The roaring sound of life that pervades a great city, even when unassisted by the thundering din of wheeled carriages, gave proof enough of the dense multitudes that inhabited Tezcuco. The eye detected the evidences of a population still more astonishing, in the myriads of tawny bodies that crowded the streets, the gardens, the temple squares, and the housetops, many of whom seemed to have no other habitation. In fact, the introduction of the many thousands who composed the train, or, as it was called, the Army of the Brigantines, added to the hosts of other warriors previously collected by Cortes, and the presence of the original inhabitants, gave to Tezcuco that appearance of an over-crowded, suffocating vitality, which is presented by the modern Babylons of France and Great Britain. The murmur of voices, the pattering of feet, the rustling of garments, with the sounds of instruments wielded by artisans, both native and Christian, made, together, a din that seemed like the roar of a tempest to the ears of one, who, like Lerma, had just escaped from the mute hills and the silent forests of the desert. At a distance—beheld from the cypress-tree,—the view of Tezcuco seemed to embrace a scene made up of tranquillity and repose. The same thing is true of all other cities; and the same thing may be said of human life, when we sit aloof and contemplate the bright pageant, in which we take no part. If we advance and mingle with it, the picture is turned to life, the peace to tumult, and we lose all the charms of the prospect in the distractions of participation.
As Juan, conducted by the Alguazil, made his way through the torrents of bodies which poured through every street, and became more accustomed to move among them, the excitement gradually subsided in his breast, the colour faded from his cheeks; and, by the time he had reached the end of his journey, there remained no expression on his visage beyond that of its usual and characteristic sadness. This was deepened, perhaps, by the scene around him; for it is the virtue of melancholy, where it exists as a temperament, or has become a settled trait, to be increased by the excitements of a city or crowd. Perhaps it was darkened also by the reflection, as he raised his eyes to the vast palace in which Cortes had established his head-quarters, that among all its crowds,—the military guards at the door, and the lounging courtiers within,—there was not a single friend waiting to rejoice over his return.
The house of Nezahualcojotl, who has been already mentioned as the most famous and refined of the Tezcucan kings, possessed but little to distinguish it from the edifices of nobles around, except its greatness of extent. It was a pile or cluster of many houses built of vast blocks of basalt, well cut and polished, surrounding divers courts and gardens,—what might be termed the wings consisting of but a basement story, which was relieved from monotony by the presence of towers and battlements, and the sculptured effigies of animals and serpents on the walls, and particularly around the narrow loops which served for windows. The centre, or principal portion, had an additional story, loftier towers, and more imposing sculptures. The windows were carved of stone, so as to resemble the yawning mouths of beasts of prey; the battlements were crouching tigers; and the pillars of the great door were palm-trees, round the trunks of which twined two immense serpents, whose necks met at the lintel, among the interlocking branches, and embraced and supported a huge tablet, on which was engraven the Aztec calendar, according to the singular and yet just system of the ancient native astronomers.—Sixty years after this period, the sages of Europe discovered and adopted a mode of adjusting the civil to the astronomical time, so as to avoid, for the future, the confusion—the utter disjointing of seasons—which had been the consequence of the Julian computation. At this very moment, the barbarians of America were in possession of a system, which enabled them to anticipate, and rectify by proper intercalations, the disorders not only of years, but of cycles,—and how much earlier, the wisdom of civilization has not yet divined.
On the whole, there was something not less impressive than peculiar in the appearance of an edifice which had sheltered a long line of Autochthonous monarchs; and as Juan passed from the square, in front of the artillery that commanded it, under the folds of the mighty serpents at the door, and into the sombre shadows of the interior, he was struck with a feeling of awe, which was not immediately removed even by the more stirring emotions of the instant.
The hall, or rather vestibule, in which he now found himself, was distinguished, rather than animated, by the presence of many Spaniards of high and low degree, some clustered together in groups, some stalking to and fro in haughty solitude, while others bustled about with an air of importance and authority; but all, as Lerma quickly observed, preserving a decorous silence,—conversing in whispers, and moving with a cautious tread, as if in the ante-room of a king, instead of the hall of a soldier-of-fortune like themselves.
A few of them bent their eyes upon the strangers, and stepped forward to survey their savage equipments. The keen glances which they cast towards him, the hurried and somewhat sonorous exclamations with which they pointed him out to one another, but more than all, the presence of Najara, of Bernal Diaz, and of the stranger Camarga, among them, convinced Juan that he was recognized. But with this conviction came also the sickening consciousness that not one had a smile of satisfaction to bestow upon him in the way of welcome. He remembered the faces of many; and, once or twice, he raised his hand, and half stepped forward, to meet some one or other who seemed disposed to salute him. He was deceived; those who came nighest, were only the most curious. They nodded their heads familiarly to Villafana; a few returned the advances of Lerma with solemn and reverential bows; but none raised up their heads to meet the exile's advances.
"The curse of ingratitude follow you all, cold knaves!" muttered Gaspar between his teeth. The eyes of the Ottomi twinkled upon the groups, with a mixture of wonder and malignant wrath. Juan smothered his sighs, and strode onwards.
He stopped suddenly at a door, wreathed, like the outer, with snakes, though carved of wood, over which hung curtains of some dark and heavy texture, and behind which, as it seemed to him, from the murmuring of voices, was the apartment in which the Captain-General gave audience to his followers and the allied tribes of Mexico, who made up what may be called, as it seemed to be considered, his court. Here Juan paused, and turning to the Alguazil, said, calmly, and with a low voice,
"From what I have seen and now see, I perceive, it will not be fitting I should approach the general—especially in these weeds, which can scarce extenuate the coldness of my old companions,—without the ceremony of an announcement and expressed permission."
"Fear not," whispered Villafana, with a grim smile: "thy friend Francisco will have done thee this good turn. Remember—offend him not now: but, still, lay claim to the horses."