“The king has a daughter whom he calls Tula, and loves as the light of his palace.”
The ’tzin started, but held his peace.
“You know her?” continued the Tezcucan.
“Name her not!” said Guatamozin, passionately.
“Why not? I love her, and but for you, O ’tzin, she would have loved me. You, too, have done me wrong.”
With thoughts dark as the waters he rode, the Aztec looked long at the light of fire painted on the sky above the distant city.
“Is Guatamozin turned woman?” asked Iztlil’, tauntingly.
“Tula is my cousin. We have lived the lives of brother and sister. In hall, in garden, on the lake, always together, I could not help loving her.”
“You mistake me,” said the other. “I seek her for wife, but you seek her for ambition; in her eyes you see only her father’s throne.”
Then the Aztec’s manner changed, and he assumed the mastery.