“If I sit, is it as friend or foe?”
“Hear me; then be yourself the judge.”
The Aztec folded his cloak about him and resumed his seat, very watchful.
“Montezuma, the king—”
“Beware! The great king is my kinsman, and I am his faithful subject.”
The Tezcucan continued. “In the valley the king is next to the gods; yet to his nephew I say I hate him, and will teach him that my hate is no idleness, like a passing love. ’Tzin, a hundred years ago our races were distinct and independent. The birds of the woods, the winds of the prairie, were not more free than the people of Tezcuco. We had our capital, our temples, our worship, and our gods; we celebrated our own festivals, our kings commanded their own armies, our priesthood prescribed their own sacrifices. But where now are king, country, and gods? Alas! you have seen the children of ’Hualpilli, of the blood of the Acolhuan, suppliants of Montezuma, the Aztec.” And, as if overcome by the recollection, he burst into apostrophe. “I mourn thee, O Tezcuco, garden of my childhood, palace of my fathers, inheritance of my right! Against me are thy gates closed. The stars may come, and as of old garland thy towers with their rays; but in thy echoing halls and princely courts never, never shall I be known again!”
The silence that ensued, the ’tzin was the first to break.
“You would have me understand,” he said, “that the king has done you wrong. Be it so. But, for such cause, why quarrel with me?”
“Ah, yes!” answered the Tezcucan, in an altered voice. “Come closer, that the slaves may not hear.”
The Aztec kept his attitude of dignity. Yet lower Iztlil’ dropped his voice.