All eyes centred on the pale face of the monarch, and the stillness of the waiting was painful and breathless. At last, from the depths of his tortured soul, up rose a sparkle of resentment.
“Who ever heard of a great prince, like myself, voluntarily leaving his own palace to become a prisoner in the hands of a stranger?”
“Prisoner! Not so. Hear me again. Court, household, and power, with full freedom for its exercise, and the treatment due a crowned prince,—all these shalt thou have. So, in my master’s name, I pledge thee.”
“No, Malinche, press me not so hardly. Were I to consent to such a degradation, my people would not. Take one of my sons rather. This one,”—and he laid his hand on Io’s shoulder,—“whom I love best, and have thought to make my successor. Take him as hostage; but spare me this infamy.”
The debate continued; an hour passed.
“Gentlemen, why waste words on this wretched barbarian?” exclaimed Leon, at last, half drawing his sword, while his face darkened with dreadful purpose. “We cannot recede now. In Christ’s name, let us seize him, or plunge our swords in his body!”
The captains advanced, baring their swords; Cortes retired a step, as if to make way for them. Brief time remained for decision. Trembling and confused, the monarch turned to Marina, and asked, “What did the teule say?”
As became a gentle woman, fearful lest death be done before her, she replied,—
“O king, I pray you make no further objection. If you yield, they will treat you kindly; if you refuse, they will kill you. Go with them, I pray you.”
Upon the advance of the captains, Io’ stepped in front of the king; as they hesitated, either waiting Cortes’ order or the answer to Marina’s prayer, he knelt, and clasped his father’s knees, and cried tearfully,—