At length there was a warning at the door; the little bells filled the room with music strangely inharmonious. The king looked that way, frowning. The intruder entered without nequen; as he drew near the monarch’s seat, his steps became slower, and his head drooped upon his breast.
“Cuitlahua! my brother!” said Montezuma, surprised.
“Brother and king!” answered the cacique, as he knelt and placed both palms upon the floor.
“You bring me a message. Arise and speak.”
“No,” said Cuitlahua, rising. “I have come to receive your signet and orders. I am free. The guard is at the door to pass me through the gate. Malinche would have me go and send the people home, and open the markets; he said such were your orders. But from him I take nothing except liberty. But you, O king, what will you,—peace or war?”
Tula looked anxiously at the monarch; would the old vacillation return? He replied firmly and gravely,—
“I have given my last order as king. Tula will go with you from the palace, and deliver it to you.”
He arose while speaking, and gave the cacique a ring; then for a moment he regarded the two with suffused eyes, and said, “I divide my love between you and my people. For their sake, I say, go hence quickly, lest Malinche change his mind. You, O my brother, and you, my child, take my blessing and that of the gods! Farewell.”
He embraced them both. To Tula he clung long and passionately. More than his ambassadress to the ’tzin, she bore his prophecy to the generations of the future. His last kiss was dewy with her tears. With their faces to him, they moved to the door; as they passed out, each gave a last look, and caught his image then,—the image of a man breaking because he happened to be in God’s way.