“O yes, everybody. Nothing else was talked. ‘What is the use of working? Why buy or sell? We have no longer a king or country. We are all slaves now. We belong to Malinche. Afterwhile, because we are poor, he will take us off to some of his farms, like that one he has down in Oajaca, and set us to working, and keep the fruits, while he gives us the pains. No, we do not want anything; the less we have, the lighter will be our going down.’ That is the way the talk went all day.”
For the first time the woman threw off her pretence of cheerfulness, and was still, absorbed in listening and thinking.
“Belong to Malinche! We? And our little ones at home? Not while the gods live!” she said, confidently.
“Why not? You forget. Malinche is himself a god.”
A doubt shook the strong faith of the wife; and soon, gloomy and hopeless as Pepite, she sat down by him, and partook of the humble fare.
“The nation is dying. Let us elect another king,” said an old cacique to a crowd of nobles, of whom he was the centre, in the pulque chamber of the Chalcan. Bold words, which, half a year before, would have been punished on the spot; now, they were heard in silence, if not with approbation. “A king has no right to survive his glory,” the veteran continued; “and how may one describe his shame and guilt, when, from fear of death, he suffers an enemy to use him, and turn his power against his people!”
He stopped, and for a time the hush was threatening; then there was clapping of hands, and voices cried out,—“Good, good!”
“May the gods forgive me, and witness that the speech was from love of country, not hatred of Montezuma,” said the cacique, deferentially.
“Whom would you have in his place? Name him,” shouted an auditor.