Directly the visitor appeared at the door, and paused there, his eyes fixed upon the floor, his body bent, like one half risen from a salutation. The ’tzin went to him, and taking his hand said,—
“Welcome, comrade. Come and account for yourself. I know not yet how to punish you; but for the present, sit there, and eat. If you come from Tenochtitlan this morning, you must bring with you the appetite which is one of the blessings of the lake. Sit, and I will order your breakfast.”
“No, good ’tzin, not for me, I pray you. I am from the lake, but do not bring any blessing.”
The ’tzin resumed his seat, looking searchingly and curiously at his guest, and pained by his manner and appearance. His face was careworn; his frame bent and emaciated; his look constantly downward; the voice feeble and of uncertain tone; in short, his aspect was that of one come up from a battle in which shame and grief had striven with youth of body and soul, and, fierce as the struggle had been, the end was not yet. He was the counterpart of his former self.
“You have been sick,” said the ’tzin, afterwhile.
“Very sick, in spirit,” replied Hualpa, without raising his eyes.
The ’tzin went on. “After your desertion, I caused inquiry to be made for you everywhere,—at the Chalcan’s, and at your palace. No one could give me any tidings. I sent a messenger to Tihuanco, and your father was no better informed. Your truancy has been grievous to your friends, no less than to yourself. I have a right to call you to account.”
“So you have; only let us to the garden. The air outside is sweet, and there is a relief in freedom from walls.”
From habit, I suppose, they proceeded to the arena set apart for military exercise. No one was there. The ’tzin seated himself on a bench, making room for Hualpa, who still declined the courtesy, saying,—
“I will give an account of myself to you, brave ’tzin, not only because I should, but because I stand in need of your counsel. Look for nothing strange; mine is a simple story of shame and failure. You know its origin already. You remember the last night I spent with you here. I do, at least. That day the king made me happier than I shall ever be again. When I met you at the landing, the kiss of my betrothed was sweet upon my lips, and I had but one sorrow in the world,—that you were an exile, and could not take part, as you so wished and deserved, in the battle which my hand was to precipitate next noon. I left you, and by dawn was at my post in the temple. The hours were long. At last the time came. All was ready. The ten thousand warriors chosen for the assault were in their quarters. The lord Cuitlahua was in the tower of Huitzil’, with the teotuctli and his pabas, at prayer. We awaited only the king’s word. Finally, Io’ appeared. I saw him coming. I raised the stick, my blood was warm, another instant and the signal would have been given—” Hualpa’s voice trembled, and he stopped.