“And what more, Io’?”
“They say you are taking soldiers into your pay; that you give money, and practise all manner of arts, to become popular in Tenochtitlan; and that your delay in entering the arena on the day of the combat had something to do with your conspiracy.”
For a moment the noble countenance of the ’tzin was disturbed.
“A lying catalogue! But is that all?”
“No,”—and Io’s voice trembled,—“I am a secret messenger from the queen Tecalco, my mother. She bade me say to you, that last night Iztlil’, the Tezcucan, had audience with the king, and asked Tula for his wife.”
Guatamozin sprang from his seat more pallid than ever in battle.
“And what said Montezuma?”
“This morning he came to the queen, my mother, and told her about it; on your account she objected; but he became angry, spoke harshly of you, and swore Tula should not wed with you; he would banish you first.”
Through the silent cell the ’tzin strode gloomily; the blow weakened him. Mualox was wrong; men cannot make themselves almost gods; by having many ills, and bearing them bravely, they can only become heroes. After a long struggle he resumed his calmness and seat.
“What more from the queen?”