The monarch looked into the branches of the cypress-tree above him; he seemed holding the words in ear, while he followed a thought.
They were in the grove of Chapultepec at the time. About them were the famous trees, apparently old as the hill itself, with trunks so massive that they had likeness to things of cunning labor, products of some divine art. The sun touched them here and there with slanting yellow rays, by contrast deepening the shadows that purpled the air. From the gnarled limbs the gray moss drooped, like listless drapery. Nesting birds sang from the topmost boughs, and parrots, flitting to and fro, lit the gloaming with transient gleams of scarlet and gold: yet the effect of the place was mysterious; the hush of the solitude softened reflection into dreaming; the silence was a solemn presence in which speech sunk to a whisper, and laughter would have been profanation. In such primeval temples men walk with Time, as in paradise Adam walked with God.
“I am waiting for the lord Hualpa,” the king at last replied, turning his sad eyes to his brother’s face.
“Hualpa!” said Cuitlahua, marvelling, as well he might, to find the great king waiting for the merchant’s son, so lately a simple hunter.
“Yes. He serves me in an affair of importance. His appointment was for noon; he tarries, I fear, in the city. Next time I will choose an older messenger.”
The manner of the explanation was that of one who has in mind something of which he desires to speak, yet doubts the wisdom of speaking. So the cacique seemed to understand, for he relapsed into silence, while the monarch again looked upwards. Was the object he studied in the sky or in his heart?
Maxtla returned; saluting, he said, “The lake is thronged with canoes, O king, but none come this way.”
The sadness of the royal face deepened.
“Montezuma, my brother,” said Cuitlahua.
“Well.”