Fast throbbed his heart, for now he knew, if the crown were not indeed his, its prestige and power were; and amidst fast-coming schemes for the restoration of the empire, he thought of the noble Tula, and then,—he halted suddenly:—
“Where is the lord Hualpa?” he asked.
“At the second canal,” answered a cacique.
“And he is—”
“Dead!”
The proud head drooped, and the hero forgot his greatness and his dreams; he was the loving friend again, and as such, sorrowing and silent, repassed the second canal, and stood upon the causeway beyond. And the people, with quick understanding of what he sought, made way for him. Over the wrecks of the battle,—sword and shield, helm and breastplate, men and horses,—he walked to where the lover and his beloved lay.
At sight of her face, more childlike and beautiful than ever, memory brought to him the sad look, the low voice, and the last words of Hualpa,—“If I come not with the rising sun to-morrow, Nenetzin can tell you my story,”—such were the words. The iron cross was yet in her hand, and the hand yet rested on the head of a warrior lying near. The ’tzin stooped, and turned the dead man over, and lo! the lord Hualpa. From one to the other the princely mourner looked; a mist, not of the lake or the cloud, rose and hid them from his view; he turned away,—she had told him all the story.
In a canoe, side by side, the two victims were borne to the city, never to be separated. At Chapultepec they were laid in the same tomb; so that one day the dust of the hunter, with that of kings, may feed the grass and color the flowers of the royal hill.
He had found his fortune!