"When thou canst look to heaven, and say, 'I have done no wrong'—No, no! not to heaven; for what child of earth can look thitherward, and unveil the actions of life?—When thou canst lay thy hand upon thy bosom, and appealing, not to divine justice, but to that of human reason, say, 'What I do is just:'—in other words, never. You are surprised: you bade me repeat my words: I do:—'It is not just, it is not expedient, and Juan Lerma shall not die!'"
"Now by my conscience!" said Cortes, "this is the true dog-star madness! Wert thou not behind the curtain, and didst thou not shriek at sight of him? Mystery that thou art, unveil thyself—Wherefore tarriest thou in this land, suspected, scorned, degraded, if not to have vengeance on him? Wherefore, I say, wherefore?"
"To save him," replied the lady, boldly,—"to save him from the fury that has brought thee to the level of the Alguazil. Else had I long since returned to the islands. Revoke therefore thy commission, and, in any way thou wilt, so that it carry with it neither secret malice nor open insult, contrive to discharge him from thy service. His life is charmed—it is in my keeping."
"Oho!" said the Captain-General, surveying La Monjonaza with an exulting sneer; "sits the wind in that quarter? And thou art but a woman after all! Now was I but a fool, I trow, not to bethink me how the wife of Uriah forgot the death of her husband, when she saw a path open to the arms of his murderer. Is it so indeed? Thou hast fallen from admiration to pity."
"She who withstands evil thoughts and maligning words, will not weep even at the contempt of commiseration," said Magdalena, with a sigh.
"Villafana has then deceived me,—or rather, poor fool, has deceived himself, as is more natural," said Cortes, with a malicious grin. "Never believe me, but thou shalt rule me in this matter, as in others. Juan Lerma shall thank thee for his life, even for the sake of the Maid of Mexico,—thy brown rival, Zelahualla."
As he spoke thus, he watched closely the effect of his words on Magdalena, and beheld a sudden fire light up in her eyes, succeeded by such paleness as had always covered her visage, when he referred to the death of Hilario. Nevertheless, she did not avert her glance, nor exhibit any other manifestation of feeling, except that she replied not a single word.
"It is the truth that I tell thee," he muttered in a low voice, taking up, as if in compassion, her hand, which was yielded passively, and was again cold and dewy; "she is very lovely,—very,—and a king's daughter. He fought for her love with Guzman. So, perhaps, he fought Hilario for thine. By my conscience! he makes love over blood-thirstily! When I spoke to him of Zelahualla,—nay, I mentioned not her name; I spoke only of his friends in the palace of Mexico—yet the colour flushed over his cheeks. Nevertheless, thou shalt rule me; thou shalt have time for consideration: the expedition to Tochtepec can be delayed. Dost thou think he would have consented to be mine envoy to Tenochtitlan, but for the hope of seeing his princess? I could tell thee another thing—(there are more rivals than one)—but it matters not,—it matters not! Thou wilt not be content with—pity!—Arouse thee, and speak.—Art thou marble?"
At this moment, and while it seemed indeed that the unhappy Monjonaza, notwithstanding that her countenance was still inexpressively placid, had been turned to stone, the curtain of the great door, or principal entrance, was drawn aside, and the cavalier Don Francisco de Guzman strode hastily into the apartment. The sound of his footsteps, more than the warning gesture of Cortes, recalled her to her senses. She raised her hand to her brow, and the long hood falling over her countenance, she turned to depart through the door by which she had entered. The evening was already closing fast, and the shadowy obscurity of the chamber perhaps concealed her from the eyes of the intruder. Nevertheless, Cortes perceived, as she glided away, that her step was altered and tottering, and that her hands fumbled for a moment at the door curtain, as if she knew not how to remove it. It yielded, however, at last, and she vanished from his eyes.
"Poor fool," he muttered, with a feeling divided between scorn, anger, and pity, "thou hast discovered to me the broken postern of thy spirit: the walls are strong, but the citadel is in ruins. This is somewhat marvellous,—I will know more of it. It is a new and another thing to be remembered.—Come, amigo: it is over dark here for thy business. We will walk in the open air."