“Son of the Tihuancan, I acknowledge I owe my life to you, and I call all to hear the acknowledgment. If the people have thought this prosecution part of my gratitude,—if they have marvelled at my appearing as your accuser, much have they wronged me. I thought of reward higher than they could have asked for you; but I also thought to try you. A slave is not fit to be a chief, nor is every chief fit to be a king. I thought to try you: I am satisfied. When your fame goes abroad, as it will; when the minstrels sing your valor; when Tenochtitlan talks of the merchant’s son, who, in the garden, slew the tiger, and saved the life of Montezuma,—let them also tell how Montezuma rewarded him; let them say I made him noble.”
Thereupon he arose, and transferred the panache from his head to Hualpa’s. Those close by looked at the gift, and saw, for the first time, that it was not the crown, but the crest of a chief or cacique. Then they knew that the trial was merely to make more public the honors designed.
“Let them say further,” he continued, “that with my own hand I made him a warrior of the highest grade.” And, bending over the adventurer, he clasped around his neck the collar of the supreme military order of the realm.[39] “Nor is that all. Rank, without competence, is a vexation and shame. At the foot of Chapultepec, on the shore of the lake, lie an estate and a palace of which I have been proud. Let it be said, finally, that I gave them to enrich him and his forever.” He paused, and turned coldly to the Tezcucan. “But as to the son of ’Hualpilli, his fine must stand; such pride must be punished. He shall pay the gold, or forfeit his province.” Then, outstretching toward the audience both his arms, he said, so as to be heard throughout the chamber, “Now, O my children, justice has been done!”
The words were simple; but the manner, royal as a king’s and patriarchal as a pontiff’s, brought every listener to his knees.
“Stand up, my lord Hualpa! Take your place in my train. I will return to the palace.”
With that he passed out.
And soon there was but one person remaining,—Iztlil’, the Tezcucan. Brought from Tlacopan by officers of the court, too weak to walk, without slaves to help him, at sight of the deserted hall his countenance became haggard, the light in his hollow eyes came and went, and his broad breast heaved passionately; in that long, slow look he measured the depth of his fall.
“O Tezcuco, Tezcuco, city of my fathers!” he cried aloud. “This is the last wrong to the last of thy race of kings.”
A little after he was upon a bench exhausted, his head covered by his mantle. Then a hand was laid upon his shoulder; he looked up and saw Hualpa.
“How now! Has the base-born come to enjoy his triumph? I cannot strike. Laugh and revile me; but remember, mine is the blood of kings. The gods loved my father, and will not abandon his son. In their names I curse you!”