“Then there is the lord Cuitlahua.”[9]
“The king’s brother, and governor of Iztapalapan!” said the merchant, promptly. “Some have thought him better qualified for Chapultepec than Montezuma, but it is not wise to say so. His people are prosperous, and he has the most beautiful gardens in the world; unlike Cacama, he cares nothing for them, when there is a field to be fought. Considering his influence at court and his love of war, you would do well to bear shield for him; but, on the other hand, he is old. Were I in your place, my son, I would attach myself to some young man.”
“That brings me to Maxtla, the Tesoyucan.”
“I know him only by repute. With scarcely a beard, he is chief of the king’s guard. There was never anything like his fortune. Listen now, I will tell you a secret which may be of value to you some time. The king is not as young as he used to be by quite forty summers.”
The hunter smiled at the caution with which the old man spoke of the monarch.
“You see,” the speaker continued, “time and palace life have changed him: he no longer leads the armies; his days are passed in the temples with the priests, or in the gardens with his women, of whom there are several hundreds; his most active amusement now is to cross the lake to his forests, and kill birds and rabbits by blowing little arrows at them through a reed. Thus changed, you can very well understand how he can be amused by songs and wit, and make favorites of those who best lighten his hours of satiety and indolence. In that way Maxtla rose,—a marvellous courtier, but a very common soldier.”
The description amused the young man, but he said gravely, “You have spoken wisely, uncle, and I am satisfied you know the men well. Really, I had no intention of entering the suite of either of them: they are not of my ideal; but there is a cacique, if reports are to be credited, beyond all exception,—learned and brave, honored alike by high and low.”
“Ah! you need not name him to me. I know him, as who does not?” And now the merchant spoke warmly. “A nobler than Guatamozin,[10]—or, as he is more commonly called, the ’tzin Guatamo—never dwelt in Anahuac. He is the people’s friend, and the Empire’s hope. His valor and wisdom,—ah, you should see him, my son! Such a face! His manner is so full of sweet dignity! But I will give you other evidence.”
He clapped his hands three times, and a soldier sprang forward at the signal.
“Do you know the ’tzin Guatamo?” asked the merchant.