“Surely; but tell it again.”
“When the strangers marched to Tlascala,” the ’tzin began, “their chief left a garrison behind him in the town he founded. I was then on the coast. To convince the people, and particularly the army, that they were men, I determined to attack them. An opportunity soon occurred. Your tax-gatherers happening to visit Nauhtlan, the township revolted, and claimed protection of the garrison, who marched to their relief. At my instance, the caciques drew their bands together, and we set upon the enemy. The Totonaques fled at our first war-cry; but the strangers welcomed us with a new kind of war. They were few in number, but the thunder seemed theirs, and they hailed great stones upon us, and after a while came against us upon their fierce animals. When my warriors saw them come leaping on, they fled. All was lost. I had but one thought more,—a captive taken might save the Empire. I ran where the strangers clove their bloody way. This”—and he pointed to the head—“was the chief, and I met him in the rout, raging like a tiger in a herd of deer. He was bold and strong, and, shouting his battle-cry, he rushed upon me. His spear went through my shield. I wrenched it from him, and slew the beast; then I dragged him away, intending to bring him alive to Tenochtitlan; but he slew himself. So look again! What likeness is there in that to a god? O king, I ask you, did ever its sightless eyes see the glories of the Sun, or its rotting lips sing a song in heaven? Is Huitzil’ or Tezca’ made of such stuff?”
The monarch, turning away, laid his hand familiarly on the ’tzin’s arm, and said,—
“Come, I am content. Let us go.”
And they started for the landing.
“The strangers, as I have said, my son, are marching to Cholula. And Malinche—so their chief is called—now says he is coming to Tenochtitlan.”
“To Tenochtitlan! In its honored name, in the name of its kings and gods, I protest against his coming!”
“Too late, too late!” replied Montezuma, his face working as though a pang were at his heart. “I have invited him to come.”
“Alas, alas!” cried Guatamozin, solemnly. “The day he enters the capital will be the commencement of the woe, if it has not already commenced. The many victories will have been in vain. The provinces will drop away, like threaded pearls when the string is broken. O king, better had you buried your crown,—better for your people, better for your own glory!”
“Your words are bitter,” said the monarch, gloomily.