"Is Olin content to be the slave of Guatimozin?" pursued the Captain-General, insidiously. "Will Olin do Malintzin's bidding, and be the king of Chalco?"
"Shall Olin slay Guatimozin?" cried the prisoner, with a gleam of subtle intelligence, and so abruptly, that Cortes was startled.
"Hah! by my conscience!" he cried, "I understand thee: thou art even more knave than I thought thee.—Kill the king indeed? By no means; harm not a hair of his head: we will have no assassination. It is better this young boy should be king than another.—This is a very proper knave. Gentlemen, by your leave, I will bid you good-night: I will see the dog to the water-side. Antonio, do thou walk with us, and explain between us.—A very excellent shrewd villain."
So saying, the Captain-General turned to the door by which he had lately entered, and taking the prisoner's arm, in the most familiar and friendly manner, he stepped forthwith into the garden. The Mexican's flesh crept, when it came in contact with that of the Spaniard; but this, the Spaniard doubted not, was the tribute of awe to his greatness. His voice became yet blander, as, walking onwards towards the lake, he poured into Guatimozin's ear his wishes and instructions.
As they passed by the little pool and its dark enclosure of schinus-trees, the infidel looked towards it anxiously and lingeringly, as if hoping to behold once more the pale and beautiful countenance which had shone upon it.—It lay in deep silence and solitude.
A few moments after, the Mexican had passed through the broken wall, and by the sentries who guarded it, receiving the last instructions of the invader. The next instant he was alone, stalking towards a little green point, where a fringe of reeds and water-lilies shook in the diminutive surges. He cast his eye backward to the two cavaliers, and beheld them pass into the garden. Then, taking the chain of beads from his neck, and rending it with foot and hand, he cast the broken jewels into the lake. A moment after, his light skiff shot from its concealment, and the sound of his paddle startled the droning wild-fowl from their slumbers.
CHAPTER XIV.
When Ovid describes the memorable encounter between Perseus and the great sea-monster of Ethiopia, he is at the pains to narrate with what fury the creature snapped at the shadow of the flying hero,—a circumstance of trivial importance in itself, though both striking and characteristic; nay, he even relates how the warrior, at the first sight of the fair Andromeda, chained to the rock, and waiting to be devoured, was so moved with admiration that he forgot, for an instant, to flap his wings,—another detail of more fitness than moment. Thus stooping to the consideration of trifles, the poet does not scruple entirely to pass by matters of the most palpable consequence. He disdains, for example, to tell us even whether the monster died or not in the encounter, leaving that to be inferred; and, in like manner, he scorns even to answer the question that might have been anticipated, namely, why Perseus, like a sensible soldier, did not whip out his gorgon's head, instead of his 'crooked sword,' and, by turning the beast into stone, save himself the trouble of despatching him with his steel.
The writer of historical works, like the present, must claim the privilege of the poet, and be allowed, while expatiating on events of interest so inferior that they have been almost rejected by his predecessors, to leave many others of manifest importance to be supplied, not indeed by the imagination, but by the learning of the reader. Our only desire is to follow the adventures of two individuals, so obscure and so unfortunate, that the worthy and somewhat over-conscientious Bernal Diaz del Castillo has despatched the whole history of the first in the few vague fragments which we have prefixed to the story; while he has scrupulously abstained from saying a single word of the second.