“Bid the man enter,” said Cortes. “The disturbance is strange.”
A soldier appeared, whom Alvarado, still angry, addressed, “How now? Dost thou take me for a kitchen girl, apprenticed to answer thee at all times? What hast thou? Be brief. This goodly company waiteth.”
“I crave thy pardon, captain. I crave pardon of the company,” the soldier answered, saluting Cortes. “I am on duty at the main gate. A little while ago, a woman—”
“Picaro!” cried Alvarado, contemptuously. “Only a woman!”
“Peace, captain! Let the man proceed,” said Cortes, whose habit it was to hear his common soldiers gravely.
“As I was about saying, Señor, a woman came running to the gate. She was challenged. I could not understand her, and she was much scared, for behind her on the street was a party that seemed to have been in pursuit. She cried, and pressed for admittance. My order is strict,—Admit no one after the evening gun. While I was trying to make her understand me, some arrows were shot by the party outside, and one passed through her arm. She then flung herself on the pavement, and gave me this cross, and said ‘Tonatiah, Tonatiah!’ As that is what the people call thee, Señor Alvarado, I judged she wanted it given to thee for some purpose. The shooting at her made me think that possibly the business might be of importance. If I am mistaken, I again pray pardon. Here is the cross. Shall I admit the woman?”
Alvarado took the cross, and looked at it once.
“By the saints! my mother’s gift to me, and mine to the princess Nenetzin.” Of the soldier he asked, in a suppressed voice, “Is the woman old or young?”
“A girl, little more than a child.”
“’Tis she! Mother of Christ, ’tis Nenetzin!”