In the bosom of the Conquistador there was a corner, into which the blaze of ambition had not yet penetrated, and where the common passions of our nature were left to rage and struggle as in the heart of a meaner mortal. As he looked therein, he gave himself up to thoughts which devoured him, while his countenance betrayed, for a time at least, nothing beyond such lassitude and faintness as may have characterized the Spartan boy, while bleeding under the fangs of the beast he concealed in his bosom.
As he sat brooding in this apparently calm, yet deeply suffering lethargy, there glided into the apartment, from one of the curtained doors on the right hand, a figure, which, seen for the first time and in the dusky twilight already darkening around, might, to superstitious eyes, have seemed an apparition,—it was so strange, so fair, so majestic, and so mournful. It presented a stature taller than belongs to the beauty of woman, yet not inconsistent with the conception of a divinity; and to this a singular dignity was given by flowing and voluminous robes of a grayish texture, which, both in hue and fashion, bore an air of monastic simplicity, without precisely resembling those of any one order. A sort of hood, or veil, drawn a little aside and resting upon the brow, gave to view a female countenance of wonderful loveliness, and not without a share of that commanding dignity, which distinguished her figure. Her hair, shorn, or perhaps bound behind by a fillet, and thus almost altogether concealed by the hood, gave yet to the gaze two long locks, broad and black, which, falling over either cheek, were lost among the folds of the veil which her right hand held upon her bosom. A complexion dark, yet not tawny,—a chin and nostrils carved like the most exquisite statuary,—lips of dusky crimson,—a brow of marble, and an eye of midnight, made up a countenance both beautiful and characteristic, yet contradictory in the expression of its several parts, and sometimes even in the expression of the same features. Thus, the first impression made upon a spectator by the whole visage, was such as could only be effected by extreme gentleness of disposition; while the second, he scarce knew why, spoke of energy and decision, none the less striking for being concealed under a mask so captivating. Thus, also, the eyes, very large and set widely apart, conveyed, on ordinary occasions, the idea of a spirit passive, melancholy, and inanimate; though the slightest depression of the brow, the smallest motion of the lid, transformed them at once into the brightest torches of passion. If one could conceive the spirit of a Philomela—a compound of sweet tenderness and still sweeter melancholy—dashed with the fire of a Penthesilea, he might conjure up to his mind's eye a correct representation of the mysterious being, (alluded to by Villafana, under the name of La Monjonaza, or the Nun, the word being a sort of cant augmentative of Monja, a nun,) whom an extraordinary destiny had thrown among the warlike invaders of Mexico.
As she passed from the thick curtain and advanced towards the platform, on which sat the moody general, her visage presented none of its ordinary mildness; on the contrary, her brows were knit together, her lip retracted, and the look with which she regarded him whom all others were learning to fear, was bold, stern, and even fiercely hostile.
The rustling of the curtain, the light sound of her footstep, the bright glance of her eye, when she paused before him, all alike failed to make an impression on the general's senses. She perceived that he was in a waking dream, absorbingly profound and painful, and she stood in silence, from disdainful pride, or perhaps with a woman's curiosity, endeavouring to trace the workings of his spirit from the revelations of his countenance, which, by this time, had changed from a stony inexpressiveness to agitation and distortion. At this moment, the head of the Conqueror was bent forwards, and his eyes directed upon the floor; but she saw enough in the writhing features, and the forehead almost impurpled with blood, to know that the passions then convulsing his bosom, were dark and deadly.
At this sight, the frown gradually passed away from her own visage, and she stood regarding him for the space of several minutes, with a calm and melancholy intentness. Then, perceiving that his lips, though moving as if in speech, gave out no articulate sound, she exclaimed, with a voice that thrilled to his soul, though subdued to the lowest accents,
"Arise, assassin! It is not just, it is not expedient; and he shall NOT perish!"
It seemed as if she had read his heart. He started up, surprised and confounded; and his first act was to cross himself, as if to exorcise a fiend, conjured up by the mere spell of evil thoughts. He even gave voice to two or three interjections of alarm, before perceiving that the rebuke came only from lips of earth.
"Hah! hah! Santa Maria! Santos y Angeles! hah!—Ho! ho! Infeliz! Magdalena! fair conqueror of hearts! bright converter of souls that shalt be! is it thou, Monja mia Santisima? most devout saint of the veil?" he cried, recovering his self-possession, and banishing every trace of passion with astonishing address. "By thy bright eyes of heaven,—and thanks be thine for the good deed,—thou hast waked me from a dream of night-mare, a most horrible vision. These naps o' the afternoon are but provokers of Incubus,—ay, and Succuba into the bargain. I thank thee, bright Infeliz: it is better to be waked by thy voice, than by sweet music!"
"And dost thou think," said the lady, with a voice whose deep but not unfeminine tones suited so well with the mournfulness of her emphasis,—"dost thou think, I see not, this moment, into thy bosom? Visions and sleep! Speak of visions to thy dull conquerors: they who dream of immortal renown, can best appreciate a vision of bloodshed. Speak of sleep to thy duller victims: the stupid wretches who slumber with the chain at their necks, may well believe that the enslaver has also his seasons of repose. But talk not of these to me, who look upon thee neither with the eyes of follower nor of foe. Thou canst not sleep, thou dost not dream: thy head is too full of fame, thy foot too deep in blood, thy heart too black with evil thoughts—No, nevermore canst thou sleep, nevermore, nevermore!"
The last words were uttered with a cadence so extremely melancholy, and with a manner so much like that of one who apostrophizes self, that a stranger overhearing them, and marking the look and gesture—the upturned eye and the folding of arms on the breast—would have naturally supposed they referred rather to herself than to another. This was, indeed, a suspicion, entertained, in part, by Cortes, who, somewhat confounded by the calm decision with which she rejected a deceitful attempt to explain expressions of countenance so ominous as those he had displayed, now recovered himself, and said, with an air of grave sympathy, in which earnestness could not conceal a vein of sarcasm and bagatelle, that were parts of his nature,