“Now that the Tezcucan is lost, why should not the ’tzin return? He is a happy man, O my brother, who discovers an enemy; happier is he who, at the same time, discovers a friend.”
Montezuma studied the cacique’s face, then, with his eyes upon the ground, walked on. Cuitlahua went with him. Past the great trees, under the gray moss, up the hill to the summit, and along the summit to the verge of the rocky bluff, they went. At the king’s side, when he stopped, was a porphyritic rock, bearing, in bas-relief, his own image, and that of his father. Below him, westwardly, spread the placid lake; above it, the setting sun; in its midst, a fair child on a fair mother’s breast, Tenochtitlan.
“See! a canoe goes swiftly round yon chinampa; now it outstrips its neighbors, and turns this way. How the slaves bend to the paddles! My laggards at last!”
The king, while speaking, rubbed his hands gleefully. For the time, Cuitlahua and his question were forgotten.
“The lord Hualpa has company,” observed the brother, quietly.
“Yes. Io’.”
Another spell of silence, during which both watched the canoe.
“Come, let us to the palace. Lingering here is useless.” And with another look to the city and lake, and a last one at the speeding vessel, yet too far off to be identified, the king finally turned away. And Guatamozin was still an exile.
Tecalco and Acatlan, the queens, and Tula, and their attendants, sitting on the azoteas of the ancient house, taking the air of the declining day, arose to salute the monarch and his brother. The latter took the hand of each, saying, “The gods of our fathers be good to you.” Tula’s forehead he touched with his lips. His countenance, like his figure and nature, Indian in type, softened somewhat under her glance. He knew her sorrow, and in sympathy thought of the ’tzin, and of the petition in his behalf, as yet unanswered.
“All are not here, one is absent,—Nenetzin. Where is she? I may not sleep well without hearing her laugh once more.”