As may be conjectured, it was no easy game to steal her from place so conspicuous; nevertheless, Nenetzin awaited the opportunity.
It happened that Maxtla was quite as anxious to get the monarch’s ear for the benefit of his friend, the Chalcan,—in fact, for the introduction of the latter’s newly invented drink. Experience taught the chief when the felicitous moment arrived. He had then but to say the word: a page was sent, the liquor brought. Montezuma sipped, smiled, quaffed deeper, and was delighted.
“There is nothing like it!” he said. “Bring goblets for my friends, and fill up again!”
All the lordly personages about him had then to follow his example,—to drink and approve. At the end, Xoli was summoned.
Nenetzin saw the chance, and said, “O Tula, such a song as we have heard! It was sweeter than that of the bird that wakes us in the morning, sweeter than all the flutes in the hall.”
“And the singer,—who was he?”
Neither Nenetzin nor Yeteve could tell his name.
“He charmed us so,” said the former, “that we thought only of taking you to hear him. Come, go with us. There never was such music or musician.”
And the three came down from the platform unobserved by the king. When the minstrel’s message was delivered, then was shown how well the Tezcucan had spoken when he said of the royal children, “They are all beautiful, but only one is fitted to be a warrior’s wife.”
“Let us see the man,” said Tula. “How may we know him, Nenetzin?”