“It is done!” said the ’tzin, in a whisper. “It is done! One more service, O comrade, if—”
“Do not spare me, good ’tzin. I am happiest when serving you.”
“Then stay in the city to-night, and be here early after the discovery. Take part with the crowd, and, if opportunity offer, direct it. I must return to my exile. Report when all is over. The gods keep you! Farewell.”
Hualpa, familiar with the square, went to the portico of the Chalcan; and as the lamps were out, and the curtains of the door drawn for the night, with the privilege of an habitué he stretched himself upon one of the lounges, and, lulled by the fountain, fell asleep.
A shout awoke him. He looked out to see the day breaking in gloom. The old sky of blue, in which the summer had so long and lovingly nestled, was turned to lead; the smoke seemed to have fallen from the temples, and, burdening the atmosphere, was driving along slowly and heavily, like something belonging to the vanishing night. Another cry louder than the first; then the door, or, rather, the screen, behind him was opened, and the Chalcan himself came forth.
“Ah, son of my friend!—Hark! Some maudlin fellow hallooes. The fool would like to end his sleep, hard enough out there, in the temple. But you,—where have you been?”
“Here, good Xoli, on this lounge.”
“The night? Ah! the pulque was too much for you. For your father’s sake, boy, I give you advice: To be perfectly happy in Tenochtitlan, it is necessary to remember, first, how the judges punish drunkenness; next, that there is no pure liquor in the city except in the king’s jars, and—There, the shout again! two of them! a third!”
And the broker also looked out of the portico.
“Holy gods, what a smoke! There go some sober citizens, neighbors of mine,—and running. Something of interest! Come, Hualpa, let us go also. The times are wonderful. You know there are gods in Tenochtitlan besides those we worship. Come!”