The other cavaliers present were about to add their voices against the measure, when Cortes cut them short by saying, sternly,
"Are ye all mad, señores? Think ye, this thing was said seriously? I did but try the young man's mettle, and I do think he hath somewhat less of gaingiving about him, as well as much more folly, than any one here present. I must get me an ambassador; but, Juan Lerma, thou art not the man."
"To my thought," said Sandoval, "this old Indian, Ocelotzin, will be a much safer emissary."
Apparently the Ottomi, who had listened throughout the whole conference with great attention, and who understood just enough of it to know the course that affairs were taking, did not at all relish the suggestion of Sandoval. He started, flung the gray curtain of hair from his visage, and began to pour forth a torrent of such objurgations and remonstrances as he could find Spanish to express:
"I am not Ocelotzin, the Tiger," he exclaimed; "very weak and old I am,—no claw, no tooth, no roar."—And here the barbarian, by way of confirming his speech, set up a yell, so wild, shrill, and hideous, that the cavaliers started back, catching at their swords in alarm, and two or three soldiers from the ante-room rushed in, as if apprehending some act of treason. But the dog Befo, who had hitherto maintained his post at the feet of Lerma, now rubbing against his knees, now rearing against his breast, and sometimes, when pushed down and too long neglected, expressing his impatience or affection, by extending his vast jaws, as if to swallow the hand that repelled him,—the dog Befo heard the cry of the savage with such indignation as he would have bestowed upon the howl of a rival. He replied with a lion-like growl, and stalking up to the Ottomi, he stood watching him, ever and anon writhing his lips so as to disclose his huge fangs, and seemed waiting the signal to attack, greatly to the terror of the orator.
A wave of the general's hand dismissed the intruding soldiers from the apartment; and at the voice of Lerma, the dog returned to him.
"I am Techeechee," said the orator, resuming his discourse, but with tones greatly subdued; "I am Techeechee, the Silent Dog,—the Silent Dog I am; Techeechee, the Silent Dog,—the Silent Dog I am.—Techeechee."—
All this time, he kept his eyes fixed upon Befo as if dreading an assault; and, in fact, his solicitude had somewhat overpowered his mind, so that he continued for some moments to reiterate the above phrases, without any seeming consciousness of their absurdity. At last, he fell into his vernacular language, and this happily releasing him from his trammels, he poured forth, with amazing volubility, a string of sounds, so harsh, guttural, inarticulate, and unearthly, that they seemed rather the basso chatterings of an ape than the meaning accents of a human being.
"What says the knave?" cried Cortes.
"He says," replied Juan, "that he is the little dumb dog of the hills, and will harm nobody; that Montezuma was a big dog, like Befo, (wherein he lies,) and that Guatimozin the prince is bigger still, and will eat him,—which is to be understood figuratively. He says, he is the Little Dog, and therefore not fit to be an ambassador; but—Ha! what sayst thou, Techeechee?"—