“Thou knowest I love thee, O king; and I say, if thou carest for thyself, go.”
Something there was in the words, in the utterance, probably, that drew the monarch’s attention; leaning forward, he studied the cavalier curiously; over his face the while came the look of a man suddenly called by his fate. His lips parted, his eyes fixed; and but that battle has voices which only the dead may refuse to hear his spirit would have drifted off into unseemly reverie. Recalling himself with an effort, he arose, and said, half-smiling,—
“A man, much less a king, is unfit to live when his friends think to move him from his resolve by appeals to his fears.” And rising, and drawing himself to his full stature, he added, so as to be heard throughout the chamber, “Very soon, if not now, you will understand me when I say I do not care for myself. I desire to die. Go, my friends, and tell Malinche that I will do as he asks, and straightway.”
Oli and Olmedo kissed his hands, and withdrew; whereupon he calmly gave his orders.
Very soon the ’tzin, who was directing the battle from a point near the gate of the coatapantli, saw a warrior appear on the turret so lately occupied by Cortes, and wave a royal panache. He raised his shield overhead at once, and held it there until on his side the combat ceased. The Christians, glad of a breathing spell, quit almost as soon. All eyes then turned to the turret; even the combatants who had been fighting hand to hand across the crest of the parapet, ventured to look that way, when, according to the usage of the infidel court, the heralds came, and to the four quarters of the earth waved their silver wands.
Too well the ’tzin divined the meaning of the ceremony. “Peace,” he seemed to hear, and then, “Lover of Anahuac, servant of the gods,—choose now between king and country. Now or never!” The ecstasy of battle fled from him; his will became infirm as a child’s. In the space between him and the turret the smoke of the guns curled and writhed sensuously, each moment growing fainter and weaker, as did the great purpose to which he thought he had steeled himself. When he brought the shield down, his face was that of a man whom long sickness had laid close to the gates of death. Then came the image of Tula, and then the royal permission to do what the gods enjoined,—nay, more than permission, a charge which left the deed to his hand, that there might be no lingering amongst the strangers. “O sweetheart!” he said, to himself, “if this duty leave me stainless, whom may I thank but you!”
Then he spoke to Hualpa, though with a choking voice,—
“The king is coming. I must go and meet him. Get my bow, and stand by me with an arrow in place for instant use.”
Hualpa moved away slowly, watching the ’tzin; then he returned, and asked, in a manner as full of meaning as the words themselves,—
“Is there not great need that the arrow should be very true?”