“Quetzal’, not the Sun, will speak to you.”
“But Quetzal’ is your enemy.”
Montezuma laid his hand on the paba’s. “I have heard you speak of love for me; prove it now, and your reward shall be princely. I will give you a palace, and many slaves, and riches beyond count.”
Mualox bent his head, and was silent. Enjoyment of a palace meant abandonment of the old Cû and sacred service. Just then the wail of a watcher from a distant temple swept faintly by; he heard the cry, and from his surplice drew a trumpet, and through it sung with a swelling voice,—
“Morning is come! Morning is come! To the temples, O worshippers! Morning is come!”
And the warning hymn, the same that had been heard from the old tower for so many ages, heard heralding suns while the city was founding, given now, amid the singer’s sore perplexity, was an assurance to his listening deity that he was faithful against kingly blandishments as well as kingly neglect. While the words were being repeated from the many temples, he stood attentive to them, then he turned, and said,—
“Montezuma is generous to his slave; but ambition is a goodly tree gone to dust in my heart; and if it were not, O king, what are all your treasures to that in the golden chamber? Nay, keep your offerings, and let me keep the temple. I hunger after no riches except such as lie in the love of Quetzal’.”
“Then tell me,” said the monarch, impatiently,—“without price, tell me his will.”
“I cannot, I am but a man; but this much I can—” He faltered; the hands crossed upon his breast closed tightly, and the breast labored painfully.
“I am waiting. Speak! What can you?”