller sees naught but a few wretched natives squatting among their earthen cabins, the adventurers beheld a city of great size, with more than four hundred lofty white towers shining over its spacious dwellings. The magnificent mountains that surrounded it—the sublime Popocatepetl, still breathing forth its lurid vapours,—the forbidding Iztaccihuatl, or the White Woman, looking like the shattered ruins of some fallen planet, vainly concealing their deformities under a vestment of snow,—the sharp and serrated Malinche,—and last (and seen with not the less interest that it intercepted the view towards home,)—the kingly Orizaba, looking peaceful and grand in the east,—made up such a wall of beauty and splendour as does not often confine the valleys of men. But there is one mountain in that singular scene, which human beings will regard with even more interest than those peaks which soar so many weary fathoms above it: the stupendous Teocalli—the Monte hecho á manos, (for it was piled up by the hands of human beings,)—reared its huge bulk over the plain; and, while looking on the stately cypresses that shadowed its gloomy summit, men dreamed, as they dream yet, of the nations who raised so astonishing an evidence of their power, without leaving any revealment of their fate. Whence came they? whither went they? From the shadows—back to the shadows.—The farce of ambition, the tragedy of war, so many thousand times repeated in the three great theatres that divided the old world, were performed with the same ceremonies of guilt and misery, with the same glory and the same shame, in a fourth, of which knowledge had not dreamed. The same superstitions which heaped up the pyramids and the Parthenon, were at work on the Teocallis of America; and the same pride which built a Babylon to defy the assaults of time, gave to his mouldering grasp the tombs and the palaces of Palenque. The people of Tenochtitlan and Cholula worshipped their ancient gods among the ruined altars of an older superstition.
Great crowds issued from this city—the Mecca of Anahuac—to witness the approach of the Spaniards; but although they bore the same features, and the same decorations, though perhaps of a better material, with the Tlascalans, it was observed by Don Amador, that they displayed none of the joy and triumph, with which his countrymen had been ushered into Tlascala. In place of these, their countenances expressed a dull curiosity; and though they kissed the earth and flung the incense, as usual, in their manner of salutation, they seemed impelled to these ceremonies more by fear than affection. He remarked also with some surprise, that when they came to extend their compliments to the allies,—the Tlascalans, from their chief down to the meanest warrior, requited them only with frowns. All these peculiarities were explained to him by De Morla:
"In ancient days," said the cavalier, "the Cholulans were a nation of republicans, like the Tlascalans, and united with them in a fraternal league against their common enemies, the Mexicans. In course of time, however, the people of the holy city were gained over by the bribes or promises of the foe; and entering into a secret treaty, they obeyed its provisions so well, as to throw off the mask on the occasion of a great battle, wherein they perfidiously turned against their friends, and, aided by the Mexicans, defeated them with great slaughter. From that day, they have remained the true vassals of Mexico; and, from that day, the Tlascalans have not ceased to regard them with the most deadly and unrelenting hatred."
"The hatred is just; and I marvel they do not fall upon these base knaves forthwith!" said Amador.
"It is the command of Don Hernan, that Tlascala shall now preserve her wrath for Tenochtitlan; and such is his influence, that, though he cannot allay the heart-burnings, yet can he, with a word, restrain the hands of his allies. Concerning the gloomy indifference of these people," continued De Morla, "as now manifested, it needs only to inform you how we discovered, or, rather, (for I will not afflict you with the details,) how we punished a similar treachery, wherein they meditated our own destruction, more than half a year ago, when we entered their town, on our march to Mexico. Having discovered their plot to destroy us, we met them with a perfidious craft which might have been rendered excusable by their own, had we, like them, been demi-barbarians; but which, as we are really civilized and Christian men, I cannot help esteeming both dishonest and atrocious. We assembled their nobles and priests in the court of the building we occupied; and having closed the gates, and charged them once or twice with their guilt, we fell upon them; and some of them having escaped and roused the citizens, we carried the war into the streets, and up to the temples: and so well did we prosper that day, and the day that followed, (for we fought them during two entire days,) that, with the assistance of our Tlascalans, of whom we had an army with us, we slaughtered full six thousand of them, and that without losing the life of a single Spaniard."
"Dios mio!" cried Don Amador, "we had not so many killed in all the siege of Rhodes! Six thousand men! I am not certain that even treachery could excuse the destruction of so many lives."
"It was a bloody and most awful spectacle," said De Morla, with feeling. "We drove the naked wretches (I say naked, señor, for we gave them no time to arm;) to the pyramids, especially to that which holds the altar of their chief god,—the god of the air; and here, señor, it was melancholy, to see the miserable desperation with which they died; for, having, at first, refused them quarter, they declined to receive it, when pity moved us afterwards to grant it. About the court of this pyramid there were many wooden buildings, as well as tabernacles of the like material among the towers, on the top. These we fired; and thus attacked them with arms and flames. What ruin the fire failed to inflict on the temple, they accomplished with their own hands; for, señor, having a superstitious belief, that, the moment a sacrilegious hand should tear away the foundations of their great temple, floods should burst out from the earth to whelm the impious violator, they began to raze it with their own hands; willing, in their madness, to perish by the wrath of their god, so that their enemies should perish with them. I cannot express to you the horrible howls, with which they beheld the fragments fall from the walls of the pyramid, without calling up the watery earthquake; then, indeed, with these howls, they ran to the summit, and crazily pitched themselves into the burning towers, or flung themselves from the dizzy top,—as if, in their despair, thinking that even their gods had deserted them!"
"It was an awful chastisement, and, I fear me, more awful than just," said Amador. "After this, it is not wonderful the men of Cholula should not receive us with joy."
Many evidences of the horrors of that dreadful day were yet revealed, as Don Amador entered into the city. The marks of fire were left on various houses of stone, and, here and there, were vacuities, covered with blackened wrecks, where, doubtless, had stood more humble and combustible fabrics.
The countenance of Cortes was observed to be darkened by a frown, as he rode through this well-remembered scene of his cruelty; but perhaps he thought less of remorse and penitence, than of the spirit of hatred and desperation evinced by his victims,—as if, in truth, the late occurrences at Mexico had persuaded him, that a similar spirit was waking and awaiting him there.—It was in his angry moment, and just as he halted at the portals of a large court-yard, wherein stood the palace he had chosen for his quarters, that two Indians, of an appearance superior to any Don Amador had yet seen, and followed by a train of attendants bearing heavy burthens, suddenly passed from the crowd of Cholulans, and approached the general.
"Señor," said De Morla, in a low voice, to his friend, "observe these new ambassadors;—they are of the noblest blood of the city; the elder,—he that hath the gold grains hanging to his nostrils, in token that he belongs to the order of Teuctli, or Princes by Merit, is one of the lords of the Four Quarters of Mexico—the quarter Tlatelolco, wherein is our garrison. His name, Itzquauhtzin, will be, to you, unpronounceable. The youth that bears himself so loftily, is no less than a nephew of the king himself; and the scarlet fillet around his hair, denotes that he has arrived at the dignity of what we should call a chief commander,—a military rank that not even the king can claim, without having performed great actions in the field. 'Tis a sore day for Montezuma, when he sends us such princely ambassadors.—I will press forward, and do the office of interpreter; for destiny, love, and my mother wit, together, have given me more of the Mexican jargon, than any of my companions."
As the ambassadors approached, Don Amador had leisure to observe them. Both were of good stature and countenance; their loins were girt with tunics of white cotton cloth, studded and bordered with bunches of feathers, and hanging as low as the knee; and over the shoulders of both were hung large mantles of many brilliant colours, curiously interwoven, their ends so knotted together in front, as to fall down in graceful folds, half concealing the swarthy chest. Their sandals were secured with scarlet thongs, crossed and gartered to the calf. Their raven locks, which were of great length, were knotted together, in a most fantastic manner, with ribands, from the points of which, on the head of the elder, depended many little ornaments, that seemed jewels of gold and precious stones; while from the fillets, that braided the hair of the younger, besides an abundance of the same ornaments, there were many tufts of crimson cotton-down, swinging to and fro in the wind. In addition to these badges of military distinction, (for every tuft, thus worn, was the reward and evidence of some valiant exploit,) this young prince—he seemed not above twenty-five years old—wore, as had been noticed by De Morla, the red fillet of the House of Darts,—an order, not so much of nobility as of knighthood, entitling its possessor to the command of an army. His bearing was, indeed, lofty, but not disdainful; and though, when making his obeisance, he neither stooped so low, nor kissed his hand with so much humility, as his companion, this seemed to proceed more from a consciousness of his own rank, than from any disrespect to the Christian leader.
"What will these dogs with me now?" cried Cortes, at whose feet, (for he had dismounted,) the attendants had thrown their burthens, and were proceeding to display their contents. "Doth Montezuma think to appease me for the blood of my brothers? and pay for Spanish lives with robes of cotton and trinkets of gold?—What say the hounds?"
"They say," responded De Morla to his angry general, "that the king welcomes you back again to his dominions, to give him reparation for the slaughter of his people."
"Hah!" exclaimed the leader, fiercely. "Doth he beard me with complaint, when I look for penitence and supplication?"
"In token of his love, and of his assured persuasion that you now return to punish the murderers of his subjects, and then to withdraw your followers from his city for ever," said De Morla, giving his attention less to Cortes than to the lord of Tlatelolco, "he sends you these garments, to protect the bodies of your new friends from the snows of Ithualco, as well as——"
"The slave!" cried Don Hernan, spurning the pack that lay at his foot, and scattering its gaudy textures over the earth: "If he give me no mail to protect my friends from the knives of his assassins, I will trample even upon his false heart, as I do upon his worthless tribute!"
"Shall I translate your excellency's answer word for word?" said De Morla, tranquilly. "If it be left to myself, I should much prefer veiling it in such palatable language, as my limited knowledge will afford."
But the scowling general had already turned away, as if to humble the ambassadors with the strongest evidence of contempt, and to prove the extremity of his displeasure; and it needed no interpretation of words to convince the noble savages of the futileness of their ministry. The lord of Tlatelolco bowed again to the earth, and again kissed his hand, as if in humble resignation, while the retreating figure of Don Hernan vanished under the low door of his dwelling; but the younger envoy, instead of imitating him, drew himself proudly up, and looked after the general with a composure, that changed, as Don Amador thought, to a smile. But if such a mark of satisfaction—for it bore more the character of elation than contempt,—did illuminate the bronzed visage of the prince, it remained not there for an instant. He cast a quiet and grave eye upon the curious cavaliers who surrounded him, and then beckoning his attendants from their packs, he strode, with his companion, composedly away.
"In my mind," said the neophyte, following him with his eye, and rather soliloquizing than addressing himself to any of the neighbouring cavaliers, "there was more of dignity and contempt in the smile of that heathen prince, than in all the rage of my friend Don Hernan."
"Truly, he is a very proper-looking and well-demeanoured knave," said the voice of Duero. "But the general has some deep policy at the bottom of all this anger."
"By my faith, I think so, now for the first time!" exclaimed the neophyte; "for, although unable to see the drift of such a stratagem, I cannot believe that the señor Cortes would adopt a course, that seems to savour so much of injustice, without a very discreet and politic object."
Here the discourse of the cavaliers was cut short by the sudden appearance of Fabueno the secretary.
"What wilt thou, Lorenzo?" said his patron. "Has Lazaro again refused to tilt with thee? I very much commend the zeal with which thou pursuest thine exercises; but thou shouldst remember, that Lazaro may, sometimes, be weary after a day's march."
"Señor, 'tis not that," said the secretary. "But just now, as Baltasar told me, he saw the page Jacinto very rudely haled away by one of Cortes's grooms; and I thought your favour might be glad to know, for the boy seemed frighted."
"I will straightway see that no wrong be done him, even by the general," said Amador, quickly, moving toward the door into which he had seen Cortes enter. "I marvel very much that my good knight did not protect him."
"Señor," said Fabueno, "the knight is in greater disorder to-day than yesterday. He took no note of anybody, when we came to this palace; but instantly concealed himself in some distant chamber, where, a soldier told me, he was scourging himself."
"Thou shouldst not talk, with the soldiers, of Calavar," said Amador, with a sigh. "Get thee to Marco. If my kinsman need me, I will presently be with him."
Thus saying, he discharged the secretary at the door; and those servants who guarded it, not presuming to deny admittance to a man of such rank, he was immediately ushered into the presence of Cortes.
CHAPTER XXVI.
In a low but spacious apartment, the walls and floor of which were both covered with mats, the neophyte found Don Hernan, attended by Sandoval and one or two other cavaliers, busy, to all appearance, in the examination of the page and a Moorish slave of Cortes's own household, whom he seemed to confront with the other. It needed no more than the tears which Amador discovered on the cheeks of the youth, to rouse him to a feeling very like anger.
"Señor," said he, stepping forward to the side of Jacinto, and looking gravely on his judge, "I have exercised the privilege of a master,—or rather, as I should say, of a servant,—for this boy is in the ward of Don Gabriel, whom I myself follow,—to enter into your presence, without the ceremony of a previous request; for which liberty, if it offend you, I ask your pardon. But I was told the boy Jacinto was dragged away by one of your excellency's menials; and I claim, as asking in the stead of his master, to know for what offence?"
"By my conscience, for none at all!" said Cortes, courteously; "at least, for none of his own commission. And had he truly been guilty, both of treason and desertion, I should have pardoned him, for the precocious shrewdness of his answers. Señor," continued the general, "it was my intention to beseech your presence at this examination; and nothing but the suddenness of it, as well as the present defection among my servants, could have caused me to defer the invitation for a moment. By my conscience, you have a treasure of wisdom, in this boy!"
This was an assurance Don Amador did by no means deny: for, in addition to the singular address with which he adapted himself to the humours of the knight, he had seen in Jacinto many other evidences of a discretion so much in advance of his years, as to cause him no little wonder; added to which, the incident of the past night, in which the page had stumbled upon a name, and indeed (for the after explanations had not removed the first impression,) a story, which he did not remember to have breathed to any living creature, had attached to the youth a sort of respect that bordered almost on superstition. But Don Hernan gave the cavalier no time for reflections.
"Señor Don Amador," said he, "the fault, if there be any, which we are now striving to investigate, lies, not in the page, but in his father, Sidi Abdalla, the cannonier; who is charged by my varlet here, this unconverted heathen, to be meditating, if not now engaged in the accomplishment of a very heinous, and yet, let me add, for your satisfaction, a very improbable conspiracy. This is charged to be nothing less than desertion from our standard, with a design to throw himself into the arms of the enemy; and what makes the matter worse, allowing it for a moment to be credible, is, that he plots to carry away with him all his countrymen who are slaves with us, in number, I think, somewhat above half a score."
"This is, assuredly," said Don Amador, "a very vile offence; for which, if guilty, I must needs allow, the Sidi deserves to suffer. Yet, I agree with your excellency, the design seems quite as incredible as its accomplishment must be impossible."
"No one," said Cortes, "could have shown this with better argument than this same weeping boy; for, 'First,' said he, ''tis wrong to receive the accusation of an unconverted man against a Christian;' and such an infidel hound is Yacub,—whom I will, at some future day, give over to be burned for his idolatry; but, at present, I cannot spare so precious a servant, for he is an excellent cook, and a good maker of arrow-heads for the crossbowmen.—In addition to this argument, señor," continued the general, "the boy advances me another of still more force; 'For how,' says he, shrewdly, 'would my father leave his Christian masters and protectors, to go over to savages, whose language he cannot understand, and who would sacrifice him as a victim to their detestable gods?'—which gods may heaven sink into the pit, whence they came! and I say, Amen!—Now, though one part of this argument is answered by the subtle art of Yacub; for whether he have Yacub or any other Moor who hath picked up something of the tongue, to interpret for him, or whether he have no interpreter at all, it is not the less certain, that, the moment he entrusts himself into the power of the barbarians, that moment will he be clapped into a great cage like a wild beast, and devoured what time he is fat enough for the maws of their diabolical divinities; I say, nevertheless, for that very reason, it is not probable Abdalla should be so besotted a fool."
"Please your highness," said Yacub, with the obstinacy of one who presumed on his master's indulgence, or on the strength of his cause, "he urged me, last night, at the pyramid of Tlascala; and this noble gentleman, as well as this boy, saw me in his company."
Don Amador started, as he perceived the eyes of Yacub fastened on him, as well as those of every other individual in the chamber. The look that Jacinto gave him was one of terror and beseeching earnestness.
"Señor," said he, hesitating a little, "though what I have to say, may, in part, confirm the charge of this fellow, I cannot scruple to speak it; and though I may not aver, on mine own knowledge, that I beheld, last night, either this man Yacub, or his countryman, Abdalla, yet must I admit that I saw, stealing by the basis of that heathen temple, three men, whom my friend De Morla, who accompanied me, pronounced to be the cannonier and two of your excellency's servants."—Jacinto wrung his hands.—"But what passed between them," the cavalier went on, "whether they were hatching a plot, or discoursing together of their hard fate, as would seem reasonable for men like them, that have neither friends nor country, I cannot take upon me to pronounce; though, from what I know of Abdalla, as a courageous and honest man, I am fain to think, their communication could not have been of an evil nature."
"He said," muttered the treacherous Moor, "that provided he had but some one to interpret for him, he had no fear of the Mexicans; but could promise us much favour and wealth from their kings, by virtue of certain arts possessed by his son; and thereby he hinted the boy was an enchanter."
All started at this sudden announcement, and none more than Don Amador de Leste; for though, as he had said himself, he was, in his cooler moments, very sceptical in affairs of magic, this incredulity was no consequence either of nature or education; and besides the shock that had been given to his doubts by the disclosures of De Morla, the story of Jacinto, so unaccountably begun, and so abruptly terminated, had made a deeper impression on his mind, than such a trifle should.—Its importance had been imputed by his own feelings; but either he did not remember, or he knew not that.—He stared at Jacinto, who stood pale as death and trembling, now rolling his eyes wildly on Don Hernan, and now on his patron. Before the latter could summon composure to answer, he was relieved by the general saying, humorously—
"I cannot doubt that this little caitiff is an enchanter, because he has the faculty of exciting both admiration and pity in an eminent degree; and, though I doubt the power of such a charm over the ears of barbarians that delight in the thunder of wooden drums, and the yelling uproar of sea-shell trumpets, yet I can believe, for it has been told me by good judges, that the art with which he touches his lute, is as magical as it is marvellous."
The boy clasped his hands in delight, and seemed as if he would have thrown himself at the feet of his judge.
"Wherefore, my most worthy and honoured friend," continued Cortes, "have no fear that I will rob thee of so serviceable a henchman. I could not burn so pretty a log in the fire that was kindled for one who had sold his soul; and I cannot, by allowing the claims of a rival to lawful magic, kill my astrologer Botello with envy."
"He has a talisman round his neck, wherein is a devil, that I have overheard him talking to!" said the resolute Yacub.
"Thou art an ass," said Cortes, laughing at the trepidation of Jacinto; for he again turned pale, and lifted his hands to his neck, as if both to confess and guard his treasure. "'Tis some gewgaw, given him by his mother, or, perhaps, by some sweetheart wench;—for these Moorish boys are in love when a Christian urchin is yet in his grammar.—Señor,"—he addressed himself to the neophyte,—"you may perceive that the very grossness of Yacub's credulity has destroyed the force of his testimony; for he who can believe such a junior as this to be a conjurer, will give credit to any other ridiculous imagination. I will now confess to you, that, beside these charges, which are already answered, there is only one more circumstance against Abdalla; and that is, that at the very moment of our halt, and while engaged in the audience with those ambassadors, (whom I treated somewhat harshly, but for a cunning purpose, which you will soon understand,) he vanished away, in company with another dog of my household called Ayub; and hath not been since seen. Nevertheless, I attach no more importance to this matter than to the others; but, I swear to heaven, if he be caught stealing turkeys, or any such trumpery things from these villains of Cholula, I will give him to the bastinado!"
"Señor," said Amador, earnestly, "the Sidi is of too magnanimous a nature to steal turkeys."
"I will take Don Amador's word for it, then. But I see the page is still in some mortal fright, as dreading, if he remain longer in our presence, lest some new accusation should be brought against him."
"If Jacinto be absolved from censure, and is no longer desired by your excellency, I will withdraw him from your presence; and, thanking you, señor, for the mildness with which you have questioned him, I will beg your permission to take my own leave."
Don Hernan bowed low, as the neophyte withdrew with Jacinto; he waved his hand to Yacub, and the Moor immediately retired.
"What think ye now, my masters?" he cried, as soon as these were out of hearing;—"Is it possible this stupid cannonier hath either the wit or the spirit to hatch me a brood of treason, to help the kites of Mexico?"
"If he have," said Sandoval, "he should hang."
"Very true, son Gonzalo," said the general; "for in our condition, to be suspected, should be a crime worthy death, especially in so contemptible a creature as a Moor.—Didst thou observe what mortal consternation beset our worthy and very precise friend, Don Amador, when Yacub called his boy a conjurer?"
"I think, that should be examined into," said Sandoval; "for if he be, 'twill be well to give him to Botello, as a pupil; lest Botello should be, some day, knocked on the head, as is not improbable, from his ever thrusting it into jeopardy, and we be left without a diviner."
"By my conscience, 'tis well thought on," said Cortes, laughing, "for this boy, if he had but as good a reputation, is much superior in docility, as well as shrewder in apprehension; whereas Botello hath such a thick-head enthusiasm for his art, as to be somewhat unmanageable; and, every now and then, he prophesies me all wrong; as was the case, when he anointed the wound of De Leste's secretary, and stupidly told him 'twould be well in a few hours: and yet, all the camp knew, the lad was near losing his arm."
"Botello excuses himself there," said Sandoval, "by protesting that his injunctions were disobeyed, especially that wherein he charged the youth not to touch his weapon for twenty-four hours; whereas he killed a man, that very night, on the pyramid, very courageously, as I witnessed,—though the man was hurt before; for I had charged him with my own partisan."
"Amigo mio," said Cortes, abruptly, "in the matter of these Moors, I must have thine aidance. I know not how it may have entered into the brain of such a boor, to suppose he could make himself useful to the frowning infidels in Tenochtitlan; but I would sooner give them a dead lion than a living dog. If thou hast any very cunning and discreet rogues among thy fighting men, send them, in numbers of two and three, secretly about the city; and especially charge some that they watch at the gate that opens to Mexico."
"I will do so," said Sandoval, "and I will myself hunt about the town till I find the rascal.—Shall I kill him?"
"If it appear to thee he is deserting, let him be slain in the act. As for Ayub, if he be found in the cannonier's company, bring me him alive: I will hang him for an example; for in his death shall no intercessor be offended. I have no doubt, that, for the boy's sake, both Don Amador and Calavar would beg for Abdalla, if he were brought a prisoner; and it would grieve me to deny them. Kill him, then, my son, if thou findest him, and art persuaded he is a deserter."
With this charge, very emphatically pronounced, and very composedly received, the friends separated.
CHAPTER XXVII.
During the whole time of the march from Tlascala to Cholula, an unusual gloom lay upon the spirits of Calavar; and so great was his abstraction, that, though pursuing his way with a sort of instinct, he remained as insensible to the presence of his kinsman as to the attentions of his followers. He rode at a distance from the rear of the army; and such was the immobility of his limbs and features, saving when, stung by some secret thought, he raised his ghastly eyes to heaven, that a stranger, passing him on the path, might have deemed that his grave charger moved along under the weight of a stiffened corse, not yet disrobed of its arms, rather than that of a living cavalier. When the army halted at noon to take food, he retired, with his attendants, to the shadow of a tree; where, without dismounting, or receiving the fruits which Jacinto had gathered, to tempt him to eat, he sat in the same heavy stupor, until the march was resumed. Neither food nor water crossed his lips, during the entire day; nor did the neophyte suffer any to be proffered him, when he came to reflect that this day was an anniversary, which the knight was ever accustomed to observe with the most ascetic abstinence and humiliation. For this reason, also, though lamenting the necessity of such an observance, he neither presumed himself to vex his kinsman with attentions, nor suffered any others to intrude upon his privacy, excepting, indeed, the Moorish page, whose gentle arts were so wont to dispel the gathering clouds. But this day, even Jacinto failed to attract his notice; and, despairing of the power of any thing but time, to terminate the paroxysm, he ceased his efforts, and contented himself with keeping a distant watch on all Don Gabriel's movements, lest some disaster might happen to him on the journey. No sooner, as had been hinted by Fabueno, had the army arrived at its quarters in the sacred city, than the knight betook him to the solitude of a chamber in the very spacious building; where, after a time, he so far shook off his lethargy, as to desire the presence of the chaplain, with whom he had remained ever since, engaged in his devotions. Hither, guided by Marco, came now Don Amador, conducting Jacinto. The interview with Cortes had swallowed up more than an hour, and when the neophyte stood before the curtained door of his kinsman, a light, flashing through the irregular folds, dispelled the darkness of the chamber. As he paused for an instant, he heard the low voice of the priest, saying,
"Sin no more with doubt.—Spera in Deo: grace is in heaven, and mercy knoweth no bounds.—Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus."
A few other murmurs came to his ear; and then the chaplain, pushing aside the curtain, issued from the apartment.
"Heaven be with thee, my son," he said to Amador; "thy kinsman is greatly disordered, but not so much now as before."
"Is it fitting I should enter, father?"
"Thy presence may be grateful to him; but surely," he continued, in an under voice, "it were better for the unhappy knight, if he were among the priests and physicians of his own land. A sore madness afflicts him: he thinks himself beset with spectres.—I would thou hadst him in Spain!"
"If heaven grant us that grace!" said Amador, sorrowfully.—"But he believes that God will call him to his rest, among the heathen.—Tarry thou at the door, Jacinto," he went on, when the father had departed; "have thyself in readiness, with thy lute, for perhaps he may be prevailed upon to hear thee sing; in which case, I have much hope, the evil spirit will depart from him."
He passed into the chamber: the knight was on his knees before a little crucifix, which he had placed on a massive Indian chair; but though he beat his bosom with a heavy hand, no sound of prayer came from his lips. Don Amador placed himself at his side, and stood in reverential silence, until his kinsman, heaving a deep sigh, rose up, and turning his haggard countenance towards him, said,—
"Neither penance nor prayer, neither the remorse of the heart nor the benediction of the priest, can wipe away the sorrow that comes from sin. God alone is the forgiver;—but God will not always forgive!"
"Say not so, my father," cried Amador, earnestly; "for it is a deep crime to think that heaven is not ever merciful."
"Keep thyself free from the stain of blood-guiltiness," said Don Gabriel, with a manner so mild, that the neophyte had good hope the fit had indeed left him, "and mercy will not be denied thee.—Have I not afflicted thee, my friend?" he continued faintly. "Thou wilt have much to forgive me; but not long. I will remember, in my death hour, that thou hast not forsaken me."
"Never will I again leave thee!" said Amador, fervently. "I forgot thee once; and besides the pang of contrition for that act, heaven punished me with a grief, that I should not have known, had I remained by thy side. But now, my father, wilt thou not eat and drink, and suffer Jacinto to sing to thee?"
"I may neither eat nor drink this night," said Calavar; "but methinks I can hear the innocent orphan chant the praises of the Virgin; for to such she will listen!"
Amador strode to the door; but Jacinto had vanished—He had stolen away, the moment that his patron entered.
"Perhaps he has gone to fetch his instrument. Run thou in search of him, Marco, and bid him hasten."
Before the novice could again address himself to his kinsman, Marco returned. The page was not to be found; the sentinel at the door had seen him pass into the court-yard, but whether he had re-entered or not, he knew not;—he had not noted.
"Is it possible," thought Don Amador, "that the boy could so wilfully disobey me? Perhaps the general hath sent for him again: for, notwithstanding all his protestations of satisfaction, it seemed to me, that, while he spoke, there was still a something lurking in his eye, which boded no good to Abdalla. I will look for the boy myself."
He charged Marco to remain by his lord, sought an audience with the general, whom he found engaged in earnest debate with Duero, De Leon, and other high officers. Don Hernan satisfied him that he had not sent for Jacinto,—that he had not thought of Abdalla; and with an apology for his intrusion, the novice instantly withdrew.
"The story is true!" said Cortes with a frown, "and that pestilent young cub of heathenism has fled to give the traitor warning. But he that passes, unquestioned, at the gate where Sandoval stands the watchman, must have the devil for his leader, or, at least, his companion. I hope he will not murder the boy; for he is a favourite with Calavar, a subtle knave, a good twangler; and it is natural he should play me even a knave's trick for his father!"
In the meanwhile, after hunting in vain about the different quarters of the building, as well as the court-yard, for the vanished Jacinto, the novice returned to the chamber of his kinsman. But Calavar also had disappeared,—not, indeed, in disorder, but in great apparent tranquillity; and he had commanded Marco not to follow him.
"He has gone to the fields," muttered Amador; "such is his practice at this season: but there is no good can come of solitude. I know not what to think of that boy; but assuredly, this time, it will be but my duty to censure him." And so saying, Don Amador also passed into the open air.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
It was late in the night; a horizontal moon flung the long shadows of the houses over the wide streets of Cholula, when the knight Calavar, wrapped in his black mantle, strode along through the deserted city. With no definite object before him, unless to fly, or perhaps to give way, in solitude, to the bitter thoughts that oppressed him, he suffered himself to be guided as much by accident as by his wayward impulses; and as he passed on, at every step, some mutation of his fancies, or some trivial incident on the way, conspired to recall his disorder. Now, as a bat flitted by, or an owl flew, hooting, from its perch among some of those ruins, which yet raised their broken and blackened walls, in memory of the cruelty of his countrymen, the knight started aghast, and a mortal fear came over him; for, in these sounds and sights, his disturbed senses discovered the signs of the furies that persecuted him; and even the night-breeze, wailing round some lonely corner, or whispering among the shrubbery of a devastated garden, seemed to him the cries of haunting spirits.
"Miserere mei, Deus!" muttered Don Gabriel, as a tree, bowing away from the wind, let down a moonbeam through a fissure on his path—"the white visage will not leave me!—Heavy was the sin, heavy is the punishment! for even mine own fancies are become my chastisers."
Thus, at times, conscious, in part, of his infirmity, and yet yielding ever, with the feebleness of a child, to the influence of unreal horrors, he wandered about, sometimes driven from his path by what seemed a gaunt spectre flitting before him, sometimes impelled onwards by a terror that followed behind: thus he roved about, he knew not whither, until he found himself, by chance, in the neighbourhood of the great temple, the scene of the chief atrocities enacted on that day which has been called, by a just metonymy, the Massacre of Cholula. Here it was, as had been mentioned by De Morla, that the miserable natives, huddled together in despair, had made their last cry to their gods, and perished under the steel and flames of the Christians; and the memorials of their fate were as plainly written as if the tragedy had been the work of the previous day. No carcasses, indeed, lay crowded among the ruins, no embers smouldered on the square; weeds had grown upon the place of murder, as if fattening on the blood that had besprinkled their roots; life had utterly vanished from the spot; and it presented the appearance of a desert in the bosom of a populous city.
A great wall, running round the temple, had enclosed it in a large court, once covered with the houses of priests and devotees. The wall was shattered and fallen, the dwellings burned and demolished; and the pyramid, itself crumbling into ruins, lay like the body of some huge monster among its severed and decaying members. The flags of stone, tumbled by the victims, in their fury, from its sides and terraces, though they had not called up the subterraneous rivers, had exposed the perishable earth, that composed the body of the mound, to the vicissitudes of the weather; and, under the heavy tropical rains, it was washing rapidly away. The sanctuaries yet stood on the summit, but with their walls mutilated, and their roofs burnt; and they served only to make the horror picturesque. A wooden cross of colossal dimensions, raised by the conquerors, in impious attestation that God had aided them in the labour of slaughter, flung high its rugged arms, towering above the broken turrets, and gave the finish of superstition to the monument of wrath. It was a place of ruins, dark, lugubrious, and forbidding; and as Don Gabriel strode among the massive fragments, he found himself in a theatre congenial with his gloomy and wrecking spirit.
It was not without many feelings of dismay that he plunged among the ruins; for his imagination converted each shattered block into a living phantasm. But still he moved on, as if urged by some irresistible impulse, entangling himself in the labyrinth of decay, until he scarcely knew whither to direct his steps. Whether it was reality, or some coinage of his brain, that presented the spectacle, he knew not; but he was arrested in his toilsome progress by the apparition of several figures rising suddenly among the ruins, and as suddenly vanishing.
"Heaven pity me!" he cried: "They come feathered like the fiends of the infidel! But I care not, so they bring no more the white face, that is so ghastly!—And yet, this is her day!—this is her day!"
Perhaps it was his imagination, that decked out the spectres with such ornaments; but a less heated spectator might have discovered in them, only the figures of strolling savages. With his spirits strongly agitated, his brain excited for the reception of any chimera, he followed the direction in which these figures seemed to have vanished: and this bringing him round a corner of the pyramid, into the moonshine, he instantly found himself confronted with a spectacle that froze his blood with horror. In a spot, where the ruins had given space for the growth of weeds and grass, and where the vision could not be so easily confounded,—illuminated by the moonbeams as if by the lustre of the day,—he beheld a figure, seemingly of a woman, clad in robes of white of an oriental habit, full before him, and turning upon him a countenance as wan as death.
"Miserere mei, Deus!" cried the knight, dropping on his knees, and bowing his forehead to the earth. "If thou comest to persecute me yet, I am here, and I have not forgot thee!"
The murmur, as of a voice, fell on his ear, but it brought with it no intelligence. He raised his eye;—dark shadows flitted before him; yet he saw nothing save the apparition in white: it stood yet in his view; and still the pallid visage dazzled him with its unnatural radiance and beauty.
"Miserere mei! miserere mei!" he cried, rising to his feet, and tottering forwards. "I live but to lament thee, and I breathe but to repent! Speak to me, daughter of the Alpujarras! speak to me, and let me die!"
As he spoke, the vision moved gently and slowly away. He rushed forwards, but with knees smiting together; and, as the white visage turned upon him again, with its melancholy loveliness, and with a gesture as of warning or terror, his brain spun round, his sight failed him, and he fell to the earth in a deep swoon.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Motion is the life of the sea: the surge dashes along in its course, while the watery particles that gave it bulk and form, remain in their place to renew and continue the coming billows, heaving to each successive oscillation, but not departing with it. Thus the mind,—an ocean more vast and unfathomable than that which washes our planet,—fluctuates under the impulses of its stormy nature, and passes not away, until the last agitation, like that which shall swallow up the sea, or convert its elements into a new matter, lifts it from its continent, and introduces it to a new existence. Emotion is its life, each surge of which seems to bear it leagues from its resting-place; and yet it remains passively to abide and figure forth the influence of new commotions.—Thus passed the billow through the spirit of Calavar; and when it had vanished, the spirit ceased from its tumult, subsided, and lay in tranquillity to await other shocks,—for others were coming.—When he awoke from his lethargy, his head was supported on the knee of a human being, who chafed his temple and hands, and bowed his body as well as his feeble strength allowed, to recall the knight to life. Don Gabriel raised his eyes to this benignant and ministering creature; and in the disturbed visage, that hung over his own, thought,—for his mind was yet wandering,—he beheld the pallid features of the vision.
"I know thee, and I am ready!" cried Don Gabriel. "Pity me and forgive me;—for I die at thy feet, as thou didst at mine!"
"Señor mio! I am Jacinto," exclaimed the page, (for it was he,) frightened at the distraction of the knight;—"thy page, thy poor page, Jacinto."
"Is it so indeed?" said Calavar, surveying him wildly.—"And the spectre that did but now smite me to the earth!—hath she left me?"
"Dear master, there is no spectre with us," said the Moorish boy. "We are alone among the ruins."
"God be thanked!" said the knight, vehemently, "for if I should look on it more, I should die.—Yet would that I could!—would that I could! for in death there is peace,—in the grave there is forgetfulness!—This time, was it no delusion either of the senses or the brain: mine eye-sight was clear, my head sane, and I saw it, as I see mine own despair!—Pray for me, boy!" he continued, falling on his knees, and dragging the page down beside him; "pray for me!" he cried, gazing piteously at the youth; "pray for me! God will listen to thy prayers, for thou art innocent, and I am miserable. Pray that God may forgive me, and suffer me to die;—for this is the day of my sin!"
"Dear master," said the page, trembling, "let us return to our friends."
"Thou wilt not pray? thou wilt not beseech God for me?" said Calavar, mournfully. "Thou wilt be merciful, when thou knowest my misery! Heaven sends thee for mine intercessor. I confess to thee, as to heaven, for thou art without sin. Manhood brings guile and impurity, evil deeds and malign thoughts; but a child is pure in the eyes of God; and the prayers of his lips will be as incense, when wrath turns from the beseeching of men. Hear thou my sin; and then, if heaven bid thee not to curse, then pray for me, boy!—then pray for me!"
In great perturbation, for he knew not how to check the knight's distraction, and feared its increasing violence, Jacinto knelt, staring at him, his hands fettered in the grasp of his master; who, returning his gaze with such looks of wo and contrition, as a penitent may give to heaven, said wildly, yet not incoherently,—
"Deeply dyed with sin am I, and sharply scourged with retribution! Age comes upon me before its time, but brings me nothing but memory—nothing but memory!—Gray hairs and wrinkles, disease and feebleness, are the portions of my manhood: for my youth was sinful, and guilt has made me old! Oh that I might see the days, when I was like to thee!—when I was like to thee, Jacinto!—when I knew innocence, and offended not God. But the virtues of childhood weigh not in the balance against the crimes of after years: as the child dieth, heaven opens to him; as the man sinneth, so doth he perish.—Miserere mei, Deus! and forgive me my day in the Alpujarras!"
As Don Gabriel pronounced the name of those mountains, wherein, Jacinto knew, his father had drawn the first breath of life, and around which was shed, for every Moor, such interest as belongs to those places where our fathers have fought and bled, the page began to listen with curiosity, although his alarm had not altogether subsided.
"Long years have passed; many days of peril and disaster have come and gone; and yet I have not forgotten the Alpujarras!" cried Calavar, shivering as he uttered the word; "for there did joy smile, and hope sicken, and fury give me to clouds and darkness forever. Those hills were the haunts of thy forefathers, Jacinto; and there, after the royal city had fallen, and Granada was ruled by the monarchs of Spain, they fled for refuge, all those noble Moriscos, who were resolute to die in their own mistaken faith, as well,—in after years,—as many others, who had truly embraced the religion of Christ, but were suspected by the bigoted of our people, and persecuted with rigour. How many wars were declared against those unhappy fugitives,—now to break down the last strong hold of the infidel, and now to punish the suspected Christian,—thou must know, if thy sire be a true Moor of Granada. In mine early youth, and in one of the later crusades, that were proclaimed against those misguided mountaineers, went I, to win the name and the laurels of a cavalier. Would that I had never won them, or that they had come to me dead on the battle-field! Know, then, Jacinto, that my nineteenth summer had not yet fled from me, when I first drew my sword in conflict with men; but if I won me reputation, at that green age, it was because heaven was minded to show me, that shame and sorrow could come as early. In those days, the royal and noble blood of Granada had not been drawn from every vein; many of the princely descendants of the Abencerrages, the Aliatars, the Ganzuls, and the Zegris, still dwelt among the mountains; and, forgetting their hereditary feuds, united together in common resistance against the Spaniards. With such men for enemies, respected alike for their birth and their valour, the war was not always a history of rapine and barbarity; and sometimes there happened such passages of courtesy and magnanimity between the Christian and Moorish cavaliers, as recalled the memory of the days of chivalry and honour. Among others, who made experience of the heroic greatness of mind of the infidel princes, was I myself; for, in a battle, wherein the Moors prevailed against us, I was left wounded and unhorsed, on the field, to perish, or to remain a prisoner in their hands. In that melancholy condition, while I commended my soul to God, as not thinking I could escape from death, a Moorish warrior of majestic appearance and a soul still more lofty, approached, and had pity on my helplessness, instead of slaying me outright, as I truly expected. 'Thou art noble,' said he, 'for I have seen thy deeds; and though, this day, thou hast shed the blood of a Zegri, thou shalt not perish like a dog. Mount my horse and fly, lest the approaching squadrons destroy thee; and in memory of this deed, be thou sometimes merciful to the people of Alharef.' Then knew I, that this was Alharef ben-Ismail, the most noble of the Zegris,—a youth famous, even among the Spaniards, for his courage and humanity; and in gratitude and love, for he was a Christian proselyte, I pledged him my faith, and swore with him the vows of a true friendship. How I have kept mine oath, Alharef!" he cried, lifting his eyes to the spangled heaven, "thou knowest;—for sometimes thou art with my punisher!"
The knight paused an instant, in sorrowful emotion, while Jacinto, borne by curiosity beyond the bounds of fear, bent his head to listen; then making the sign of the cross, and repeating his brief prayer, the cavalier resumed his narrative.
"As my ingratitude was greater than that of other men, so is my sin; for another act of benevolence shall weigh against me for ever!—Why did I not die with my people, when the smiles of perfidy conducted us to the hills, and the sword was drawn upon us sleeping? That night, there was but one escaped the cruel and bloody stratagem; and I, again, owed my life to the virtues of a Moor. Pity me, heaven! for thou didst send me an angel, and I repaid thy mercy with the thankfulness of a fiend!—Know, then, Jacinto, that, in the village wherein was devised and accomplished the murder of my unsuspecting companions, dwelt one that now liveth in heaven. Miserere mei! miserere mei! for she was noble and fair, and wept at the baseness of her kindred!—She covered the bleeding cavalier with her mantle, concealed him from the fury that was unrelenting; and when she had healed his wounds, guided him, in secret, from the den of devils, and dismissed him in safety near to the camp of his countrymen. Know thou now, boy, that this maiden was Zayda, the flower of all those hills, and the star that made them dearer to me than the heaven that was above them; and more thought I of those green peaks and shady valleys that encompassed my love, than the castle of my sire, or the church wherein rested the bones of my mother. Miserere mei! miserere mei! for the faith that was pledged was broken! my lady slept in the arms of Alharef, and my heart was turned to blackness!—Now thou shalt hear me, and pray for me," continued Don Gabriel, with a look of the wildest and intensest despair, "for my sin is greater than I can bear! Now shalt thou hear how I cursed those whom I had sworn to love; how I sharpened my sword, and with vengeance and fury, went against the village of my betrayers. Oh God! how thou didst harden our hearts, when we gave their houses to the flames, and their old men and children to swords and spears! when we looked not at misery, and listened not to supplication, but slew! slew! slew! as though we struck at beasts, and not at human creatures! 'Thou sworest an oath!' cried Alharef. I laughed; for I knew I should drink his blood! 'Be merciful to my people!' he cried,—and I struck him with my sabre. Oho!" continued the knight, springing to his feet, wringing the page's hands, and glaring at him with the countenance of a demon, "when he fled from me bleeding, my heart was full of joy, and I followed him with yells of transport!—This is the day, I tell thee! this is the day, and the hour! for night could not hide him!—And Zayda! ay, Zayda! Zayda!—when she shielded him with her bosom, when she threw herself before him—Miserere mei, Deus! miserere mei, Deus!"
"And Zayda?" cried the page, meeting his gaze with looks scarcely less expressive of wildness.
"Curse me, or pray for me," said the knight,—"for I slew her!"
The boy recoiled: Don Gabriel fell on his knees, and, with a voice husky and feeble as a child's, cried,
"I know, now, that thou cursest me, for thou lookest on me with horror! The innocent will not pray for the guilty! the pure and holy have no pity for devils. Curse me then, for her kindred vanished from the earth, and she with them!—curse me, for I left not a drop of her blood flowing in human veins, and none in her's!—curse me, for I am her murderer, and I have not forgot it!—curse me, for God has forsaken me, and nightly her pale face glitters on me with reproach!—curse me, for I am miserable!"
While Don Gabriel still grovelled on the earth, and while the page stood yet regarding him with terror, suddenly there came to the ears of both, the shouts of soldiers, mingled with the roar of firelocks: and, as three or four cross-bow shafts rattled against the sides of the pyramid, there were visible in the moonlight as many figures of men running among the ruins, new leaping over, now darting around the fragments, as if flying for their lives from a party of armed men, who were seen rushing after them on the square. The knight rose, bewildered, and, as if in the instinct of protection, again grasped the hand of the page. But now the emotions which had agitated the master, seemed transferred to his follower; and Jacinto, trembling and struggling, cried,—
"Señor mio, let me loose! For the sake of heaven, for the sake of the Zayda whom you slew, let me go!—for they are murdering my father!"
But Don Gabriel, in the confusion of his mind, still retained his grasp, and very providentially, as it appeared; for at that very moment, a voice was heard exclaiming,—
"Hold! shoot not there: 'tis the Penitent Knight!—Aim at the fliers. Follow and shoot!—follow and shoot!"
Immediately the party of pursuers rushed up to the pair, one of whom paused, while the others, in obedience to his command, continued the chase, ever and anon sending a bolt after the fugitives.
"On, and spare not, ye knaves!" cried Sandoval, for it was this cavalier who now stood at the side of the knight of Rhodes. "On, and shoot! on and shoot! and see that ye bring me the head of the Moor! Oho, my merry little page!" he cried, regarding Jacinto; "you have been playing Sir Quimichin, Sir Rat and Sir Spy? A cunning little brat, faith; but we'll catch thy villain father, notwithstanding!"
The page bowed his head and sobbed, but was silent; and Don Gabriel, rallying his confused spirits a little, said,—
"I know not what you mean, señor. We are no spies, but very miserable penitents."
"Oh, sir knight, I crave your pardon," said Sandoval, without noticing the eccentric portion of his confession, "I meant not to intrude upon your secrecy, but to catch Abdalla, the deserter; of whom, and of whose rogueries, not doubting that this boy has full knowledge, I must beg your permission to conduct him to the general."
"Surely," said Calavar mildly, "if Jacinto have offended, I will not strive to screen him from examination, but only from punishment. I consent you shall lead him to Cortes; and I will myself accompany you."
"It is enough, noble knight, if thou wilt thyself condescend to conduct him," said the cavalier; "whereby I shall be left in freedom to follow a more urgent duty. God save you, sir knight;—I leave the boy in your charge."—So saying, Sandoval pursued hastily after his companions; and Calavar leading the page, now no longer unwilling, (for the Almogavar, with his companions, was long since out of sight,) pursued his melancholy way to the quarters.
CHAPTER XXX.
While these occurrences were transpiring, Don Amador de Leste, in search of the knight, had rambled through the streets, and following, very naturally, the only path with which he was acquainted, soon found himself issuing from that gate by which he had entered from Tlascala. The domination of the Spaniards had interrupted many of the civil, as well as the religious, regulations of the Cholulans; and, with their freedom, departed that necessity and habit of vigilance, which had formerly thronged their portals with watchmen. No Indian guards, therefore, were found at the gate; and the precautions of the general had not carried his sentinels to this neglected and seemingly secure quarter. The neophyte passed into the fields, and though hopeless, in their solitudes, of discovering the retreat of the penitent, was seduced to prolong his walk by the beauty of the night and by the many pensive thoughts to which it gave birth. How many times his reflections carried him back to the land of his nativity, to the surges that washed the Holy Land, to the trenches of Rhodes to the shores of Granada, need not be here related, nor, if he gave many sighs to the strange sorrow and stranger destiny of his kinsman, is it fitting such emotions should be recorded. He wandered about, lost in his musings, until made sensible, by the elevation of the moon, that he had trespassed upon the hour of midnight. Roused by this discovery from his reveries, he returned upon his path, and had arrived within view of the gate, when he was arrested by the sudden appearance of four men, running towards him at a rapid gait, and presenting to his vision the figures of Indian warriors. No sooner had these fugitives approached near enough to perceive an armed cavalier intercepting the road, than they paused, uttering many quick and, to him, incomprehensible exclamations. But, though he understood not their language, he was admonished, by their actions, of the necessity of drawing his sword and defending himself from attack; for the foremost, hesitating no longer than to give instructions to his followers, instantly advanced upon him, flourishing a heavy axe of obsidian. Somewhat surprised at the audacity of this naked barbarian, but in no wise daunted at the number of his supporters, the cavalier lifted his trusty Bilboa, fully resolved to teach him such a lesson as would cause him to remember his temerity for ever; but, almost at the same moment, his wrath vanished, for he perceived, in this assailant, the young ambassador of the preceding evening; and, remembering the words of De Morla, he felt reluctant to injure one of the princes of the unhappy house of Montezuma.
"Prince!" said he, elevating his voice, but forgetting his want of an interpreter, "drop thy sword, and pass by in peace; for I have not yet declared war against thy people, and I am loath to strike thee."
But the valiant youth, misconceiving or disregarding both words and gestures, only approached with the more determination, and swung his bulky weapon over his head, as if in the act of smiting, when one of his followers, exclaiming eagerly, "Ho, Quauhtimotzin! forbear!" sprang before him, and revealed to Don Amador the countenance of the Moor Abdalla.
"Thou art safe, señor!" cried the Almogavar, "and heaven be thanked for this chance, that shows thee I have not forgotten thy benefits!"
The assurance of Abdalla was presently confirmed; for the young prince, seeing the action of the Moor, lowered his weapon, and merely surveying the cavalier with an earnest look, passed by him on his course, and was followed by the two others. Meanwhile Don Amador, regarding the Almogavar, said,—
"I know not, good Sidi,—notwithstanding this present service, for which I thank thee,—not so much because thou hast stepped between me and danger, (for, it must be apparent to thee, I could, with great ease, have defended myself from such feeble assailants,) but because thou hast freed me from the necessity of hurting this poor prince;—I say, notwithstanding all this, Abdalla, I know not whether I should not now be bound to detain thee, and compel thee to return to the general; for it is not unknown to me, that thou art, at this moment, a deserter and traitor."
"Señor!" said the Moor, withdrawing a step, as if fearing lest the cavalier would be as good as his word, "my treason is against my misfortunes, and I desert only from injustice; and if my noble lord knows thus much, he knows also, that to detain me, would be to give me to the gallows."
"I am not certain," said Don Amador, "that my intercession would not save thy life; unless thou hast been guilty of more crimes than I have heard."
"Guilty of nothing but misfortune!" said the Moor, earnestly; "guilty of nothing but the crimes of others, and of griefs, which are reckoned against me for sins!—"
"Guilty," said the cavalier, gravely, "of treating in secret with these barbarians, who are esteemed the enemies of thy Christian friends; and guilty of seducing into the same crime thy countrymen, the Moriscos; one of whom, I am persuaded, did but now pass me with the Indians, and one of whom, also, hath charged thee with tempting him."
"Señor," said Abdalla, hurriedly, "I cannot now defend myself from these charges, for I hear my enemies in pursuit."
"And guilty," added Don Amador, with severity, "as I think, of deserting thine own flesh and blood,—thy poor and friendless boy, Abdalla!"
The Almogavar flung himself at the feet of the cavalier, saying, wildly,—
"My flesh and blood! and friendless indeed! unless thou wilt continue to protect him. Señor, for the love of heaven, for the sake of the mother who bore you, be kind and true to my boy! Swear thou wilt protect him from malice and wrong; for it was his humanity to thy kinsman, the knight, that has robbed him of his father."
"Dost thou confess, thou wert about to steal him from his protector? Now, by heavens, Moor, this is but an infidel's ingratitude!"
"Señor!" said Abdalla, "you reproached me for forsaking him; and now you censure me for striving not to forsake him! But the sin is mine, not Jacinto's. I commanded him to follow me, señor; and he would have obeyed me, had he not found thy knight Calavar swooning among the ruins. He tarried to give him succour, and thus was lost; for the soldiers came upon him."
"Is this so, indeed? My kinsman left swooning! Thou wert but a knave, not to tell me this before."
"The knight is safe—he has robbed me of my child," said Abdalla, throwing himself before the neophyte. "Go not, señor, till thou hast promised to requite his humanity with the truest protection."
"Surely he shall have that, without claiming it."
"Ay, but promise me! swear it to me!" cried the Moor, eagerly. "Don Hernan will be awroth with him. The cavaliers will call him mine accomplice."
"They will do the boy no wrong," said Amador; "and I know not why thou shouldst ask me the superfluity of an oath."
"Señor, I am a father, and my child is in a danger of which thou knowest not! For the love of God, give me thy vows thou wilt not suffer my child to be wronged!"
"I promise thee this; but acquaint me with this new and unknown peril. If it be the danger of an accusation of witchcraft, I can resolve thee, that that is not regarded by the general."
"Señor, my pursuers are nigh at hand," cried Abdalla, "and I must fly! A great danger besets Jacinto, and thou canst preserve him. Swear to me, thou wilt not wrong him, and suffer me to depart."
"Wrong him!" said the cavalier. "Thou art beside thyself.—Yet, as it does appear to me, that the soldiers are approaching us, I will give thee this very unreasonable solace.—I swear to thee very devoutly, that, while heaven leaves me my sword and arm, and the power to protect, no one shall, in any way, or by any injustice, harm or wrong the boy Jacinto."
"I will remember thy promise, and thee!" cried the Almogavar, seizing his hand and kissing it.
"Tarry, Abdalla. Reflect;—thou rushest on many dangers. Return, and I will intercede for thy pardon."
But the Moor, running with great speed after his companions, was almost already out of sight; and Don Amador, musing, again turned his face towards Cholula.
"If I meet these soldiers," he soliloquized, "I must, in honour, acquaint them with the path of the Moor; whereby Abdalla may be captured, and put to death on the spot. I am resolute, I cannot, by utterly concealing my knowledge of this event, maintain the character of a just and honest gentleman; yet, it appears to me, my duty only compels me to carry my information to the general. This will I do, and by avoiding the pursuers, preserve the obligations of humanity to the fugitive, without any forfeit of mine honour."
Thus pondering, and walking a little from the path, until the pursuers had passed him, he returned to the quarters.
CHAPTER XXXI.
The day that followed after the flight of Abdoul-al-Sidi, beheld the army of Cortes crossing that ridge which extends like a mighty curtain, between the great volcano and the rugged Iztaccihuatl; and many a hardy veteran shivered with cold and discontent, as sharp gusts, whirling rain and snow from the inhospitable summits, prepared him for the contrast of peace and beauty which is unfolded to the traveller, when he looks down from the mountains to the verdant valley of Mexico. Even at the present day, when the axe has destroyed the forest; when the gardens of flowers—the cultivation of which, with a degree of passionate affection that distinguished the Mexicans from other races, seemed to impart a tinge of poetry to their character, and mellow their rougher traits with the hues of romance,—when these flower gardens have vanished from the earth; when the lakes have receded and diminished, and, with them, the fair cities that once rose from their waters, leaving behind them stagnant pools and saline deserts; even now, under all these disadvantages, the prospect of this valley is of such peculiar and astonishing beauty as, perhaps, can be nowhere else equalled among the haunts of men. The providence of the Spanish viceroys in constructing a road more direct and more easy of passage, to the north of the great mountains, has robbed travellers of the more spirit-stirring impressions which introduced them to the spectacle, when pursuing the ancient highway of the Mexicans. It ascends among gloomy defiles, at the entrance of which stand, on either hand, like stupendous towers guarding the gate of some Titan strong-hold, the two grandest pinnacles of the interior. It conducts you among crags and ravines, among clouds and tempests, now sheltering you under a forest of oaks and pines, now exposing you to the furious blasts that howl along the ridges. A few dilapidated hamlets of Indians, if they occasionally break the solitude, destroy neither the grandeur nor solemnity of the path. You remember, on this deserted highway, that you are treading in the steps of Cortes.
As the army proceeded, Don Amador, alive to every novelty, took notice that, regularly, at short distances from each other, not excepting even in the wildest and loneliest places, there were certain low and rude but strong cabins of stone built by the wayside, but without inhabitants. These, he was told, were the houses that were always constructed by the Mexican kings on such friendless routes, to shelter the exposed traveller. He thought such benignant provision betokened some of the humaner characteristics of civilization, and longed eagerly to make acquaintance with those nobler institutions which might be presented below. This desire was not the less urgent, that the frozen winds, penetrating his mailed armour, made him shiver like a coward on the back of his war-horse. He felt also much concern for his kinsman, who rode at his side with a visage even wanner and more wo-begone than ordinary. But in the deep and death-like abstraction that invested his spirits, Don Gabriel was as insensible to the assaults of the blast, as to the solicitude of his friend. The page Jacinto, moreover, caused him no little thought; for the flight of his father, though this had exposed him neither to the anger nor inquiries of Don Hernan, (who affected to treat the desertion of the Moors as an affair of little consequence, save to themselves,) had left the boy so dejected and spiritless, that, as he trudged along between the two cavaliers, he seemed to follow more with the instinct of a jaded house-dog, than with the alacrity of a faithful servant. To the pity of his young master he returned but a forced gratitude, and to his benevolent counsel that he should ride behind Lazaro, he rendered the oft-repeated excuse, 'Señor mio, I am afraid of horses; and 'tis better to walk than ride over these cold hills.'
"There is much wisdom in what thou sayest, as I begin now to perceive," said Amador, dismounting and giving his steed to Lazaro: "'tis better to be over-warm with marching on foot, than turned into an icicle on horseback. My father!" he said, gently and affectionately, to Calavar, "wilt thou not descend, and warm thyself a little with exercise?" But the knight only replied with a melancholy and bewildered stare, which convinced the novice that entreaty and argument upon this subject, as, at present, upon all others, would be alike unavailing. Sighing therefore, and, with a gesture, directing Baltasar to assume his station at the side of Don Gabriel, he took the page by the hand, and removing to a little distance from the group as well as from all other persons, he walked on, entering into discourse with Jacinto.
"I do not marvel at thee, Jacinto," he said, "nor can I altogether censure thee, for grieving thus at the flight of thy father. Nor will I, as was, last night, my resolve, reprimand thee for leaving me, contrary to my bidding, at the chamber of my good knight; for, besides finding thee in grief enough at present, I perceive thou wert instigated to this disobedience by anxiety for thy parent, which would have excused in thee a greater fault. But let me ask thee, not so much as a master as a friend, two or three questions.—First, Jacinto," he continued, "art thou dissatisfied with thy service? or with thy master, who loves thee as well as myself?"
"Service—master!—Señor!" said the boy, confused.
"I demand of thee, art thou discontented with thy duties, or grieved by any unkindness which has been manifested to thee by thy master, or by any of us, who are his followers?"
"I cannot be discontented with my duties," said the boy, a little cheerfully, for it was not possible long to withstand the benevolence of his patron;—"I cannot be discontented with my duties; for, in truth, it seems to me, there are none imposed upon me, except such as are prompted by my own fancies. I am very skilless in the customs of service, never having been in service before; yet, señor, I like it so well, that with such masters, methinks, I could remain a contented servant to the end of my days. That is,—that is"—But here the page interrupted himself abruptly. "As for any unkindness, I own with gratitude, I have never received from my lord, from my master, nor from his people, any thing but great favour, as well as forgiveness for all my faults."
"Thou answerest well," said the novice gravely. "I did not apprehend anybody could treat thee rudely, except Lazaro, who is a rough fellow in his ways, and being in some sort a wit, is oft betrayed into saying sharp things, in order that people may laugh at them. Nevertheless, Lazaro has a good heart; for which reason I pardon many of his freedoms; but, I vow to thee, though he is a brave soldier, and albeit it is opposed to all my feelings and principles to degrade a serving-man by blows, nevertheless, had I found him venting his wit upon thee, I should have been tempted to strike him even with the hardest end of my lance."
"I never had a better friend than Lazaro," said the page, with a faint smile; "and I love him well, for he affects my singing, and praises me more than anybody else. Then, as for Marco and Baltasar, though they delight more in cleaning armour than listening to a lute;—and as for the secretary, señor Lorenzo, who cares for nothing but tilting with any one who will take the trouble to unhorse him,—they are all good-natured to me, and they never scold me."
"This, then, being the case," said Amador, "and allowing thy first and most natural obedience to be to thy father, rather than to a master, how dost thou excuse to thyself the intention of deserting the service of thy friends, without demanding permission, or at least acquainting us with thy desires."
"Señor!" exclaimed Jacinto, surprised and embarrassed.
"It is known to me, that such was thy resolution," said the cavalier, with gravity; "for it was so confessed to me, last night, by thy father. But, indeed, though I cannot avoid expressing my displeasure at such intention, which seems to me both treacherous and ungrateful, I led thee aside less to scold thee, than to give thee intelligence of Abdalla, I myself being, as I think, the last Christian that beheld him."
"Oh, señor! and he escaped unharmed?" cried the boy.
"Verily without either bruise or wound, save that which was made on his soul, when I reproached him for deserting thee."
"I am deserted by all!" exclaimed Jacinto, clasping his hands.
"For the thousandth time, I tell thee, no!" said his patron: "And thy father made it apparent to me he abandoned thee unwillingly; nor would he leave me, though the pursuers were approaching fast, until he had exacted of me the very superfluous vow, that I would give thee a double protection from all wrong and injustice. Dry thy tears: I have already obtained of Cortes a promise of full pardon for Abdalla, when he returns to us, as doubtless he will, at Tenochtitlan."
"I hope so! I pray he may!" said Jacinto, hurriedly; "or what, oh! what shall become of us!"
"I will have him sought out, and by-and-by take thee, and him along, to Cuenza. 'Tis hard by to Granada."
The boy remained silent, and Amador continued:—
"Thy father also showed me, that it was thy faithful love, in remaining by my kinsman during a swoon, which prevented thee from escaping with him. This, though it does not remove the fault of thy design, entirely forces me to pardon it; and indeed, Abdalla did as much as acknowledge thou wert averse to the plan."
"Señor, I was: for though our degradation was great, I knew not how much greater it might be among the pagans."
"Degradation! dost thou talk of degradation! In good faith, thou surprisest me!"
"Señor," said the boy, proudly, "though you will deride such vanity in poor barbarians of the desert, yet did we ever think ourselves, who had always been free and unenslaved, debased by servitude. At least, my father thought so; and I myself, though speedily solaced by the kindness which was shown me, could not but sometimes think it had been better to have perished with my father in the sea, along with our unhappy people, than to remain as I was,—and as I am,—a servant in the house of my master!"
"A silly boy art thou, Jacinto," said Amador, surveying him with surprise: "for, first, thy office as the page of a most noble and renowned knight, is such a one as would be coveted by any grandee's son, however noble, who aspired to the glory of arms and knighthood; and I admonish thee, that, had not his infirmity driven Don Gabriel from Spain entirely without the knowledge of his servants, thou shouldst have seen the son of a very proud and lofty nobleman attending him in the very quality which thou thinkest so degrading. I did myself, though very nearly related to him, and though sprung of such blood as acknowledges none superior, not even in the king that sits on the throne, enter first into his service in the same quality of page; and, trust me, I esteemed it great honour. In the second place, I marvel at thee, having already confessed that thy service is both light and pleasant."
"It is even so, señor," said the boy, meekly, "and I am not often so foolish as to repent me. It was not because I thought so yesternight, but because my father bade me, that I strove to escape from it; for he was in danger, or feared he was, and it was my duty to follow him without repining."
"I come now to ask thee another question," said the neophyte. "By what good fortune was it, that thou stumbledst upon my kinsman, among the ruins of that profane pyramid?"
"It was there, señor, that the princes met us."
"Hah! Oh, then, thou wert plotting with my bold prince, hah! Faith, a very valiant pagan! and in no wise resembling the varlets of Cuba. If thou knowest aught of these men that may concern our leader to know, it will be thy duty to report the same to him Jacinto, and that without delay."
"Nothing, señor," said the page, hastily. "I discovered that my father was to fly with the ambassadors; that he was to seek them at the pyramid; and it was there we found my master swooning."
"Didst thou see aught there that was remarkable, or in any way inexplicable?"
"I saw my lord fainting, my father and the princes flying, and the soldiers pursuing and shooting both with cross-bow and musket."
"'Tis already," said the cavalier, turning his eye askaunt to Don Gabriel, "yet I know not by what revealment, whispered through the army, that my kinsman saw a spectre,—some devilish fiend, that, in the moment of his doubt, struck him to the earth!"
"Ay!" said Jacinto, turning towards the knight, and eyeing him with a look of horror; "he thought 'twas Zayda, whom he slew so barbarously among the Alpujarras!"
The cavalier laid his hand upon Jacinto's shoulder, sternly,—
"What art thou saying?—what art thou thinking? Hast thou caught some of the silly fabrications of the soldiers? I warn thee to be guarded, when thou speakest of thy master."
"He confessed it to me!" said the page, trembling but not at the anger of his patron. "He killed her with his own hands, when she screened from his cruel rage her husband Alharef, his vowed and true friend!"
"Peace!—thou art mad!—'Twas the raving of his delirium.—There is no such being as Zayda."
"There is not, but there was," said Jacinto, mournfully.
"And how knowest thou that?" demanded Amador, quickly. "Thou speakest as if she had been thy kinswoman. Art thou indeed a conjuror? There is no dark and hidden story, with which thou dost not seem acquainted!"
"She was of my tribe," said Jacinto, mildly, though tremulously, returning the steadfast gaze of his patron: "I have heard my father speak of her, for she was famous among the mountains. Often has he repeated to me her sorrowful story,—how she drew upon herself the anger of her tribe, by preserving their foe, and how their foe repaid her by—oh heaven! by murdering her! Often have I heard of Zayda; but I knew not 'twas Calavar who killed her!"
"Can this be true?" said Amador, looking blankly towards his unconscious kinsman. "Is it possible my father can have stained his soul with so foul, so deadly, so fearful a crime! And he confessed it to thee? to thee, a boy so foolish and indiscreet that thou hast already babbled it to another?"
"I could not help speaking it this time," said Jacinto, humbled at the reproach; "but if my lord will forgive me, I will never speak it more."
"I do forgive thee, Jacinto, as I hope heaven will my father. This then is the sin unabsolved, the action of wrath, the memory of sorrow, that has slain the peace of my kinsman? May heaven have pity on him, for it has punished him with a life of misery. I forgive thee, Jacinto: speak of this no more; think of it no more; let it be forgotten—now and for ever,—Amen!—I have but one more question to ask thee; and this I am, in part, driven to by thy admission of the most wondrous fact, that Don Gabriel confessed to thee his secret. Many of thine actions have filled me with wonder; thy knowledge is, for thy years, inexplicable; and thou minglest with thy boyish simplicity the shrewdness of years. Dost thou truly obtain thy knowledge by the practice of those arts, which so many allow to be possessed by Botello?"
"Señor!" exclaimed the boy, startled by the abruptness of the question.
"Art thou, indeed, an enchanter, as Yacub charged thee to be?—Give me to understand, for it is fitting I should know."
The exceeding and earnest gravity with which the cavalier repeated the question, dispelled as well the grief as the fears of the page. He cast his eyes to the earth, but this action did not conceal the humour that sparkled in them, while he replied,—
"If I were older, and had as much acquaintance with the people as Botello, I think I could prophesy as well as he; especially if my lord Don Hernan would now and then give me a hint or two concerning his designs and expectations, such as, it has been whispered, he sometimes vouchsafes to Botello. I have no crystal-imp like him indeed, but I possess one consecrated gem that can call me up, at any time, a thousand visions. It seems to me, too, that I can recall the dead; for once or twice I have done it, though very much to my own marvelling."
"Thou art an enigma," said Don Amador. "What thou sayest of Botello, assures me the more of thy subtle and penetrating observation; what thou sayest of thyself, seems to me a jest; and yet it hath a singular accordance, as well with my own foolish fancies and the charges of that Moorish menial, as with the events of the two last nights. Either there is, indeed, something very supernatural in thy knowledge, or the delirium of my kinsman is a disease of the blood, which is beginning to assail my own brain. God preserve me from madness! Hearken in thine ear, (and fear not to answer me:)—Hadst thou any thing to do with the raising of the phantom thou callest Zayda?—or is it the confusion of my senses, that causes me to suspect thee of the agency?"
"Señor!" said the boy, in alarm, "you cannot think I was serious?"
"What didst thou mean, then, by acknowledging the possession of that consecrated and vision-raising jewel?"
"I meant," responded the youth, sadly, "that, being a gift associated with all the joys of my happiest days, I never look at it, or pray over it, without being beset by recollections, which may well be called visions; for they are representations of things that have passed away."
"And the story of Leila?—Pho—'tis an absurdity!—I have heard that the cold which freezes men to death, begins by setting them to sleep. Sleep brings dreams; and dreams are often most vivid and fantastical, before we have yet been wholly lost in slumber. Perhaps 'tis this most biting and benumbing blast, that brings me such phantoms. Art thou not very cold?"
"Not very, señor: methinks we are descending; and now the winds are not so frigid as before."
"I would to heaven, for the sake of us all, that we were descended yet lower; for night approaches, and still we are stumbling among these clouds, that seem to separate us from earth, without yet advancing us nearer to heaven."
While the cavalier was yet speaking, there came from the van of the army, very far in the distance, a shout of joy, that was caught up by those who toiled in his neighbourhood, and continued by the squadrons that brought up the rear, until finally lost among the echoes of remote cliffs. He pressed forward with the animation shared by his companions, and, still leading Jacinto, arrived, at last, at a place where the mountain dipped downwards with so sudden and so precipitous a declivity, as to interpose no obstacle to the vision. The mists were rolling away from his feet in huge wreaths, which gradually, as they became thinner, received and transmitted the rays of an evening sun, and were lighted up with a golden and crimson radiance, glorious to behold, and increasing every moment in splendour. As this superb curtain was parted from before him, as if by cords that went up to heaven, and surged voluminously aside, he looked over the heads of those that thronged the side of the mountain beneath, and saw, stretching away like a picture touched by the hands of angels, the fair valley imbosomed among those romantic hills, whose shadows were stealing visibly over its western slopes, but leaving all the eastern portion dyed with the tints of sunset. The green plains studded with yet greener woodlands; the little mountains raising their fairy-like crests; the lovely lakes, now gleaming like floods of molten silver, where they stretched into the sunshine, and now vanishing away, in a shadowy expanse, under the gloom of the growing twilight; the structures that rose, vaguely and obscurely, here from their verdant margins, and there from their very bosom, as if floating on their placid waters, seeming at one time to present the image of a city crowned with towers and pinnacles, and then again broken by some agitation of the element, or confused by some vapour swimming through the atmosphere, into the mere fragments and phantasms of edifices,—these, seen in that uncertain and fading light, and at that misty and enchanting distance, unfolded such a spectacle of beauty and peace as plunged the neophyte into a revery of rapture. The trembling of the page's hand, a deep sigh that breathed from his lips, recalled him to consciousness, without however dispelling his delight.
"By the cross which I worship!" he cried, "it fills me with amazement, to think that this cursed and malefactious earth doth contain a spot that is so much like to paradise! Now do I remember me of the words of the señor Gomez, that 'no man could conceive of heaven, till he had looked upon the valley of Mexico,'—an expression which, at that time, I considered very absurd, and somewhat profane; yet, if I am not now mistaken, I shall henceforth, doubtless, when figuring to my imagination the seats of bliss, begin by thinking of this very prospect."
"It is truly a fairer sight than any we saw in Florida, most noble señor," said a voice hard by.
The cavalier turned, and with not less satisfaction than surprise, (for the delight of the moment had greatly warmed his heart,) beheld, in the person of the speaker, the master of the caravel.
"Oho! señor Capitan!" cried Don Amador, stretching out his hand to the bowing commander. "I vow, I am as much rejoiced to see thee, as if we had been companions together in war. What brings thee hither to look on these inimitable landscapes? Art thou come, to disprove thy accounts of the people of Tenochtitlan? I promise thee, I have heard certain stories, and seen certain sights, which greatly shake my faith in thy representations.—What news dost thou bring me of my kinsman, the admiral?"
"Señor," said the master, "the stars have a greater influence over our destinies, than have our desires. It seems to me, that that very astonishing victory of the most noble and right valiant señor, Don Hernan, at Zempoala, did utterly turn the brains of all the sailors in the fleet: and his excellency the admiral having declared himself a friend to the conqueror, they were all straightway seized with such an ambition to exchange the handspike for the halbert, and mine own thirteen vagabonds among them, that, in an hour's time after the news, my good caravel was as well freed of men as ever I have known her cleared of rats, after a smoking of brimstone. So, perceiving the folly of remaining in her alone, and receiving the assurance from my knaves that, if I went with them, I should be their captain, and his excellency consenting to the same, I forthwith armed myself with these rusty plates, (wherein you may see some of the dints battered by the red devils of Florida,) and was converted into a soldier,—the captain of the smallest company in this goodly army, and perhaps the most cowardly; for never did I before hear men grumble with such profane discontent, as did these same knaves, this very day, at the cold airs of the mountain. If they will fight, well; if they will not, and anybody else will, may I die the death of a mule, if I will not make them; for one hath a better and stronger command in an army than in a ship. Last night I came to that great town they call Cholula, and was confirmed in my command by the general.—His excellency, the admiral, bade me commend his love to your worship; and hearing that you have enlisted his secretary into your service, sends, by me, a better suit of armour for the youth, and prays your favour will have him in such keeping, that he shall be cured of his fit of valour, without the absolute loss of life, or his right hand, which last would entirely unfit him for returning to his ancient duties,—as, by my faith! so would the former. But, by'r lady, my thoughts run somewhat a wool-gathering at this prospect; for I see very clearly, 'tis a rich land here, that hath such admirable cities; and, I am told, we shall have blows enow, by and by, with the varlets in the valley. Nevertheless, I am ready to wager my soul against a cotton neck-piece, that, if these infidels have half the spirit of the savages of Florida, we shall be beaten, and sent to heaven, Amen!—that is, for the matter of heaven, and not the beating!"
"I applaud thy resolution, mine ancient friend," said the cavalier, "and methinks thou art more vigorous, both of body and mind, on land than thou wert at sea. I will, by and by, send the secretary to receive the armour, and will not forget his excellency's bidding, as far as is possible. But let us not, by conversation, distract our thoughts from this most lovely spectacle; for I perceive it will be soon enveloped in darkness; and how know we, we shall ever look upon it again?"
Thus terminating the interview, the neophyte, as he descended, watched the unchanging yet ever beautiful picture, till the sun buried himself among the mountains, and the shadows of night curtained it in obscurity.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Passing the night in a little hamlet on the mountain side, the army was prepared, at the dawn of the following day, to resume its march. But the events of this march being varied by nothing but the change of prospect, and the wonder of those by whom the valley was seen for the first time, we will not imitate the prolixity of our authority, the worthy Don Cristobal, but despatch, in a word, the increasing delight and astonishment with which Don Amador de Leste, after having satiated his appetite with views of lake and garden, surveyed the countless villages and towns of hewn stone that rose, almost at every moment, among them. A neck of land now separates the lakes of Chalco and Xochimilco; and the retreat of the waters has left their banks deformed with fens and morasses, wherein the wild-duck screams among waving reeds and bulrushes. Originally, these basins were united in one long and lovely sheet of water, divided indeed, yet only by a causey built by the hands of man, which is now lost in the before-mentioned neck, together with its sluices and bridges, as well as a beautiful little city, that lay midway between the two shores, called by the Spaniards Venezuela, (because rising, like its aristocratic godmother, from among the waters,) until they discovered that this was a peculiarity presented by dozens of other cities in the valley. Here was enjoyed the spectacle of innumerable canoes, paddled, with corn and merchandise, from distant towns, or parting with a freight of flowers from the chinampas, or floating gardens. But this was a spectacle disclosed by other cities of greater magnitude and beauty; and when, from the streets of the royal city Iztapalapan, the army issued at once upon the broad and straight dike that stretched for more than two leagues in length, a noble highway, through the salt floods of Tezcuco; when the neophyte beheld islands rocking like anchored ships in the water, the face of the lake thronged with little piraguas, and the air alive with snowy gulls; when he perceived the banks of this great sheet, as far as they could be seen, lined with villages and towns; and especially when he traced far away in the distance, in the line of the causeway, such a multitude of high towers and shadowy pyramids looming over the waters, as denoted the presence of a vast city,—he was seized with a species of awe at the thought of the marvellous ways of God, who had raised up that mighty empire, all unknown to the men of his own hemisphere, and now revealed it, for the accomplishment of a destiny which he trembled to imagine. He rode at the head of the army, in a post of distinction, by the side of Cortes, and fell moved to express some of the strange ideas which haunted him; but looking on the general attentively, he perceived about his whole countenance and figure an expression of singular gloom, mingled with such unusual haughtiness, as quickly indisposed him to conversation.
The feelings that struggled in the bosom of the Conqueror were, at this instant, akin to those of the destroyer, as he sat upon 'the Assyrian mount,' overlooking the walls of Paradise, almost lamenting, and yet excusing to himself, the ruin he was about to bring upon that heavenly scene. Perhaps 'horror and doubt' for a moment distracted his thoughts; for no one knew better than he the uncertain chances and tremendous perils of the enterprise, or mused with more fear upon the probable and most sanguinary resistance of his victims, as foreboded by the tumults that followed after the late massacre. But when he cast his eye backward on the causey, and beheld the long train of foot and horse following at his beck; the many cannons, which, as they were dragged along, opened their brazen throats towards the city; the rows of spears and arquebuses bristling, and the banners flapping, over the heads of his people, and behind them the feathered tufts of his Tlascalans; and heard the music of his trumpets swell from the dike to the lake, from the lake to the shores, and die away, with pleasant echoes, among the hills; when he surveyed and listened to these things, and contrasted with them the imperfect weapons and naked bodies of his adversaries; the weakness of their institutions; the feebleness of their princes; the general disorganization of the people; and counted the guerdon of wealth and immortal renown that should wait upon success; he stifled at once his apprehensions and his remorse, ceased to remember that those, whose destruction he meditated, were, to him, 'harmless innocence,' and satisfied himself, almost with the arguments of the fiend, that—
Public reason just,
Honour and empire, with revenge enlarged,
By conquering this new world, compels me now
To do what else, though damn'd, I should abhor.
Triumph and regret were at once dividing his bosom; he knew he was a destroyer, but felt he should be a conqueror.
There were many things in Don Hernan, which notwithstanding the gratitude and the desires of the neophyte, prevented the latter from bestowing upon him so much affection as he gave to one or two of his followers. The spirit of the leader was wholly, and, for his station, necessarily, crafty; and this very quality raised up a wall between him and one who was of so honourable a nature that he knew no concealment. The whole schemes and aims of the general were based upon such a foundation of fraud and injustice, that, he well knew, he could not, without expecting constant and vexatious opposition, give his full confidence to any truly noble spirit; and the same wisdom that estranged him from the lofty, taught him to keep aloof from the base. While artful enough to make use of the good qualities of the one, and the bad principles of the other class, he was satisfied with their respect; he cared not for their friendship. It was enough to him, that he had zealous and obedient followers: his situation allowed him no friends; and he had none. Of all the valiant cavaliers who shared with him the perils and the rewards of the invasion, there was not one who, after peace had severed the bonds of companionship, did not, at the first frown of fortune, or the first invitation of self-interest, array himself in arms against his leader.
While the general gave himself up to his proud and gloomy imaginings, the novice of Rhodes again cast his eyes over the lake. It seemed to him, that, notwithstanding the triumphant blasts of the trumpet, the neighing of horses, and the multitudinous tread of the foot-soldiers, as well as the presence of so many canoes on the water, there was an air of sadness and solitude pervading the whole spectacle. The new soldiers were perhaps impressed with an awe like his own, at the strange prospect; the veterans were, doubtless, revolving in their minds some of the darker contingencies, over which their commander was brooding. Their steps rung heavily on the stone mole; and as the breeze curled up the surface of the lake into light billows, and tossed them against the causeway, Don Amador fancied, they approached and dashed at his feet with a certain sullen and hostile voice of warning. He thought it remarkable, also, that, among the throngs of canoes, there rose no shouts of welcome: the little vessels, forming a fleet on either side of the dike, were paddled along, at the distance of two or three hundred yards, so as to keep pace with the army; and the motion of the rowers, and the gleaming of their white garments, might have given animation, as well as picturesqueness, to the scene, but for the death-like silence that was preserved among them. The novelty of everything about the cavalier gave vigour to his imagination—he thought these paddling hordes resembled the flight of ravens that track the steps of a wounded beast in the desert,—or a shoal of those ravenous monsters that scent a pestilence on the deep, and swim by the side of the floating hospital, waiting for their prey.
"What they mean, I know not," mused the cavalier. "After what De Morla has told me, I shall be loath to slay any of them; but if they desire to make a dinner of me, I swear to St. John! I will carve their brown bodies into all sorts of dishes, before I submit my limbs to the imprisonment of their most damnable maws! And yet, poor infidels! methinks they have some cause, after that affair of the festival, to look upon us with fear, if not with wrath; for if a garrison of an hundred men could be prompted to do them such a foul and murderous wrong, there is much reason to apprehend this well-appointed thousand might be, with as little provocation and warning, incited to work them a still more deadly injury. I would, however, that they might shout a little, were it only to make me feel more like a man awake; for, at present, it seems to me, that I am dreaming all these things which I am looking at!"
The wish of the cavalier was not obeyed; and many a suspicious glance was cast, both by soldier and officer, to the dumb myriads paddling on their flanks; for it could not be denied, though no one dared to give utterance to such a suggestion, that were these countless barbarians provided with arms, as was perhaps the case, and could they but conceive the simple expedient of landing both in front and rear, and thus cut off their invaders from the city and the shore, and attack them at the same time, with good heart, in this insulated and very disadvantageous position, there was no knowing how obscure a conjecture the historian might hazard for the story of their fate. But this suspicion was also proved to be groundless; no sort of annoyance was practised, none indeed was meditated. The thousands that burthened the canoes, had issued from their canals to indulge a stupid curiosity, or, perhaps, under an impulse which they did not understand, to display to their enemies the long banquet of slaughter which fate was preparing for them.
The army reached, at last, a point where another causeway of equal breadth, and seemingly of equal length, coming from the south-west, from the city Cojohuacan, ruled by a king, (the brother and feudatory of Montezuma,) terminated in the dike of Iztapalapan. At the point of junction was a sort of military work, consisting of a bastion, a strong wall, and two towers, guarding the approach to the imperial city. It was known by the name of Xoloc, (or, as it should be written in our tongue, Holoc,) and was in after times made famous by becoming the head-quarters of Cortes, during the time of the siege. It stood at the distance of only half a league from the city; and from hence could be plainly seen, not only the huge pyramids, with their remarkable towers rising aloft, but the low stone fabrics whereon, among the flowers (for every roof was a terrace, and every terrace a garden,) stood the gloomy citizens, watching the approach of the Christian army.
At this point of Xoloc, at a signal of the general, every drum was struck with a lusty hand, every trumpet filled with a furious blast, and the Christians and Tlascalans, shouting together, while two or three falconets were at the same time discharged, there rose such a sudden and mighty din as startled the infidels in their canoes, and conveyed to the remotest quarters of Tenochtitlan, the intelligence of the advance of its masters.
Scarcely had the echoes of this uproar died away on the lake, when there came, faintly indeed, but full of joyous animation, the response of the Christian garrison; and as the army resumed its march, they repeated their shouts loudly and blithely, for they now perceived, by the waving of banners and the glittering of spears, that their friends, rescued, as they all understood, by their presence, from the fear of a miserable death, were coming forth to meet them. Two or three mounted cavaliers were seen to separate themselves from this little and distant band, and gallop forwards, while the causeway rung to the sound of their hoofs. Don Amador, being in advance, was able, as they rushed forwards with loud and merry halloos, to observe their persons, as well as the reception they obtained from Don Hernan. His eye was attracted to him who seemed to be their leader, and who, he already knew, was Don Pedro de Alvarado, a cavalier that had no rival (the gallant Sandoval excepted,) in fame and in the favour of his general. He was in the prime of life, of a most noble stature, and of a countenance so engaging and animated, that this, in addition to the constant splendour of his apparel, whether the gilded mail of a warrior, or the costly vestments of a courtier,—had won him from the Mexicans themselves the flattering title of Tonatiuh, or the Sun; a compliment which his friends did not scruple to perpetuate, nor he to encourage. He rode immediately up to Cortes, and stretching out his hand, said gayly, and indeed, affectionately,—
"Long life to thee, Cortes! I welcome thee as my saint. God be praised for thy coming—Amen! Thou hast snatched me from a most ignoble and hound-like death; for Sir Copilli, the emperor, has been starving me!"
Don Hernan took the hand of the cavalier, and eyeing him steadfastly and sternly, while his old companions gathered around, said with a most pointed asperity,—
"My friend Alvarado! thou hast done me, as well as these noble cavaliers, thy friends, and also thy lord the king, a most grievous wrong; for, by the indulgence of thy hot wrath and indiscretion, thou hast, as I may say, dashed the possession of this empire out of our hands: and much blood shall be shed, and many Christian lives sacrificed in a war that might have been spared us, before we can remedy the consequences of thy rashness!"
A deep gloom that darkened to a scowl, instantly gathered over the handsome visage of Don Pedro; and snatching his hand roughly away, he drew himself up, and prepared to reply to his general with wrath, and perhaps with defiance. But it was no part of the policy of Cortes to carry his anger further than might operate warningly on the officer and on those around; for which reason, offering his hand again, as if not noticing the discontent of his lieutenant, he said, with an artful appearance of sincerity,
"I have often thought how thou mightest have been spared the necessity of slaying these perfidious and plotting hounds; and it seems to me, even now, if thou couldst, by shutting thyself in thy quarters and avoiding a contest, have submitted to the foolish imputations some might have cast on thee, of acting from fear rather than from prudence, this killing of the nobles might have been avoided. I say, some, indeed, might have accused thee of being in fear, hadst thou not killed the knaves that were scheming thine own destruction; but this is an aspersion which thou couldst have borne with as little injury as any other brave cavalier in this army, being second to none in a high and well-deserved reputation; and so well am I persuaded that none could have better than thyself withstood the uncommon dangers of thy command in this treasonable city, that I should have excused any precaution of peace, that might have seemed cowardly to others. Nevertheless, I must own, thou wert forced to do as thou hast done; for no brave man can submit to be thought capable of fear; and, I know, 'twas this thought alone, that drove thee out to kill the nobles."
No cloud in those tropical skies could have vanished more suddenly in the sunbeam, than did the frown of Alvarado at these complimentary words of his general. He caught the hand that was still proffered, shook it heartily, kissed it, and said,—his whole countenance beaming with delight and pride,—
"I thank your excellency for this just consideration of my actions, and this expression of a true excuse for what seems, and what perhaps may have been, a great indiscretion. Your excellency, and these noble señores, my friends, would have esteemed me a coward, had I sat securely and quietly in the palace, watching, without attempting to forestall, the conspiracy of the lords of Mexico; and I have great hopes, when I have permission to explain all these things to your excellency, though I do not much plume myself on wisdom, but rather on fighting, (which is the only thing I have ever studied with diligence,) that you will say I acted as wisely as, in such case, was possible."
"I have no doubt of it," said Cortes, smiling, as he rode onwards.—"But, nevertheless, there is more wisdom in thy knocks than in thy noddle," he muttered to himself.—The shame of the reproof, though dispelled by the flattery of the rebuker, did not wholly disappear from the bosom of Alvarado. A word of sarcasm will live longer than the memory of a benefit. Alvarado was, in after days, a traitor to his general.
But without now giving himself leisure for consideration, the cavalier addressed himself to his old companions; and even, (for his joy at being so rescued out of peril, warmed his heart to all,) made up with much satisfaction to the knight Calavar. But since the confession at Cholula, the distemper of Don Gabriel had visibly increased; and his fits of abstraction were becoming, every hour, so frequent and so profound, as to cause the greatest alarm and anxiety to his kinsman. He neither heard nor saw the salutations of Don Pedro; nor indeed did he seem at all sensible to any part of the strange scene that surrounded him. Foiled in this attempt, the courteous and vivacious soldier turned himself to Don Amador, as presenting the appearance of a noble and gallant hidalgo, and would speedily have been on a footing of the most perfect friendship with him, had it not been that the neophyte still freshly remembered the story of the massacre, and met his advances with a frigid haughtiness.
"By'r lady!" said the offended cavalier, "it seems to me that the devil, or the cold mountain, has got into the bosoms of all; for here am I, with my heart at this moment as warm as a pepper-pod, or a black cloak in the sunshine, and ready to love everybody, old and young, vile and virtuous, base and gentle; and yet everybody, notwithstanding, meets me with a most frosty unconcern. I swear to thee, valiant cavalier, whosoever thou art, my breast is open to thee, and I crave thy affection; for, besides perceiving that thou art assuredly an hidalgo, I see thou hast a Moorish page at thy side, with a lute at his back; and if his pipe be half so good as his face, I cannot live without being thy friend; for I love music!"
Jacinto shrunk away from his admirer, alarmed as much at the suddenness of his praise, as at the many evolutions of the lance, which, by way of gesticulation, he flourished about him in a very vigorous manner. But Don Amador, greatly amused at the freedom, and, in spite of himself, gained by the frankness, of Don Pedro, replied with good-humour.
"Señor," said he, "I am Amador de Leste, of the castle Del Alcornoque, near to Cuenza; and having heard certain charges against you, in the matter of the Mexican nobles, I replied to you, perhaps, with prejudice. Nevertheless, what the general has said, does, in some sort, seem to lessen the force of the charge; and if you will, at your leisure, condescend to satisfy my doubts, as I begin to be assured you can, I will not hesitate to receive your friendship, and to tender you my own in return. Only, previous to which, I must beg of you to turn your lance-point another way, so that the boy Jacinto, who is somewhat afraid of its antics, may be enabled to walk again at my side."
"Señor Don Amador de Leste," said the soldier, taking this speech in good part, "I avow myself satisfied with your explanation, and so determined to pursue your friendship, (inasmuch as I have not heard any good singing since the little Orteguilla, the page of the Indian emperor, or, what is the same thing, of Cortes, lost his voice in a quinsy,) that I will give you the whole history of the nobles, their atrocious conspiracy and their just punishment, as soon as we have leisure in our quarters. And now, if you will have the goodness to ride with me a little in advance, I will have much satisfaction, as I perceive you are a stranger, to introduce you to this great and wonderful city, Tenochtitlan, of which I have been, as I may say, in some sort, the king, for two long and tumultuous months; and I swear to you, no king ever clutched upon a crown with more good will and joy than do I, this moment, abdicate my authority."
Thus invited by his courteous and jocund friend, the neophyte rode onwards so as to reach the heels of Cortes, just as the garrison, inspired by the sight of their leader, broke their ranks, and rushed forwards to salute him.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
The soldiers of Alvarado differed in no wise from those veterans whom Don Amador had found standing to their arms on the banks of the River of Canoes; only that they presented, notwithstanding their loudly vented delight, a care-worn and somewhat emaciated appearance,—the consequence of long watches, perpetual fears, and, in part, of famine. They broke their ranks, as has been said, as soon as they beheld their general, and surrounded him with every expression of affection; and, while stretching forth their hands with cries of gratitude and joy, invoked many execrations on their imperial prisoner, the helpless Montezuma, as the cause of all their sufferings. Among them, Don Amador took notice of one man, who, though armed and habited as a Spaniard, seemed, in most other respects, an Indian, and of a more savage race than any he had yet seen; for his face, hands, and neck were tattooed with the most fantastic figures, and his motions were those of a barbarian. This was Geronimo de Aguilar, a companion of Balboa, who, being wrecked on the coast of Yucatan, had been preserved as a slave, and finally, adopted as a warrior, among the hordes of that distant land; from which he was rescued by Don Hernan,—happily to serve as the means of communication, through the medium of another and more remarkable interpreter, with the races of Mexico. This other interpreter, who approached the general with the dignified gravity of an Indian princess, and was received with suitable respect, was no less a person than that maid of Painalla, sold by an unfeeling parent a slave to one of the chieftains of Tobasco, presented by him to Cortes, and baptized in the faith under the distinguished title of the señora Doña Marina; who, by interpreting to Aguilar, in the language of Yucatan, the communications that were made in her native tongue, thus gave to Cortes the means of conferring with her countrymen, until her speedy acquisition of the Castilian language removed the necessity of such tedious intervention. But at this period, many Spaniards had acquired a smattering of her tongue, and could play the part of interpreters; and, for this reason, Doña Marina will make no great figure in this history. Other annalists have sufficiently immortalized her beauty, her wisdom, and her fidelity; and it has been her good fortune, continued even to this day, to be distinguished with such honours as have fallen to the lot of none of her masters. Her Christian denomination, Marina, converted by her countrymen into Malintzin, (a title that was afterwards scornfully applied by them to Cortes himself,) and this again, in modern days, corrupted by the Creoles into Malinche, has had the singular fate to give name both to a mountain and a divinity: the sierra of Tlascala is now called the mountain of Malinche; and the descendants of Montezuma pay their adorations to the Virgin, under the title of Malintzin.
Don Amador de Leste, attended by De Morla, as well as his new acquaintance, Alvarado, was able to understand, as well as admire, many of the wonders of the city, as he now, for the first time, planted his foot on its imperial streets.
The retreat of the salt waters of Tezcuco has left the present republican city of Mexico a full league west of the lake. In the days of Montezuma, it stood upon an island two miles removed from the western shore, with which it communicated by the dike or calzada of Tlacopan,—now called Tacuba. The causeway of Iztapalapan, coming from the South, seven miles in length, passed over the island and through the city, and was continued in a line three miles further to the northern shore, and to the city Tepejacac, where now stand the church and the miraculous picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Besides these three great causeways, constructed with inconceivable labour, there were two others,—that of Cojohuacan, which, as we have mentioned, terminated in the greater one of Iztapalapan, at the military point Xoloc, a half league from the city; and that, a little south-ward of the dike of Tacuba, which conveyed, in aqueducts of earthenware, the pure waters of Chapoltepec to the temples and squares of the imperial city. The island was circular, saving that a broad angle or peninsula ran out from the north-west, and a similar one from the opposite point of the compass: it was a league in diameter; but the necessities of the people, after covering this ample space with their dwellings, extended them far into the lake; and perhaps as many edifices stood, on piles, in the water as on the land. The causeways of Iztapalapan and Tacuba, intersecting each other in the heart of the island, divided the city into four convenient quarters, to which a fifth was added, some few generations before, when the little kingdom of Tlatelolco, occupying the north-western peninsula, was added to Tenochtitlan. On this peninsula and in this quarter of Tlatelolco, stood the palace of an ancient king, which the munificence of Montezuma had presented to Cortes for a dwelling, and which the invader, six days after the gift, by an act of as much treachery as daring, converted into the prison of his benefactor.
The appearance of this vast and remarkable city so occupied the mind of the neophyte, that, as he rode staring along, he gave but few thoughts, and fewer words, either to his kinsman or the page. It was sunset, and in the increasing obscurity, he gazed, as if on a scene of magic, on streets often having canals in the midst, covered alike with bridges and empty canoes; on stone houses, low indeed, but of a strong and imposing structure, over the terraces of which waved shrubs and flowers; and on high turrets, which, at every vista, disclosed their distant pinnacles. But he remarked also, and it was mentioned by the cavaliers at his side as a bad omen, that neither the streets, the canals, nor the house-tops presented the appearance of citizens coming forth to gaze upon them. A few Indians were now and then seen skulking at a distance in the streets, raising their heads from a half-concealed canoe, or peering from a terrace among the shrubs. He would have thought the city uninhabited, but that he knew it contained as many living creatures, hidden among its retreats, as some of the proudest capitals of Christendom. Even the great square, the centre of life and of devotion, was deserted; and the principal pyramid, a huge and mountainous mass, consecrated to the most sanguinary of deities, though its sanctuaries were lighted by the ever-blazing urns, and though the town of temples circumscribed by the great Coatepantli, or Wall of Serpents, which surrounded this Mexican Olympus, sent up the glare of many a devotional torch,—yet did it seem, nevertheless, to be inhabited by beings as inanimate as those monstrous reptiles which writhed in stone along the infernal wall. In this light, and in that which still played in the west, Don Amador marvelled at the structure of the pyramid, and cursed it as he marvelled. It consisted of five enormous platforms, faced with hewn stone, and mounted by steps so singularly planned, that, upon climbing the first story, it was necessary to walk entirely round the mass, before arriving at the staircase which conducted to the second. The reader may conceive of the vast size of this pagan temple by being apprised, that, to ascend it, the votaries were compelled, in their perambulations, to walk a distance of full ten furlongs, as well as to climb a hundred and fourteen different steps. He may also comprehend the manner in which the stairways were contrived, by knowing that the first, ascending laterally from the corner, was just as broad as the first platform was wider than the second; leaving thus a sheer and continuous wall from the ground to the top of the second terrace, from the bottom of the second to the top of the third, and so on, in like manner, to the top.
But the pyramid, crowned with altars and censers, the innumerable temples erected in honour of nameless deities at its foot, and the strange and most hideous Coatepantli, were not the only objects which excited the abhorrence of the cavalier. Without the wall, and a few paces in advance of the great gate which it covered as a curtain, rose a rampart of earth or stone, oblong and pyramidal, but truncated, twenty-five fathoms in length at the base, and perhaps thirty feet in height. At either end of this tumulus, was a tower of goodly altitude, built, as it seemed at a distance and in the dim light, of some singularly rude and uncouth material; and between them, occupying the whole remaining space of the terrace, was a sort of frame-work or cage of slender poles, on all of which were strung thickly together, certain little globes, the character of which Don Amador could not penetrate, until fully abreast of them. Then, indeed, he perceived, with horror, that these globes were the skulls of human beings, the trophies of ages of superstition; and beheld, in like manner, that the towers which crowned the Golgotha, (or Huitzompan, as it was called in the Mexican tongue,) were constructed of the same dreadful materials, cemented together with lime. The malediction which he invoked upon the builders of the ghastly temple, was unheard; for the spectacle froze his blood and paralyzed his tongue.
It was not yet dark, when, having left these haunts of idolatry, Don Amador found himself entering into the court-yard of a vast, and yet not a very lofty, building,—the palace of Axajacatl; wherein, with drums beating, and trumpets answering joyously to the salute of their friends, stood those individuals of the garrison who had remained to watch over their prisoners and treasures. The weary and the curious, thronging together impatiently at the gate, mingling with the garrison and some two thousand faithful Tlascalans, who had been left by Cortes as their allies, and who now rushed forward to salute the viceroy of their gods, as some had denominated Don Hernan, made such a scene of confusion, that, for a moment, the neophyte was unable to ride into the yard. In that moment, and while struggling both to appease the unquiet of Fogoso, and to drive away the feathered herd that obstructed him, his arm was touched, and, looking down, he beheld Jacinto at his side, greatly agitated, and seemingly striving to disengage himself from the throng.
"Give me thy hand," cried Don Amador, "and I will pull thee out of this rabble to the back of Fogoso."
But the page, though he seized upon the hand of his patron, and covered it with kisses, held back, greatly to the surprise of Don Amador, who was made sensible that hot tears were falling with the kisses.
"I swear to thee, my boy! that I will discover thy father for thee, if it be possible for man to find him," said the cavalier, diving at once, as he thought, to the cause of this emotion.
But before he had well done speaking, the press thickening around him, drew the boy from his side; and when he had, a moment after, disengaged himself, Jacinto was no longer to be seen. Not doubting, however, that he was entangled in the mass, and would immediately appear, he called out to him to follow; and riding slowly up to Cortes, he had his whole attention immediately absorbed by the spectacle of the Indian emperor.
Issuing from the door of the palace, surrounded as well by Spanish cavaliers as by the nobles, both male and female, of his own household, who stood by him,—the latter, at least,—with countenances of the deepest veneration,—he advanced a step to do honour to the dismounting general.
In the light of many torches, held by the people about him, Don Amador, as he flung himself from his horse, could plainly perceive the person and habiliments of the pagan king. He was of good stature, clad in white robes, over which was a huge mantle of crimson, studded with emeralds and drops of gold, knotted on his breast, or rather on his shoulder, so as to fall, when he raised his arm, in careless but very graceful folds; his legs were buskined with gilded leather; his head covered with the copilli, or crown, (a sort of mitre of plate-gold, graved and chased with certain idolatrous devices,) from beneath which fell to his shoulders long and thick locks of the blackest hair. He did not yet seem to have passed beyond the autumn of life. His countenance, though of the darkest hue known among his people, was good, somewhat long and hollow, but the features well sculptured; and a gentle melancholy, a characteristic expression of his race, deepened, perhaps, in gloom, by a sense of his degradation, gave it a something that interested the beholder.
In the abruptness with which he was introduced to the regal barbarian, Don Amador had no leisure to take notice of his attendants, all princely in rank, and, two or three of them, the kings of neighbouring cities: he only observed that their decorations were far from being costly and ostentatious;—a circumstance, which, he did not then know, marked the greatness of their respect. In the absurd grandeur which attached to the person of their monarch, no distinction of inferior ranks was allowed to be traced, during the time of an audience; and in his majestic presence, a vassal king wore the coarse garments of a slave. So important was esteemed the observance of this courtly etiquette, that, at the first visit made him, in his palace, by the Spaniards, the renowned Cortes and his proud officers did not refuse to throw off their shoes, and cover their armour with such humble apparel as was offered them. But those days were passed; the king of kings was himself the vassal of a king's vassal. Yet notwithstanding this, it had been, up to this time, the policy of Don Hernan to soften the captivity, and engage the affections, of the monarch, by such marks of reverence as might still allow him to dream he possessed the grandeur, along with the state, of a king. Before this day, Cortes had never been known to pass his prisoner, without removing his cap or helmet; and indeed, such had been so long the habit of his cavaliers, that all, as they now dismounted, fell to doffing their casques without delay, until the action of their leader taught them a new and unexpected mode of salutation.
The weak spirit of Montezuma had yielded to the arts of the Spaniard; and forgetting the insults of past days, the loss of his empire, and the shame of his imprisonment, he had already conceived a species of affection for his wronger. Cortes had no sooner, therefore, leaped from his horse, than the emperor, with outstretched arms, and with his sadness yielding to a smile, advanced to meet him.
"Dog of a king!" said the invader, with a ferocious frown, "dost thou starve and murder my people, and then offer me the hand of friendship? away with thee! I defy thee, and thou shalt see that I can punish!" Thus saying, and thrusting the king rudely aside, he stepped into the palace.
A wild cry of lamentation, at this insult (it needed no interpretation) to their king, burst from the lips of all the Mexicans; and the Spaniards themselves were not less panic-struck. The gentle manners of Montezuma, and his munificence, (for he was in the daily habit of enriching them with costly presents,) had endeared him to most of his enemies; and even the soldiers of the garrison, who had so lately accused him of endeavouring to famish them, had no belief in the justice of their charges. Many of them therefore, both soldiers and hidalgos, indignant and grieved at the wanton insult, had their sympathies strongly excited, when they beheld the monarch roll his eyes upon them with a haggard smile, in which pride was struggling vainly with a bitter sense of humiliation. De Morla and several others rushed forwards to atone, by caresses, for the crime of their general. But it was too late; the king threw his mantle over his head, and without the utterance of any complaint, passed, with his attendants, into his apartments. His countenance was never more, from that day, seen to wear a smile.
Don Amador de Leste was greatly amazed and shocked by this rudeness; and it was one of many other circumstances, which, by lessening his respect for the general, contributed to weaken his friendship and undermine his gratitude. But he had no time to indulge his indignation. He was startled by a loud cry, or rather a shriek, from the lips of the knight Calavar; and running to the gate, beheld, in the midst of a confused mass of men, rushing to and fro, and calling out as if to secure an assassin, his kinsman lying, to all appearance dead, in the arms of his attendants.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
The first thought of the young cavalier was, that Don Gabriel had been basely and murderously struck by some felon hand; an apprehension of which he was, in part, immediately relieved by the protestations of Baltasar, but which was not entirely removed until he had assisted to carry the knight into a chamber of the palace, and beheld him open his eyes and roll them wildly round him, like one awaking from a dream of night-mare.
"I say," muttered Baltasar, as he raised the head of the distracted man, and beckoned to clear the room of many idle personages who had thrust themselves in, "he was hurt by no mortal man, for I stood close at his side, and there is not a drop of blood on his body. 'Twas one of the accursed ghosts, whom may St. John sink down to hell; for they are ever persecuting us."
"Mortal man, or immortal fiend," whispered Lazaro, knitting his brows, but looking greatly frighted, "I saw him running away, the moment the knight screeched; and, I will take my oath, he had such a damnable appearance as belongs to nothing but the devil, or one of these pagan gods, who are all devils. Had he been a man, I should have slain him, for I struck at him with my spear!"
"Miserere mei!" groaned the knight, rising to his feet, "they are all unearthed,—Zayda at the temple, and he in the palace!"
Don Amador trembled, when he heard his kinsman pronounce the name of Zayda, for he remembered the words of Jacinto. Nevertheless he said, "be not disturbed, my father; for we are none here but thy servants."
"Ay!" said the knight, looking gloomily but sanely to his friend; "I afflict thee with my folly; but I know now that it will end.—Let the boy Jacinto sing to me the song of the Virgin; I will pray and sleep."
Don Amador looked round, and Jacinto not being present, began to remember that the page had been separated from him in the crowd, and that he had not seen him since the moment of separation. None of the attendants had noticed him enter the court-yard; and a superstitious fear was mingled with his anxiety, when Don Gabriel, casting his eyes to heaven, said, with a deep groan,—
"The time beginneth, the flower is broken, and now I see how each branch shall fall, and the trunk that is blasted, shall be left, naked, to perish! Seek no more for the boy," he went on to Amador, with a grave placidity, which, coupled with the extravagance of his words, gave the youth reason to fear that his mind, wavering under a thousand shocks, had at last settled down for ever in the calm of insanity,—"seek for the good child no more, for he is now in heaven. And lament not thou, my son Amador, that thou shalt speedily follow him; for thy heart is yet pure, thy soul unstained, and grace shall not be denied thee!"
"Jacinto is not dead, my father," said the neophyte earnestly; "and if thou wilt suffer Baltasar to remove thy corslet, and make thee a couch under yonder canopy, I will fetch him to thee presently, and he shall sing thee to sleep."
"Remove the armour indeed," muttered Don Gabriel, submitting passively, "for now there is no more need of aught but the crucifix, prayers, and the grave. Poor children! that shall die before the day of canker, what matters it? I lament ye not,—ye shall sleep in peace!"
Thus murmuring out his distractions, in which his servants perceived nothing but the influence of some supernatural warning that boded them calamity, the knight allowed himself to be disarmed and laid upon a couch on a raised platform at the side of the chamber, over which the voluminous arras that covered the walls, were festooned into a sort of not inelegant tester.
Meanwhile, the neophyte, beckoning Lazaro with him, and charging him to make good search throughout the palace for the page, began to address himself to the same duty. And first, attracted by the lights and by the sounds of many voices coming from a neighbouring apartment, he advanced to the door, where he was suddenly arrested by the appearance of a Mexican of very majestic stature, though clad in the same humble robes which had covered the attendants of Montezuma, issuing from the chamber, followed by a throng of cavaliers, among whom was the general himself. At the side of Cortes stood a boy, in stature resembling Jacinto; and in whom, for a moment, Don Amador thought he had discovered the object of his desires. But this agreeable delusion was instantly put to flight, when he heard Don Hernan address him by the name of Orteguilla, and saw that he exercised the functions of an interpreter.
"Tell me this knave, my merry muchacho," said the general,—"tell me this knave, (that is to say, this royal prince,) Cuitlahuatzin, that I discharge him from captivity, under the assurance that he shall, very faithfully, and without delay, command his runagate people to bring me corn to the market; of which it is not fitting we should be kept in want longer than to-morrow. And give him to understand, that I hold, as the hostage of his good faith and compliance, the dog Montezuma; (translate that, the king his brother:) who shall be made to suffer the penalty of any neglect, on his part, to furnish me with the afore-mentioned necessary provision."
The little Orteguilla, in part acquainted with the Mexican tongue, did as he was directed; and the prince Cuitlahuatzin, (or, as it should be pronounced in English speech, Quitlawátzin,) receiving and understanding the direction, bowed his head to Cortes with stately humility, and immediately withdrew.
Not discovering or hearing aught of Jacinto in this throng, Don Amador continued his search in other parts of the palace, the court-yard, and even the neighbouring street; but with such indifferent success, that, when stumbling upon Lazaro, and made acquainted that he had been equally unfortunate, he began to entertain the most serious fears for the fate of the boy.
"Perhaps he was carried off by the spectre," muttered Lazaro, superstitiously, "as his worship Don Gabriel as much as hinted."
"Or perhaps," said the neophyte, with a thrill of horror, "by some of those bloody cannibals, to be devoured! And I remember now, that there were many savages about me at the time; though I thought them Tlascalans. I would to heaven, I had speared the knaves that came between us; but I swear to St. John of the Desert, if they have truly robbed me of the boy, and for that diabolical purpose, I will pursue their whole race with a most unrelenting vengeance."
At this moment, the cavalier was startled by a sudden "Hark!" from Lazaro, and heard, at a distance in the street, though objects were lost in the darkness, a great tumult as of men in affray, and plainly distinguished a voice crying aloud, "Arma! arma! and Christian men, for the love of God, to the rescue of Christians beset by infidels!"
"Draw thy sword, Lazaro, and follow!" cried the cavalier, "for these are other victims; and, with God's favour, we will rescue them!"
Thus exclaiming, and without a moment thinking of the unknown perils among which he was rushing, he ran rapidly in the direction of the cries, and straightway beheld, a little in advance of a great crowd of people, a group consisting of four or five persons, several of them women in strange attire, who stood shrieking with terror, while at their feet rolled three or four on the ground in close and murderous combat. The cries of one of these prostrate figures bespoke him a Spaniard, and while one sinewy pagan seemed to hold him upon the earth, another stood with his uplifted weapon, in the very act of despatching him. At this moment, Don Amador rushed forwards, and shouting his war-cry, Dios, y buena esperanza! (that is, 'God and good cheer!') struck the menacing savage a blow that sent him yelling away, and seized upon the other by the shoulder to stab him; when, suddenly, the Spaniard rose to his feet, with a leap that tumbled the infidel to the earth, and showed him to be already dead, cried aloud, in the well-remembered voice of the magician,—
"Tetragrammaton! thou wert a good shield, though a bloody one, sir carcass!—Save the princesses, and fly, or we are all dead men!—Arma! arma! to the rescue!"
Thus shouting, and seizing upon one of the women, while Don Amador snatched the arm of the other, (for he perceived, they were like to be cut off by the approaching crowd,) the sorcerer, with his rescuers, ran towards the palace. His cries had reached the quarters; and presently they were surrounded by a hundred soldiers and cavaliers bearing lights, in the glare of which Don Amador had scarce time to note the countenance of his new ward, before she was locked in the arms of De Morla.
"Minnapotzin! Benita!" cried the joyous cavalier. "Amigo mio! thou hast saved my princess!"
"Stop not to prate and be happy; for the storm comes!" exclaimed Botello. "To the palace, all of ye! and to the cannon! for were you five hundred men, there are wolves enow at your heels to devour you!"
Thus admonished, and perceiving, in fact, that a vast, though silent multitude was approaching, all were fain to fly, and in an instant they were crowding into the gates of the court-yard.
"This comes of insulting the king!" cried a voice from the melée, as Cortes, shouting out to clear the gates, was seen himself assisting to draw a piece of artillery to the opening.
"I see naught,—I hear nothing," cried the general, affecting not to remark this reproach, (which was indeed just; for it was this over-refinement of policy, spread with wonderful celerity throughout the city, which dashed the last scale from the eyes of the Mexicans, convinced them that their monarch was indeed a slave, and let loose the long-imprisoned current of fury.) "I see nought, I hear nought; and my brave Rolands have been flying from shadows!"
"Say not so; the town is alive," cried the magician. "The hounds set on me, as I was bringing, at your excellency's command, these princesses from Tacuba; and it was only through the mercy of God, my good star, an Indian that I killed for a buckler, and the help of this true cavalier, (whose fate, out of gratitude, I will reveal to him to-morrow,) that we were not all killed by the way:—for small reverence did the false traitors show to the maidens."
"Clear the way, then. Discharge me the piece, Catalan, true cannonier!" said Cortes, "and we will see what our foes look like, so near to midnight."
The match was applied, the palace shook to the roar,—and the blaze, illumining the street to a great distance, disclosed it, to the surprise of all, entirely deserted.
"I will aver upon mine oath," said Don Amador, "that the street was but now full of people; but where they have hidden, or whither they have fled, wholly passes my comprehension."
"Hidden, surely, in their beds," cried the general, loudly and cheerfully, for he perceived the crowds about him were panic-struck. "They set on Botello, doubtless, because they thought he was haling away the princesses with violence; and, convinced of their error, they have now gone to their rest,—a mark of wisdom in which I would advise all here to follow their example."
Thus cheered by their leader, the soldiers began to disperse; and Amador, musing painfully on the mysterious fate of the page, was accosted by Cortes, who, drawing him aside, said,—
"It has been told me, señor, that your Moorish boy has made his escape."
"His escape!" echoed the novice, in surprise. "He did indeed vanish away from me, and I know not how, though much do I fear, in a manner that it shocks me to think on. I was about to ask of your excellency, as the boy is a true Christian, as well as a most faithful servant, for such counsel and assistance as might enable me, this night, to rescue him out of the hands of the cannibals; for it would be a sin on the souls of us all, should we suffer him to come to harm."
"And are you so well persuaded of his faith, as to believe him incapable of treachery?" demanded Don Hernan, earnestly: "Thou forgettest, he has a father concealed among these infidels."
"Ay! by my faith!" cried Amador, joyously; "I thought not of that before. And yet, and yet——" Here his countenance fell. "How should he be so mad, as to leave us in this strange and huge city, with any hope of discovering Abdalla?"
"I can resolve thee that," said Cortes: "for it is avouched to me by Yacub, that he saw this wretch (whom may heaven return to me for punishment, for he is a most subtle, daring, and dangerous traitor,) this very knave Abdalla, at thy horse's heels; but he could not believe 'twas he, until made acquainted with the flight of the page."
"Ay! now I see it;" said Amador; "and I remember that he wept, as he held my hand, as if grieving to desert me. But, methinks, 'twill be well to seek him out, and reclaim him. Will your excellency allow me the services of any score or two of men, who, for love or gold, may be induced to follow me in the search?"
"I will answer thee in thine own words," said Cortes: "Where wouldst thou look in this strange and huge city, with any hope of discovering him? Be content, señor; the boy is with the fox, his father. That should convince thee, he is in present safety. And señor, I will tell thee, what I conceal from my people, (for thou art a soldier, and, therefore, as discreet as fearless,) that I would not, this night, despatch an hundred men a mile from the palace, without looking to have half of them slain outright by the rebels that are around us!"
"And dost thou think," said Amador, "that these besotted, naked madmen, would dare to assail so many?"
"You will see, by my conscience!" cried the general, with a grim and anxious smile. "Sleep with thine armour at thy side; and forget not thy buckler, for I have known a Tlascalan arrow pierce through a good Biscayan gorget; and they say, the Mexicans can shoot as well. Let not any noise arouse thee, unless it be that of a trumpet. I would have thee sleep well, my friend; for I know not how soon I may need thy strong arm, and encouraging countenance!"
Thus darkly and imperfectly apprising the novice of his fears, (for now, indeed, a demon had roused a thousand apprehensions in his breast,) the general departed; and Don Amador disconsolately pursued his way to the chamber of the knight of Rhodes.
CHAPTER XXXV.
When Don Amador returned to the chamber, he was rejoiced to find his kinsman asleep, and not offended that the faithful Marco and Baltasar were both nodding, as they sat at his side. He threw himself softly on a cot of mats, covered with robes of fine cotton, over which was a little canopy,—such being the beds of the better orders of Mexico. The crowded state of the palace (for it is recorded, that the number of Totonac and Tlascalan allies, who remained in the garrison with Alvarado, now swelled the army of Cortes to nearly nine thousand men,) left him no other choice; and he felt, that his presence was perhaps necessary, in the unhappy condition of his knight. He was mindful to obey the counsels of Don Hernan, and lie with his weapons ready to be grasped at the first alarm; and he remembered also the hint that had been given him, not to be surprised at such tumults, when he heard a sound, continued throughout the greater part of the night, as of heavy instruments knocking against the court-yard wall, convincing him as well of the military vigilance and preparations, as of the fears of his general. In addition to this disturbance, he was often startled by moans and wild expressions, coming from the lips of the sleeping knight, showing him that even slumber brought no repose to his distempered spirit. But, above all, (and this made manifest the hold that the Moorish boy had got upon his affections,) he was troubled with thoughts of Jacinto; and often, as the angel of sleep began to flutter over his eyelids, she was driven away, by some sudden and painfully intense conception of the great peril which must surround the friendless lad, now that the events of the evening proved him to be in the midst, and doubtless in the power, of an enraged multitude, to whom every stranger was an enemy. Often, too, as he was sinking into slumber, the first voice of dreams would cry to him in the tones of Jacinto, or the silent enchanter would bring before his eyes the spectacle of the boy, confined in the cage of victims, or dragged away, by the hands of ferocious priests, to the place of sacrifice. These distractions kept him tossing about in great restlessness, for a long time; and it was not until the sounds of the workmen in the yard were no longer heard, and until a deep silence pervaded the palace, that he was able to drown his torments in sleep.
He was roused from slumber by a painful dream, and fancying it must be now approaching the time of dawn, he stole softly to the bed-side of Calavar, without disturbing the attendants. A taper of myrtle-wax, burning on a little pedestal hard by, disclosed to him the countenance of the knight, contracted with pain, and flushed as if with fever, but still chained in repose. He stepped noiselessly away, and gathering his sword and a few pieces of armour in his hands, left the apartment.
From the door of the palace, he could see, dimly,—for it was not yet morning,—that vast numbers of Tlascalans were lying asleep in the court-yard among the horses, while many sentinels were stalking about in silent watchfulness. He was now able, likewise, to understand the cause of the heavy knocking, which had annoyed him. The gates were closed; but in three rude embrasures, which had been broken in the wall by the workmen, frowned as many pieces of ordnance, commanding the street by which he had approached the palace.
Entering this again, and attracted by the distant murmur of voices, he discovered a staircase at the end of a passage, ascending which, he immediately found himself on the terraced roof of the building. And now he could perceive the exposed condition of the royal citadel, as well as the preparations made to sustain it, in the event of a siege.
The palace, itself, extended over a great piece of ground, in the form of a square, the walled sides of which were continuous, but the centre divided by rows of structures that crossed each other, into many little courts. The buildings were all low, consisting, indeed, of but one floor, except that, in the centre, were several chambers on the roofs of others, that might be called turrets or observatories. The terraces were so covered with flowers and shrubs, that they seemed a garden. This mass of houses was surrounded on all sides by a spacious court, confined by a wall six or eight feet high, running entirely round the whole. The palace, with its outer court, did not yet occupy all of the great square upon which it stood. It was a short bow-shot from the battlements to the houses, which lined the four sides of the square. Opposite to each side or front of the fabric, was a great street, along which the eye, in full daylight, could traverse, till arrested by the surrounding lake. Directly opposite, likewise, to each of these streets, as Don Amador soon discovered, the careful general had caused to be broken as many embrasures as he had seen on the quarter of the principal entrance; and, now, there were no less than twelve pieces of artillery (with those who served them sleeping in cloaks hard by,) looking with formidable preparation down the yawning and silent approaches.
The neophyte had not yet given a moment to these observations, when he perceived on the top of one of the turrets, a group of cavaliers, who, being relieved against the only streak of dawn that tinged the eastern skies, were plainly seen, gesticulating with great earnestness, as if engaged in important debate. He approached this turret, and mounting the ladder that ascended it, was assisted to the roof by the hand of Cortes.
"I give you good cheer, and much praise for your early rising, Don Amador," cried the general, with an easy courtesy and pleasant voice, which did not however, conceal from the novice, that he was really affected by anxiety and even alarm; "for this, besides convincing me, that no one is more ready than thyself for a valiant bout with an enemy, will give thee an opportunity to note in what way these pagan Mexicans advance to assault; a matter of which I am myself ignorant, though assured by my friend Alvarado, that nothing can be more warlike to look upon."
"I vow to God, and to Saint Peter, who cut off a knave's ear," said Don Pedro, "that there are no such besotted, mad, dare-devils in all the world beside, as you shall quickly see; and I swear to you, in addition, my friends, I did sometimes think, of a morning, the very devils that dwell in the pit, were let loose upon me. But fear not: with my poor five-score, and the seven thousand Indians, who should not be counted against more than one hundred Christians, I felt no prick of dismay, except when I thought of starvation; and with the force that now aids us, 'twill be but a boy's pastime, to kill ten thousand of the bold lunatics, each day, before breakfast."
To this valiant speech, which was characteristic of Alvarado,—as notorious for boasting as for bravery,—Don Amador replied, complacently,—
"To my mind, nothing could be stronger than this citadel against such enemies as we may have, especially since the placing of those cannon opposite to the great streets,—a precaution which should be commended. Nevertheless, noble cavaliers, it does not appear to me, that we are in any immediate peril of assault: the infidels are not yet arisen."
"Cast thine eye down yonder street!" said Cortes with a low voice, "keep it fixed intently, for two or three moments, on the shadows, and tell me what thou seest among them. And, while thou art so doing, do not shame to hold thy buckler a little over thy face; for, now and then, methinks, I have seen on yonder house-tops something unlike to rose-buds, glancing among the bushes."
"By my faith," said Don Amador, hastily, "it does seem to me, that there are men stirring afar in the street,—nay, a great body of them, and doubtless clad in white,—ay, I perceive them now! But I thought 'twas a dim mist, creeping up from the lake."
"If thou wilt look to the other three streets," said Cortes, knitting his brows, and scowling around him, "thou wilt see other such vapours gathering about us. Thus do they surround stags, in the sierras of Salamanca! but, sometimes, the hunters have found more wolves than deer among their quarry; and, by my conscience, so will the dogs of Mexico find their prey, this day, when they come a-hunting against Castilians!—Hah! did I not warn thee well?" cried the general, as an arrow, shot from a distant terrace, and by some unseen hand, struck against the guarding shield with such violence as to shiver its stone head into a thousand fragments. "'Ware such Cupids; for, when they miss the heart, they are content to rankle among the ribs. What say ye now, my masters? The knaves are coming nearer! Such big rain-drops do not long fall one by one, but show how soon the flood will follow. Cover yourselves! for by my conscience, that was another, though it fell short. I see the house it comes from; and I will reward the messenger shortly with such a cannon-shot as shall leave him houseless.—How now, mi trompetero! art thou nodding? Wake me thy bugle, and let the sleepers look on the white clouds!"
A trumpeter, who stood ready at the base of the turret, instantly wound a loud blast on his instrument. It was answered immediately by others from every part of the court and the building; and, as if by magic, the dead silence of the palace was straightway exchanged for the loud din and confusion of thousands rising and springing to their arms. During this tumult, Cortes descended from the turret.
Don Amador, fascinated by the spectacle, (for now, the light of dawn, increasing every moment, fully convinced the most sceptical, that countless barbarians were thronging in the streets, and advancing against the palace,) remained for a time on the terrace in company with others, surveying their approach, and kindling into ardour. The four streets were blocked up with their dusky bodies, for they seemed nearly naked; and answering the drums and bugles of the Spaniards with the hollow sound of their huge tabours, and the roaring yells of great conches, and adding to these the uproar of their voices, and, what greatly amazed the neophyte, the shrill and piercing din of loud whistling, they pressed onwards, not fast indeed, but fearlessly, until they began to pour like a flood upon the open square. Nevertheless, and notwithstanding their very menacing appearance, not a bow was yet bent, nor a stone or dart discharged against the Christians; and they were arraying, or rather grouping themselves, (for they seemed to preserve no peculiar order,) about the square, as if rather to support some peaceable demand with a show of strength, than to make an absolute attack, when the neophyte beheld Don Hernan, clad in complete armour, spring upon a cannon, and thence to the top of the wall, and wave his hand towards them with an air of imposing dignity. The vast herds stilled their cries, and immediately Malintzin, guarded by two soldiers who held shields before her, was seen to ascend and stand by the side of her master.
"Ask me these hounds," cried the general, with a voice that seemed meant by its loudness to strike the infidels with awe, "wherefore they leave their beds, and come, like howling wolves, to disturb me in my dwelling? What is their desire? and wherefore have they not come with baskets of corn, rather than with slings and arrows?"
The clear voice of Doña Marina was instantly heard addressing the multitude; and was followed by a shout such as may come from thrice a thousand score men, wherein, and among other inexplicable sounds, Don Amador heard the word Tlatoani! Tlatoani! repeated with accents in which intreaty seemed mingled with fury. He could not discover the meaning of these cries from the imperfect Castilian, and the low voice, with which Malintzin interpreted them. But he could conjecture their signification, by the reply of Cortes.
"Tell the traitorous dogs," he exclaimed, sternly, "that their princes have avowed themselves the vassals of my master, the great monarch of Spain; that their lord and king, Montezuma, is my friend and contented guest, and will therefore remain in my dwelling. Tell them also, he charges them to disperse, throw by their arms, and return laden with corn and meat. And add, moreover, that, if they do not immediately obey this command, the thunders which God has given me to punish them, shall be let loose upon them, and scatter their corses and their city into the air. Tell we them this, and plainly; and, hark'ee, cannoniers! stand fast to your linstocks!"
No sooner was this haughty and threatening answer made known to the barbarians, than they uttered a yell so loud and universal that the palace, and the earth under it, seemed to shake with the din; and immediately every quarter of the edifice was covered with arrows, stones, and other missiles, shot off with extraordinary violence and fury.
Don Amador prepared to descend, but paused an instant to observe the effect of the artillery, for he heard the strong tones of the general shouting, "Now cannoniers! to your duty, and show yourselves men!"
The very island trembled, when twelve cannon, discharged nearly at the same moment, opened their fiery throats, and, aimed full among the multitude, poured innumerable death into their ranks. The island trembled, but not so the naked barbarians of Tenochtitlan. If the screams of a thousand wretches, mangled by that explosion, rose on the morning air, they were speedily drowned by the war-cries of survivors; and before the smoke had cleared away, the bloody gaps were filled, and the infuriated multitudes were rushing with savage intrepidity full upon the mouths of the artillery.
Don Amador hesitated no longer. He ran down the staircase, paused a moment at the side of Calavar, whom he found raving in a low delirium, for he was burned by fever,—paused only long enough to charge Marco not to leave him, no not even for a moment,—and snatching up and rapidly donning the remaining pieces of his armour, immediately found himself in the court-yard, among the combatants.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
The neophyte had been informed by his friend De Morla, as a proof of the degree of civilization reached by the Mexicans, that their armies were formed with method, and as regularly divided and commanded as those of Christendom,—each tribe displaying under a peculiar banner, representing the arms, or, as we should say of our Northern bands, the totem, of the race, and each tribe separated into squadrons and companies, led by subalterns of precisely ascertained rank and power. He perceived none of these marks of discipline among the assailants; and, while properly appreciating their devoted courage, was obliged to consider them no better than a furious and confused mob. He was right: the warriors of Mexico had not yet appeared, and these wild creatures, who came ungeneralled and unadvised to the attack, were no more than the common citizens, fired by the distresses of their king, and rushing to his aid, without any bond of connexion or government, save the unanimity of their fury. The violence with which they leaped to the attack, carried them to the gates of the court, and to the mouths of the artillery, where they fell under the spears of the Spaniards, or were scattered like chaff at each murderous discharge of the cannon. Added to this, the Tlascalans, animated by their ancient hatred, and the presence of him whom they esteemed almost a god, clambered upon the wall, and with their clubs and lances did bloody execution on the multitudes below. The Tlascalans were, indeed, almost the only persons of the garrison who suffered much loss; for the Spaniards, cased in iron and escaupil, and fenced behind the wall, or the battlements of the terrace, discharged their cross-bows and muskets, and handled their long spears, in comparative safety.
The din of yells and screams, mingled with the crash of arquebuses and the sharp clang of steel cross-bows, was, in itself, infernal; while the peals of artillery, served with such skill and constancy, that, every half-minute, there was one or other discharged from some quarter of the palace, leaving, at each discharge, a long avenue of death among the crowds, converted what might have seemed a scene of elysium into a spectacle of hell. No man could reckon, no man could imagine, the slaughter made by the besieged army, among their foes, in the short space of half an hour. But the sun rose, and still found the infatuated barbarians rushing,—now with shouts of defiance, and now with mournful cries, as if calling upon their imprisoned king,—to add yet another and another layer to the bloody ridges growing in the paths of the cannon-shot.
All this time, the captive monarch, unseen by his people, though quickly detected by the sharp eye of Cortes, sat in one of the turrets, witnessing the devoted love of his people, and feeling, with sharp pangs, that he had not deserved it. And now too (for the suddenness of the punishment had convinced him of the impolicy of the fault,) did Don Hernan himself feel a touch of compunction for the wanton injury he had done his prisoner; and, fearing lest the work of this day should be but the prelude of a storm it might not be in his power to allay, he sent to him De Morla, a cavalier whom more than others he seemed to favour, to persuade him, if indeed he might be persuaded, to exercise his authority, and by commanding his people to disperse, preserve them from that destruction, which, the general avowed, he was loath to bring upon them.
No smile lit the countenance of Montezuma, at the appearance of his favourite; and to the demand of Don Hernan, he replied, with dignity, yet with a bitter sorrow,—
"The Teuctli," (so they called Don Hernan, not because they esteemed him a divinity, but a great prince, this being the title of one of the classes of nobility,) "has made me a slave: my subjects are his. Let the king govern his people."
So saying, and immediately descending from the roof, he shut himself in his apartments, and resolutely refused to admit another messenger to his presence.
"And the dog denies me, then!" cried Cortes, when this answer was repeated to him. "He says the truth: he is my slave; his people are mine; and I will straightway convince them of their subjection. To horse, to horse, brave cavaliers!" he shouted aloud. "Let it not be said, we wasted powder on miserable naked Indians, when we have swords to strike them on the neck, and horses' hoofs to tread them to the earth!"
No one was more ready to obey this call, than Don Amador de Leste. He had stood upon the wall, occasionally striking down some furious assailant with his spear, but oftener cheering others with his voice, and yet remaining more as a spectator than a combatant, disdaining to strike, except when personally attacked, until his blood was heated by the spectacle.
"Mount, now, my knave Lazaro! and perhaps we shall find my poor Jacinto, among these outrageous infidels. Get thee to horse, Fabueno; for to-day thou shalt see what it is to be a soldier!"
Fogoso stood, in his mail, like the steed of a true knight, champing the bit and whinnying, for he longed to be in the midst of the combat; and loud was the sound of his neighing, when he felt the weight of his master, and turned his fierce eyes towards the gate.
Before the cavaliers, forming three abreast, (as many as could at once pass through the gates,) loosing their sabres in the scabbards, and couching their spears, had yet received the signal to dash upon the opposing herds, there came from the great pyramid, which was seen rearing its mountainous mass above the houses of the square, the sound as of a horn, sad and solemn, but of so mighty a tone, that it swelled distinctly over all the din of the battle, and sent a boding fear to the heart of the Christians. They knew, or they thought it the sacred bugle of Mexitli, sounded only during the festivals of that ferocious deity, or on the occasion of a great battle, when, it was supposed, that Mexitli himself spoke to his children, and bade them die bravely. There was not a Spaniard present, who had not heard that the effect of this consecrated trumpet, so sparingly used, was to nerve even the vanquished with new spirit, and those fighting with additional rage; and that the meanest Mexican, however overpowered, thought not of retreat, when thus cheered by his god. The surprise of all was therefore great, when, at the first blast, the Mexicans ceased their cries, and stood as if turned into statues; and they were still more amazed, when, as the brazen instrument again poured its lugubrious roar over the city, the barbarians, responding with a mournful shriek, turned their backs upon the besieged, and instantly began to fly. A third blast was sounded, and nothing was seen upon the great square, or the four streets, save heaps of carcasses, and piles of human beings, writhing in the death-agony.
"Here is diabolical magic!" cried Cortes, joyfully. "There are more signals made by that accursed horn than we have heard of; and it seems to me, Huitzilopochtli may be sometimes a coward! Nevertheless, we will look a little into the mystery; for I perceive shining cloaks, as well as priestly gowns, on the temple, which we will make claim to; for doubtless the traitor Cuitlahuatzin is under one of them.—Take thou thy party, Sandoval, and scour me the streets that lie eastward. We meet at the temple!—For ourselves, my masters! we are fifty horse, and three hundred foot, all good Christian men; for in this work we shall need no Tlascalans. Let us go, in the name of God, and God will be with us.—Only, 'tis my counsel and command, that we keep together, with our eyes wide open, lest we should have company not so much to our liking."
The cavaliers cheered, as they rode from the gates,—and, with a savage delight, urged their horses over the piles of dead, or smote some dying struggler with the spear,—an amusement in which they were occasionally imitated by the foot-soldiers, who followed at their heels.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
The same solitude, which had covered the city the preceding evening, now seemed again to invest it. Corses were here and there strown in the street, as of fugitives dying in their flight; and once a wounded man was seen staggering blindly along, as if wholly insensible to the approach of his foes. The sight of this solitary wretch did more to disarm the fury of Don Amador, than did the spectacle of thousands lying dead on the square; and certain grievous reflections, such as sometimes assailed him, after a battle, were beginning to intrude upon his mind, when a cavalier, darting forward with a loud cry, and couching his lance, as if at a worthier enemy, thrust the wounded barbarian through the body, and killed him on the spot. A few hidalgos, and most of the footmen, rewarded this feat of dexterity with a loud cheer; but there were many, who, like the neophyte, met the triumphant looks of the champion, Alvarado, with glances of infinite disgust and frowning disdain.
As the party approached the neighbourhood of the great temple, they began to perceive in the streets groups of men, who, being altogether unarmed, commonly fled at the first sight of the Christians; though, sometimes, they stood aside, with submissive and dejected countenances, as if awaiting any punishment the Teuctli might choose to inflict upon them. But Cortes, reading in this humility the proofs of penitence, or willing to suppose that these men had not shared in the hostilities of the day, commanded his followers not to attack them; and thus restrained, they rode slowly and cautiously onwards, their fury gradually abating, and the fears which had been excited by the late assault, giving place to the hope, that it indicated no general spirit, and no deep-laid plan, of insurrection.
The groups of Mexicans increased, both in numbers and frequency, as the Christians proceeded, but still they betrayed no disposition to make use of the arms, which were sometimes seen in their hands; and the Spaniards, regulating their own conduct by that of the barbarians, rode onwards with so pacific an air, that a stranger, arriving that moment in the city, might have deemed them associated together on the most friendly terms, and proceeding in company, to take part in some general festivity. Nevertheless, the same stranger would have quickly observed, that these friends, besides keeping as far separated as the streets would allow, and even, where that was possible, removing from each other's presence, entirely, eyed each other, at times, with looks of jealousy, which became more marked as the Mexicans grew more numerous. In truth, the feelings which had so quickly passed from rage to tranquillity, were now in danger of another revulsion; and many an eye was riveted on the countenance of the general, as if to read a confirmation of the common anxiety, as, ever and anon, it turned from the prospect of multitudes in front, to the spectacle of crowds gathering, at a distance, on the rear.
"All that is needful," whispered, rather than spoke, Don Hernan, though his words were caught by every ear, "is to trust in God, and our sharp spears. There is, doubtless, some idolatrous rite about to be enacted in the temple, which draws these varlets thitherward; and the gratitude with which they remember our exploits of this morning, will account for their present hang-dog looks. If they mean any treachery, such as a decoy and ambuscado, why, by my conscience! we must e'en allow them their humour, and punish them, when 'tis made manifest. I counsel my friends to be of good heart; for, I think, the dogs have had fighting enough to-day. Nevertheless, I will not quarrel with any man, who keeps his hands in readiness, and puts his eyes and ears to their proper uses."
As if to set them an example, Don Hernan now began to look about him with redoubled vigilance; and it was remarked that he passed no house, without eyeing its terrace keenly and steadfastly, as if dreading more to discover an enemy in such places than in the street. This was, in fact, a situation from which an enemy might annoy the Spaniards with the greatest advantage, and at the least risk.
The houses of this quarter were evidently inhabited by the rich, perhaps by the nobles, of Mexico. They were of solid stone, spacious, and frequently of two floors, lofty, and their terraces crowned with battlements and turrets. Each stood separated from its neighbour by a little garden or alley, and sometimes by a narrow canal, which crossed the great street, and was furnished with a strong wooden bridge of such width that five horsemen could pass it at a time. Often, too, the dwelling of some man of power stood so far back, as to allow the canal to be carried quite round it, without infringing upon the street; but more frequently it was fronted only with a little bed of flowers. The stones of which such structures were composed, were often sculptured into rude reliefs representing huge serpents, which twined in a fantastic and frightful manner about the windows and doors, as if to protect them from the invasion of robbers. Indeed, these were almost the only defences; for the green bulrush lying across the threshold, could deter none but a Mexican from entering; and, perhaps, none but a barbarian would have seen, in the string of cacao berries, or of little vessels of earthenware, hanging at the door, the bell to announce his visitation. A curtain commonly hung flapping at the entrance; but neither plank nor bar gave security to the sanctity of the interior.
Notwithstanding the fears of the general, he beheld no Mexicans lurking among the terraces, or peering from the windows, but his anxiety was not the less goading for that reason; for having now drawn nigh to the great square, it seemed to him that he had, at last, thrust himself into that part of the city, where all the multitudes of Tenochtitlan were assembled to meet him,—and whether for purposes of pacification or vengeance, he dared not inquire.
The appearance of things, as the party issued upon the square, and faced the House of Skulls, was indeed menacing. That enormous pyramid, which Don Amador had surveyed, with awe, in the gloom of evening, was now concealed under a more impressive veil;—it was invested and darkened by a cloud of human beings, which surged over its vast summit, and rolled along its huge sides like a living storm. The great court that surrounded it, was also filled with barbarians; for though the Coatepantli, or Wall of Serpents, with its monstrous battlements and gloomy towers, concealed them from the eye, there came such a hum of voices from behind, as could not have been produced alone, even by the myriads that covered the temple. In addition to these, the great square itself was alive with Mexicans; and the sudden sight of them brought a thrill of alarm into the heart of the bravest cavalier.
The people of Tenochtitlan, thus, as it were, hunted by their invaders, even to their sanctuaries, turned upon them with frowns, yet parted away from before them in deep silence. Nevertheless, at this spectacle, the Christians came to an immediate stand, in doubt whether to entangle themselves further, or to take counsel of their fears, and retreat, without delay, to their quarters. While they stood yet hesitating, and in some confusion, suddenly, and with a tone that pierced to their inmost souls, there came a horrid shriek from the top of the pyramid; and fifty Castilian voices exclaimed, "A sacrifice! a human sacrifice!—and under the cross of Christ, that we raised on the temple!"
"The place of God is defiled by the rites of hell!" cried Cortes, furiously, his apprehensions vanishing, at once, before his fanaticism. "Set on, and avenge! Couch your lances, draw your swords; and if any resist, call on God, and slay!" So saying, he drew his sword, spurred his dun steed, and rushed towards the temple.
The half-naked herds fled, yelling, away from the infuriated Christian, opening him a free path to the walls; and had that fearful cry been repeated, there is no doubt he would have led his followers even within the Coatepantli, though at the risk of irretrievable and universal destruction. Before, however, he had yet reached the wall, he had time for reflection; and, though greatly excited, he could no longer conceal from himself the consequences of provoking the pagans at their very temple, and during the worship of their god. He was, at this moment, well befriended, and numerously, indeed; but at a distance from the garrison, without cannon, and almost without musketry, surrounded by enemies whom the eye could not number, and who had not feared to assail him, even when fortified in a situation almost impregnable, and assisted by three times his present force, as well as several thousand bold Tlascalans; and in addition to all these disadvantages, there came neither such sound of trumpet, nor such distant commotion among the Indians, as might admonish him of the approach of Sandoval.
He checked his horse, and waving to his followers to halt, again cast his eyes around on the multitude as if to determine in what manner to begin his retreat, for he felt that this measure could be no longer delayed. The Mexicans gazed upon him with angry visages, but still in silence. Not an arm was yet raised; and they seemed prepared to give him passage, whichever way he might choose to direct his course.
While hesitating an instant, Don Hernan perceived a stir among the crowds, close under the Wall of Serpents, accompanied by a low but general murmur of voices; and immediately the eyes of the pagans were turned from him towards the Coatepantli, as if to catch a view of some sight still more attractive and important. His first thought was, that these movements indicated the sudden presence of Sandoval and his party; a conceit that was, however, immediately put to flight by the events which ensued.
The murmurs of the multitude were soon stilled, and the pagans that covered the pyramid were seen to cast their eyes earnestly down to the square, as the sound of many flutes, and other soft wind-instruments, rose on the air, and crept, not unmusically, along the Wall of Serpents, and thence to the ears of the Spaniards. Before these had yet time to express their wonder at the presence of such peaceful music amidst a scene of war and sacrifice, the crowds slowly parted asunder, and they plainly beheld (for the Mexicans had opened a wide vista to the principal gate,) a procession, seemingly of little children, clad in white garments, waving pots of incense, conducted by priests, in gowns of black and flame colour, and headed by musicians and men bearing little flags, issue from the throng, and bend their steps towards the savage portal. In the centre of the train, on a sort of litter, very rich and gorgeous, borne on men's shoulders, and sheltered by a royal canopy of green and crimson feathers, stood a figure, which might have been some maiden princess, arrayed for the festival, or, as she seemed to one or two of the more superstitious Castilians, some fiendish goddess, conjured up by the diabolical arts of the priests, to add the inspiration of her presence to the wild fury of her adorers. She stood erect, her body concealed in long flowing vestments of white, on which were embroidered serpents, of some green material; in her hand she held a rod, imitative of the same reptile; and on her forehead was a coronet of feathers, surrounding what seemed a knot of little snakes, writhing round a star, or sun, of burnished gold.
As this fair apparition was carried through their ranks, between the great wall and the House of Skulls, the Mexicans were seen to throw themselves reverently on the earth, as if to a divinity; and those that stood most remote, no sooner beheld her, than they bowed their heads with the deepest humility.
Meanwhile, the Spaniards gazed on with both admiration and wonder, until the train had reached the open portal; at which place, and just as she was about to be concealed from them for ever, the divinity, priestess, or princess, whichever she was, turned her body slowly round, and revealed to them a face of a paler hue than any they had yet seen in the new world, and, as they afterwards affirmed, of the most incomparable and ravishing beauty. At this sight, all uttered exclamations of surprise, which were carried to the ears of the vision: but Don Amador de Leste, fetching a cry that thrilled through the hearts of all, broke from the ranks, as if beset by some sudden demon, and dashed madly towards the apparition.
Before the Spaniards could recover from their astonishment, the members of the procession,—deity, priests, censer-bearers, and musicians,—with loud screams vanished under the portals; and the infidels, starting up in a rage that could be suppressed no longer, rushed upon the novice, to avenge, in his blood, the insult he had offered to their deity.
"Quick, a-God's name! and rescue!" cried Cortes, "for the young man is mad!"
There seemed grounds for this imputation; for, besides the inexplicable folly of his first act, Don Amador appeared now, for a moment, to be lost in such a maze, that blows of the heavy maquahuitl were rained upon his stout armour, and several furious hands had clutched not only upon his spear, but upon himself, to drag him from the saddle, before he bethought him to draw his sword and defend his life. But his sword was, at last, drawn, his fit dispelled; and before his countrymen had yet reached him, he was dealing such blows around him, and so urging his courageous steed upon the assailants, as quickly to put himself out of the danger of immediate death.
The passions of the multitude, restrained, for a moment, by their superstition or their rulers, were now fully and unappeasably roused; and with yells that came at once from the pyramid, from the temple yard, from the great square, and the neighbouring streets, they rushed upon the Christians, surrounding them, and displaying such ferocious determination, as left them but small hopes of escape.
"God and Spain! honour and fame!" cried Alvarado, spearing a barbarian at each word, "what do you think of my Mexicans now, true friends?"
His cheer was lost in the roar of screams; and nothing but the voice of Don Hernan, well known to be as clear and powerful in battle as the trumpet which he invoked, was heard pealing above the din.
"Now show yourselves Spaniards and soldiers, and strike for the blood of Christ!—Ho, trumpeter! thy flourish! and find me where lags my lazy Gonzalo?"
As he spoke, he fought; for so violent had been the attack of the infidels, that they were mingled among, and fighting hand to hand with the Christians,—a confused and sanguinary chaos. Scarcely, indeed, had the trumpeter time to wind his instrument, before it was struck out of his hand by a brawny savage; and the same blow which robbed him of it, left the arm that held it a shattered and useless member. The blast, however, had sounded; and, almost instantaneously, it was answered by a bugle, afar indeed, and blown hurriedly as if the musician were in as much jeopardy as his fellow, but still full of joy and good cheer to the Christian combatants.
"Close and turn!—Footmen, to your square!" cried Cortes; "and, valiant cavaliers, charge me now as though ye fought against devils, with angels for your lookers-on!"
"To the temple! to the temple!" cried Amador, with a voice rivalling the general's in loudness, and turning in a frenzy towards the pyramid, down whose sides the infidels were seen rushing with frantic speed.
But the head of Fogoso was seized by two friendly followers, and while Don Amador glared fiercely at the pale but not affrighted secretary, he heard, on the other side, the tranquil voice of Lazaro:
"Master," said the faithful servant, "if we separate from our friends, we are dead men; and Don Gabriel is left without a kinsman in this land of demoniacs."
"Close, and turn, I bid ye!" cried Cortes, furiously. "Heed not the wolves that are fast to your sides. Charge on the herds, charge on the herds! and over-throw with the weight of your hoofs! Charge, I bid ye; and care not though ye should find your lances striking against the breast of Sandoval. Charge on the herds!—charge on the herds!"
So saying, Don Hernan set an example, followed by the cavaliers; and as the fifty horsemen spurred violently upon the mob, shouting and cheering, the naked multitudes quailed from before them, though only to gather again on their flanks with renewed desperation.
"Will ye desert us that are afoot?" cried voices from behind, with dolorous cries.
"Ho, Sandoval! art thou sleeping?"
"Santiago! and God be thanked!—'tis the voice of the general!" cried Sandoval, in the distance. His voice came from the surge of battle, like the cheer of a sailor who recks not for the tempest. It filled the cavaliers with joy.
"Good heart now, brave hearts!" shouted Cortes; "for my son Sandoval answers me! Rein me round and charge me back to the infantry!"
Backwards galloped the fifty cavaliers, strewing the earth with trampled pagans; and the footmen shouted with delight, as they again beheld their leader. But the relief and the joy were only momentary.
"Fight ye, my dogs! and slay your own sheep! Be firm; wall yourselves with spears; and presently ye shall be lookers-on.—Sweep the square again, brave cavaliers! Goad flanks! couch spears! and, this time, let me see the red face of my lieutenant!"
Turning, and shouting with a louder cheer, (for the experience of the two first charges had warned the Mexicans of their destructive efficacy, and they now recoiled with a more visible alarm,) the cavaliers again rushed through their foes like a whirlwind; and brushing them aside, as the meteor brushes the fogs of evening, they dashed onwards, until their shouts were loudly re-echoed, and they found themselves confronted with Don Gonzalo and his party.
The greetings of the friends were brief and few, for the same myriads, attacking with the same frenzied desperation, invested them with a danger that did not seem to diminish.
"Bring thy foot in front," cried Cortes, "and, while they follow me, charge thou behind them. Be quick, and be brave. March fast, ye idle spearmen: and stare not, for these are not devils, but men!—God and Spain!—Santiago, and at them again, peerless cavaliers!—We fight for Christ and immortal honour!"
The valiant band of cavaliers again turned at the voice of their leader, and again they swept the corse-encumbered square, rushing to the relief of their own infantry. Following the counsel he had given to Sandoval, the wary general passed by his foot-soldiers, and bidding them march boldly forwards, and join themselves with the infantry of Don Gonzalo, he charged the infidels from their rear with a fury they could not resist; and then rushing backwards with equal resolution, discovered the foot-soldiers in the position in which it had been his aim to place them. The united infantry, full seven hundred men in number, were now protected, both in front and rear, by a band of cavalry; their flanks looking, on one side, to the temple, and, on the other, to a great street that opened opposite. Arranging them, at a word, in two lines, standing back to back, and seconding himself the manœuvre which he dictated to Sandoval, the general swept instantly to that flank which bordered on the Wall of Serpents, while Gonzalo rode to the other. Thus arranged, the little army presented the figure of a hollow square, or rather of a narrow parallelogram, the chief sides of which, were made by double rows of spearmen, and the smaller by bands of horsemen. Thus arranged, too, the Christians fought with greater resolution and success; for, parting at once from a common centre, the infantry drove the assailants from before them on two sides, while the cavalry carried death and horror to the others; until, at a given signal, all again fell back to their position, and presented a wall altogether inexpugnable to the weak though untiring savages.
It was the persuasion of Don Hernan, that, in this advantageous position, he could, in a short time, so punish his enemies, as to teach them the folly of contending with Christian men, and perhaps end the war in a day. But, for a full hour, he repeated his charges, now pinning his foes against the wall, or the steps of the House of Skulls, now falling back to breathe; and, at each charge, adding to the number of the dead, until their corses literally obstructed his path, and left it nearly impassable. At every charge, too, his cavaliers waxed more weary, and struck more faintly, while the horses obeyed the spur and voice with diminishing vigour; and it seemed that they must soon be left unable, from sheer fatigue, to continue the work of slaughter. The pagans perished in crowds at each charge, and at each volley of bow-shots; but neither their spirit, nor their numbers, seemed to decrease. Their yells were as loud, their countenances as bold, their assaults as violent as at first; and the Spaniards beheld the sun rising high in the heavens, without any termination to their labours, or their sufferings. Twenty Christians already lay dead on the square, or had been dragged, perhaps, while yet breathing, to be sacrificed on the pyramid. This was a suspicion that shocked the souls of many; for, twice or thrice, they heard, among the crowds, who still stood on the lofty terrace, shooting arrows down on the square, such shouts of triumphant delight as, they thought, could be caused by nothing but the immolation of a victim.
Grief and rage lay heavily on the heart of Cortes; but though the apprehension, that, if much longer over-worn by combat, his followers might be left unable even to fly, added its sting to the others, shame deterred him, for a time, from giving the mortifying order. Harassed, and even wounded, (for a defective link in his mail had yielded to an arrow-head, and the stone was buried in his shoulder,) he nevertheless preserved a good countenance; cheered his people with the assurance of victory; fought on, exposing himself like the meanest of his soldiers; and several times, at the imminent risk of his life, rescued certain foot-soldiers from the consequences of their foolhardiness.
There was among the infantry, a man of great courage and strength, by the name of Lezcano, whose only weapon was a huge two-handed sword, the valiant use of which had gained him among his companions, the title of Dos Manos, or Two-Hands. No spearman of his company advanced to the charge with more readiness than did this fellow with his gigantic weapon, and none retreated with more constant reluctance. Indeed, he commonly fell back so leisurely as to draw three or four foes upon him at once; and it seemed to be his pleasure, to meet these in such a way, as should call for the praises of his companions. His daring, that day, would have left him with the additional name of the bravest of the brave, had it been tempered with a little discretion. But inflamed by the encomiums of his comrades, and not less by the complimentary rebukes of his captain, his rashness knew no bounds; and twice or thrice he thrust himself into situations of peril, from which he was rescued with great difficulty. He had been saved once by Don Hernan. It was his fate, a second time, to draw the notice of the general; who, falling back on the infantry, beheld him beset by a dozen foes, surrounded, and using his great scimitar furiously, yet, as it seemed, in vain; for he was unhelmed.
"What ho, Don Amador!" cried Cortes to the cavalier, who was at his side, "let us rescue Dos Manos, the mad!"
In an instant of time, the two hidalgos had reached the group, and raised their voices in encouragement, while each struck down a savage. At that moment, and while Lezcano elevated his scimitar, to ward off the blow of a maquahuitl, the massive blade, shivered as if by a thunderbolt, fell to the earth; but, before it reached it, the sharp glass of the Indian sword had entered his brain. The cavaliers struck fast and hard, on either hand; the barbarians fled; but, Lezcano, the Two-handed, lay rolling his eyes to heaven, his head cloven to the mouth.
"If we slay a thousand foes for every Christian man that dies, yet shall we be vanquished!" said Cortes, turning an eye of despair on his companion, and speaking the feelings he had concealed from all others. Indeed, he seemed to rejoice that destiny had given him one follower, to whom he might unbosom himself without the apprehension of creating alarm—he hesitated not to relieve himself of his grief to Don Amador; for he knew him to be inaccessible to fear. "Be of good heart, my friend. I have drawn thee into a den of devils. We must retreat, or die."
"I will advance or retreat, as thou wilt," said Amador, with a visage, in which Don Hernan now for the first time, beheld an expression so wild and ghastly, that he was reminded of Calavar. "It matters nothing—here or at the palace! But it is my duty to assure thee of mine own persuasion: Retreat may bring us relief—there is no victory for us, to-day."
"God help thee! art thou wounded?" cried Cortes.
"A little hurt by the skilless hand of Fabueno," said the novice, tranquilly, "who, not yet being perfected in the use of the spear, thrust his weapon into my back, while aiming at the throat of a cacique.—But that is not it. I have, this day, seen a sight, which convinces me we are among magicians and devils; and persuades me, along with certain other recent occurrences, that the time of some of us is reckoned. Therefore I say to thee, I will advance with thee or retreat, as thou thinkest best. To me it matters not. But my counsel is, to fly. We may save others."
"It is needful," replied Don Hernan, mournfully.—He gave his orders to certain officers; and the retreat was commenced in the order in which they had fought,—that is to say, the infantry, drawing their lines closer together, and facing to the flank, began to march down the street, preceded by Sandoval, charging the opponents from the front, while Cortes and his band, at intervals, rushing back upon the pursuers, kept the triumphant barbarians from the rear.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The distance between the great temple and the palace of Axajacatl was by no means great; though Cortes, for the purpose of prying into many streets, had led his followers against it by a long and circuitous course,—a plan which had been followed by Don Gonzalo, though in another direction. Indeed they were not so far separated, but that a strong bowman or a good slinger might, from the top of the pyramid, drive his missile upon the roof of the garrison, to the great injury of the besieged, as was, afterwards, fully made manifest. The distance, therefore, to be won by the retreating Spaniards, was small; but it took them hours to accomplish it. It seemed as if the infidels, fearing lest their foes might escape out of their hands, if they slackened their efforts for a moment, were resolved to effect their destruction at any cost, while they were still at a distance from succour. They pressed ferociously and rapidly on the fugitives; they gained their front; and thus encompassed them with a compact mass of human beings, against which the cavaliers charged, as against a stone wall; slaying and trampling, indeed, but without penetrating it for more than a few yards. Each step gained by the van, was literally carved by the cavalry, as out of a rock; while the utmost exertions of Don Hernan could do nothing more than preserve his rear band in the attitude of a dike, slowly moving before the shocks of a flood, which it could not repel.
In addition to these alarming circumstances, there were others now developed, of a not less serious aspect. The canals that, in two or three places, intersected the street, were swarming with canoes, from which the savages discharged their arrows with fatal aim, or sprang, at once, upon the footmen, striking with spear and maquahuitl, and were driven back only after the most strenuous efforts. They had destroyed the bridges, and the canals could only be passed by renewing them with such planks as the infantry could tear from the adjoining houses, and hastily throw over the water,—a work of no less suffering than time and labour. Besides all this, the annoyance which Don Hernan had first dreaded, was now practised by the crafty barbarians. The terraces were covered with armed men, who, besides discharging their darts and arrows down upon the exposed soldiers, tore away, with levers, the stones from the battlements, and hurled them full upon the heads of their enemies.
The sound of drums and conches, the fierce yells, the whistling, the dying screams, the loud and hurried prayers, the neighing of horses—and now and then the shriek of some beast mangled by a rough spear,—the rattling of arrow-heads, the clang of clubs upon iron bucklers, the heavy fall of a huge stone crushing a footman to the earth, the plunging of some wounded wretch strangling in a ditch, and the roar of cannon at the palace, showing that the battle was universal,—these together, now made up such a chorus of hellish sounds as Don Amador confessed to himself he had never heard before, not even among the horrors of Rhodes, when sacked by other infidels, then esteemed the most valiant in the world. But to these dismal tumults others were speedily added, when Cortes, raging with a fury that increased with his despair, commanded the footmen to fire every house, whose top afforded footing to the ferocious foe,—a command that was obeyed with good will, and with dreadful effect; for though, from the nature of its materials, and the isolated condition of each structure, it was not possible to produce a general conflagration, yet the great quantity of cotton robes, of dry mats, and of resinous woods about each house, left it so combustible, that the application of a torch to the door-curtains, or the casting of a fire-brand into the interior, instantly enveloped it in flames. Among these, when they burst through the roofs of light rafters, and the thatching of dried reeds, the pagan warriors perished miserably; or, flinging themselves desperately down, were either dashed to pieces, or transfixed by the lances of the Spaniards.
But the same agent which so dreadfully paralyzed the efforts of the Mexican, brought suffering scarcely less disastrous to the Christian ranks. They were stifled with the smoke, they were scorched by the flames of the burning houses; and, ever and anon, some frantic barbarian, perishing among the fires of his dwelling, and seeking to inflict a horrid vengeance, grasped, even in his death-gasp, a flaming rafter in his arms, and sprang down with it upon his foes, maiming and scorching where he did not kill.
Thus fighting, and thus resisted, weary and despairing, their bodies covered with blood, their garments sometimes burning, the Spaniards at last gained the square that surrounded the palace; and fighting their way through the herds that invested it, (for, almost at the same moment that they had been attacked at the temple, the quarters were again assailed,) and shouting to the cannoniers, lest they should fire on them, they placed their feet in the court-yard, and thanked God for this respite to their sufferings.
It was a respite from death, for behind the stone wall they were comparatively secure; but not a respite from labour. The Mexicans abated not a jot of their ardour. The same herds that covered the square at dawn, were again yelling at the gates, and with the same unconquerable fury; and the soldiers, already fainting with fatigue, with famine, and thirst, (for they had taken no refreshment since the preceding evening,) were fain to purchase, painfully, a temporary safety, by standing to the walls, and keeping the savages at bay, as they could.
The artillery thundered, the cross-bows twanged, the arquebuses added their destructive volleys to the other warlike noises; but the Mexicans, disregarding these sounds, as well as the havoc made among their ranks, rushed, in repeated assaults, against the walls, and, sometimes, with such violence, that they drove the besieged from the gate, and entered pell-mell with them into the court-yard. Then, indeed, ensued a scene of murder; for the Christians, flying again to the portal, cut off the retreat of such desperadoes, and slew them within the walls, without loss, and almost at their leisure.
On such occasions, no one showed more spirit in attacking, or more fury in slaying, than the young secretary. The suit of goodly armour sent him by the admiral, and his rapid proficiency in the practice of arms, had inflamed his vanity; and he burned to approve himself worthy the companionship of cavaliers. The native conscientiousness which filled him with horror at the sight of the first blood shed, the first life destroyed, by his hand, had vanished as a dream; for it is the excellence of war, that, while developing our true nature, and remaining, itself, as the link which binds man to his original state of barbarism, it preserves him the delights of a savage, without entirely depriving him of the pleasures of civilization. The right of shedding blood, mankind enjoy in common with brutes; and, doubtless, a conformable philosophy will not frown on the privilege, so long as the loss of it would contract our circle of enjoyments. There is something poetical in the diabolism of a fiend, and as much that is splendid in the ferocity of a tiger; and though these two qualities be the chief elements of heroism, they bring with them such accompaniments of splendour and sentiment, that he would rob the world of half its glory, as well as much of its poetry, who should destroy the race of the great, and leave mankind to the dull innocence of peace.—There are more millions of human beings, the victims of war, rotting under the earth, than now move on its surface.
The pain of wounds had also produced a new effect in the bosom of Lorenzo; for, instead of cooling his courage, it now inflamed his rage, and helped to make him valiant. The mild and feeling boy was quite transformed into a heartless ruffian; and so great had become his love of slaughter, and so unscrupulous his manner of gratifying it, that, once or twice, Don Amador noticed him, and would have censured him sharply, but that his attention was immediately absorbed by the necessity of self-defence. The cavaliers had dismounted, and the neophyte fought at the gates on foot. In the midst of an assault, in which the defenders had been driven back, but which disgrace they were now repairing, he beheld his ward struggling with a wounded savage, who grasped his knees and hand, but in intreaty, not hostility; and greatly was Don Amador shocked, when he beheld the secretary disengage his arm, and, with a shout of triumph, plunge his steel into the throat of the supplicating barbarian.
"Art thou a devil, Lorenzo?" cried the cavalier, indignantly. "That was a knave's and a coward's blow! Thou shalt follow me no longer."
While he spoke, and left himself unguarded, a gigantic pagan, taking advantage of his indiscretion, leaped suddenly upon him, and struck him such a blow with a maquahuitl, as, but for the strength of his casque, would have killed him outright. As it was, the shock so stunned him, as to leave him for a moment, incapable of defence. In that moment, the savage, uttering a loud yell, sprang forward to repeat the blow, or to drag him off a prisoner; when Fabueno, perceiving the extremity of his patron, and fired with the opportunity of proving his valour, rushed between them, and with a lucky blow on the naked neck of the Mexican, instantly despatched him.
"A valiant stroke, Lorenzo!" said the neophyte, losing somewhat of his heat, as he recovered his wits. "But it does not entirely wipe out the shame of the other. Moderate thy wrath, curb thy fury, and remember that cruelty is the mark of a dastard. Strike me no more foes that cry for mercy!"
As his anger had been changed into approbation, so now were his censures abruptly ended by exclamations of surprise. For at that instant, Fabueno, grasping his arm with one hand, and with the other pointing a little to one side, turned upon him a countenance full of alarm. He looked around, and beheld with amazement, his kinsman, Don Gabriel, entirely unarmed, except with sword and buckler, mingled with the combatants, shouting a feeble war-cry, striking faintly, and, indeed, preserved less by his courage than his appearance, from the bludgeons of the infidels. His grizzly locks (for he was entirely bare-headed,) fell over his hollow and bloodless cheeks, whereon glittered, black and hideous, a single gout of gore. His face was like the face of the dead; and the savages recoiled from before him, as if from a spirit rousing from Mictlan, the world of gloom, to call them down to his dark dwelling.
In a moment the neophyte, followed by Fabueno, and Lazaro, who answered to his call, and Marco, who seemed to have been separated by the melée from his master, was at the side of Calavar. The mind of the knight was wholly gone; and he seemed as if, at the point of death, raised from his couch by the clamours of the contest, and urged into it by the instinct of long habit, or by the goadings of madness.
He submitted patiently, and without words, to the gentle violence of his kinsman, and was straightway carried to his apartment.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
After much search and persuasion, a surgeon was found and induced to visit the knight. He despatched his questions almost in a word, for he was a fighting Bachelor, and burned with impatience to return to the contest. He mingled hastily a draught, which he affirmed to be of wondrous efficacy in composing disordered minds to sleep, gave a few simple directions, and excusing his haste in the urgency of his other occupations, both military and chirurgical, he immediately departed.
"Marco!" said the neophyte, when the draught was administered, and Don Gabriel laid on the couch, "thou deservest the heaviest punishment for leaving thy master an instant, though, as thou sayest, while fast asleep. Remain by him now, and be more faithful. As for thee, Lorenzo," he continued, to the secretary, who stood panting at his side, "there is good reason thou shouldst share the task of Marco, were it only to repose thee a little; but more need is it, that thou suffer thy blood to cool, and reflect, with shame, that thou hast, this day, cancelled all thy good deeds, by killing a prostrate and beseeching foe. Remain, therefore, to assist Marco; and by-and-by I will come to thee, and declare whether or not thou shalt draw thy sword again to-day."
And thus leaving his kinsman to the care of the two followers, and beckoning Lazaro along, Don Amador returned to the court-yard and the conflict.
The history of the remainder of the day (it was now noon,) is a weary tale of blood. Wounds could not check, nor slaughter subdue, the animosity of the besiegers; and the Spaniards, tired even of killing, hoped no longer for victory over men who seemed to fight with no object but to die, and who rushed up as readily to the mouth of a cannon, whose vent was already blazing under the linstock, as to the spears that bristled with fatal opposition at the gates.
But night came at last, and with it a hope to end the sufferings that were already intolerable. The hope was vain. The barbarians, apparently incapable of fatigue, or perhaps yielding their places to fresh combatants, continued the assault even with increasing vigour and boldness. They rushed against the court-wall with heavy beams,—rude battering-rams,—with which they thought to shake it to its foundations, and thus deprive the Christians of their greatest safeguard. In certain spots they succeeded; and the soldiers cursed the day of their birth, as the ruins fell crashing to the ground, and they saw themselves reduced to the alternative of filling the breaches with their bodies, or remaining to perish where they stood. It is true, that in this kind of defence, as well as under other urgent difficulties, they received good and manly aid from their numerous allies, the Tlascalans, who fought, during the whole day, with a spirit and cheerfulness that put many a repining Castilian to shame. But these, though battling equally for their lives, were incapable of withstanding long the unexampled violence of the assaults; and it was soon found that the naked bodies of the Tlascalans offered but slight impediment to the frenzied Mexicans.
The Spaniards, in the expedient used to drive the citizens from their house-tops, had taught them a mode of warfare which they were not slow to adopt. The palace was of a solid structure, and seemed to bid defiance to flames. But the same cedars that finished the interior of meaner houses, formed its floors and ceilings; every chamber was covered with mats, and most of them were hung with the most inflammable kind of tapestry. In addition to this, the five thousand Tlascalans, who had been left with Alvarado, and who slept in the court-yard, besides strewing the earth with rushes—their humble couches—had constructed along the walls of the palace itself, many rude arbours, or rather kennels, of reeds from the lake, to shelter them from the vicissitudes of the rainy season, which had, already, in part, set in. And, to crown all, the cavaliers, whose horses, as they well knew, were each worth a thousand Tlascalans, had caused stalls to be constructed for them, wherein they were better protected from the weather, than their fellow-animals, the allies. With these arrangements, the Mexicans were well acquainted.
No sooner, therefore, had they succeeded in beating down several breaches in the wall, and found that they could sometimes drive the besieged from them, than they made trial of the expedient. They rushed together against the walls in a general assault, waving firebrands and torches, which those who forced their way through the breaches, applied to the stalls and arbours, or scattered over the beds of the Tlascalans. The dying incendiary, pierced with a dozen spears, ended his life with a laugh of joy, as he beheld the flames burst ruddily up to his brand.
The misery of the Spaniards was now complete. They were parched with thirst. The sweet fountains of Chapoltepec gushed only over the square of the temple. A well, dug by Alvarado, in his extremity, furnished a meager supply of water, and that so brackish, that even the brutes turned from it in disgust, till forced to drink, by pangs that would allow them to be fastidious no longer. The nearest canal, conducting the briny waters of Tezcuco, was shut out by ramparts of savages. The Spaniards, with one universal voice, sent up a cry of despair, as they beheld the flames run over the court, the stalls, the kennels, and up the palace walls, and knew not how to extinguish them. The cry was answered from without, with such yells of exultation, as froze their blood; and in the glare of the sudden conflagration, they saw the barbarians rushing again to the attack, darting through the breaches, and leaping over the walls.
In this strait, beset at once by two foes, equally irresistible, equally pitiless, they struck about them blindly and despairingly, cursing their fate, their folly, and the leader who had seduced them from their island homes, to die a death so ignoble and so dreadful.
For a moment, the spirit of the general sunk, and turning to Don Amador, whose fate it was again to be at his side, he said, with a ghastly countenance, rendered hideous by the infernal glare,—
"We die the death of foxes in a hole, very noble friend! Commend thy soul to God, and choose thy death; for we have no water to quench this hell!"
"God help my kinsman and father, and all is one!" said Amador, with a desperate calmness. "The flames are hot, but the grave is cold."
"The grave is cold!" shouted Cortes, with the voice of a madman. "Live in my heart for ever! Cold grave, moist earth! and Santiago, who strikes for a true Christian, speaks in thy words!—What ho, mad Spaniards!" he continued, shouting aloud, and running as he spoke round the palace; "earth quenches flames, like water! Swords and hands to the task; and he works best, who delves as at the grave of his foeman!"
If there was obscurity in the words of the general, it was dispelled by his actions; for, dashing the rushes aside, he loosened the damp soil with his sabre, and flung the clods lustily on the nearest flames. Loud and joyous were the shouts of his people, as hope dawned upon them with the happy idea; and, in a moment, the hands of many thousand men were tearing up the earth of the court, and casting it on the flames, while the savages, confidently expecting the result of their stratagem, intermitted their efforts for awhile, leaving the gates and breaches nearly unguarded.
It is probable, that even this poor resource, in the hands of so great a multitude of men, toiling with the zeal of desperation, might have sufficed to quell the flames. But, as if heaven had at last taken pity on their sufferings, and vouchsafed a miracle for their relief, there came, almost at the same moment, the pattering of rain-drops, which were quickly followed by a heavenly deluge; and as the flames vanished under it, the Christians fell upon their knees, and, with devout ardour, offered up thanks to the Providence, that had so marvellously preserved them.
They sprang from their knees, with bolder hearts, as the Mexicans again advanced to the assault. But this was the last attack. As if satisfied with the toils of the day, or commanded by some unknown ruler, the barbarians, uttering a mournful scream, suddenly departed.—They were heard during the night; and in the morning, when the waning moon shone dimly through the rack, were seen stirring about the square, but in no great numbers; and as they did not attempt any annoyance, but seemed engaged in dragging away the dead, Don Hernan forbade his sentinels to molest them.
The guards were set, and the over-worn soldiers retired, at last, to throw their wounded bodies on their pallets. But throughout the whole night, the noises of men repairing the breaches, and constructing certain military engines, assured those who were too sore or too fearful to sleep, that the leader they had cursed was sacrificing a second night to the duties of his station.
CHAPTER XL.
Don Amador sought out the apartment of his kinsman, with a troubled heart. A deep dejection, in part the effect of extreme fatigue, but caused more by the strange and melancholy events of the last twenty-four hours, weighed upon his spirits, and had increased, ever since the spectacle of the divinity, notwithstanding the bustle and excitement of the conflicts which ensued.
In the passage, before he had yet reached the chamber, he stumbled upon Fabueno. The secretary looked confused and abashed, as if caught in a dereliction of duty; but before the cavalier could upbraid him, he commenced his excuses.
'The opiate was strong; the knight was in a deep slumber,' he said; 'and, as Marco was sitting at his side, he thought he might leave him for a moment, to discover wherefore the soldiers had ceased fighting. He hoped his noble patron would pardon him: he would presently return.'
"Seek thy pleasure now, Lorenzo," said the novice, with a heavy sigh. "Return when thou wilt,—or not at all, if thou preferrest to rest with thy companions of last night. I will now, myself, watch by Don Gabriel."
His head sunk upon his breast, as he went on, for his heart was full of painful reflections. Near the door of the chamber, he was roused by a step, and looking up, he beheld the padre Olmedo approaching.
"Holy father, it rejoices me to see thee," he said "I had, indeed, thoughts to seek thee out, and claim thy benevolent counsels and aidance, but that I deemed me there were many among the wounded, and perchance the dying, who had stronger claims on thy good offices."
"Thou art not hurt, my son?"
"I have a scratch, made by the unlucky spear of a friend, but no harm from the enemy," said the cavalier. "I had indeed a blow also on the head, that made my brain ring; but both, I had quite forgotten. I am well enough in body, reverend father; and perhaps may be relieved in mind, if thou wilt vouchsafe me thy ghostly counsels."
The good Bartolomé, making a gesture of assent, followed the youth into the chamber.
The knight was, as Fabueno had declared, lost in a deep and, his kinsman was pleased to see, a placid, slumber; but Marco, instead of watching, lay sleeping full as soundly, hard by. This circumstance seemed to embarrass the cavalier.
"Father," said he, "I thought no less than to find the serving-man awake; and it was my intent to discharge him a moment from the chamber, not fearing that what I might say to thee, would disturb my afflicted friend. But I have not the heart to break the rest of this old man,—a very faithful servant,—who closes not his eyes, except when to keep them open would no longer be of service to Don Gabriel."
"He sleeps as soundly as his master," murmured the priest. "A good conscience lies under his rough breast, or it would not heave so gently."
"My father breathes gently, too," said Amador, mournfully.
"May heaven restore him," said the padre. "His guilt lies deeper in his imagination than in his soul."
"Dost thou think so indeed, father?" said Amador warmly, though in a low voice.
The father started—"The history of thy kinsman is not unknown to thee?"
"What I know is but little, save that my friend is the unhappiest of men," said the novice. "But heaven forbid I should seek to fathom the secrets of the confessional. I was rejoiced to hear thee say, my kinsman was not so miserable as he deems himself; for indeed I have begun to think there is something in the blood that courses in both our veins, so inclined to distemperature, that a small sin may bring us the pains of deep guilt, and a light sorrow pave the way to madness."
The knight and the man-at-arms lay in a slumber not to be broken by the whispers of confession. The father retired to the remotest corner of the apartment, and Don Amador knelt humbly and penitentially at his feet. A little taper shed a flickering ray over his blanched and troubled forehead, as he bent forward to kiss the crucifix, extended by the confessor.
"Buen padre," said he, "the sins I have to confess, I know thou wilt absolve, for they are sins of a hot blood, and not a malicious heart. I have been awroth with those who wronged me, and thirsted to shed their blood. For this I repent me. But the sins of pride and vanity are deep in my heart. I look about me for those acts of darkness, which should have caused the grief wherewith I am afflicted; but, in my self-conceit, I cannot find them. And yet they must exist; for I am beset with devils, or bewitched!"
The father gazed uneasily from the penitent to the sleeping knight; but the look of suspicion was unnoticed.
"We are all, as I may say, my son, beset by devils in this infidel land. They are worshipped on the altars of the false gods, and they live in the hearts of the idolaters. But if thou hast no heavy sin on thy soul, these are such devils as thou canst better exorcise with the sword, than I, perhaps, with prayers. I think, indeed, thou hast no such guilt; and, therefore, no cause for persecution."
"Holy father, I thought so myself, till late. But cast thine eyes on Don Gabriel. Thou seest him, once the noblest of his species, yet, now, the shadow and vapour of a man,—a wreck of reason,—a living death,—for his mind hath left him. This I say to thee with much anguish. I could strike another who said it; but it is true—He is a lunatic!—It is I that have robbed him of reason. This is my sin; and I feel that it is heavy."
"Thou ravest, good youth. Thy love and devotion are well known; and he hath, out of his own mouth, assured me, that thy affection surpasses the love of man. Rest thee content. A deeper cause than this, and one wherein thou hast no part, has afflicted him. An accident of war, tortured, by a moody imagination, into wilful guilt, hath turned him into this ruin."
"It was an accident, then, and no murder!" said the cavalier, joyously, though still in a whisper. "I thank God that my father is unstained with the blood of a woman."
"I may not repeat to thee secrets revealed only to God," said the confessor; "but this much may I say, to allay thy fears,—that the blow which destroyed a friend, was meant for a foe; for rage veiled his eyes, and the steel was in the hands of a madman. This will assure thee, that thou hast had no agency in his affliction, but hast ever proved his truest comfort."
"This indeed is the truth," murmured the novice, "and this convinces me, that by robbing him of his comfort, I gave him up to the persecution of those thoughts and memories, which have destroyed him. When I fought by his side at Rhodes, when I followed at his back through Spain, his malady was gentle. It brought him often fits of gloom, sometimes moments of delirium; he was unhappy, father, but not mad. I had acquired the art to keep the evil spirit from him; and, while I remained by him, he was well. I left him,—at his command, indeed, but he did not command me to forget him. The servant slept, and the sick man perished. While I was gone, his infirmity returned; and the madness that brought him to this infidel world, though I follow him, I am not able to remove. I found him changed; and, by my neglect, he is left incurable."
"I think, indeed, as thou sayest," replied the confessor, mildly, "there is something in thy blood, as well as in Calavar's, which inclines to convert what is a light fault, into a weighty sin. Thou wrongest thyself: this present misery is but the natural course of disease, and thou hast no reason to upbraid thyself with producing it."
"Father, so thought I, myself, till lately," said the cavalier, solemnly; "for we have ever in our hearts some lying spirit, that glosses over our faults with excuses, and deludes us from remorse. But it has been made manifest to me, by strange revealments and coincidences, by griefs of my own as well as of others, that my neglect was a grievous sin, not yet forgiven. And verily, now do I believe, that had I remained true to my knight, much sorrow would have been spared to both him and me."
"I cannot believe that thy unfaithfulness was a wrong of design," said the father. "If it be, make me acquainted with it, and despair not of pardon. Thou wert parted from the knight at his own command?"
"To gather him followers for the crusade meditated against the infidels of Barbary," said the novice,—"a brave and pious enterprise, from which the emperor was quickly diverted by other projects. This change being proclaimed, there remained nothing for me to do, but, like a faithful friend and servant, to return to my kinsman. Had I done so, what present affliction and disturbing memories might not have been prevented! Know, father, for I tell thee the truth, that it was my fortune, or rather my unhappiness, to discover, at the sea-port in which I sojourned, a Moorish maiden, of so obscure, and, doubtless, so base, a birth, that even the noble lady who gave her protection, knew not the condition of her parents. Yet, notwithstanding this baseness of origin, and the great pride of my own heart, (for truly I am come of the noblest blood in the land!) I was so gained upon by the beauty and excellent worth of this maiden, (for I swear to thee, her superior lives not in the world!) that I forgot even that she was the daughter of an idolater, and loved her."
"A Moorish infidel!" said the confessor. "It is not possible thou couldst pledge thy faith to an unbeliever?"
"Holy father," said Don Amador, "this sin was at least spared me. The maiden was a Christian, tenderly nurtured in all the doctrines of our faith, and almost ignorant that the race from which she drew her blood, knew any other; and, father, I thought, until this day, that the soul of Leila dwelt among the seraphs. Moreover, if the plighting of troth be sinful, I am again innocent; for, before I had spoken of love, she was snatched away from me."
"She is dead, then?" demanded the padre.
"Surely, I think so," said the cavalier, mournfully; "yet I know not the living creature that wots of her fate. Father! the sin of deserting my kinsman was first visited to me through her; and because I was a sinner, Leila perished.—How, father, I cannot tell thee. She vanished away by night,—carried off, as some averred, by certain Moorish exiles, who, that night, set sail for Barbary; or, as others dreamed, murdered by some villain, and cast into the sea; for the veil she wore, was found the day after, dashed ashore by the surf. But, whether she be dead, or yet living, again I say, I know not; though I affirm on the cross which I hold in my hand, I beheld her this day, or some fiend in her likeness, under the similitude of a priestess, or a divinity, I know not which, carried on the shoulders of the infidels, and by them worshipped!"
The confessor started back in alarm, surveying the excited features of the penitent, and again cast his eyes towards Don Gabriel. Then, laying his hand on the head of the cavalier, he said, gently, but warningly,—
"Cast such thoughts from thee, lest thou become like to thy kinsman!"
"Ay!" cried the cavalier, clasping his hands, and turning an eye of horror on the father,—"thou speakest confirmation of mine own fears; for I have said to myself, this is a frenzy, and therefore I have come, at last, to be like my kinsman! The thing that I have seen, is not; and the reason that made me a man, has fled from me!"
"Nay, I meant not that," said the padre, endeavouring to soothe the agitation he had, in part, caused. "I desired only to have thee guard thyself against the effects of thy fancy, which is, at present, greatly over-excited. I believe that thou didst indeed see some pagan maiden, strongly resembling the Moorish Leila;—a circumstance greatly aided by the similarity of hue between the two races."
"And dost thou think," said the cavalier, his indignation rising in spite of his grief, "that the adored and most angelic Leila could, in any wise, resemble the coarse maids of this copper-tinted, barbarous people? I swear to thee, she was fairer than the Spanish girls of Almeria, and a thousand times more beautiful!"
"In this I will not contend with thee," said the father, benignantly, well satisfied that anger should take the place of a more perilous passion. "But I may assure thee, that, among the princesses of the royal household, whom, I think, thou hast not yet seen, there are many wondrous lovely to look upon; and, to show thee that even a barbarian may resemble a Christian, it is only needful to mention that when, at our first coming to these shores, the portrait of Cortes, done by an Indian painter, was carried to Montezuma, he sent to us, by the next messengers, with rich presents, a noble of his court so strongly resembling Don Hernan, both in figure and visage, that we were all filled with amazement."
"Well, indeed, thou speakest to me words of comfort," said Don Amador, more composedly, though still very sadly; "but I would to heaven I might look again on this woman, or this fiend, for I know not if she may not be a devil! In truth, I thought I beheld a spectre, when she turned her eyes upon me; and, oh father! you may judge my grief, when thus thinking, and beholding her a spirit worshipped by idolaters, I knew she must be of the accursed!"
"I have heard of this woman from others who beheld her," said the father, "and, I doubt not, she is a mortal woman, esteemed holy, because a priestess, and therefore received by the people with those marks of respect, which thou didst mistake for adoration. It was reported to me, that she was of marvellous great beauty."
"Marvellous, indeed!" said the youth. "But, father, here is another circumstance that greatly troubled me; and, in good sooth, it troubles me yet. It is known to thee that my kinsman had, until yesternight, a little page,—a Moorish boy, greatly beloved by us both. As for myself, I loved him because he was of the race of Leila; and I protest to thee, unnatural as it may seem, I bore not for my young brother a greater affection than for this most unlucky urchin. A foolish fellow charged him to be an enchanter; and sometimes I bethink me of the accusation, and suppose he has given me magical love-potions. Last night he was snatched away, I cannot say how; but what is very wonderful, my kinsman and two of his people saw, almost at the same moment, a terrific phantom. Father, you smile! If it were not for my sorrow, I could smile too, and at myself; for greatly am I changed, since I set foot on this heathen land. A month since, I held a belief in ghosts and witchcraft to be absurd, and even irreligious. At this moment, there is no menial in this palace more given over to doubts and fears, and more superstitious. Is not this the first breathing of that horrible malady?"
"It is the first perplexity of a scene of novelty and excitement. Fatigue doth itself produce a temporary distraction, as is very evident when we come to fling our over-worn bodies on our couches, to sleep. This is the land of devils, because of idolaters; and I may not deny, that the fiends have here greater power to haunt us with supernatural apparitions, than in the lands of our true religion. Yet it is not well to yield too ready a belief to such revelations; for heaven will not permit them, without a purpose. Rather think that the infirmity of thy kinsman, and the ignorance of his people, were deluded by an accidental deception, which a cooler observer might have penetrated, than by any real vision. But what wert thou saying of the Moorish page?"
"Father," said Amador, earnestly, "at the moment, when the train that surrounded that wonderful priestess, alarmed to see me rush towards them, (for that supernatural resemblance did greatly move me,) fled into the temple, I heard the voice of Jacinto screaming aloud among the infidels, as if, that moment, offered by them a victim to their accursed divinities."
"God be with his soul, if it be so!" said the confessor, "for barbarous and bloody in their fanaticism are the reprobates of Tenochtitlan. Yet I would have thee, even in this matter, to be of good heart; for it is believed among us, that Abdalla, his father, has been received into the service of the Mexican nobles, to teach them how to resist our arts, and how to compass our destruction; and it must be evident, that for that traitor's sake, they will spare his boy, stolen away from us, as it appears to me to be proven, by the knave Abdalla himself. But think thou no more of the boy. He was born to inherit the perfidy of his race; deception and ingratitude have rendered him unworthy of thy care; and if, some day, the nobles should yield him to the priests for a victim, it will be but a just punishment for his baseness. Give thy mind to other thoughts, and refresh thy body with sleep; for much need have we of all the assistance thou canst now render us. Sleep, and prepare for other combats; for this day is but the prologue of a tragedy, whose end may be more bloody and dreadful than we have yet imagined. Thy soul is without stain, and heaven absolves thee of sin. Brood over no more gloomy thoughts; believe that Providence overshadows thee; sleep in tranquillity; and be prepared for the morning."
The good father concluded the rite of absolution with a blessing parental and holy, and stole away from the chamber. Don Amador sighed heavily, but with a relieved mind, as he rose from his knees. He gazed upon the marble features of the sleeping knight, smoothed the covering softly and tenderly about his emaciated frame, and then crept to his own couch. His thoughts were many and wild, but exhaustion brought slumber to his eyelids; and starting, ever and anon, at some elfin representation of the captive page, or the lost maid of Almeria, bending over him with eyes of wo, he fell, at last, into a sleep, so profound, that it was no longer disturbed by visions.
CHAPTER XLI.
At the earliest dawn, Don Amador arose from his couch, refreshed, but not reanimated, by slumber. An oppressive gloom lay at his heart, with the feeling of physical weight; and without yet yielding to any definite apprehension, he was conscious of some presentiment, or vague foreboding of sorrow. The taper had expired on the pedestal, but an obscure light, the first beam of morning, guided him to the bed-side of his kinsman. The form of Baltasar was added to that of Marco on the floor; and the serving-men slept as soundly as their master. He bent a moment over Don Gabriel, and though unable to perceive his countenance in the gloom, he judged, by the calmness of his breathing, that the fever had abated. "Heaven grant that the delirium may have departed with it!" he muttered to himself, "and that my poor friend may look upon me rationally once more! If we are to perish under the knives of these unwearying barbarians, as now seems to me somewhat more than possible, better will it be for my kinsman's soul, that he die with the name of God on his lips, instead of those of the spirits which torment him."
While the cavalier gave way to such thoughts, he heard very distinctly, though at a great distance, such sounds as convinced him that 'the unwearying barbarians' were indeed rousing again for another day of battle. He armed himself with the more haste that he heard also in the passage, the sound of feet, as if the garrison had been already summoned, and were hurrying to the walls.
As he passed from the apartment, he found himself suddenly in the midst of a group of cavaliers, one of whom grasped his hand, and pressing it warmly, whispered in his ear, "I will not forget that I owe thee the life of Benita!—Come with me, my friend, and thou shalt see how pride is punished with shame, and injustice with humiliation."
"I thought," said Don Amador, "that we were about to be attacked, and that my friends were running to the defence."
"Such is the case," said De Morla. "The millions are again advancing against the palace, and we go to oppose them, though not to the walls. We have raised devils, and we run to him we have most wronged, and most despised, to lay them. In an instant, you will hear the shrieks of the combatants. If we find no other way to conquer them than with our arms, wo betide us all!—for we are worn and feeble, and we know our fate."
Several of the cavaliers had lights in their hands, but the chamber, into which Don Amador followed them, was lit with a multitude of torches, chiefly of the knots of resinous wood, burning with a smoky glare, and scattering around a rich odour. The scene disclosed to the neophyte, was imposing and singular. The apartment was very spacious, and, indeed, lofty, and filled with human beings, most of them Mexican nobles of the highest rank, and of both sexes, who stood around their monarch, as in a solemn audience, leaving a space in front, which was occupied by the most distinguished of the Spaniards, among whom was Don Hernan himself. A little platform, entirely concealed under cushions of the richest feathers, supported the chair, (it might have been called, the throne,) on which sat the royal captive, closely invested by those members of his family who shared his imprisonment. A king of Cojohuacan, his brother, stood at his back, and at either side were two of his children, two sons and two daughters, all young, and one of them,—a princess,—scarce budding into womanhood. Their attire, in obedience to the law's of the court, was plain, and yet richer than the garments of the nobles. But it was their position near the king, the general resemblance of their features, and the anxious eyes which they kept ever bent on the royal countenance, which pointed them out as the offspring of Montezuma.
As for Montezuma himself, though he sat on his chair like an emperor, it was more like a monarch of statuary than of flesh and blood. The Christian general stood before him, dictating to the interpreter Marina, the expressions which he desired to enter the ear of his prisoner; but, though speaking with as much respect as earnestness, the Indian ruler seemed neither to hear nor to see him. His eye was indeed fixed on Don Hernan, but yet fixed as on vacancy; and the lip, fallen in a ghastly contortion, the rigid features, the abstracted stare, the right hand pressed upon his knee, while the left lay powerless and dead over the cushions of his chair, as he bent a little forward, as if wholly unconscious of the presence of his people and his foes, made it manifest to all, that his thoughts were absorbed in the contemplation of his own abasement.
The neophyte heard the words of Don Hernan.
"Tell his royal majesty, the king," said the general, with an accent no longer resembling that which had fixed the barb in the bosom of his prey, "that it mislikes me to destroy his people, like so many dumb beasts; and yet to this end am I enforced by their madness and his supineness. Bid him direct his subjects to lay down their arms, and assail me no further; otherwise shall I be constrained to employ those weapons which God has given me, until this beauteous island is converted into a charnel-house and hell, and the broad lake of Tezcuco into the grave of his whole race!"
The mild and musical voice of Marina repeated the wish in the language of Anahuac; and all eyes were bent on the monarch, as she spoke. But not a muscle moved in the frame or the visage of Montezuma.
"Is the knave turned to stone, that he hears not?" muttered the chief. "Speak thou, my little Orteguilla. Repeat what thou hast heard, and see if thine antics will not arouse the sleeper."
The youthful page stepped up to the king, seized his hand, which he strove to raise to his lips, and looking up in his face, with an innocent air, endeavoured to engage his attention. This boy had, from the first days of imprisonment, been a favourite with Montezuma; and being very arch and cunning, Don Hernan did not scruple to place him as a spy about the king, under colour of presenting him as a servant. In common, Montezuma was greatly diverted with his boyish tricks, and especially with his blundering efforts to catch the tongue of Mexico. But there was no longer left in the bosom of the degraded prince, a chord to vibrate to merriment. Habit, however, had not yet lost its hold; and as the boyish voice stammered out the accustomed tones, he gradually turned his eyes from the person of the general, and fixed them on the visage of Orteguilla. But as he gazed, his brows contracted into a gloomier frown, he laid his hand on the prattler's shoulder, and no sooner had the urchin ceased speaking, than he thrust him sternly, though not violently, away. Then drawing himself erect, he folded his arms on his bosom, and without uttering a word, fixed his eyes on the face of Cortes, and there calmly and sorrowfully maintained them.
"This is, doubtless, a lethargy," said the general; "but it suits not our present occasions to indulge it. Where is my friend, De Morla? He was wont to have much influence with this humorous man."
"I am here," said De Morla, stepping forward; "and if you demand it, I will speak to the king; though with no hopes of persuading him to show us any kindness."
As De Morla spoke, Don Amador, who had followed him to the side of Cortes, observed one of the princesses turn from her sire, and look eagerly towards his friend. In this maiden, he doubted not, he perceived the fair Minnapotzin; and he ceased to wonder at the passion of his countryman, when he discovered with his own eyes how little her beauty had been overrated. Though of but small stature, her figure, as far as it could be perceived through the folds of peculiar vestments, was exceedingly graceful. The cymar was knotted round her bosom with a modest girdle, and left bare two arms prettily moulded, on which shone bracelets of gold, fantastically wrought. Her hair was long, and fell, braided with strings of the same metal, on her shoulders, on which also was a necklace of little emeralds alternating with crystals, and suspending a silver crucifix of Spanish workmanship. These were her only decorations. Her skin was rather dark than tawny, and the tinge of beautifying blood was as visible on her cheeks as on those of the maids of Andalusia. Her features were very regular; and two large eyes, in which a native timidity struggled with affection at the sight of her Christian lover, rendered her countenance as engaging as it was lovely. She hung upon De Morla's accents with an air of the deepest interest, as he expressed, in imperfect language, the desires of his general.
As he spoke, the infidel king surveyed him with a frown,—a notice that he now extended to all the Christians present, but without deigning to reply. It was evident that he understood the desires of his jailor, and equally plain that he had resolved to disregard them. The angry spot darkened on the brow of Cortes; and he was about to degrade the captive with still more violent marks of his displeasure; when, at this moment, the roar of his artillery, mingled with the shouts of the besiegers, suddenly shook the palace to its foundations, and drowned his voice in the shrieks of the women.
Montezuma started to his feet, and cast a look upon Cortes, in which horror did not wholly conceal a touch of ferocious satisfaction. His people were, indeed, falling under those terrific explosions, like leaves before the mountain gust; but well he read in the dismayed visages of the Spaniards, that fate was, at last, avenging his injuries on the oppressors.
"Speak thou to thy father, my Benita!" cried De Morla, in her own language, to the terrified princess, "and let him stay the work of blood; for none but he has the power. Tell him, we desire peace, repent the wrongs we have done him, and will redress them. If he will regain his liberty and his empire,—if he will save his people, his children, and himself, from one common and fearful destruction, let him forget that we have done him wrong, and pronounce the words of peace."
The Indian maiden threw herself at the feet of the king, and bathing his hands with tears, repeated the charge of the cavalier.
Montezuma gazed upon her with sorrow, and upon his other children; then looking coldly to Don Hernan, he said, with a tranquil voice, while Doña Marina rapidly interpreted his expressions,—
"What will the Teuctli have? He commands a captive to shield him from the darts of free warriors: Montezuma is a prisoner. He calls upon me to quiet a raging people: Montezuma has no people. He commands me to regain my liberty: the Mexican that hath been once a slave, can be a freeman no more. He bids me save my children: I have none! they are servants in the house of a stranger.—He that is in bonds, hath no offspring!"
While he spoke, the din increased, as if the yelling assailants were pressing up to the very walls of the palace; and many cavaliers, incapable of remaining longer inactive, and despairing of his assistance, rushed from the apartment to join in the combat.
"Why does he waste time in words?" cried Cortes. "At every moment, there are slain a thousand of his subjects!"
"If there were twenty thousand," said the captive, assuming, at last, the dignity that became his name, and speaking with a stately anger, "and if but one Christian lay dead among them, Montezuma should not mourn the loss. Happier would he be, left with the few and mangled remnants, with his throne on the grave of the strangers, than, this moment, were he restored to his millions, with the children of the East abiding by him in friendship.—Thou callest upon me to appease my people. Thou knowest that they are thine. Why should they not listen to thee?"
"Ay, why should they not?" said Don Hernan, speaking rather to himself, than to Montezuma, and flinging sarcasms on his own head. "By my conscience, I know not; for though I was somewhat conceited, to grasp at the sceptre so early, I think I may hold it with as much dignity as any infidel, were he a Turkish sultan.—Hearken, Montezuma; thou art deceived: thy people are not mine, but thine, and through thee, as his sworn vassal, the subjects of my master, the king of Spain. Confirm thy vassalage to him, by tribute, be true to thy allegiance, and remain on thy throne for ever; and, if such be thy desire, I will straightway withdraw my army from the empire, so that thou mayest reign according to thine own barbarous fancies."
"I trust thee not," said the king, "for already hast thou deceived me! I revoke my vows of vassalage; for he that has no kingdom, cannot be a king's deputy.—Do thy worst," continued the monarch, with increasing boldness, no longer regarding the furious looks of Don Hernan, and learning, at last, to deserve the respect of his foes. "Do thy worst: Thou hast degraded me with chains, and with words of insult; nothing more canst thou do, but kill! Kill me, then, if thou wilt; and in Mictlan will I rejoice, for I know that my betrayers shall follow me! Yes!" he added, with wild energy, "I know that, at this moment, your heart is frozen with fear, and your blood turned to water, seeing that revenge has reached you, and that your doom is death! The wronger of the lords of Tenochtitlan has learned to tremble before its basest herds; and let him tremble,—for the basest of them shall trample upon his body!"
"Am I menaced by this traitor to his allegiance?" cried Cortes.
"Señor," said De Morla, "let us trifle the time with no more deception. There is no one of our people, who does not perceive that we can maintain our post in this city no longer, and that we cannot even escape from it, without the permission of our foes. This knows Montezuma, as well as ourselves. Why incense him, why strive to cajole him further? Let us tell him the truth, and buy safety by restoring, at once, what we cannot keep; and what, otherwise, we must yield up with our lives."
"Ay, faith,—it cannot be denied: we are even caught in a net of our own twisting. Tell the knave what thou wilt. We will leave his accursed island.—But how soon we may return, to claim the possessions of our master, thou needst not acquaint him. But, by my conscience, return we will, and that right briefly!"
A thousand different expressions agitated the visage of Montezuma, while listening to the words of De Morla. Now a flash of joy lit his dusky features; now doubt covered them with double gloom; and now he frowned with a dark resolution, as if conceiving the fate of the Christians, if left to themselves, still caged in their bloody prison. The memory of all he had suffered, mingled with the imagination of all the vengeance he might enjoy, covered his countenance with a mingled rage and exultation. While he hesitated, his eye fell upon his children, for all had thrown themselves at his feet; and he beheld them, in fancy, paying the penalty of his ferocity. The stern eye of Cortes was upon him; and he thought he read, in its meaning lustre, the punishment which awaited his refusal.
"Will the Teuctli depart from me," he cried, eagerly, "if I open a path for him through my incensed people?"
"I will depart from him," replied Don Hernan, "if his people throw down their arms, and disperse."
"They will listen to me no more!" exclaimed Montezuma, suddenly clasping his hands, with a look and accent of despair, "for I am no longer their monarch. The gods of Anahuac have rejected the king that has submitted to bonds; a great prophetess has risen from Mictlan, bearing the will of the deities; and, by the bloody pool Ezapan, that washes the wounds of the penitent, the people have heard her words, and sworn faith to a new ruler, beloved by heaven, and reverenced by themselves. They have seen the degradation of Montezuma, and Cuitlahuatzin is now the king of Mexico!"
"He speaks of the strange priestess we saw at the temple," said De Morla. "It is, indeed, said among all the Mexicans, (but how they have heard of her, I know not,) that she has been sent by the gods, to dethrone our prisoner, and destroy the Christians."
"Thou art deceived," said Cortes, to the monarch, without regarding this explanation; "there is no king, but thyself, acknowledged by thy people; and, at this moment, they are fighting to rescue thee from what they falsely consider bondage;—falsely I say, for thou knowest, thou art my guest, and not my prisoner,—free to depart whenever thou wilt,—that is, whenever thou wilt exert thy authority to appease the insurrection. It is their mad love for thee, that reduces us to extremity."
"And thou swearest, then," cried Montezuma, catching eagerly at the suggestion and the hope, "thou swearest, that thou wilt depart from my empire, if I appease this bloody tumult?"
"I swear, that I will depart from thy city," said the crafty Spaniard; "and I swear, that I hope to depart from thy empire—one day, at least, when I am its master." He muttered the last words to himself.
"Give me my robes—I will speak to my people!"
No sooner was this speech interpreted, than the Spaniards present uttered exclamations of pleasure; and some of them running out with the news to their companions, the court-yard soon rung with their shouts. Despair, at once, gave place to joy; and even to many of those who had been most sick of battle, the relief came, with such revulsions of feeling, that they seemed loath to lose the opportunity of slaying.
"Quick to your pieces! charge, and have at the yelling imps!" cried divers voices, "for presently we shall have no more fighting!"
CHAPTER XLII.
The cannoniers, moved by this new feeling, discharged their last volley with good will, and, at the same moment, the crossbowmen and musketeers shot off their pieces from the wall and the terraces. The four sides of the palace were thus, at the same instant, sheeted with flame; and the effect of the combined discharge was incalculably great and fatal among the dense bodies of besiegers. As they staggered, and fell back a little, to recover from their confusion, the mounted men, who had placed themselves in readiness for the final charge, rushed at once, spear in hand, on the disordered multitude, dealing death at every thrust, and almost at every tramp of their chargers.
It was precisely at this moment, that the Indian emperor, arrayed in the pompous and jewelled robes, in which he was wont to preside at the greater festivals of the gods, with the Copilli on his head, and the golden buskins on his feet, preceded by a noble bearing the three rods of authority, and attended by half a dozen valiant cavaliers, (of whom the neophyte was one,) holding their bucklers in readiness to protect him from any ill-directed missile,—stepped upon the terrace and advanced towards the battlements. The spectacle that presented itself in the dawning light, was, to him at least, grievous and horrid. The earth of the square, and the dwellings that surrounded it, were torn by the cannon-shots, and many of the houses had tumbled into ruins. From this height, also, could be seen the blackened wrecks, which marked the path of the army, returning, the previous day, from the temple. But a more sorrowful sight was presented to the unfortunate monarch, in the prospect of his people, great numbers already lying dead on the furrowed square, while the survivors were falling fast under the lances of the horsemen.
Don Hernan enjoyed for a moment, with malicious satisfaction, the exclamations of grief, with which his prisoner beheld this sight; for it was his pleasure to believe, that Montezuma was himself the planner of the insurrection. Then, giving a sign to a trumpeter, who was with the party, to wind a retreat, the horsemen instantly reined round their steeds, and galloped back to the court-yard. With a loud yell of triumph, the Mexicans, thinking their pursuers fled from fear, prepared to follow them, and poised their weapons as a prelude to the assault. At that critical period, the cavaliers moved aside from their prisoner, and he stood confronted with his people. The great cry with which the barbarians beheld their monarch, had something in it that was touching, for it expressed a childish joy; but there was something still more affecting in the result, to those whose hearts were not utterly steeled, when they beheld the universal multitude, as with one accord, fling themselves upon their knees, and, dropping their weapons and pronouncing the name of the king, extend their hands towards him, as to a father.
"Is it possible then," muttered, or rather thought, Don Amador de Leste, smothering a sudden pang of remorse, "that these blood-thirsty barbarians are only seeking our lives, to liberate their king? Surely, we do a great sin, to slay them for their love.—I would that my knight, my people, and myself, were fighting the Turks again."
The sudden change from the furious tumult of war to such stillness as belongs to midnight, was impressive and even awful; and solemn looks, both from his subjects and his foes, from those who fought in the court-yard, and those who manned the roof and the turrets, were bent on the royal captive, as he stepped upon the battlement, and addressed himself to his people.
"My children!" said Montezuma, for so his words were rapidly interpreted by De Morla,—"if ye are shedding your blood, to convince me of your affection, know that I feel its constancy, without approving its rashness. Though I be a prisoner——" He paused, for the word stuck in his throat, and groans and lamentations showed how unpalatable it was to his subjects. "Though I be a prisoner with the Teuctli, yet have you to know, it is, in a great measure, with mine own consent; and, at this moment, I remain not by enforcement, but by choice."
The unhappy monarch, by so expressing his address as to steer clear of offence to the Spaniards, (for well he knew they dreaded lest his confessions should still more inflame the citizens,) committed the more fatal error of displeasing his people. A murmur of indignation ran through the mass, when Montezuma, with his own lips, confirmed his abasement. Several rose, frowning, to their feet, and a young man, parting quickly from the crowd, advanced so near to the palace, that his features could be plainly distinguished. He was of noble stature, countenance, and mien, evidently of the highest order of nobility, and enjoyed the distinction of a principality in the House of Darts, as was shown by the red fillet in his hair, suspending the tufts of honour. His trunk and shoulders were invested in a coat of armour, either of scales of copper or of leather, richly gilt, bordered at the bottom with lambrequins of green and red feathers. His limbs were naked, saving only the bright sandals on his feet, and the glittering bracelets on his arms. His left arm supported a light buckler, doubtless of wicker-work, though painted with many bright and fantastic colours; and, from the bottom of it, waved a broad penacho, as well as a bulky maquahuitl, which he held in his left hand, while balancing a copper javelin in his right. A tall plume of the most splendid hues nodded majestically on his head.
As this bold and noble-looking youth stepped up to the very mouths of the cannon, and raised his fiery eyes to the king, Don Amador de Leste thought that he recognized in him the princely ambassador of Cholula,—the young fugitive, who had been so ready to dispute the path with him, under the walls of the holy city.
"Dost thou say this, thou that wert once their lord, to the people of Mexitli?" said the young prince, (for, as has been recorded by other historians, it was the valiant Quauhtimotzin, the nephew of the king, who now so sharply rebuked him.) "Dost thou indeed confess, son of Axajacatl! that thou art, by thine own consent, the friend of a perfidious stranger? by thine own choice, O conqueror of many nations! the serf and slave of him who is the brother of Tlascala? Then art thou, indeed, what we have called thee,—the slayer of thy people,—for this blood has flown at thy bidding; a traitor to thy throne,—for thou hast surrendered it to a master; an apostate to thy gods,—for thou hast shut thine ears, when they called upon thee for vengeance. Miserable king!—and yet a king no more! When thy people wept to see thee degraded, thou gavest them up to slaughter; and while they come to restore thee to thy rights, thou confessest, that thou lovest these less than the shame of captivity! Know then, that, for thy baseness, the gods have pronounced thee unworthy to be their viceroy, and thy people have confirmed the decree. We break the rods of authority; we trample upon the robes of state: and Montezuma is no longer a king in Tenochtitlan!"
The unhappy monarch trembled, while he listened to this insulting denunciation, for he felt that he had deserved it. But his people still lay prostrate on the earth; and, hoping that they shared not the indignation of his kinsman, he elevated his voice again, and spoke sternly:—
"Why doth Quauhtimotzin forget that he is the son of my brother, and my slave? Is the young man that smiles in jewels, wiser than he that hath gray hairs? and the people that delve in canals and build up the temples, have they more cunning than the king who councils with the spirits at the altar? Know that what has been done, has been done wisely, for it was according to the will of heaven; and heaven, which has tried our fidelity, is about to reward it with happiness and peace. The strangers have promised to depart from us: throw down your arms, and let them be gone."
"And wilt thou," said the prince, elevating his voice to a still angrier pitch, "who hast been so many times deluded, counsel us to listen to their lies? O fallen Montezuma! thou leaguest with them against us. Wilt thou suffer them to escape, when we have them enclosed in nets, as the birds that sing in thy gardens? O degraded chief! thou hast not the courage to desire the blood of them that have dethroned thee! Thou art not he that was Montezuma; thy words are the words of a Christian; thou speakest with the lips of a slave, and the heart of a woman; thou art a Spaniard, and thy fate shall be the fate of a Spaniard! Cuitlahuatzin is our king; and we strike thee as a foeman!"
As the prince concluded his indignant oration, he swung round his head the javelin, which, all this time, he had balanced in his hand, and launched it, with all his force, full at the breast of Montezuma. The shield of the novice, quickly interposed before the body of the king, arrested the sharp weapon, and it fell, innocuous, on the terrace. At the same moment, the Mexicans all sprang to their feet, with loud cries, as if giving way to repressed fury, and brandished their arms. The bucklers of the cavaliers were instantly extended before the monarch, to protect him from the dreaded missiles. But, as if desperation had robbed him of his fears, and restored to him, for his last hour, some share of that native spirit which had elevated him to the throne, he pushed them immediately aside, and raising himself to his full height, and spreading forth his arms, gazed majestically, though with a ghastly countenance, on his people. The words of mingled intreaty and command were already on his lips, but they were lost even to the Spaniards who stood by, in the thunder of shouts coming from twenty thousand voices; and the warning cry of Cortes was equally unheard, bidding the Spaniards to "Save the king!" The shields were interposed, however, without command, and caught many of the missiles,—stones, arrows, and darts,—which fell like a shower on the group,—but not all. An arrow pierced the right arm, a stone maimed the right leg, and another, striking upon the left temple of the abandoned monarch, crushed the bone in upon the brain; and he fell into the arms of the cavaliers, like a dead man.
The cannoniers, at that moment, seeing the returning rage of the barbarians, shot off their pieces. But the battle was done. No sooner had the Mexicans beheld their monarch fall under the blows of their own weapons, than they changed their cries of fury to lamentations; and throwing down their arms, as if seized with a panic, they fled from the square, leaving it to the Christians and the dead.
CHAPTER XLIII.
In great grief and consternation of mind, the cavaliers carried the king to his apartments, and added their own sharp regrets to the tears of his children, when the surgeon pronounced his wounds mortal. Even the señor Cortes did not disdain to heave a sigh over the mangled form of his prisoner; for, in his death, he perceived his innocence, and remembered his benefactions; and, in addition, he felt, that, in the loss of Montezuma, he was deprived of the strongest bulwark against the animosity of his people.
"I have done this poor infidel king a great wrong," he said, with a remorse that might have been real, and yet, perhaps, was assumed, to effect a purpose on his followers; "for now, indeed, it is plain, he could not have been unfaithful to us, or he would not thus have perished. I call God to witness, that I had no hand in his death; and I aver to yourselves, noble cavaliers, that, when I have seemed to treat him with harshness and injustice, I have done so for the good of my companions, and the advantage of our king; for barbarians, being, in some sort, children, are to be governed by that severity which is wholesome to infancy. Nevertheless, I do not wholly despair of his life; for there are some score or two lusty fellows in the garrison, who have had their skulls cracked, and are none the worse for the affliction. I trust much in thy skill, señor boticario," he continued, addressing the surgeon; "and I promise thee, if thou restore Montezuma to his life and wits, I will, on mine own part, bestow upon thee this golden chain and crucifix, valued at ninety pesos, besides recommending thee, likewise, to the gratitude of my brother captains, and the favourable notice of his majesty, our king,—whom God preserve ever from the wrath and impiety of such traitorous subjects as have laid our Montezuma low! I leave him in thy charge. As for ourselves, valiant and true friends, it being now apparent to you, that we have none but ourselves to look to for safety, and even food, (the want of which latter would, doubtless, create many loud murmurs, were it not for the jeopardy of the former,) I must recommend you to betake you to your horses, and accompany me in a sally which it is needful now to make, both for the sake of reconnoitring the dikes, and gathering food.—What now, Botello!" he cried, observing the enchanter pressing through the throng; "what doest thou here?—Thou never madest me a prophecy of this great mishap!"
"I never cast the horoscope, nor called upon Kalidon-Sadabath, to discover the fate of any but a Christian man," said Botello, gravely; "for what matters it what is the fate of a soul predoomed to flames, whether it part with violence, or in peace? I have sought out the destiny of his people, because I thought, some day, they should be baptised in the faith; but I never cast me a spell for the king."
"Wilt thou adventure thine art in his behalf, and tell me whether he shall now live or die?"
"It needs no conjuration to discover that," said the magician, pointing significantly to the broken temple. "The king will die, and that before we are released from our thraldom. But hearken, señor," he continued, solemnly, "I have sought out the fate that concerns us more nearly. Last night, while others buried their weariness in sleep, and their sorrows in the dreams of home, I watched in solitude, with prayers and fasting, working many secret and godly spells, and conversing with the spirits that came to the circle——"
The wounded monarch was forgotten, for an instant, by the cavaliers, in their eagerness to gather the revelations of the conjurer; for scepticism, like pride, was yielding before the increasing difficulties of their situation, and they grasped at hope and encouragement, coming from what quarter soever.
"And what have the spirits told thee, then?" demanded the general, meaningly.—"Doubtless, that, although there be a cloud about us now, there shall sunshine soon burst from it; and that, if we depart from this city, it will only be like the antique battering ram, pulled back from a wall, that it may presently return against it with tenfold violence."
"I have not questioned so far," replied Botello earnestly. "I know, that we must fly. What is to come after, is in the hands of God, and has not been revealed. Death lies in store for many, but safety for some. The celestial aspects are unfavourable, the conjunctions speak of suffering and blood;—dreams are dark, Kalidon is moody, and the fiends prattle in riddles. Day after day, the gloom shall be thicker, the frowns of fate more menacing, retreat more hopeless. Never before found I so many black days clustered over the earth! In all this period, there is but one shining hour; and if we seize not that, heaven receive us! for, beyond that, there is nothing but death.—On the fifth day from this, at midnight, a path will be opened to us on the causeway; for then, from the house Alpharg, doth the moon break the walls of prisons, and light fugitives to the desert. But after that, I say to thee again, very noble señor, all is hopelessness, all is wo!—starvation in the palace, and shrieking sacrifices on the temple!"
"On the fifth night, then," said Cortes, gravely, "if the fates so will it, we must take our departure,—provided we die not of famine, on the fourth. I would the devils that thou hast in command, had revealed thee some earlier hour, or some good means of coming at meat and drink. Get thee to thy horoscopes again, thy prayers and thy suffumigations; and see if thou hast not, by any mischance, overlooked some favourable moment for to-morrow, or the day after."
"It cannot be," said Botello; "my art has disclosed me no hope; but, without art, I can see that, to-morrow, the news of Montezuma's death, (for surely he is now dying,) will fill the causeways with mountaineers, and cover the lake with navigators, all coming to avenge it."
"I like thy magic better than thy mother wit," said Don Hernan, with a frown. "Give me what diabolical comfort thou canst to the soldiers; but croak no common-sense alarms into their ears."
"I have nothing to do with the magic that is diabolic," said the offended enchanter. "God is my stay, and the fiends I curse! If I have fears, I speak them not, save to those who may handle them for wise purposes. This, which I have said, will surely be the fate of to-morrow; and the besiegers will come, in double numbers, to the walls. What I have to speak of to-day, may be of as much moment, though revealed to me neither by star nor spirit.—The Mexicans are struck with horror, having slain their king; they hide them in their houses, or they run, mourning, to the temples; the soldiers are fresh, and the streets are empty. What hinders, that we do not gird on our packs, and, aiming for the near and short dike of Tacuba, which I so lately traversed, with the king's daughters, make good our retreat this moment?"
"By Santiago!" cried Cortes, quickly, "this is a soldier's thought, and honoured shalt thou be for conceiving it. What ho, Sandoval, my friend! get the troops in readiness. Prepare thy litters for the sick and wounded;—have all ready at a moment's warning. In the meanwhile, I will scour the western streets, and if all promise well, will return to conduct the retreat in person."
"We can carry with us," said Botello, "the wounded king, and his sons and daughters; and if it chance we should be followed, we will do as the tiger-hunter does with the cubs, when the dam pursues him,—fling a prisoner, ever and anon, on the path, to check the fury of our persecutors.—The king will be better than a purse of gold."
"Ay! now thou art my sage soldier again!" said the general. "Get thee to the men, and comfort them. Apothecary, look to the emperor; see that he have the best litter.—Forget not thy drugs and potions. And now, Christian cavaliers, and brothers, be of good heart.—Let us mount horse, and look at the dike of Tacuba."
The officers, greatly encouraged at the prospect of so speedy a release from their sufferings, followed the general from the apartment. Their elation was not shared by Don Amador de Leste. He rejoiced, for his kinsman's sake, that he was about to bear him from the din and privation of a besieged citadel; but he remembered that the Moorish boy must be left behind to perish; and it seemed to him, in addition, that certain mystic ties, the result of a day's adventure, which began to bind his thoughts to the pagan city, were, by the retreat, to be severed at once, and for ever.
But if his gloom was increased by such reflections, It was, in part, dispelled, when he reached the chamber of his kinsman. The delirium had vanished, and the knight sat on his couch, feeble, indeed, and greatly dejected, but quite in his senses. He turned an eye of affection on the youth, and with his trembling hand grasped Don Amador's.
"I have been as one that slept, dreaming my dreams," he said, "while thou hast been fighting the infidel. Strange visions have beset me; but thanks be to heaven! they have passed away; and, by-and-by, I will be able to mount and go forth with thee; and we will fight, side by side, as we have done before, among the Mussulmans."
"Think not of that, my father," said the novice, "for thou art very feeble. I would, indeed, thou hadst but the strength, this day, to sit on the saddle; for we are about to retreat from Tenochtitlan. Nevertheless, Baltasar shall have thy couch placed on a litter, which we can secure between two horses."
"Speakest thou of retreating?" exclaimed Don Gabriel.
"It is even so, my friend. The numbers, the fury, and the unabating exertions of the Mexicans, are greater than we looked for. We have lost many men, are reduced to great extremities for food, altogether dispirited, and now left so helpless, by the disaster of the king, that we have no hope but in flight."
"Is the king hurt?—and by a Spaniard?"
"Wounded by the stones and arrows of his own people, and now dying. And, it is thought, we can depart to best advantage, while the Mexicans are repenting the impiety that slew him."
"And we must retreat?"
"If we can;—a matter which we, who are mounted, are about to determine, by riding to the nearest causeway. This, dear father, will give Marco and Baltasar time to prepare thee. I will leave Lazaro and the secretary to assist them. Presently, we will return; and when we march, be it unopposed, or yet through files of the enemy, I swear to thee I will ride ever at thy side."
"And my boy?—my loving little page, Jacinto?" exclaimed the knight, anxiously: "Hath he returned to us? I have a recollection, that he was stolen away. 'Twill be a new sin to me, if he come to harm through my neglect."
"Let us think no more of Jacinto," said the novice with a sigh. "If he be living, he is now in the hands of Abdalla, his father, who has deserted from us, and is supposed to be harboured by the Mexicans. God is over all—we can do him no good—God will protect him!"
Don Gabriel eyed his kinsman sorrowfully, saying,
"Evil follows in my path, and overtakes those who follow after me. Every day open I mine eyes upon a new grief. I loved this child very well; and, for my punishment, he is taken from me. I love thee, also, Amador, whom I may call my son; for faithful and unwearying art thou; and, belike, the last blow will fall, when thou art snatched away. Guard well thy life, for it is the last pillar of my own!"
A few moments of affection, a few words of condolence, were bestowed upon Don Gabriel; and then the novice left him, to accompany the cavaliers to the causeway.
As he was stepping from the palace door into the court-yard, his arm was caught by the magician, who, looking into his face with exceeding great solemnity, said,—
"Ride not thou with the cavaliers to-day, noble gentleman. Thou art unlucky."
A faint smile lit the countenance of the youth. It was soon followed by a sigh.
"This is, indeed, a truth, which no magic could make more manifest than has the history of much of my life. I am unfortunate; yet not in affairs of war;—being now, as you see, almost the only man in this garrison, who is not, in part, disabled by severe wounds. Yet why should I not ride with my friends?"
"Because thou wilt bring them trouble, and thyself misery.—I cannot say, señor," added Botello, with grave earnestness, "that thou didst absolutely save my life, when thou broughtest me succour in the street; seeing that this is under the influence of a destiny, well known to me, which man cannot alter.—It was not possible those savages could slay me. Nevertheless, my gratitude is as strong, for thy good will was as great. I promised to read thee thy fortune; but in the troubles which beset me, I could not perfect thy horoscope. All I have learned is, that a heavy storm hangs over thee; and that, if thou art not discreet, thy last hour is nigh, and will be miserable. The very night of thy good and noble service, I dreamed that we were surrounded by all the assembled Mexicans, making with them a contract of peace; to which they were about swearing, when they laid their eyes upon thee, and straightway were incensed, at the sight, as at the call of a trumpet, to attack us. Thou knowest, that it was thy rash attack on the accursed prophetess, which brought the knaves upon us! Thrice was this vision repeated to me: twice has it been confirmed—once at the temple, and, but a moment since, on the roof. Hadst thou not stood before the king with thy shield, the rage of the Mexicans would not have destroyed him! Therefore, go not out, now; for he that brings mischief, twice, to his friends, will, the third time, be involved in their ruin!"
The neophyte stared at Botello, who pronounced these fantastic adjurations with the most solemn emphasis. His heart was heavy, or their folly would have amused him.
"Be not alarmed, Botello," he said, good-humouredly,—"I will be very discreet. My conscience absolves me of all agency in the king's hurts; and if I did, indeed, draw on the attack at the pyramid, as I am by no means certain, I only put match to the cannon, which, otherwise, might have been aimed at us more fatally. I promise thee to be rash no more,—no, not even though I should again behold the marvellous prophetess, who, as Montezuma told us, has risen from his pagan hell."
The enchanter would have remonstrated further; but, at this moment, the trumpet gave signal that the cavaliers were departing, and Don Amador stayed neither to argue nor console. He commanded the secretary, whom he found among the throng, to return to Don Gabriel; and Lorenzo reluctantly obeyed. Lazaro was already with the knight.
Thus, without personal attendants, Don Amador mounted, this day, among the cavaliers, prepared to disprove the enchanter's predictions, or to consummate his destiny.
CHAPTER XLIV.
The sufferings of the Spaniards in the streets, when returning from the pyramid, had admonished the general of the necessity of devising some plan of protection against those citizens who fought from the house-tops, whenever constrained to attempt a second sortie. Accordingly, the artisans, in obedience to his commands, had spent the preceding night in the construction of certain wooden turrets, sufficiently lofty to overlook the commoner houses, and strong enough to bid defiance to the darts of the enemy. They were framed of timbers and planks, torn from different parts of the palace. Each was two stories in height, and, in addition, was furnished with a guard, or battlement over the roof, breast-high, behind which, some half a score musketeers might ensconce themselves to advantage, while nearly as many crossbowmen could be concealed in either chamber, discharging their weapons from narrow loop-holes. A little falconet was also placed in the upper chamber. They were mounted on gun-carriages, and meant to be drawn by the Indian allies. They were called at first mantas, or blankets; but afterwards were nicknamed burros,—either because they were such silly protections as might have been devised by the most stupid of animals, which is one signification of the word, or, because the cannon-wheels, revolving under the mass, reminded the soldiers of the great wheel of a mill, which is another meaning. One of these machines had been completed, and was now ordered to be taken out,—not from any apprehension that it might be needed, but because it appeared to the sagacious general, that, if fate should imprison him longer in Tenochtitlan, the present was the best opportunity to instruct his soldiers in the management of it.
It was already lumbering slowly and clumsily over the broken square, drawn by some two hundred Tlascalans, and well manned with soldiers, when Don Amador passed from the gates. As the cavaliers rode by, its little garrison, vastly delighted with their safe and lazy quarters, greeted them with a merry cheer, the gayest and most sonorous strain of which was sounded by those who defended the roof. As Don Amador looked curiously up, he was hailed by a voice not yet forgotten, and beheld, perched among others, whom he seemed to command, on the very top of the manta, the master of the caravel.
"I give you a good day, noble Don Amador!" said this commander, with a grin. "I am not now aboard of such a bark as the little Sangre de Cristo; but, for navigating through a beleagured city, especially among such cut-throats as we have here in Tenochtitlan, perhaps a better ship could not be invented."
"Thou art then resolved," said the cavalier, with a smile, "that this people is not far behind the race of Florida?"
"Ay! I cannot but believe it; and I ask their pardon, for having so greatly belied them," said the captain; "for more ferocious devils than these, never saw I;—they dwell not among the lagoons of the north."
"And dost thou remember thy wager?" said Don Amador, losing the little gayety that was on his visage, at the recollection.
"Concerning my soul, (which heaven have in keeping!) and the cotton neck-piece?" cried the sailor, with a grim look.—"Ay, by my faith, I do. If we fly this day, the first part of the venture is accomplished; for true valour must acknowledge a defeat, as well as boast a victory. And if we do not, I am even ready to wager over again for the second, touching heaven. Three more such days as yesterday, and God bless us all! But it is a good death to die, fighting the heathen! At the worst, I have cheated the devil;—for the padre Olmedo absolved me this morning."
Don Amador rode forward, relapsing into gloom.
The streets were, for a time, deserted and silent, as if the inhabitants had fled from the island; and when, now and then, the cavaliers halted, to deliberate on their course, to list for the cries of human voices, or to watch the progress of the tottering manta, already far behind, the sound of shrubs rustling together on the terraces, came to their ears with the melancholy cadences of a desert. Sometimes, indeed, in these pauses, they heard, from the recesses of a dwelling, which otherwise seemed forsaken, faint groans, as of a wounded foeman dying without succour; and, occasionally, to these were added the low sobs of women, lamenting a sire or brother. But they had approached the limits of the island, and almost within view of the causeway, without yet beholding an enemy, when a warning gesture from the hands of Don Hernan, at the front, brought them to a halt; and, as they stood in silence, they heard, coming faintly on the breeze, and, as it seemed, from a street which crossed their path, a little in advance, such sounds of flutes and tabours as had, the day before, conducted the mysterious priestess to the pyramid.
Don Amador's heart beat with a strange agitation as he listened; and he burned again to look on the countenance of this divine representative of a pagan divinity. Whether it was the dejection of his spirits which gave its own character to the music; or whether indeed this was now breathed from the lips of mourners, he thought not to inquire; but others were struck with the wild sadness of the strain, and gazed inquisitively upon one another, as if to gather its meaning. While they thus exchanged looks, and awaited the issue of the event, the sounds approached, growing louder, but losing none of their melancholy; and a train of priests, in long black robes, and with downcast eyes, followed by boys with smoking censers, at last stole on their view, slowly crossing the street on which they had halted. At this moment, and just as the prophetess (for it was she who stood, as before, under the feathered canopy, carried by the devotees,) came into sight, the roar of a cannon, bellowing afar from the palace, startled the cavaliers from their tranquillity; and, in the assurance of new conflicts, destroyed, at once, their hope of peaceful escape. This explosion, as was afterwards discovered, was rather the cause than the consequence of hostilities; for the Mexicans, after the sortie of Cortes, approaching the citadel in great numbers, to beseech the body of their king, not doubting that he was slain, the Spaniards had mistaken their grief for renewing rage, and immediately fired upon them.
A furious scowl darkened the visage of Don Hernan, as this distant discharge swept away his hopes; and rising on his stirrups, he cried to his companions,
"Let us seize the person of this accursed priestess,—demon, or woman,—who profanes the holiness of Our Lady, and incenses the hearts of the rabble! On, and be quick; for 'tis an easy prize, and may replace the emperor!"
Until this moment, the train, casting their eyes neither to the right nor left, and raising them not even at the roar of the cannon, had been ignorant of the presence of the Spaniards. But when the harsh voice of the Christian drowned the breathings of the flutes, they paused, looking towards him in affright; and again, for an instant, the lustrous eyes of the prophetess fell upon the visage of Don Amador. His heart heaved with a sickening sensation; and the impulse which had before driven to flight his better judgment, assailed him anew with violence. His voice shouted with the rest, but it uttered the name of Leila; and, as if, indeed, he beheld the lost maid of Almeria, or her phantom, he spurred towards the prophetess full as madly as when she vanished, before, under the Wall of Serpents. But the train, scattering at once, fled in horror from the Spaniards, escaping into the neighbouring houses. The object of the outrage, nevertheless, seemed in the power of the cavaliers; for though the bearers deserted her not they fled but slowly under their burden.
But there were protectors nigh, of whom the Spaniards had not dreamed; and even Cortes himself reined back his horse with dismay, when, suddenly, there sprang from the intersecting street a multitude of armed nobles, interposing their bodies between him and his victim; and his eye, running an instant down the street, beheld them followed by a myriad of pagans without end.
"Back to the manta!" cried the general, hastily; "for these dogs are armed, and the men of the turret have no aid!—Hark! hear ye not the howls? Rein round, and back! They are slaying my Tlascalans!"
Before the neophyte could recover from his confusion of mind, he found himself turned round and borne along with the mass of galloping horsemen. The Mexicans uttered a cry, as with one impulse, and followed furiously after.
In the crowd of thought that distracted him, Don Amador remembered the words of Botello, and believed that he was, indeed, labouring under some enchantment, which made him a misfortune to his friends. But not long had he leisure for such meditations. The loud yells of combatants, and the sounds of arquebuses, in front, increased at each step; and, quickly turning an angle in the street, he found himself in the midst of conflict.
An immense herd of men had surrounded the manta, and were engaged hand to hand with the Tlascalans who drew it; while the Spaniards on its top defended themselves, at a disadvantage, from many Mexicans, stationed on the terrace of a lofty house, the dwelling of some superb Tlatoani. So near indeed was the turret to the walls of this edifice, and so high above it was the latter, that the huge stones tumbled from the battlements, fell with great certainty on its roof, crushing the men of the caravel, and beating down both the wooden parapet and the platform. At the same time, certain savages, with long poles, struck at the defenders, and thrusting the points of their weapons into its breaches, endeavoured to topple it to the ground. As it rocked thus to and fro, the violent motion entirely prevented the little garrison from making use of their arms; and with wild cries to their friends, to seize the ropes, dropped by the Tlascalans, and drag the manta from the palace, they were seen holding by its sides as well as they could, receiving, without returning, the blows of their adversaries. The necessity of obeying their prayer was seen more plainly than the means; for the crowd of mingled Tlascalans and Mexicans that surrounded the crazy machine, was impenetrable; and had it been so, the appearance of the manta, threatening each moment to fall, would have deterred the boldest from approaching its dangerous vicinity.
As it was, the cavaliers gave what aid they could. They thrust their spears into the mass of Indians, shouting to the Tlascalans to disengage themselves from the enemy. But these shouts, if the allies did not indeed receive them rather as encouragement to fight the more fiercely, dissolved not the bloody melée into its components of friend and foe; and many a Tlascalan died, that day, pierced through the heart by spears, which their bearers thought were thrust through the breasts of Mexicans.
In the meanwhile, the heavy burro was shaken still more violently; and Don Amador, looking up, beheld the master of the caravel alone on the top, (for his sailors were already slain) grasping despairingly at a fragment of the parapet; while stones and darts were showered upon him from the adjoining terrace, and a heavy pole, aimed by a lusty barbarian, struck him with merciless severity. His countenance was pale, his eye haggard, and his honourable scars now livid, and almost black, were relieved, like fresh wounds, on his ghastly brow. His helmet had fallen to the ground; and the sight of his gray hairs shaking over his scarred front, as he was tossed up and down, like one bound hand and foot on the back of a wild animal, inflamed the neophyte with both rage and pity.
"Loose thy hold! drop upon the Indians, and take thy chance among them!" he cried at the top of his voice. "What ho! friend Gomez! wilt thou lie there, and perish?"
It seemed as if the voice of the cavalier had not passed unheard; for the wretched man was seen to raise himself on his knees, and look down to the fighting men below, as if meditating a leap; when suddenly a great stone fell on the platform with a crashing noise, and, at the same moment, the manta, lurching like an ill-ballasted ship before a hurricane, staggered over its balance, and fell with a tremendous shock to the ground. The neophyte thought not of the miserable combatants, crushed in its fall. He beheld the voyager, at the instant of its destruction, hurled from the ruin, as if from some mighty balista of ancient days, clear over the heads of the Indians, and dashed, a mangled and hideous corse, almost at his feet.
"God pity thee!" he cried, with a shudder; "thy words are made good, thy wager is won,—and the saints that died for the faith, take thee to paradise!"
"Do ye hear! Ho! to your lances, and back upon the wolves that are behind us!" cried the trumpet-voice of Don Hernan. The neophyte turned, and clapping spurs to Fogoso, charged, with the cavaliers, upon those squadrons which had pursued them;—but, like his companions, he checked his horse with surprise, and no little consternation, when he beheld in what manner the infidels were prepared to receive them. The street was packed with their bodies, as far as the eye could see; and darts and swords of obsidian were seen flashing above the heads of the most distant multitude; but he perceived that those combatants who stood in front, stretching from wall to wall, were armed with long spears, mostly, indeed, with wooden points, sharpened, and fire-hardened, though some few were seen with copper blades, full a yard in length, which they handled with singular and menacing address. Thus, no sooner did the cavaliers approach them, than those of the first rank, dropping, like trained soldiers, to their knees, planted the buts of their weapons on the ground, while those held by others behind, were thrust over the shoulders of the kneelers, and presented, together, such a wall of bristling spines, as caused the bravest to hesitate.
"Have we Ottomies of the hills here!" cried Don Hernan, aghast. "Or are these weapons, and this mode of using them, the teaching of the traitor Moor?"
A loud shout, mingled with laughs of fierce derision, testified the triumph of the barbarians; and Cortes, stung with fury, though hesitating to attack, called for his musketeers, to break the line of opponents.
"Our musketeers are in heaven! carried up in the fiend of a burro!" cried Alvarado, waving his sword, and eyeing the vaunting herd. "Before the days of saltpetre, true men were wont to shoot their foes without it.—All that is to be done, is to conceive we are hunting foxes, and leaping over a farmer's wall. Soho! Saladin, mouse! And all that are brave gentlemen, follow me! Hah!"
As he concluded, the madcap soldier spurred his steed Saladin, and, uttering a war-cry, dashed fearlessly on the spearmen. Before he had yet parted from his companions, Don Amador de Leste, fired, in spite of his melancholy, by the boldness of the exploit, and unwilling to be outdone by a cavalier of the islands, brushed up to his side, and spurring Fogoso at the same moment, the two hidalgos straightway vaulted among the barbarians.
The show of resolution maintained by the exulting spearmen, while the Christians stood yet at a distance, vanished when they beheld those animals, which they always regarded with a superstitious awe, rushing upon them with eyes of fury, and feet of thunder. To this faltering, perhaps, it was owing, that the two Dons were not instantly slain; for, though the heavy armour that guarded the chests and loins of the steeds, could repel the thrust of a wooden spear as well as the corslets of their riders, no such protection sheathed their bellies; and had they been there pierced, their masters must instantly have perished. As it was, however, the front rank recoiled, and when it closed again, the cavaliers were seen wielding their swords, (for in such a melée their spears were useless,) and striking valiantly about them, but entirely surrounded.
"Shall we be thus shamed, my masters?" cried Don Hernan, sharply. "Methinks there are two more such cavaliers in this company?—Santiago, and at them!"
Thus saying, and, with a word, inflaming their pride, he leaped against the foe, followed by all the horsemen.
The two leaders in this desperate assault had vanished,—swallowed up, as it were, in the vortex of contention; and it was not until his friends heard the voice of Alvarado exclaiming, wildly, as if in extremity, "Help me, De Leste, true friend! for I am unhorsed! Help me, or the hell-hounds will have me to the temple!"—that they were convinced the young men were living.
"Be of good heart!" cried Don Amador, (for he was at his side,) drawing his sabre, with a dexterous sleight, over the sinewy arms that clutched his companion, and releasing, without doing him harm. "If thou art disarmed, draw my dagger from the sheath and use it; and fear not that I will leave thee, till rescued by others."
"Who gets my sword, takes the arm along with it!" cried Alvarado, grasping again his chained weapon, and dealing fierce blows, as he spoke. "I will remember the act—Ho! false friends! forsworn soldiers! condemned Christians! why leave ye us unsupported?"
"Courage, and strike well! we are near," answered Don Hernan. "Press on, friends; trample the curs to death! Join we our true cavaliers; and then sweep back for victory!"
"Where goest thou, now, mad Amador?" they heard the voice of Alvarado exclaiming; "Return: thy horse is shoed with piraguas; but mine sticks fast in this bog of flesh. Return; for, by heaven, I can follow thee no further!"
"Come on, as thou art a true man; for I am sore beset, and wounded!" These words, from the lips of the neophyte, came yet through the din of yells; but it seemed to those who listened, that there was feebleness in the voice that uttered them.
"Onward!" cried Cortes, with a voice of thunder, and urging his dun steed furiously over the trampled barbarians; "the young man shall not perish!"
A wolf-hound, weary and spent with the chase, suddenly surrounded by a whole pack of the destroyers he has been tracking, and falling under the fangs of his quarry, may figure the condition of Don Amador de Leste, surrounded and seized upon by the enemy. Nothing but the vigour of powerful and fiery-spirited steeds could have carried the two cavaliers so far into a crowd of warriors almost compacted. While the neophyte gave assistance to his friend, a dozen blows of the maquahuitl were rained upon his body; and so closely was he invested immediately after, (when, as Alvarado reined in his steed to await the rest, the two cavaliers were separated,) that he thought no longer of warding off blows; but giving himself up to smiting, he trusted to the strength of his mail for protection. But the heavy bludgeons bruised where they could not wound; and his armour being, at last, broken by the fury of the blows, the sharp glass penetrated to his flesh, and he began to bleed. He cast his eye over his shoulder, for his strength was failing; but the plume of Don Pedro waved at a distance behind, and the shouts of Cortes seemed to come from afar. He turned his horse's head, to retreat; but half a dozen savages, emboldened by this symptom of defeat, clutched upon the bridle; and the hand he raised to smite at them, was seized by as many others. It was at this moment that he called out to his companion, in the words we have recorded; but the answer, if answer were made, was drowned in the savage yells of exultation, with which his foes beheld him in their power. He collected all his energies, struggled violently, and striking the rowels deep, and animating Fogoso with his voice, hoped, by one bound, to spring clear of his capturers. The gallant steed vaulted on high, but fell again to the earth, under the weight of the many that clung to him: and a dozen new hands were added to those that already throttled the rider.
"Rescue me, if ye be men!" he cried, with a voice that prevailed over the uproar.—The cry was echoed by twenty Christian voices hard by, and a gleam of hope entered into his heart. Another furious struggle, another plunge of Fogoso, and he thought that the hands of his enemies were at last unclenching. A bright weapon flashed before his eyes—It was steel, and therefore the falchion of a friend!—It fell upon his helmet with irresistible weight; his brain spun, his eyes darkened, and he fell, or rather was dragged, like a dead man, from his horse. But ere his eyes had yet closed, their last glance was fixed on the visage of the striker; and the sting of benefits forgotten was added to the bitterness of death, when, in this, he perceived the features of Abdalla, the Moor.
In an instant more, the barbarians parted in terror before the great Teuctli.
"Where art thou, De Leste?" he cried. "We are here, to rescue thee!"
As he spoke, there sprang, with a fierce bound, from among the Mexicans, the well-known bay, Fogoso, his foamy sides streaked with gore, the stirrups rattling against his armed flanks, the reins flying in the air,—but no rider on the saddle.
"By heaven, false friends! craven gentlemen! you have lost the bravest of your supporters!" cried Don Hernan. "On! for he may yet live: on! for we will avenge him!"
The band, resolute now in their wrath, plunged fiercely through the mob. They struck down many enemies,—they trampled upon many corses; but, among them, they found not the body of De Leste.
CHAPTER XLV.
Whether it was that this attack was caused by an ebullition of popular fury, which yielded to some mysterious and religious revulsion of feeling, or whether, indeed, the leaders of the barbarians, persuaded of the madness of fighting the Christians hand to hand, and resolved to conquer them rather by famine than arms, had called off their forces,—was a secret the Spaniards could never penetrate. No sacred horn was sounded on the pyramid; but, in the very midst of what seemed their triumph, when the cavaliers were nearly exhausted and despairing, it became manifest that the Mexicans were giving way, and vanishing, not one by one, but in great clusters, from the field.
The Christians had no longer the spirit to pursue. They found the street open; and, dashing through the few foemen that lingered on the field, they made their way good to the palace. Before they reached it, they were joined by a powerful detachment, sent out to their assistance. They returned together. At the gate of the court-yard, stood Baltasar, Lazaro, and the secretary, looking eagerly for the appearance of Don Amador. His horse was led by a cavalier, whose countenance was more dejected than the rest. It was De Morla; and as he flung the bridle to Lazaro, he said,—
"Hadst thou been with thy master, this thing had not happened; for, though a serving-man, thou wouldst have remained behind him, when a cavalier deserted."
"Dost thou accuse me of deserting the noble youth?" said Alvarado, fiercely. "God forbid, I should shed Christian blood! but, with my sword's point, I will prove upon thy body, that thou liest!"
"And upon thine," said De Morla, with calm indignation, "I will make good the charge I have uttered, that thou didst abandon in extremity, when he called upon thee for aid, the man who had just preserved thine own life."
"Are there not deaths enow among the infidels?" cried Cortes, angrily, "that ye must lust after one another's blood?—Peace! and be ye friends, lamenting our valiant companion together; for, De Morla, thou doest a wrong to Alvarado; and, Don Pedro, thou art a fool, to quarrel with the peevishness of a mourning friend."
The secretary listened to the cavaliers with a face of horror; not a word said Lazaro, but as he wiped the foam from the steed, and, with it, the blood of his master, he eyed Don Pedro with a dark and vindictive scowl. As for Baltasar, his rugged features quivered, and he did not hesitate to stand in the way of the Tonatiuh, saying,—
"If any cavalier have, indeed, been false to my young lord, I, who am but a serving-man, will make bold to say, he has played false to a gentleman who would have perilled his life for any Christian in need; and the act, though it be answered to man, God will not forgive.—Who will tell this to my master, Don Gabriel?"
Alvarado, extremely enraged, had raised his spear to strike the old soldier; but he dropped his arm, at the last words, and said with great mildness,—
"Thou art a fool to say this.—I lament thy lord; I loved him, and I did not desert him——"
For the remainder of that day, the garrison were left in peace. No foes appeared on the square; but, twice or thrice, when parties were sent out to reconnoitre, they were met, at a distance from the palace, by herds of Mexicans, and driven back to their quarters.
The desperate situation of the army was now evident to the dullest comprehension. The barbarians had removed from the reach of the artillery, and drawn, with their bodies, a line of circumvallation round their victims, patiently waiting for the moment, when famine should bring them a secure vengeance. All day, there were seen, on the top of the pyramid, priests and nobles, now engaged in some rite of devotion, and now looking down, on the besieged, like vultures on their prey; but without attempting any annoyance.
The murmurs of the garrison, exasperated by despair and want of food, were loud and stern; but Don Hernan received them only with biting sarcasms. He bade those who were most mutinous, to depart if they would; and laughed scornfully at their confessions of inability. To those who cried for food, he answered by pointing grimly to the stone walls, and the carcasses that lay on the square; or he counselled them to seek it among their foes. In truth, the general knew their helplessness, and in the bitterness of his heart at being thus foiled and jeoparded, he did not scruple to punish their discontent, by disclosing the full misery of their situation. They were dependent upon him for life and hope, and he suffered this dependence to be made apparent. He revealed to them no scheme of relief or escape; for, in fact, he had framed none. He was, himself, as desperate as the rest, seeing nothing before him but destruction, and not knowing how to avoid it; and what measures he did take, during these sorrowful hours, were rather expedients to divert his thoughts, than plans to diminish the general distress.
Notwithstanding the memorable fate of the burro, and the disinclination of the soldiers to die the death of its garrison, he obstinately commanded those which were unfinished to be completed, with some additional contrivances to increase their strength and mobility. He sent out parties to ransack the deserted houses in the vicinity, for provisions, though hopeless of obtaining any; and he set the idlers to mending their armour of escaupil, and the smiths to making arrow-heads, as if still determined rather to fight than fly. He held no councils with his officers, for he knew they had no projects to advise; and the desperate resort over which he pondered, of sallying out with his whole force, and cutting his way through the opposing foe, was too full of horror to be yet spoken. Moreover, while Montezuma yet lived, he could not think his situation entirely hopeless. The surgeon, upon a re-examination of the king's wounds, had formed a more favourable prognostic; and this was strengthened, when Montezuma at last awoke from stupor, and recovered the possession of his intellects. It was told him, indeed, that the royal Indian, as if resuming his wits only to cast them away again, had no sooner become sensible of his condition, and remembered that his wounds had been inflicted by his people, than he fell into a frenzy of grief and despair, tearing away the bandages from his body, and calling upon his gods to receive him into Tlacopan, the place of caverns and rivers, where wandered those who died the death of the miserable. Don Hernan imagined that these transports would soon rave themselves away, and persuaded himself that his captive, yielding at last to the natural love of life, would yet remain in his hands, the hostage of safety, and perhaps the instrument of authority.
Sorrow dwelt in the palace of Axajacatl; but her presence was more deeply acknowledged in the chamber of Calavar. From the lips of Baltasar,—and the rude veteran wept, when he narrated the fall of the young cavalier, whom he had himself first taught the knowledge of arms,—Don Gabriel learned the fate of his kinsman. But he neither wept like Baltasar, nor joined in the loud lamentations of Marco. His eyes dilated with a wild expression, his lip fell, he drooped his head on his breast, and clasping his hands over his heart, muttered an unintelligible prayer,—perhaps the ejaculation which so often, and so piteously, expressed his desolation. Then falling down upon his couch, and turning his face to the wall, he remained for the whole day and night without speaking a word.
CHAPTER XLVI.
The fate of Don Amador de Leste, though so darkly written in the hearts of his companions, was not yet brought to a close. Some of his late friends deemed only that he had been overpowered and slain; but others, better acquainted with the customs of the foe, shuddered over the assurance of a death yet more awful. They knew that the pride of the Mexican warrior was, not to slay, but to capture; as if, indeed, these demi-barbarians made war less for the glory of taking life, than for the honour of offering it in sacrifice to the gods. Such, in truth, was the case; and to this circumstance was it owing that the Christians were not utterly destroyed, in any one encounter in the streets of Tenochtitlan. The fury of their foes was such as may be imagined in a people goaded to desperation by atrocious tyranny and insult, and fighting with foreign oppressors at their very firesides; yet, notwithstanding the deadly feeling of vengeance at their hearts, they never forgot their duties to their faith; and they forbore to kill, in the effort to take prisoner. Twice or thrice, at least, in the course of the war that followed after these events, the life of Cortes, himself, was in their hands; and the thrust of a javelin, or the stroke of a bludgeon, would have freed them from the destroyer. But they neither struck nor thrust; they strove to bear him off alive, as the most acceptable offering they could carry to the temple; thus always giving his followers an opportunity to rescue him out of their grasp. Every captive thus seized and retained, died a death too terrible for description; and high or low,—the base boor, and the noble hidalgo, alike,—expiated, on the stone of sacrifice, the wrongs done to the religion of Mexitli.
Knowing so much of the customs of Anahuac, and not having discovered his body, the more experienced cavaliers were convinced that Don Amador de Leste had not yet enjoyed the happiness of death; they persuaded themselves that he had been taken alive, and was preserved for sacrifice. Many a Castilian eye, that afternoon, was cast upon the pyramid, watching the steps, and eagerly examining the persons of all who ascended.—But no victim was seen borne upon their shoulders——
When the cavalier of Cuenza opened his eyes, after the stunning effects of the blow were over, it was in a confusion of mind, which the objects about him, or, perhaps, the accession of a hot fever,—the result of many severe wounds and contusions,—soon converted into delirium. He lay,—his armour removed,—on a couch in a spacious apartment, but so darkened, that he could not distinguish the countenances of two or three dusky figures which seemed to bend over him. His thoughts were still in the battle; and, in these persons, he perceived nothing less than Mexican warriors still clutching at his body. He started up, and calling out, "Ho, Fogoso! one leap more for thy master," caught fiercely at the nearest of the individuals. But he had overrated his strength; and, almost before a hand was laid upon him, he fell back, fainting, on the bed.
"Dost thou strike me, too, false villain?" he again exclaimed, as his distempered eyes pictured, in one silent visage, the features of Abdalla. "Be thou accursed for thy ingratitude, and live in hell for ever!"
A murmur of voices, followed by the sound of retreating steps, was heard; and in the silence which ensued, his fancy became more disordered, presenting him phantasms still more peculiar.
"Is this death?" he muttered, "and lie I now in the world of shadows? God be merciful to me a sinner! Pity and pardon me, O Christ, for I have fought for thy faith. Take me from this place of blackness, and let me look on the light of bliss!"
A gentle hand was laid upon his forehead, a low sigh breathed on his cheek; and suddenly a light, flashing up as from some expiring cresset, revealed to his wondering eyes the face and figure of the mysterious prophetess.
"O God! art thou indeed a fiend? and dost thou lead me, from the land of infidels, to the prison-house of devils?" he cried, again starting up, clasping his hands, and gazing wildly on the vision. "Speak to me, thou that livest not; for I know, thou art Leila!"
As he uttered these incoherent words, the figure, bending a little away, and fastening upon his own, eyes of strange meaning, in which pity struggled with terror, seemed, gradually, to fade into the air; until, as suddenly as it had flashed into brightness, the light vanished, and all was left in darkness.
From this moment, the thoughts of the cavalier wandered with tenfold wildness; and he fell into a delirium, which presented, as long as it lasted, a succession of exciting images. Now he struggled, in the hall of his own castle of Alcornoque, or the Cork-tree, with the false Abdalla, the knee of the Almogavar on his breast, and the Arab poniard at his throat—while all the time, the perfidious Jacinto stood by, exhorting his father to strike; now he stood among burning sands, fighting with enraged fiends, over the dead body of his knight, Calavar, to protect the beloved corse from their fiery fingers; now the vanished Leila sat weeping by his side, dropping upon his fevered lips the juice of pleasant fruits, or now she came to him in the likeness of the pagan Sibyl, beckoning him away, with melancholy smiles, to a distant bay; while, ever, when he strove to rise and follow, the page Jacinto, converted into a giant, and brandishing a huge dagger, held him back with a lion's strength and ferocity.
With such chimeras, and a thousand others, equally extravagant, disturbing his brain, he passed through many hours; and then, as a torpor like that of death gradually stole over him, benumbing his deranged faculties, the same gentle hand, the same low suspiration, which had soothed him before, but without the countenance which had maddened, returned to him, and made pleasant the path to annihilation.
CHAPTER XLVII.
From a deep slumber, that seemed, indeed, death, for it was dreamless, the cavalier, at last, awoke, somewhat confused, but no longer delirious; and, though greatly enfeebled, entirely free from fever. A yellow sunbeam,—the first or the last glimmering of day, he knew not which,—played through a narrow casement, faintly illuminating the apartment, and falling especially upon a low table at his side, whereon, among painted and gilded vessels of strange form, he perceived his helmet, and other pieces of armour as well as a lute, of not less remembered workmanship. He raised his eyes to the attendant, who sat musing, hard by, and, with a thrill and exclamation of joy, beheld the Moorish page, Jacinto.
"Is it thou, indeed, my dear knave Jacinto! whom I thought in the maws of infidels?" he cried, starting up. "And how art thou; and how is thy lord, Don Gabriel, to-day? Tell me, where hast thou been, these two troubled days? and how didst thou return? By my faith, this last bout was somewhat hard, and I have slept long!"
"Leave not thy couch, and speak not too loud, noble master," said the page, kneeling, and kissing his hand,—"for thou art sick and wounded, and here only art thou safe."
"Ay, now indeed!" said Don Amador, with a sudden and painful consciousness of his situation, "I remember me. I was struck down, and made a prisoner. What good angel brought me into thy company? Thanks be to heaven! for my hurts are not much; and I will rescue thee from captivity."
"I am not a captive, señor," said the boy, gently.
"Are we, then, in the palace?—Where are our friends?—Am I not a prisoner?"
"Señor, we are far from the palace of Axajacatl. But grieve not; for here thou art with thy servants."
"Thou speakest to me in riddles," said the novice, with a disturbed and bewildered countenance. "Have I been dreaming? Am I enchanted? Am I living, and in my senses?"
"The saints be praised, thou art indeed," said the page, fervently; "though, both nights, and all day, till the blessed potion set thee asleep, I had no hopes thou wouldst ever recover."
"Both nights!" echoed Don Amador, fixing his eyes inquiringly on the boy; "Has a night—have two nights passed over me, and wert thou, then, with me, during it all?—Ha! Was it thine acts of sorcery, which brought me those strange and melancholy visions? Didst thou conjure up to me the image of Leila?—That priestess, that very supernatural prophetess—By heaven! as I see thee, so saw I her standing at my bed-side, in some magical light, which straightway turned to darkness. Didst thou not see her? Tell me boy, art thou indeed an enchanter? Prepare me thy spells again, reveal me her fate, and let me look on the face of Leila!"
As the cavalier spoke, he strove in his eagerness to rise from the couch.
"Señor," said the page, a little pleasantly, "if thou wilt have me satisfy thy questions, thou must learn to acknowledge me as thy physician and jailor; and give me such obedience as thou wouldst, formerly, have claimed of me. Rise not up, speak not aloud, and give not way to the fancies of fever; for here are no priestesses, and no Leilas. I will sing to thee, if that will content thee with bondage. But now thou must remain in quiet, and be healed of thy wounds."
"I tell thee, my boy Jacinto," went on the cavalier, "wounds or no wounds, jailed or not jailed, I am in a perplexity of mind, which, if thou art able, I must command, or, what is the same thing, beseech thee to remove. First, therefore, what house is this? and where is it? (whether on the isle Mexico, the lake side, the new world, or the old, or, indeed, in any part of the earth at all?) Secondly, how got'st thou into it? Thirdly, how came I hither myself?—and especially, what good Christian did snatch my body out of the paws of those roaring lions, the Mexicans, when I was hit that foul and assassin-like blow by—by——"
"Señor," said the page, not doubting but that his patron had paused for want of breath, "to answer all these questions, is more than I am allowed. All that I can say, is, that if prudent and obedient, (I say obedient, noble and dear master," continued the boy archly, "for now you are my prisoner,) you are safer in this dungeon than are your Spanish friends in their fortress,—reduced to captivity, indeed, but preserved from destruction——"
"By the false, traitorous, and most ungrateful knave, Abdalla, thy father!" exclaimed the neophyte, with a loud and stern voice; for just as he had hesitated to wound the ears of the boy, he beheld, slowly stalking into the apartment, and eyeing him over Jacinto's shoulder, the Almogavar himself; and the epithets of indignation burst at once from his lips. Jacinto started back, alarmed; but Abdalla approached, and regarding the wounded cavalier with an unmoved countenance, motioned the boy to retire.—In an instant the Moor of Barbary and the Spaniard of Castile were left alone together.
"Shall I repeat my words, thou base and cut-throat infidel?" cried Don Amador, rising so far as to place his feet on the floor, though still sitting on the platform which supported his mattress, and speaking with the most cutting anger. "Was it not enough, that thou wert a renegade to the rest, but thou must raise thy Judas-hand against thy benefactor?"
"My benefactor indeed!" said Abdoul calmly, and with the most musical utterance of his voice. "Though I wear the livery of the pagans;" (He had on an armed tunic, somewhat similar to that of Quauhtimotzin, though without a plume to his head, and looked not unlike to a Mexican warrior of high degree;) "and though I am, by birth, the natural enemy of thee and thine, yet have I not forgot that thou art my benefactor! I remember, that, when a brutal soldier struck at me with his lance, thy hand was raised to protect me from the shame; I remember, when a thousand weapons were darting at my prostrate body on the pyramid of Zempoala, that thou didst not disdain to preserve me; I remember, that, when I fled from the anger of Don Hernan, thou offeredst me thine intercession. Señor, I have forgotten none of this; nor have I forgotten," he went on, with earnest gratitude, "that, to these favours, thou didst add the greater ones, of shielding my feeble child from stripes, from ruin, and perhaps from death. This have I not forgotten, this can I never forget! The name of Spaniard is a curse on my ears; I hate thy people, and, when God gives me help, I will slay, even to the last man! but I remember, that thou art my benefactor, and the benefactor of my child."
"And dost thou think," said the neophyte, "that these oily words will blind me to thy baseness? or that they can deceive me into belief, when thy actions have so foully belied them? Cursed art thou, misbelieving Moor! an ingrate and apostate; and, had I no cause, in mine own person, to know thy perfidy, it should be enough to blazon thy villany, that thou hast, on thine own confession, deserted the standard of Christ, and the arms of Spain, to enlist in the ranks of their pagan foes!"
"The standard of Christ," said the Moor, with emphasis, "waves not over the heads of the Spaniards, but the banner of a fiend, bloody, unjust, and accursed, whom they call by His holy name, and who bids them to defile and destroy; while the Redeemer proclaimeth only good-will and peace to all men. Have thy good heart and thy strong mind been so deluded? Canst thou, in truth, believe, that these oppressors of a harmless people, these slayers, who raise the cross of heaven on the place of blood, and call to God for approval, when their hands are smoking with the blood of his creatures, are the followers of Christ the peaceful, Christ the just, Christ the holy? These friends whom thou hast followed, are not Christians; and God, whom they traduce and belie in all their actions, has given them over to the punishment of hypocrites and blasphemers, to sufferings miserable and unparalleled, to deaths dreadful and memorable! May it be accomplished,—Amen!"
"Dost thou speak this to me, vile Almogavar! of my friends and countrymen? Dost thou curse them thus in my presence, most unworthy apostate?"
"Sorrowful be their doom, and quickly may it come upon them!" cried Abdalla, with ferocious fervour, "for what are they, that it should not be just? and what am I, that I should not pray that it be accomplished? I remember the days of Granada! I remember the sack of the Alhambra! I remember the slaughter of the Alpujarras! and I have not forgotten the mourning exiles, driven from those green hills, to die among the sands of Africa, the clime of their fathers, but to them a land of strangers! I remember me how the lowly were given to the scourge, and the princely to the fires of Inquisitors,—our children to spears, our wives to ravishers and murderers!—Cursed be they that did these things, even to the last generation!"
The cavalier was amazed and confounded at the vehement and lofty indignation of the Morisco; and as the form of Abdoul-al-Sidi swelled with wrath, and his countenance darkened under the gloomy recollection, he seemed to Don Amador rather like one of those mountain princes, who had defied the conquerors, to the last, among the Alpujarras, than a poor herdsman of Fez, deriving his knowledge, and his fury, only from the incitations of exiles. His embarrassment was also increased by a secret consciousness, that the Moor had cause for his hate and his denunciations. He answered him, however, with a severe voice:—
"In these ills and sufferings, thou hadst no part, unless thou hast lied to me; having been a child of the desert, afar from the sufferers of Granada."
"I lied to thee, then," said Abdalla, elevating his figure, and regarding the cavalier with proud tranquillity. "From the beginning to the end, was I a chief among the mourners and rebels,—the first to strike, as I am now the last to curse, the oppressor,—a child of the desert, only when I had no more to suffer among the Alpujarras; and thou mayst know, now, that my fury is as deep as it is just,—for the poor Abdalla is no Almogavar of Barbary, but a Zegri of Granada!"
"A Zegri of Granada!" cried Don Amador, with surprise.
"A Zegri of Granada, and a prince among Zegris!" said the Moor, with a more stately look, though with a voice of the deepest sorrow; "one whose fathers have given kings to the Alhambra, but who hath lived to see his child a menial in the house of his foe, and both child and father leagued with, and lost among, the infidels of a strange land, in a world unknown!"
"I thought, by heaven!" said the cavalier, eyeing the apostate with a look almost of respect, "that that courage of thine in the pirate rover, did argue thee to be somewhat above the stamp of a common boor; and therefore, but more especially in regard of thy boy, did I give thee consideration myself, and enforce it, as well as I could, to be yielded by others. But, by the faith which thou professest, sir Zegri! be thou ignoble or regal in thy condition, I have not forgotten that, by the blow which has made me (as it seems to me, I am,) thy prisoner, thou hast shown thyself unworthy of nobility; and I tell thee again, with disgust and indignation, that thou hast done the act of a base and most villanous caitiff!"
"Dost thou still say so?" replied the Zegri, mildly. "I have acknowledged, that no gratitude can repay thy benefactions; this do I still confess; and yet have I done all to requite thee. Thou lookest on me with amazement. What is my crime, noble benefactor?"
"What is thy crime? Art thou bewitched, too?—Slave of an ingrate, didst thou not, when I was already overpowered, smite me down with thine own weapon?"
"I did,—heaven be thanked!" said the Moor, devoutly.
"Dost thou acknowledge it, and thank heaven too?" said the incensed cavalier.
"I acknowledge it, and I thank heaven!" said Abdalla, firmly. "Thou saidst, thou wert already overpowered. Wert thou not in the hands of the Mexicans, beyond all hope of rescue?"
"Doubtless, I was," replied the neophyte; "for Cortes was afar, and Alvarado full three spears' length behind. Nevertheless, I did not despair of maintaining the fight, until my friends came up to my relief."
"Thou wert a captive!" cried the Zegri, impetuously,—"a living captive in the hands of Mexicans! Dost thou know the fate of a prisoner in such hands?"
"By my faith," said Don Amador, "I have heard, they put their prisoners to the torture."
"They sacrifice them to the gods!" cried the Moor. "And the death," he continued, his swarthy visage whitening with horror, "the death is of such torment and terror as thou canst not conceive; but I can, for I have seen it! Now hear me: I saw my benefactor a captive, and I knew his life would end on the stone of sacrifice, offered up, like that of a beast, to false and fiendish gods! I say, I saw thee thus; I knew this should be thy doom; and I did all that my gratitude taught me, to save thee. I struck thee down, knowing, that if I slew thee, the blow would be that of a true friend, and that thou shouldst die like a soldier, not like a fatted sheep. Heaven, however, gave me all that I had dared to hope: I harmed thee not; and yet the Mexicans believed that death had robbed them of a victim. I harmed thee not; and the heathens suffered me to drag away what seemed a corse; but which lived, and was my benefactor,—the saviour of myself, and the protector of my child!"
As Abdalla concluded these words, spoken with much emphasis and feeling, a tear glistened in his eye; and the neophyte, starting up and eagerly grasping his hand, exclaimed,—
"Now, by heaven! I see all the wisdom and truth of thy friendship; and I beg thy pardon for whatever insulting words my folly has caused me to speak. And, now that I know the blow was struck for such a purpose, I confess to thee, as thou saidst thyself, it would have been true gratitude and love, though it had killed me outright."
"I have done thee even more service than this," said the Zegri, calmly; "but, before I speak it, I must demand of thee, as a Christian and honourable soldier, to confess thyself my just and true captive."
"Thy captive!" cried Don Amador. "Dost thou hold me then as a prisoner, and not as a guest and friend? Dost thou check my thankfulness in the bud, and cancel thy services, by making me thy thrall?"
"I will not answer thy demands," said Abdalla. "I call upon thee, as a noble and knightly soldier, fairly captured, in open war, by my hands, to acknowledge thyself my captive; and, as such, in all things, justly at my disposition."
"If thou dost exact it of me," said the cavalier, regarding him with much surprise and sorrow, "I must, as a man of honour, so acknowledge myself. But I began to think better of thee, Abdalla!"
"And, as a prisoner, to whose honour is confided the charge of his own keeping, thou engagest to remain in captivity, without abusing the confidence which allows such license, by any efforts to escape?"
"Dost thou demand this much of me?" said Don Amador, with mortified and dejected looks. "If thou art thyself resolved to remain in the indulgence of thy treason, thou surely wilt not think to keep me from my friends, in their difficulties? and especially from my poor kinsman; who is now greatly disordered, and chiefly, I think, because thou hast robbed him of Jacinto."
"This am I not called upon to answer," said Abdalla, gravely. "I only demand of thee, what thou knowest thou canst not honourably refuse,—thy knightly gage, to observe the rules of captivity, until such time as I may think proper to absolve and free thee."
"Sir Almogavar, or sir Zegri, or whatsoever thou art," said the cavalier, folding his arms, and surveying his jailor sternly, "use the powers which thou hast, thy chains, and thy magical arts; for I believe thou dealest with the devil;—get me ready thy fetters, and thy dungeon. Thou hast the right so to use me, and I consent to the same; but I will gage thee no word to keep in bonds, inglorious and at ease, while my friends are in peril. However great the service thou hast done to me, I perceive thou art a traitor. I command thee, therefore, that thou have me chained and immured forthwith; for, with God's will and help, I will escape from thee as soon as possible, and especially, whensoever my friends come to assist me."
"I grant thee this privilege, when thy friends come near to us," said Abdalla, coolly, "whether thou art chained or not. It is not possible thou canst escape, otherwise, at all. Thou art far from the palace, ignorant of the way, and, besides, divided from it by a wall of Mexicans, who cannot be numbered. What I ask thee, is for thy good, and for the good of myself, and Jacinto. If thou leave this house, thou wilt be immediately seized, and carried to the stone of sacrifice."
Don Amador shuddered, but said,—
"I trust in God! and the thought of this fate shall not deter me."
"Go then, if thou wilt," said the Zegri, haughtily. "The service I have done thee, has not yet released me from thy debt; and thou canst yet command me. Begone, if thou art resolute: the door is open; I oppose thee not. Preserve thy life, if thou canst; and when thou art safe at the garrison, remember, that Abdoul-al-Sidi, and the boy Jacinto, have taken thy place on the altar of victims."
"What dost thou mean? I understand thee not.—What meanest thou?"
"Even that thou canst not escape, without the same being made known to the Mexicans; and that it cannot be made known to this vindictive people, that I have robbed them of their prey, without the penalty of my own life, and that of Jacinto, being immediately executed. When thou fliest, the father and the son perish."
"Dost thou speak me this in good faith?" said the cavalier, greatly troubled. "God forbid I should bring harm to thee, and especially to the boy. If I give thee my gage,—thou wilt not hold me bound to refrain from joining my friends, should I be so fortunate as to see them pass by, and am persuaded, the Mexicans will not discover thou hast harboured me?"
"If they pass by, I will myself open the doors," said Abdalla; "for I protest to thee, I keep thee here only to ensure thy security."
"Hark'ee, sir Moor—Don Hernan is about to retreat. Dost thou intend I shall remain in captivity—a single victim among the barbarians—while my countrymen are flying afar, perhaps returning to Christendom?"
"I swear to thee, señor," said the Zegri, earnestly, "that, when the Spaniards fly from this city, thou shalt be free to fly with them. I repeat, I make thee a prisoner, to prevent thy becoming a victim."
"And what hinders that we do not fly together to the palace? Thy knowledge may conduct us through the streets by night; and, with my head, I will engage thee a free pardon, and friendly reception."
"God hath commissioned me to the work, and it shall go on!" said the Moor, with solemn emphasis. "I know that thou couldst not save me from the fury of Don Hernan: he would grant thee my life at midnight, and, on the morrow, thou wouldst find me dead in the court-yard. Fly, if thou wilt, and leave me to perish by the hands of Mexicans: Spaniards shall drink my blood no more!"
"I give thee my gage," said the cavalier, "with this understanding, then, that I am free to fly, whenever I may do so without perilling thy life, and the life of Jacinto."
"And thou wilt hold to this pledge, like a true cavalier?" demanded Abdalla, quickly.
"Surely, I cannot break my plighted word!"
"God be thanked!" cried the Zegri, grasping the hand of the cavalier, "for, by this promise, thou hast saved thy life! Remain here; Jacinto shall be thy jailor, thy companion, thy servant. Be content with thy lot, and thank God; for thou art the only brand plucked out of the burning, while all the rest shall perish.—God be praised!—I save my benefactor!"
With these exclamations of satisfaction, Abdalla departed from the chamber.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
The cavalier pondered, in perplexity, over the words of Abdalla; and, the longer he reflected, the more he began to lament his captivity, and doubt the wisdom of his gage.
"It is apparent to me," he soliloquized, "that my countrymen are in greater jeopardy than I before apprehended, and that it has been the plot of this subtle Moor, (whom I confess, however, to have something elevated and noble in his way of thinking, and much gratitude of heart, though of a mistaken character,) to keep me out of harm's way, while the Mexicans are murdering my companions. Heaven forgive me my rash parole, if this be true; for such safety becomes dishonour and ignominy. I will talk with him further on the subject; and if I find he hath thus schemed to preserve me, at such a price of degradation, I will straightway revoke my engagement, as being wrung from me by deceit, and quite impossible to be fulfilled.—I marvel where loiters the boy, Jacinto? Methinks I could eat something now, for I know not how long it is since I have tasted food:—an orange, or a bunch of grapes, were not amiss.—But, heaven save me! I have heard oranges do not grow in this land; and, perhaps these poor Moriscos are no better off than my friends at the palace. God help them! for the Mexicans fight like Turks; and, once or twice, that evening of the conflagration, I thought I had got me again into the trenches of Rhodes; and as for those knaves that wounded me, never did I see more valiant devils. I am glad I left my knight so possessed of his wits.—That Botello doth seem very clearly to have apprehended my fate, though the mishap be not so miserable as death. Truly, there did, a third time, war come out of peace; and yet, I assure myself, that, this time, it was brought about by Don Hernan rushing against that supernatural creature, that looks on me in the street, and eyes me even by my bed-side."
The cavalier was startled from his revery by a light step, and as the curtain was drawn aside from the door, he almost thought, for an instant, that he beheld the visage of the priestess, peering through its folds. A second glance, however, showed him the features of the Moorish page, who came in, bearing a little basket of fruits and Indian confections, as if anticipating his wants. These Jacinto placed before him, and then sat down at his feet.
For a few moments, Don Amador, in the satisfaction of the boy's presence forgot many of his perplexities; but observing, at last, that Jacinto's smiles were ever alternating with looks of distress and alarm, and that, sometimes, he surveyed his imprisoned master with eyes of great wildness, the cavalier began again to recur to his condition, to the mysteries which surrounded him, and especially to the suspicions, which so often attributed to the page the possession of magical arts.
"Thou saidst, Jacinto," he abruptly exclaimed, after thrusting aside the almost untasted food, and regarding the boy with a penetrating look, "that thou wert for the two last nights at my bed-side?—God be good to me! for 'tis an evil thing to be benighted so long!"
"Señor, I was."
"And, during all that time, I was entirely dispossessed of my wits?"
"Señor mio, yes. But, now, heaven be thanked your honour will recover!"
"And, thou art sure, I did not labour more under enchantment than fever?"
The page smiled, but very faintly, and without replying.
"To me, it seems no longer possible to doubt," said the cavalier, "that I have been, divers times, of late, entirely bewitched; and that thou hast had some agency in my delusions."
Jacinto smiled more pleasantly, and seemed to forget the secret thoughts which had agitated him.
"Dost thou," demanded the cavalier, "know aught of a certain supernatural priestess, that goes about the streets of this town, in pagan processions, followed by countless herds of nobles and warriors?"
The page hesitated, while replying—
"I have indeed heard of such a creature, and—I may say,—I have seen her."
"Thou hast seen her!—Is she mortal?"
"Surely, I think so, noble señor," replied Jacinto, with increasing embarrassment.
"For my part," said the novice, with a deep sigh and a troubled aspect, "I am almost quite convinced, that she is a spectre, and an inhabitant of hell, sent forth upon the earth to punish me with much affliction, and, perhaps, with madness. For I think she is the spirit of Leila; and her appearance in the guise of a pagan goddess, or pagan priestess,—the one or the other,—shows me, that she whom I loved, dwells not with angels, but with devils. This is a thought," continued the cavalier, mournfully, "that burns my heart as with a coal; and if God spare my life, and return me to mine own land, I will devote my estates to buy masses for her soul; for surely she cannot have fallen from sin into irreparable wo, but only into a punishment for some heresy, the fault of bad instruction, which may be expiated."
Jacinto regarded the distressed visage of his patron with concern, and with indecision, as if impelled, and yet afraid, to speak what might remove his anguish. Then, at last, moved by affection, and looking up with arch confidence to Don Amador, he said,—
"Señor, I can relieve you of this unhappiness. This is no spirit, but a woman, as I know full well, for I am in the secret.—I am not sure that it will not offend my father, to divulge such a secret to any Spaniard: yet can its revealment prejudice none. Know, señor, and use not this confession to my father's injury, that all this interlude of the prophetess, devised by the Mexican nobles and priests, with my father's counsel and aid, is a scheme to inflame the people with fresh devotion and fury against the Spaniards, your countrymen. For, being very superstitious and credulous, the common people are easily persuaded that their gods have sent them a messenger, to encourage and observe their valour; as, it is fabled, they have done in former days. The prophetess is but a puppet in their hands."
The cavalier eyed the young speaker steadfastly, until Jacinto cast his looks to the earth.
"Set this woman before me; let me look upon her," he said, gravely, and yet with earnestness.
The page returned his gaze with one of confusion, and even affright.
"Thou wilt not think to deceive me," continued his patron, "after confiding to me so much? Know thou, that it will rejoice me, relieving my mind of many pangs, to find that thy words are true, and to look upon this most beauteous, and, to my eyes, this most supernatural, barbarian. If she be a living creature, thou hast it in thy power to produce her, for she dwells in this house. I say this, Jacinto, on strong persuasion of the fact, for last night I beheld her, and did almost touch her!"
"Señor," said the boy, briskly, "that was one of the fancies of thy delirium. It was my poor self thou wert looking on. Twenty times, or more, didst thou call to me, as being the prophetess; and as often didst thou see in me some other strange creature. Now, I was my lord Don Gabriel, your worship's kinsman; now, some lady that your honour loved; now, an angel, bringing you succour in battle; now, my lord's little brother; now, his enemy;—and, twice or thrice, I was my own poor self, only that I was killing my lord with a dagger,—as if I could do any wrong to my master!"
"Is this the truth, indeed?" said the cavalier, dolorously. "I could have sworn, that I saw that woman, and that I was very sane, when I saw her. As for the after-visions, I can well believe, that they were the phantasms of fever, being very extravagant, and but vaguely remembered.—Thou deniest, then, that thou hast the power of casting spells?"
The page smiled merrily, for he perceived his patron was relieved of one irrational distress, and, banteringly, replied,—
"I will not say that;—I can do many things my lord would not think, and I know many he would not dream."
The cavalier was too sad and too simple-minded to jest.
"I believe thee," he said, seriously; "for, in every thing, thou art a miracle and mystery. Why is it, that thou hast obtained such a command over my affections? Why is it, that I have come to regard thee, not as a boy, young and foolish, but as one ripe in years and wisdom? It must needs be, because thou derivest thy power and thy knowledge from those astral and magical arts, which I once esteemed so vain; for I remember me, that, at thy years, I was, myself, not half so much advanced in intelligence and art, but was, on the contrary, quite a dull and foolish boy."
"It all comes of my music," said the page: "for that is a talent which matures faster than any other, and drags others along with it; besides giving one great skill in touching hearts. Your worship remembers how soon young David gained the love of the Jewish king, and how he would have cured him of his melancholy, but that Saul had a bad heart. Now, my lord seems, to me, to have, like this king, an evil spirit troubling him; and perhaps, if he will let me, I can sing it away, with the ballad of the Knight and the Page; for my lord's heart is good."
"The Knight and the Page? I have never heard thee sing that," said Don Amador, somewhat indifferently. "What is it about?"
"It is about a brave cavalier, that loved a noble lady, who loved him; but being made to believe her false to her vows, he went to the wars to die, followed by a little page, whom he thought the only true friend he had left in the world."
"By my faith," said Don Amador, regarding the boy kindly, "in this respect, methinks, I am, at present, somewhat like that knight; for thou, that art, likewise, a little page, seemest to be the only friend I have left in the world—that is, in this city,—that is to say, in this part of it; for I have much confidence in the love of several at the palace, notwithstanding that I think some others were a little backward in supporting me, when beset, that evil day, by the barbarians.—Was he a Spanish knight? and of what parts?"
"Of the Sierra Morena, at some place where the Jucar washes its foot."
"In good truth!" cried the cavalier, "that is the very river that rolls by Cuenza; and herein, again, is there another parallel.—But I should inform thee, that, when the mountain reaches so far as the Jucar, and runs up along its course, it is then called the Sierra of Cuenza, and not Morena. But this is a small matter. I shall be as glad to hear of the knight of Jucar, as of one of my ancestors."
"He resembled my lord still more," said the page, "for he had fallen, fighting the infidel, very grievously wounded; and his little page remained at his side, to share his fate."
"That I have, in a manner, fallen, and, as I may say, fighting the infidel, is true; but by no means can it be said, that I am grievously wounded. These cuts, that I have on my body, are but such scratches as one might make with a thorn; and, were it not for my head, which doth ever and anon ring much like to a bell, and ache somewhat immoderately, I should think myself well able to go out fighting again; not at all regarding my feebleness, which is not much, and my stiff joints, which a little exercise would greatly reduce into suppleness."
"It was the resemblance of my lord's situation to the knight of Jucar's, that reminded me of the roundelay," said Jacinto, taking up his lute, and stringing it into accord; "and now your worship shall represent the wounded knight, and I the young page that followed him.—But your worship should suppose me, instead of being a boy, to be a woman in disguise."
"A woman in disguise!" said the cavalier: "Is the page, then, the false mistress? There should be very good cause to put a woman in disguise; for, besides that it robs her, to appearance, if not absolutely, of the natural delicacy of her sex, it forces her to be a hypocrite. A deceitful woman is still more odious than a double-faced man."
"But this lady had great cause," said Jacinto, "seeing that love and sorrow, together, forced her into the henchman's habit, as my lord will presently see."
So saying, with a pleasant smile, the minstrel struck the lute, and sang the following little
ROMANCE OF THE KNIGHT AND THE PAGE.
1.
A Christian knight, in the Paynim land,
Lay bleeding on the plain;
The fight was done, and the field was won,
But not by the Christian train:
The cross had vail'd to the crescent,
The Moorish shouts rose high,—
'Lelilee! Lelilee!'—but the Christian knight
Sent up a sadder cry.
"My castle lies on Morena's top,
Jucar is far away:——
My lady will rue for her vows untrue
But God be good for aye!——
Young page! thou followest well;
These dog-howls heed not thou."—
'Lelilee! Lelilee!'——
"Get thee hence to my lady now.
Tell her this blood, that pours a flood,
My heart's true faith doth prove—
My corse to earth, my sighs to thee,—
My heart to my lady love!"