“Give her but a least excuse to love me!”—R. Browning.
“But he
Can visit thee with dreader woe than death’s.”—E. B. Browning.
As soon as Tolta had seen his captives disposed of for the night, he despatched a messenger to Pohaku, requesting a few warriors to be sent him. The fortress was but twelve miles distant, so that before daybreak the men had arrived. Taking every precaution not to let his movements be seen by any one who would communicate them to Liliha, he entered the house where Olmedo was still sleeping, and told him he must rise and follow him.
“Nay, Tolta, I will not leave Beatriz,” said Olmedo, firmly.
“She will join you immediately,” replied Tolta. “Up, priest, if you would save yourself and her.”
“Whence this untimely haste, Tolta? The poor child now rests. To you we owe the perils and fatigues of our abduction. I will trust you no further, but remain amid these friendly natives until Juan can learn where we are.”
“Ha! do you brave me? It is time then to throw off the mask! Have you forgotten, monk, that you are in the power of the son of an Aztec priest, slain by the sacrilegious hands of your countrymen? Priest for priest,—life for life,—my father’s blood cries for thine,—to-morrow’s sun will set on your sacrifice. No more shall you hold fond dalliance with the white maiden. She is my spoil.”
“What mean you, Mexican? What words are these? You rave! You cannot,—you dare not injure Beatriz! Nay,—you seek to alarm me. It is a jest,—is it not, Tolta? Your heart will not let you ruin that pure being, whose life has been a good gift to you as well as me.”
“Silence! I can listen no longer to this babble. We must be off. A Mexican is not wont to be moved by the tongue of a Spaniard.”