“Five thousand cocoa! Hear, Chalcan!” shouted the Tezcucan.
“A thousand better!” answered Maxtla, laughing at the cacique’s rage.
“By all the gods, I will have her! Put me down a thousand quills of gold!”
“A thousand quills above him! Not bread, but riches for the beggar!” replied Maxtla, half in derision.
“Two thousand,—only two thousand quills! More, noble lords! She is worth a palace!” sung Xoli, trembling with excitement; for in such large bids he saw an extraordinary loan. Just then, under the parted curtain of the principal doorway, he beheld one dear to every lover of Tenochtitlan; he stopped. All eyes turned in that direction, and a general exclamation followed,—“The ’tzin, the ’tzin!”
Guatamozin was in full military garb, and armed. As he lingered by the door to comprehend the scene, what with his height, brassy helm, and embossed shield, he looked like a Greek returned from Troy.
“Yeteve, the priestess!” he said. “Impossible!”
He strode to the front.
“How?” he said, placing his hand on her head. “Has Yeteve flown the temple to become a slave?”
Up to this time, it would seem that, in the fixedness of her purpose, she had been blind to all but the beggar, and deaf to everything but the music. Now she knelt at the feet of the noble Aztec, sobbing broken-heartedly. The spectators were moved with sympathy,—all save one.