And Cortes swung himself into the saddle. “Let the trumpets sound. Forward!”
Again the music,—again the advance; then the pageant passed from the causeway and lake into the expectant city.
Theretofore, the Christians had been silent from discipline, now they were silent from wonder. Even Cortes held his peace. They had seen the irregular towns of Tlascala, and the pretentious beauty of Cholula, and Iztapalapan, in whose streets the lake contended with the land for mastery, yet were they unprepared for Tenochtitlan. Here, it was plain, wealth and power and time and labor, under the presidency of genius, had wrought their perfect works, everywhere visible: under foot, a sounding bridge, or a broad paved way, dustless, and unworn by wheel or hoof; on the right and left, airy windows, figured portals, jutting balconies, embattled cornices, porticos with columns of sculptured marble, and here a palace, there a temple; overhead pyramidal heights crowned with towers and smoking braziers, or lower roofs, from which, as from hanging gardens, floated waftures sweet as the perfumed airs of the Indian isles; and everywhere, looking up from the canals, down from the porticos, houses, and pyramids, and out of the doors and windows, crowding the pavement, clinging to the walls,—everywhere the People! After ages of decay I know it has been otherwise; but I also know that conquerors have generally found the builders of a great state able and willing to defend it.
“St. James absolve me, Señor! but I like not the coldness of these dogs,” said Monjarez to Avila.
“Nor I,” was the reply. “Seest thou the women on yon balcony? I would give my helmet full of ducats, if they would but once cry, “Viva España!”
“Nay, that would I if they would but wave a scarf.”
The progress of the pageant was necessarily slow; but at last the spectators on the temple of Huitzil’ heard its music; at last the daughters of the king beheld it in the street below them.
“Gods of my fathers!” thought Tula, awed and trembling, “what manner of beings are these?”
And the cross-bowmen and arquebusiers, their weapons and glittering iron caps, the guns, and slaves that dragged them, even the flag of Spain,—objects of mighty interest to others,—drew from Nenetzin but a passing glance. Very beautiful to her, however, were the cavaliers, insomuch that she cared only for their gay pennons, their shields, their plumes nodding bravely above their helms, their armor of strange metal, on which the sun seemed to play with a fiery love, and their steeds, creatures tamed for the service of gods. Suddenly her eyes fixed, her heart stopped; pointing to where the good Captain Alvarado rode, scanning, with upturned face, the great pile, “O Tula, Tula!” she cried. “See! There goes the blue-eyed warrior of my dream!”
But it happened that Tula was, at the moment, too much occupied to listen or look. The handsome vendor of images, standing near the royal party, had attracted the attention of Yeteve, the priestess.