Bird, Robert Montgomery, 1806-1854 [1834], Calavar, or, The knight of the conquest: a romance of Mexico, volume 1 (Carey, Lea, & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf013v1].
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CHAPTER I.
In the year of Grace fifteen hundred and twenty,
upon a day in the month of May thereof, the sun rose
over the islands of the new deep, and the mountains
that divided it from an ocean yet unknown, and
looked upon the havoc, which, in the name of God,
a Christian people were working-upon the loveliest
of his regions. He had seen, in the revolution of a
day, the strange transformations which a few years
had brought upon all the climes and races of his
love. The standard of Portugal waved from the
minarets of the east; a Portuguese admiral swept
the Persian Gulf, and bombarded the walls of Ormuz;
a Portuguese viceroy held his court on the shores
of the Indian ocean; the princes of the eastern continent
had exchanged their bracelets of gold for the
iron fetters of the invader; and among the odours of
the Spice Islands, the fumes of frankincense ascended
to the God of their new masters. He passed on his
course: the breakers that dashed upon the sands of
Africa, were not whiter than the squadrons that
rolled among them; the chapel was built on the
shore, and under the shadow of the crucifix was
fastened the first rivet in the slavery of her miserable
children. Then rose he over the blue Atlantic:
the new continent emerged from the dusky deep; the
ships of discoverers were penetrating its estuaries
and straits, from the Isles of Fire even to the frozen
promontories of Labrador; and the roar of cannon
went up to heaven, mingled with the groans and blood
of naked savages. But peace had descended upon
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the islands of America; the gentle tribes of these
paradises of ocean wept in subjection over the graves
of more than half their race; hamlets and cities were
springing up in their valleys and on their coasts;
the culverin bellowed from the fortress, the bell
pealed from the monastery; and the civilization and
vices of Europe had supplanted the barbarism and
innocence of the feeble native. Still, as he careered
to the west, new spectacles were displayed before
him; the followers of Balboa had built a proud city
on the shores, and were launching their hasty barks
on the surges of the New Ocean; the hunter of the
Fountain of Youth was perishing under the arrows
of the wild warriors of Florida, and armed Spaniards
were at last retreating before a pagan multitude. One
more sight of pomp and of grief awaited him: he
rose on the mountains of Mexico; the trumpet of
the Spaniards echoed among the peaks; he looked
upon the bay of Ulua, and, as his beams stole tremblingly
over the swelling current, they fell upon the
black hulls and furled canvas of a great fleet riding
tranquilly at its moorings. The fate of Mexico was
in the scales of destiny; the second army of invaders
had been poured upon her shores. In truth, it
was a goodly sight to look upon the armed vessels
that thronged this unfrequented bay; for peacefully
and majestically they slept on the tide, and as the
morning hymn of the mariners swelled faintly on the
air, one would have thought they bore with them to
the heathen the tidings of great joy, and the good-will
and grace of their divine faith, instead of the
earthly passions which were to cover the land with
lamentation and death.
With the morning sunbeam, stole into the harbour
one of those little caravels, wherein the men of those
days dared the perils of unknown deeps, and sought
out new paths to renown and fortune; and as she
drew nigh to the reposing fleet, the hardy adventurers
who thronged her deck, gazed with new interest
and admiration on the shores of that empire, the
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fame of whose wild grandeur and wealth had already
driven from their minds the dreams of Golconda
and the Moluccas. No fortress frowned on
the low islands, no city glistened among the sand-hills
on shore: the surf rolled on the coast of an uninhabited
waste: the tents of the armourer and other artisans,
the palm-thatched sheds of the sick, and some
heaps of military stores, covered with sails, and
glimmering in the sun, were the only evidences of
life on a beach which was, in after times, to become
the site of a rich and bustling port. But beyond
the low desert margin of the sea, and over the rank
and lovely belt of verdure, which succeeded the glittering
sand-hills, rose a rampart of mountains green
with an eternal vegetation, over which again peered
chain after chain, and crag after crag, with still the
majestic Perote and the colossal Orizabo frowning
over all, until those who had dwelt among the Pyrenees,
or looked upon the Alps, as some of that adventurous
company had done, dreamed what wealth
should be in a land, whose first disclosure was so full
of grandeur.
Of the four-score individuals who crowded the
decks of the little caravel, there was not one whose
countenance, at that spectacle, did not betray a touch
of the enthusiasm,—the mingled lust of glory and of
lucre,—which had already transformed so many ruffians
into heroes. Among this motley throng might
be seen all sorts of martial madmen, from the scarred
veteran who had fought the Moors under the
walls of Oran, to the runagate stripling who had
hanselled his sword of lath on the curs of Seville;
from the hidalgo who remembered the pride of his
ancestors, in the cloak of his grandsire, to the boor
who dreamed of the crown of a pagan emperor, in
a leather shirt and cork shoes: here was a brigand,
who had cursed the Santa Hermandad of all Castile,
and now rejoiced over a land where he could cut
throats at his leisure; there a gray-haired extortioner,
whom roguery had reduced to bankruptcy, but who
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hoped to repair his fortune by following the pack of
man-hunters, and picking up the offals they despised,
or cheating them of the prizes they had secured;
here too was a holy secular, who came to exult over the
confusion and destruction of all barbarians who should
see nothing diviner in the crucifix than in their own
idols. The greater number, however, was composed
of debauched and decayed planters of the islands,
who ceased to lament their narrow acres and decreasing
bondmen, snatched away by the good fortune of
some fellow-profligate, when they thought of territories
for an estate, and whole tribes for a household.
Indeed, in all the group, however elevated and ennobled,
for the moment, by the excitement of the scene,
and by the resolute impatience they displayed to rush
upon adventures well known to be full of suffering
and peril, there was but one whom a truly noble-hearted
gentleman would have chosen to regard with
respect, or to approach with friendship.
This was a young cavalier, who, in propriety of
habiliments, in excellence of person, and in nobleness
of carriage, differed greatly from all: and, to say the
truth, he himself seemed highly conscious of the difference,
since he regarded all his fellow-voyagers,
saving only his own particular and armed attendants,
with the disdain befitting so distinguished a personage.
His frame, tall and moderately athletic, was arrayed
in hose and doublet of a dusky brown cloth, slashed
with purple: his cap and cloak were of black velvet,
and in the band of one, and on the shoulder of the
other, were symbols of his faith and his profession,—
the first being a plain crucifix of silver, and the second
a cross of white cloth of eight points, inserted in the
mantle. In addition to these badges of devotion, he
wore a cross of gold, pointed like the former, and
suspended to his neck by a chain of such length and
massiveness, as to imbue his companions with high
notions of his rank and affluence.
The only point in which he exhibited any feeling
in common with his companions, was in admiration
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of the noble prospect that stretched before him, and
which was every moment disclosing itself with newer
and greater beauty, as the wind wafted his little
vessel nearer to it. His cheek flushed, his eye kindled,
and smiting his hands together, in his ardour,
he dropped so much of his dignity as to address many
of his exclamations to the obsequious but not ungentle
master.
“By St. John! señor Capitan,” he cried, with rapture,
“this is a most noble land to be wasted upon
savages!”
“True, señor Don Amador,” replied the thrice-honoured
master; “a noble land, a rich land, a most
glorious land; and, I warrant me, man has never
before looked on its equal.”
“For my part,” said the youth, proudly, “I have
seen some lands, that, in the estimation of those who
know better, may be pronounced divine; among
which I may mention the Greek islands, the keys of
the Nile, the banks of the Hellespont, and the hills of
Palestine,—not to speak of Italy, and many divisions
of our own country: yet, to be honest, I must allow
I have never yet looked upon a land, which, at the
first sight, impressed me with such strange ideas of
magnificence.”
“What then will be your admiration, noble cavalier,”
said the captain, “when you have passed this
sandy shore, and yonder rugged hills, and find yourself
among the golden valleys they encompass!
for all those who have returned from the interior,
thus speak of them, and declare upon the gospels and
their honour, no man can conceive properly of paradise,
until he has looked upon the valleys of Mexico.”
“I long to be among them,” said the youth; “and
the sooner I am mounted on my good steed, Fogoso,
(whom God restore to his legs and his spirit, for this
cursed ship has cramped both;) I say, the sooner I
am mounted upon my good horse, and scattering this
heathen sand from under his hoofs, the better will it
be for myself, as well as for him. Hark'ee, good
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captain: I know not by what sort of miracle I shall
surmount yonder tall and majestic pinnacles; but it
will be some consolation, while stumbling among
them, to be able at least to pronounce their names.
What call you yon mountain to the north, with the
huge, coffer-like crag on its summit?”
“Your favour has even hit the name, in finding a
similitude for the crag,” said the captain. “The
Indians call it by a name, which signifies the Square
Mountain; but poor mariners like myself, who can
scarce pronounce their prayers, much less the uncouth
and horrible articulations of these barbarians, are
content to call it the Coffer Mountain. It lies hard
by the route to the great city; and is said to be such
a desolate, fire-blasted spot as will sicken a man with
horror.”
“And yon kingly monster,” continued the cavalier,
“that raises his snowy cone up to heaven, and mixes
his smoke with the morning clouds,—that proudest
of all,—what call you him?”
“Spaniards have named him Orizaba,” said the
master; “but these godless Pagans, who cover every
human object with some diabolical superstition, call
that peak the Starry Mountain; because the light of
his conflagration, seen afar by night, shines like to a
planet, and is thought by them to be one of their gods,
descending to keep watch over their empire.”
“A most heathenish and damning belief!” said the
youth, with a devout indignation; “and I do not
marvel that heaven has given over to bondage and
destruction a race stained with such beastly idolatry.
But nevertheless, señor Capitan, and notwithstanding
that it is befouled with such impious heresies, I must
say, that I have looked upon Mount Olympus, a
mountain in Greece, whereon, they say, dwelt the
accursed old heathen gods, (whom heaven confound!)
before the time that our blessed Saviour hurled them
into the Pit; and yet that mountain Olympus is but a
hang-dog Turk's head with a turban, compared to
this most royal Orizaba, that raiseth up his front like
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an old patriarch, and smokes with the glory of his
Maker.”
“And yet they say,” continued the captain, “that
there is a mountain of fire even taller and nobler
than this, and that hard by the great city. But your
worship will see this for yourself, with many other
wonders, when your worship fights the savages in
the interior.”
“If it please Heaven,” said the cavalier, “I will
see this mountain, and those other wonders, whereof
you speak; but as to fighting the savages, I must
give you to know, that I cannot perceive how a man
who has used his sword upon raging Mussulmans,
with a sultan at their head, can condescend to draw
it upon poor trembling barbarians, who fight with
flints and fish-bones, and run away, a thousand of
them together, from six not over-valiant Christians.”
“Your favour,” said the captain, “has heard of the
miserable poltroonery of the island Indians, who,
truth to say, are neither Turks nor Moors of Barbary:
but, señor Don Amador de Leste, you will find
these dogs of Mexico to be another sort of people,
who live in stone cities instead of bowers of palm-leaves;
have crowned emperors, in place of feathered
caciques; are marshalled into armies, with drums,
banners, and generals, like Christian warriors; and,
finally, go into battle with a most resolute and commendable
good will. They will pierce a cuirass
with their copper lances, crush an iron helmet with
their hardened war-clubs, and,—as has twice or
thrice happened with the men of Hernan Cortez,—
they will, with their battle-axes of flint, smite through
the neck of a horse, as one would pierce a yam with
his dagger. Truly, señor caballero, these Mexicans
are a warlike people.”
“What you tell me,” said Don Amador, “I have
heard in the islands; as well as that these same
mountain Indians roast their prisoners with pepper
and green maize, and think the dish both savoury
and wholesome; all which matters, excepting only
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the last, which is reasonable enough of such children
of the devil, I do most firmly disbelieve: for how,
were they not cowardly caitiffs, could this rebellious
cavalier, the valiant Hernan Cortes, with his six hundred
mutineers, have forced his way even to the great
city Tenochtitlan, and into the palace of the emperor?
By my faith,” and here the señor Don Amador twisted
his finger into his right mustachio with exceeding
great complacency, “these same Mexicans may be
brave enemies to the cavaliers of the plantations,
who have studied the art of war among the tribes of
Santo Domingo and Cuba; but to a soldier who, as
I said before, has fought the Turks, and that too at
the siege of Rhodes, they must be even such chicken-hearted
slaves as it would be shame and disgrace to
draw sword upon.”
The master of the caravel regarded Don Amador
with admiration for a moment, and then said, with
much emphasis, “May I die the death of a mule, if I
am not of your way of thinking, most noble Don
Amador. To tell you the truth, these scurvy Mexicans,
of whose ferocity and courage so much is said
by those most interested to have them thought so,
are even just such poor, spiritless, contemptible creatures
as the Arrowauks of the isles, only that there
are more of them; and, to be honest, I know nothing
that should tempt a soldier and hidalgo to make war
on them, except their gold, of which the worst that
can be said is, first, that there is not much of it, and
secondly, that there are too many hands to share it.
There is neither honour nor wealth to be had in Tenochtitlan.
But if a true soldier and a right noble
gentleman, as the world esteems Don Amador de
Leste, should seek a path worthy of himself, he has
but to say the word, and there is one to be found from
which he may return with more gold than has yet
been gathered by any fortunate adventurer, and more
renown than has been won by any other man in the
new world: ay, by St. James, and diadems may be
found there! provided one have the heart to contest
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for them with men who fight like the wolves of Catalonia,
and die with their brows to the battle!”
“Now by St. John of Jerusalem!” said Amador,
kindling with enthusiasm, “that is a path which, as
I am a true Christian and Castilian, I should be rejoiced
to tread. For the gold of which you speak,
it might come if it would, for gold is a good thing,
even to one who is neither needy nor covetous; but I
should be an idle hand to gather it. As for the diadems,
I have my doubts whether a man, not born by
the grace of God to inherit them, has any right to
wear them, unless, indeed, he should marry a king's
daughter: but here the kings are all infidels, and, I
vow to Heaven, I would sooner burn at a stake, along
with a Christian beggar, than sell my soul to perdition
in the arms of any infidel princess whatever. But
for the renown of subduing a nation of such valiant
Pagans as those you speak of, and of converting them
to the true faith! that is even such a thought as makes
my blood tingle within me; and were I, in all particulars,
the master of my own actions, I should say
to you, Right worthy and courageous captain, (for
truly from those honourable scars on your front and
temple, and from your way of thinking, I esteem you
such a man,) point me out that path, and, with the
blessing of Heaven, I will see to what honour it may
lead me.”
“Your favour,” said the captain, “has heard of the
great island, Florida, and of the renowned señor Don
Ponce de Leon, its discoverer?”
“I have heard of such names, both of isle and of
man, I think, said Don Amador, “but, to say truth,
señor comandante, you have here, in this new world,
such a multitude of wonderful territories, and of heroic
men, that, were I to give a month's labour to the
study, I think I should not master the names of all of
them. Truly, in Rhodes, where the poor knights of
the Hospital stood at bay before Solyman el Magnifico,
and did such deeds as the world had not heard
of since the days of Leonidas and his brave knights
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of Sparta,—I say, even in Rhodes, where all men
thought of their honour and religion, and never a moment
of their blood, we heard not of so many heroes
as have risen up here in this corner of the earth, in a
few years' chasing of the wild Indians.”
“The señor Ponce de Leon,” said the captain,
without regarding the sneer of the proud soldier,
“the señor Ponce de Leon, Adelantado of Bimini
and of Florida, in search of the miraculous Fountain
of Youth, which, the Indians say, lies somewhere to
the north, landed eight years ago, with the crews of
three ships, all of them bigger and better than this
little rotten Sangre de Cristo, whereof I myself commanded
one. Of the extraordinary beauty and fertility
of the land of Florida, thus discovered, I will
say nothing. Your favour will delight more to hear me
speak of its inhabitants. These were men of a noble
stature, and full of such resolution, that we were no
sooner ashore, than they fell upon us; and I must
say, we found we were now at variance with a people
in no wise resembling those naked idiots of Cuba,
or these cowardly hinds of Mexico. They cared
not a jot for swordsman, arcubalister, or musketeer.
To our rapiers they opposed their stone battle-axes,
which gushed through the brain more like a thunderbolt
than a Christian espada; no crossbowman could
drive an arrow with more mortal aim and fury than
could these wild archers with their horn bows, (for
know, señor, they have, in that country of Florida,
some prodigious animal, which yields them abundant
material for their weapons;) and, what filled us with
much surprise, and no little fear, instead of betaking
themselves to their heels at the sound of our firelocks,
as we looked for them to do, no sooner had
they heard the roar of these arms, than they fetched
many most loud and frightful yells, to express their
contempt of our warlike din, and rushed upon us with
such renewed and increasing violence, that, to be
honest, as a Christian of my years should be, we
were fain to betake ourselves to our ships with what
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speed and good fortune we could. And now, señor,
you will be ashamed to hear that our courage was
so much mollified by this repulse, and our fears of
engaging further with such desperadoes so urgent
and potent, that we straightway set sail, and, in the
vain search for the enchanted Fountain, quite forgot
the nobler objects of the voyage.”
“What you have said,” quoth Don Amador,
“convinces me that these savages of Florida are a
warlike people, and worthy the wrath of a brave
soldier; but you have said nothing of the ores and
diadems, whereof, I think, you first spake, and which,
heaven save the mark! by some strange mutation of
mind, have made a deeper impression on my imagination
than such trifles should.”
“We learned of some wounded captives we carried
to the ships,” continued the master, “as well, at
least, as we could understand by their signs, that
there was a vast country to the north-west, where
dwelt nations of fire-worshippers, governed by kings,
very rich and powerful, on the banks of a great
river; and from some things we gathered, it was
thought by many that the miraculous Fountain was
in that land, and not in the island Bimini; and this
think I myself, for, señor, I have seen a man who,
with others, had slaked his thirst in every spring that
gushes from that island, and, by my faith, he died of
an apoplexy the day after his arrival in the Habana.
Wherefore, it is clear, that marvellous Fountain must
be in the country of the fire-worshippers. But notwithstanding
all these things, señor, our commander
Don Ponce, would resolve upon naught but to return
to the Bahamas, where our ships were divided, each
in search of the island called Bimini. It was my
fortune to be despatched westward; and here, what
with the aid of a tempest that blew from the east,
and some little hankering of mine own appetites after
that land of the fire-worshippers, I found myself
many a league beyond where any Christian had ever
navigated before, where a fresh and turbid current
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rolled through the deep, bearing the trunks of countless
great trees, many of them scorched with fire:
whereupon I knew that I was near to the object of
my desires, which, however, the fears and the discontent
of my crew prevented my reaching. I was
even compelled to obey them, and conduct them to
Cuba.”
“Señor Capitan,” said Amador, who had listened
to the master's narrative with great attention, “I
give you praise for your bold and most commendable
daring in having sailed so far, and I condole with you
for your misfortune in being compelled to abide the
government of a crew of such runagate and false
companions, whom I marvel exceedingly you did not
hang, every man of 'em, to some convenient corner
of your ship, as was the due of such disloyal knaves;
but yet, credit me, I see not what this turbid and
fresh flood, and what these floating trees, had to do
with the gold and the diadems, of which you were
speaking.”
“Señor,” said the Captain earnestly, “I have
navigated the deep for, perhaps, more years than
your favour has lived; and it was my fortune to be
with the Admiral—”
“With Colon!” cried the youth.
“With his excellency, the admiral, Don Cristobal
Colon, the discoverer of this new world!” replied the
master proudly, “in his own good ship, when we sailed
into the Serpent's Mouth, which, we knew not
then, laved the shores of the great Continent; and I
remember that when the admiral had beheld the
trees floating in the current, and had tasted of the
fresh water of that boiling gulf, he told us that these
came from a great river rolling through a mighty
continent. And, in after times, the words of the admiral
were proved to be just; for there his captain,
the young Pinzon, found the great river Oronoko.”
“There is no man,” said Don Amador, “who more
reverences the memory of the admiral than I; and I
feel the more regard for yourself, that you have
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sailed with him on his discoveries. Moreover, I beg
your pardon, insomuch as I have been slow to unravel
your meaning. But now, I perceive, you think
you had reached that river of the infidel fire-worshippers,
whom God confound with fire and flame! as
doubtless he will. And hath no man again sought
the mouth of that river? I marvel you did not yourself
make a second attempt.”
“I could not prevail upon any cavaliers, rich
enough for the undertaking,” said the master, “to
league with me in it. Men liked not the spirit of the
northern savages; and, in truth, there were a thousand
other lands where the barbarians could be subdued
with less peril, and, as they thought, with a better
hope of gain. And yet, by our lady, that river bore
with it the evidences of the wealth on its banks; for
what were those scorched trees, but the relics of the
fires with which the kings of the land were smelting
their ores? and what quantity of gold must there not
have been where such prodigious furnaces were
kindled!”
“By the mass!” said Amador, with ardour, “you
speak the truth; it is even a most wonderful land;
and if a few thousand pesoes would float an expedition,
by my faith, I think I could find them.”
“A few thousand pesoes, and the countenance of
such a leader as Don Amador de Leste, a knight of
the holy and valiant order of San Juan—”
“A knight by right, but not by vow,” said Don
Amador, hastily: “I give you to understand, señor
Capitan, that I am not a sworn brother of that most
ancient, honourable, and knightly order, but an humble
volunteer, attached, for certain reasons of my
own, to them, and privileged by the consent of his
most eminent highness, the Grand Master, to wear
these badges, wherein I am arrayed, in acknowledgment
that I did some service not unworthy knighthood
in the trenches of Rhodes.”
“Your favour will not lead the less worthily for
that,” said the Captain; “I know an hundred cavaliers
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who would throw their ducats, as well as their arms,
into the adventure prescribed by the señor Don Amador;
and a thousand cross-bows, with three or four
score arquebusiers, would flock to the standard as soon
as we had preached through the islands a crusade to
the fire-worshippers, and a pilgrimage to the Waters
of Life.”
“And is it truly believed,” said Amador, eagerly,
“that such waters are to be found in these heathen
lands?”
“Who can doubt it?” said the Captain; “the Indians
of the Bahamas have spoken of them for years;
no Spaniard hath ever thought of questioning their existence;
and at this moment, so great is the certainty
of finding them, that my old leader, Don Ponce, is
collecting round him men for a second expedition,
with which he will depart I know not how soon. But
I know Don Ponce; the draught of youth is not for
him; he will seek the fountain on his great island of
Florida, and find it not: it will bubble only to the
lips of those who seek it near the great river of the
great continent.”
“By heaven!” said Don Amador, “what might
not a man do, who could drink of this miraculous
fountain! A draught of it would have carried the
great Alejandro so far into the East, as to have left
but small work for the knaves of Portugal. And
then our friends! Dios mio! we could keep our
friends by us for ever! But hold, señor Capitan—a
thought strikes me: have you ever heard the opinion
of a holy clergyman on this subject? Is it lawful
for a man to drink of such a fountain?”
“By my faith,” replied the master, “I have never
heard priest or layman advance an argument against
its lawfulness: and I know not how it should be criminal,
since Providence hath given us the privilege
to drink of any well, whose waters are not to our
misliking.”
“For my part,” said Amador, “I must say, I have
my doubts whether Providence hath given us any
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such privilege; the exercise of which, in general,
would greatly confound the world, by over-peopling
it, and, in particular, would seem, in a measure, to
put man in a condition to defy his Maker, and to defeat
all the ends of divine goodness and justice: for
how should a man be punished for his sins, who had
in him the power of endless life? and how should a
man keep from sinning, who had no fear of death and
the devil? and, finally, how should we ever receive
any of the benefits of the most holy atonement, after
drinking such a life-preserving draught?—for it is my
opinion, señor Capitan, no man would wish to go to
heaven, who had the power of remaining on earth.”
“By my soul,” said the captain earnestly, “this is
a consideration which never occupied me before;
and I shall take counsel upon it with the first holy
man I meet.”
“At all events,” said the cavalier, “there is inducement
enough to make search after this river, were it
only to fight the fire-worshippers, convert them to the
true faith, and see what may be the curiosities of
their land. Yet I must give you warning, it will rest
with another whom I am now seeking, whether I may
league with you in this enterprise or not. Give me
his consent and leading, and I will take leave of these
poor rogues of Tenochtitlan, as soon as I have looked
a little upon their wonders; and then, with the blessing
of God and St. John, have at the valiant fire-worshippers,
with all my heart!—But, how now,
señor Capitan? What means your pilot to cast anchor
here among the fleet, and not carry us forthwith
to the shore?”
“I dare not proceed farther,” said the captain,
“without the authority of the señor Cavallero, admiral
of this squadron, and governor of this harbour
of San Juan de Ulua. It is necessary I should report
myself to him for examination, on board the
Capitana, and receive his instructions concerning my
cargo and fellow-voyagers.”
“His instructions concerning your
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fellow-voyagers!” said Don Amador, sternly. “I, for one, am
a voyager, who will receive no instructions for the
government of my actions, neither myself nor by
proxy; and, with God's blessing, I will neither ask
permission to disembark, nor allow it to be asked for
myself, or for my grooms; and the señor Cavallero,
or any other señor, that thinks to stop me, had better
grind both sides of his sword, by way of preparation
for such folly.”
“Your favour has no cause for anger,” said the
master, moderately. “This is the custom and the law,
and it becomes the more necessary to enforce it, in
the present situation of things. Your favour will
receive no check, but rather assistance; and it is
only necessary to assure the admiral you do not
come as a league and helpmate of the mutineer,
Cortes, to receive free license, a safe-conduct, and
perhaps, even guides, to go whithersoever you list
throughout this empire. This, señor, is only a form
of courtesy, such as one cavalier should expect of
another, and no more.”
“Truly, then, if you assure me so,” said Don
Amador, complacently, “I will not refuse to go myself
in person to his excellency, the admiral; and
the more readily that, I fancy, from the name, there
is some sort of blood-relationship between his excellency
and myself. But, by heaven, I would rather,
at present, be coursing Fogoso over yon glittering
sand, than winding a bolero on my cousin's deck,
though he were a king's admiral.”
CHAPTER II.
Don Amador de Leste was interrupted in the
agreeable duty (the last to be performed in the little
caravel,) of inquiring into the health and condition
of his war-horse, Fogoso, by a summons, or, as it
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was more courteously expressed, an invitation, to attend
the admiral on board his own vessel. Giving a
thousand charges to his attendants, all of which were
received with due deference and humility, he stepped
into the boat, which, in a few moments, he exchanged
for the decks of the Capitana,—not, however, without
some doubt as to the degree of loftiness he should
assume during the interview with his excellency, the
admiral, his kinsman. His pride had already twice,
or thrice, since his appearance among the islands of
the New World, been incensed by the arrogant assumption
of their petty dignitaries to inquire into, and
controul, the independence of his movements: and he
remembered with high displeasure, that the royal
adelantado of Cuba, the renowned Velasquez, a man
of whom, as he was pleased to say, he had never
heard so much as the name until he found himself
within his territories, had not only dared to disregard
the privileges of his birth and decorations, but
had well-nigh answered his ire and menaces, by giving
him to chains and captivity. Nor, when, at last,
the pious exertions of the good friars of Santiago had
allayed the growing storm, and appeased his own indignation,
by urging the necessity their governor was
under to examine into the character and objects of
all persons, who, by declining to visit the new El Dorado
under the authority of the commander, might
reasonably be suspected of a desire to join his rebellious
lieutenant,—not even then could the proud Amador
forget that, whatever might be the excuse, his
independence had been questioned, and might be
again, by any inflated official whom he should be so
unlucky as to meet. His doubt, however, in this case,
was immediately dispelled by the degree of state and
ceremony with which he was received on board the
Capitana, and conducted to his excellency; and the
last shadow of hesitation departed from his brow,
when he beheld the admiral prepared to welcome
him with such courtesy and deference as were only
accorded to the most noble and favoured.
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“If I do not err,” said the admiral, with a bow of
great reverence, and a smile of prodigious suavity,
“I behold, in the señor Don Amador de Leste, a gentleman
of Valencia, whom I make free, as I shall be
proud, to welcome as my countryman and kinsman?”
“Señor Almirante,” replied Amador, with equal
amenity, “my mother was a Valencian, and of the
house of Cavallero. Wherefore, I take it for granted,
we are in some sort related; but in what degree, I
am not able to determine: nor do I think that a matter
very important to be questioned into, since, in these
savage corners of the earth, the farthest degree of
consanguinity should draw men together as firmly as
the closest.”
“You are right, señor cavalier and kinsman,” said
the admiral: “affinity of any degree should be a claim
to the intimacy and affection of brotherhood; and although
this is the first time I have enjoyed the felicity
to behold my right worthy and much honoured cousin,
I welcome him with good will to such hospitalities
as my poor bark and this barbarous clime can
afford; marvelling, however, amid all my satisfaction,
what strange fortune has driven him to exchange the
knightly combats of Christendom for the ignoble campaigns
of this wild hemisphere.”
“As to that, most noble and excellent cousin,” said
the cavalier, “I will not scruple to inform your excellency,
together with all other matters, wherein, as
my kinsman, you are entitled to question; previous
to which, however, I must demand of your goodness
to know how far your interrogatories are to bear the
stamp of office and authority, the satisfaction of my
mind on which point will materially affect the character
of my answers.”
“Surely,” said the admiral courteously, and seemingly
with great frankness, “I will only presume to
question you as a friend and relative, and, as such,
no farther than it may suit your pleasure to allow.
My office I will only use so far as it may enable me
to assist you in your objects, if, as I will make bold
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to believe, you may need such assistance in this land
of Mexico.”
“I thank your excellency,” said Amador, now receiving
and pressing the hand of the commander with
much cordiality, “both for your offers of assistance,
which, if I may need it, I will freely accept; and for
your assurance you do not mean to trouble me with
your authority:—a mark of extreme civility and good
sense, which virtues, under your favour, I have not
found so common among your fellow-commanders in
these heathen lands, as I was led to expect.”
The admiral smiled pleasantly on his kinsman
while replying, “I must beg your allowance for the
presumption of my brothers in command, who, sooth
to say, have had so much dealing with the wild Indians
and rough reprobates of these regions as somewhat
to have forgot their manners, when treating
with gentlemen and nobles. My superior and governor,
the worthy and thrice-honoured Velasquez,
(whom God grant many and wiser counsellors!) is
rather hot of head and unreasonable of temper; and
has, doubtless, thrown some obstructions in the way
of your visit to this disturbed land. But you should
remember, that the junction of so brave a cavalier
as Don Amador de Leste with the mutinous bands
of the señor Cortes, is a thing to excite both dread
and opposition.”
“I remember,” said Amador, “that some such excuse
was made for him, and that my assurance that
my business had no more to do with that valiant rebel
than with his own crabbed excellency, was no more
believed than the assertion of any common hind: a
piece of incredulity I shall take great pleasure, at
some more convenient period, of removing, at my
sword's point, from his excellency's body.”
“I am grieved you should have cause to complain
of the governor,” said the señor Cavallero; “and verily
I myself cannot pretend to justify his rash and tyrannical
opposition, especially in the matter of yourself;
who, I take it for granted, come hither as the
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kinsman of the knight Calavar, to search out and remove
that crack-brained cavalier from these scenes
of tumult and danger.”
“The knight Calavar,” said the young soldier
sternly, “like other men, has his eccentricities and
follies; but if God has smitten him with a sorer infirmity
than others, he has left him so much strength
of arm and resoluteness of heart, and withal has
given him friends of so unhesitating a devotion, that
it will always be wise to pronounce his name with
the respect which his great worth and valiant deeds
have proved to be his due.”
“Surely,” said the admiral, good-humouredly, “it
is my boast that I can claim, through yourself, to be
distantly related to this most renowned and unhappy
gentleman; and, while I would sharply rebuke a
stranger for mentioning him with discourtesy, I held
myself at liberty to speak of him with freedom to
yourself.”
“I beg your pardon then,” said Amador, “if I took
offence at your utterance of a word, which seemed
to me to savour more of the heartless ridicule with
which the world is disposed to remark a mental calamity,
than the respectful pity which, it is my opinion,
in such cases should be always accorded. Your
excellency did right to suppose my business in this
hemisphere was to seek out the knight Calavar; not,
however, as you have hinted, to remove him from
among the savages, (for I give you to understand, he
is ever capable of being the guide and director of his
own actions;) but to render him the dutiful service of
his kinsman and esquire, and to submit myself to his
will and government, whether it be to fight these
rogues of Mexico, or any other heathens whatever.”
“I give you praise for your fidelity and affection.”
said the señor Cavallero, “which, I think, will stand
the knight in good stead, if it be his pleasure to remain
longer in this wild country. But tell me, Don
Amador:—as a Cavallero of Valencia, I could not be
ignorant of the misfortune of our very renowned
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cousin; yet was I never able to compass the cause
of his melancholy. I remember that when he fleshed
his boyish sword for the first time among the Moors
of the Alpujarras, he was accounted not only of
valour, but of discretion, far beyond his years. There
was no patrimony in all Granada so rich and enviable
as the lordship of Calavar; no nobleman of Spain was
thought to have fairer and loftier prospects than the
young Don Gines Gabriel de Calavar; none had
greater reason to laugh and be merry, for before the
beard had darkened on his lip, he had enjoyed the
reputation of a brave soldier; yet, no sooner came
he to man's estate, than, utterly disregarding the interests
of his house and the common impulses of youth,
he flung himself into the arms of the knights of Rhodes,
vowed himself to toil and sorrow, and has, ever since,
been remembered by those who knew him in his boyhood,
as the saddest and maddest of men.”
“So much I have heard, and so much I know, of
the good knight,” said Amador, with a sigh; “little
more can I add to the story, but that some calamity,
the nature of which I never dared to inquire, suddenly
wrought this change in him, even in the midst of his
youth, and led him to devote his life to the cause of
the faithful.”
“Thou hast heard it suggested,” said Cavallero,
significantly, “that, in the matter of the Alpujarras,
his heart was hotter, and his hand redder than became
a Christian knight, even when striking on the
hearth of the Infidel?”
“Señor cousin and admiral,” said Amador decidedly,
“in my soul, I believe you are uttering these
suggestions only from a kinsman's concern for the
honour and welfare of the party in question; and
therefore do I make bold to tell you, the man who,
in my hearing, asperses the knight Calavar, charging
his grief of mind to be the fruit of any criminal or
dishonourable deed, shall abide the issue of the slander
as ruefully as if it had been cast on the ashes of
my mother!”
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“So shall he win his deservings,” said the commander.
“Nevertheless doth Calavar himself give
some cause for these foolish surmises, of which indiscreet
persons have occasionally delivered themselves;
for the evident misery of heart and distraction
of head, the austere and penitential self-denial of
his life, nay, the very ostentation of grief and contrition,
which is written in his deportment and blazoned
on his armour, and which has gained him, in these
lands, the appellation of the Penitent Knight, seem
almost to warrant the suspicion of an unquiet and remorseful
conscience, brooding over the memory of
an unabsolved crime. But I say this not so much to
justify, as, in part, to excuse those idle impertinents,
who are so free with their innuendoes. I have ever
pondered with wonder on the secret of the brave
knight's unrest; yet, I must confess to thee, I was
struck with no less astonishment, when, returning
from Nombre de Dios to Santiago, I heard that a
famous Knight Hospitaller, and he no other than Don
Gines Gabriel de Calavar, had arrived among the
islands, frenzied with the opportunity of slaying pagans
at his pleasure, and had already followed on the
path of Cortes to Mexico. It gave me great pain,
and caused me no little marvel, to find he had come
and vanished with so little of the retinue of his rank,
and of the attendance necessary to one in his condition,
that two or three ignorant grooms were his only
attendants.”
“I have no doubt,” said Amador, “I can allay
your wonder as to these matters. Your excellency
need not be told that the banner of the Turk now
floats over the broken ramparts of Rhodes, and over
the corses of those noble knights of San Juan, who
defended them for more than two hundred years, and
at last perished among their ruins. This is a catastrophe
that has pealed over all Christendom like the
roar of a funeral bell, and its sound has even pierced
to these lands of twilight. No knight among all that
band of warriors and martyrs, as I am myself a
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witness, did more brave and heroical actions throughout
the black and bloody siege, than my lord and kinsman,
Calavar. But the good and ever-gracious Saint,
the patron of this most ancient and chivalric brotherhood,
saved him, with a few other knights, out of the
jaws of destruction, and restored him again to his
own country. Rhodes was fallen; there was no
longer a home for the destitute knights; they wandered
over Europe, whithersoever their destinies listed,
but particularly wheresoever there was an infidel to
be slain. Our monarch of Spain contemplated a crusade
among the Moors of Barbary, the descendants
of that accursed—(why should I not say wretched?
for they are exiles;)—that wretched race who had
once o'ermastered our own beloved land; the knight
Calavar entered into this project with alacrity, and
set himself to such preparations as should win him
good vengeance for the blood of his brothers lost at
Rhodes. I did myself, in obedience to his will, betake
me to the business of seeing what honest Christians
might be prevailed on to fight under his banner; and
while thus engaged, at a distance from my beloved
lord, with, perhaps, as I should confess with shame,
less energy and more sloth than were becoming in his
follower, I suffered certain worldly allurements to
step between me and my duty, and, for a time, almost
forgot my renowned and unhappy kinsman. Now,
señor,” continued the youth, with some little hesitation,
and a deep sigh, “it is not necessary I should
trouble you with any very particular account of my
forgetfulness and stupidity: it was soon known that
the enthusiasm of our king was somewhat abated
touching the matter of the African crusade,—perhaps
swallowed up in the interest wherewith he regarded
the new world which God and the great Colon had
given him; the enthusiasm of his subjects diminished
in like manner: there was no more talk of Africa.
This, señor, may perhaps in a measure excuse my
own lethargy; but you may be assured I awoke out
of it with shame and mortification, when I
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discovered that the good knight, left to himself, and deprived
of that excitement of combat, or the hope of combat,
so necessary to the well-being of his mind, had suddenly
(doubtless, in one of those paroxysms of eccentricity,—
or delirium, as I may call it to you,) departed
from the land, and was now cleaving the
surges that divided us from the new hemisphere.
There was nothing left for me but to follow him in
the first ship that sailed on the same adventure. This
I have done: I have tracked my leader from Palos
to Cuba; from Cuba to this barren coast; and now,
with your good leave and aidance, I will take the
last step of the pursuit, and render myself up to his
authority in the barbaric city, Tenochtitlan.”
“I respect your motive, and praise your devotion,
most worthy cousin,” said the admiral with much
kindness; “and yet you must forgive me, if I dare
to express to you some degree of pity. My long acquaintance
with these countries, both of isle and
main, has well instructed me what you have to expect
among them; and I can truly conceive what sacrifices
you have made for the good knight's sake. In
any case, I beg leave to apprise you, you can command
all my services, either to persist in seeking him,
or to return to Spain. My advice is, that you leave
this place forthwith, in a ship which I am to-morrow
to despatch to Andalusia; return to your native land;
betake yourself to those allurements, and that lethargy,
which I can well believe may bring you happiness;
commend yourself to your honourable lady-love,
and think no more of the wild Calavar. Here,
if you lose not life, before you have looked on your
kinsman, as there is much fear, you must resolve to
pass your days in such suffering and misery, and
withal in ignoble warfare with naked savages, supported
by such mean and desperate companions, as, I
am sure, you were never born to.”
“What you counsel me,” said Amador coolly, “is
doubtless both wisdom and friendship; nevertheless,
if your excellency will be good enough to reconsider
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your advice, you will perceive it involves such selfishness,
meanness, and dishonour, as cannot be listened
to with any propriety by a kinsman of the knight
of Calavar. I do not say I come hither to condescend
to this ignoble warfare,—though if it be worthy
my good knight, I shall have no reason to scorn it.
I bear with me, to my kinsman, the despatch of his
most eminent highness, the Grand Master of the
most illustrious order of San Juan, wherein, although
it be recommended to him, if such warfare seem to
him honourable and advantageous to the cause of
Christ, to strike fast and well, it is, if such strife be
otherwise, strongly urged on him to return without
delay to Europe, and to the Isle of Malta; which, it
is announced, our monarch of Spain will speedily
give to the good knights. It is therefore,” continued
the cavalier, “from the nature of things and of mine
own will, clearly impossible I should follow your advice;
in default of which, I must beg such other
counsel and assistance of your excellency as your
excellency may think needful to bestow; only premising,
that as I have many a weary league of sand
and mountain to compass, the sooner you benefit me
with these good things the better.”
“Your journey will be neither so long nor so wearisome
as you imagine,” said Cavallero: “but, I fear
me, will present more obstructions than you may be
prepared to encounter. I take it for granted, the
governor Velasquez has furnished you with no commands
to his general Don Panfilo de Narvaez, since
he gave you none to myself.”
“This is even the fact,” said Amador; “I entered
the caravel which brought me here, as I thought, in
defiance of his authority, and not without apprehensions
of being obliged to cut off the ears of some
dozen or two of his rogues, who might be ordered to
detain me. Nevertheless, I left the island without a
contest, and equally without aidance of any kind from
this discourteous ruler.”
“I must give thee some counsel, then,” said the
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admiral, “for I apprehend the governor did, very
perfidiously as I esteem it, when he ceased his
opposition, rest much hope on that of his general.
Thou art acquainted with the character of
Narvaez?”
“By my faith, I am so ignorant of all matters appertaining
to these climates, that, saving thine own, and
the knight Calavar's, and one or two others which I
acquired this morning, I am familiar only with those of
two other persons,—to wit,—of Velasquez, whom I
consider a very scurvy and ill-bred personage, and
of Cortes, a man whom I hold in much esteem, ever
since I heard he burned his fleet to keep his followers
from running away, and made prisoner of the great
Mexican emperor in his own capital. In addition to
this, I know the aforesaid governor doth very hotly
hate, and hath disgraced with the titles of rebel and
outlaw, this same respectable and courageous Cortes;
but for what reason; as I have been kept in somewhat
too great a passion to inquire, I am yet altogether
ignorant.”
“For one who may soon share an important part
in the events of this region, I think thou showest a
most princely indifference to them,” said the admiral,
smiling. “I will not say the safety, but the facility,
with which thou mayest traverse these lands, will be
greatly increased by knowing some little of their
history; and that knowledge I will hasten to impart to
thee, and with what brevity I can. If I should be led
to speak with more freedom of certain persons than
may seem fitting in an inferior and a colleague, I
must beseech thee to remember I am doing so to a
kinsman, and for his especial information and good.
Know then, señor Don Amador, the person whom it
pleased our viceroy, the son of Colon, to set over us,
and whom it has since pleased his most devout majesty,
the emperor, to confirm in the government of
Cuba, and even to that to add the further dignity of
ruler of the kings of Mexico, is, as I hinted to thee
before, afflicted with so irascible a temper and so
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jealous a fancy, that, were I not restrained by the
office I hold under him, I should say he was, at the
least, as mad as any other man in his dominion. The
desire of immortalizing himself by some great exploit
would be commendable in him, were it not accompanied
by the ambition to achieve it by the hands of
another. Ever since the discovery of this fair empire
of Montezuma by the señor Cordova, he has thirsted
for the glory of subduing it; and has taken all the
steps necessary to such a purpose, except the single
one of attempting it in person;—an omission not in
itself important, since there are an hundred other
cavaliers more capable of the task, only that, besides
the other munitions with which he furnishes his lieutenant,
he follows him ever with so plentiful a store
of distrust, that it is utterly impossible his officer
should have a chance to immortalize him. After
much seeking of a man whose ambition should extend
no further than to the glory of winning a crown for
the purpose of seeing his excellency wear it, he fixed
upon the worthy hidalgo, Hernan Cortes, a gentleman
of Medellin in Estremadura, and despatched him on
the business of conquest. Now, no sooner was his
general gone, than this jealous imagination, whereof
I spake, instantly presented to his mind the image of
Cortes as a conqueror, suddenly laying claim, before
the emperor and the world, to the sole merit of the
conquest; a spectacle so infinitely intolerable, that
without delay he set himself at work to hinder Cortes
from making any conquest at all.”
“Surely,” said Amador, “this governor Velasquez
is a fool, as well as a knave!”
“Heaven have him in keeping! You should mention
him with respect: but as you are speaking in the
confidence of blood-relationship, I cannot take notice
of your sarcasm,” said the admiral. “The señor
Cortes, however,” continued Cavallero, “was by no
means disposed to second the disloyal frenzy of the
governor: (disloyal I call it, since it threatened to
deprive his majesty, the emperor Charles, of the
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opportunity of adding a new empire to his diadem.) On
the other hand, Cortes was fully determined to do his
duty, and thought the governor could do nothing
better than to follow his example. But in the end,
this same Cortes, though of as meek a temper as is
desirable in the commander of an army, became
greatly incensed at the sottish and grievous distrust
of his governor; and calling his army together, and
representing to them the foolish predicament in which
his excellency had placed them, he threw down his
truncheon with contempt, and told them that as Velasquez
had left them without a leader, the wisest
thing that remained for them was to find another as
soon as possible: as for himself, he disdained to hold
his commission longer under such a commander.”
“By heaven, a most proper-spirited and gallant
gentleman!” cried Amador. “I honour him for the
act, but chiefly for the contempt it argued of this
jackfeather ruler.”
“I must beg of your favour,” said the admiral,
gravely, “to remember that his excellency is my
chief and commander; though, in justice, I think you
have some reason to censure him.—What remained
for the army of Cortes, now no longer having a general?
They were loath to leave the fair empire that
appeared almost in their grasp, and enraged at the
governor, who seemed determined to rob them of it.
There was only one way to secure the conquest for
their royal master: they absolved themselves of their
allegiance to the governor, swore themselves the soldiers
and subjects of the emperor alone, and erecting
themselves into a colony, forthwith elected Cortes
their governor and commander-in-chief; and despatched
advice of the same to Don Carlos, with a
petition for permission to pursue and conclude the
conquest of Tenochtitlan in his name.”
“A very loyal, defensible, and, indeed, praiseworthy
action,” said Don Amador, with emphasis; “and I
marvel your jealous governor did not stab himself
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forthwith, out of pure chagrin, to be so sharply and
justly outwitted.”
“Instead of that,” said the admiral, “boiling with
vexation and rage, and devoting Cortes to the fiend
who had first suggested him as a proper lieutenant,
his excellency equipped a second army, more than
twice as strong as that he had ordered Cortes to
raise; and this, one would have thought, he would
have commanded in person. But the old whim of
conquering by lieutenants, and becoming famous by
proxy, still beset the brain of his wisdom. He gave
the command of an army of more than a thousand
men to the señor Panfilo de Narvaez, a Biscayan,
of whom the best I can say is, that he swore eternal
fidelity to Velasquez,—resolving privately in his own
mind that, as soon as he had subdued Cortes, he
would follow his example, and throw off the authority
of his distrustful commander.”
“I should call this treachery,” said Amador, “but
that I think the absurdity of the chief a full excuse
for the defection of the follower.”
“The wisdom of the proceeding is now made manifest,”
continued the admiral. “It is scarce a month
since it was my misfortune, as commander of the
naval division of this expedition, to land the forces of
Narvaez on this shore. Here I learned with much
admiration, that Cortes, notwithstanding the meagerness
of his army, had, absolutely, after certain bloody
combats with savages on the wayside, marched into
the great city, taken possession of the body of the
barbarous emperor, and, through him, virtually, of all
the lands which acknowledged his sway; and you
may understand how much, as a true and reasonable
subject of our Catholic monarch, I was afflicted to
learn, in addition, that the sending of the new force
by Velasquez, only served the purpose of snatching
the conquest out of our hands. For Cortes, under a
delusion which may be pardoned him, on account of
its loyalty, regarding himself, in obedience to the
command of his followers, as the only true
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representative and general of our king, and ourselves, by
consequence, as traitors and rebels to his majesty, did
forthwith resolve to drive us from the land; to do
which, it was needful he should withdraw his forces
from Tenochtitlan; and therefore, Tenochtitlan is
lost.”
“Thou sayest, the señor Cortes hath an army not
half so powerful as the Biscayan's?”
“Nay, 'tis much short of five hundred men, and
weakened by a year's campaign, and still further diminished
by the necessity of maintaining a garrison
in his port of Vera Cruz, which he doth humorously
denominate the Rich City, and leaving another of
more than a hundred men, with one of his best captains,
in the goodly city, out of a hope, which I myself
reckon both vain and foolish, still to retain possession
of it.”
“And with this shattered and pitiful handful, which
I think cannot exceed three hundred men,” said Amador,
“the brave Cortes is resolute to resist the Biscayan,
and his thousand fresh combatants?”
“It is even so,” replied Cavallero.
“I give him the praise of a most dauntless and heroic
leader,” cried Amador; “and I am eager to
proffer him the hand of friendship.”
“Not only resolute to resist,” said the admiral,
“but, from the most undeniable tokens, impatient to
attack; as, indeed, are all his people. As an evidence
of which, I may tell thee, that Narvaez having
quartered his host at an Indian city called Zempoala,
within a few leagues of this aforesaid stockade and
Rich City of the True Cross, he straightway despatched
certain officers, military, civil, and religious,
to demand the surrender of the same at the hands of
the very young and very simple-minded señor, Don
Gonzalo de Sandoval, its commandante. What answer,
thinkest thou, was made by this foolish captain,
so many leagues separated from his commander, and
so far from all assistance? Faith, he flings me the
envoys into certain bags of network, as one would
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live quails, and tossing them upon the backs of lusty
savages, in lieu of asses, despatched them forthwith
over the mountains to his general. And this is the
only answer my colleague and most excellent friend,
the general Narvaez, ever received to his summons
for the surrender of the Rich City of the True Cross.”
“A spirited and ever-to-be-commended youth, this
same bold Sandoval,” said Amador earnestly; “and,
I begin to bethink me, I shall not be loath to remain
for a time in the company of a leader, who hath such
worthy spirits for his companions. But tell me, se
ñor cavalier and cousin, hath Cortes yet struck a
blow for his honour and his right?”
“By our Lady, no,” said the admiral: “and yet,
upon reflection,” continued he, “I must confess, that
though he has not yet drawn a Christian sabre on the
Biscayan, he has done him much hurt with a certain
weapon of gold, the use of which he learned at Mexico,
and whose blows, by the operation of a kind of
magic, have the virtue to paralyze the wrath, without
spilling the blood, of an adversary.”
“This is a weapon of the devil!” said the young
cavalier indignantly, “which I marvel much should
be used by so worthy a soldier. Nevertheless, as it
does not shed blood, the use of it may be justifiable
in a contest between brothers and countrymen;
wherein humanity and mercy are always more Christian
qualities than the rage and bloodthirstiness of
another warfare. But notwithstanding all this, if
such enchanted arms (if such indeed exist, as I cannot
believe,) be in vogue among the followers of
Cortes, I swear to God and Saint John, I will eschew
them as I would the gifts of the fiend; and, if
compelled by the command of my good knight, to
fight in their company, it shall be with such sword
and spear as I can use with a free conscience, and
an honest arm.”
“I commend your honourable resolution,” said the
admiral, amused with the literal straightforwardness
of his kinsman, but without thinking fit to undeceive
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him; “but how long the cavalier Cortes will employ
so bloodless a rapier, is more than I can determine.
He now lies within a few leagues of my colleague,
the Biscayan; and although apparently more ripe for
negotiation than combat, I shall be much mistaken if
he do not, at some convenient season, so fling his
crew of desperadoes at the head of Narvaez, as shall
make his excellency stare. Indeed there is now little
hope of pacification; for Narvaez has very grievously
insulted Cortes, by proclaiming him a rebel and an
outlaw, and setting a price on his head; and such is
his hotheadedness, that, it was but yesterday, he compelled
me to ship to Cuba the king's oidor, Vasques,
whom he had arrested for daring to speak to him of
amicable treaty. I look daily for intelligence of a
battle.”
“I vow to heaven!” said Amador, his eyes sparkling
with animation, “I vow to heaven! I have no
desire to mingle in a civil fray of any kind; but if
these mad fellows must be e'en at it, I see no reason
why I should not stand hard by, to be a witness of
their bravery. Wherefore most excellent cousin, I
must entreat of your favour to despatch me without
delay, with such guides, or instructions, as will enable
me to reach the Señor Cortes before the combat
begins.”
“If it would suit thee as well to survey this spectacle
from the camp of Narvaez,” said Cavallero, “I
could gratify thee without any difficulty. But I must
apprise thee, that to reach Cortes, it will be necessary
to pass the lines of Narvaez; and what obstructions
he may choose to throw in thy way is more
than I can very satisfactorily determine, though I
may counsel thee how best to overcome them.”
“Please heaven,” said Amador proudly, “he shall
make me no opposition which he shall not answer to
the cost of his body. For I am here, a free hidalgo
of Spain, knowing no authority but the king's will
and mine own; a neophyte (and, as I may add, a
knight by right, though unsworn,) of the illustrious
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order of San Juan, bearing the instructions of his
most eminent highness, the Grand Master, to a vowed
knight, and therefore liable to the command of no
other man, save only, as before excepted, the king;
and he who thinks to hinder me in my passage, besides
provoking the wrath of the aforesaid privileged
order, must, as I said before, do it under the peril of
mine own sword.”
“It would not become me to question your privileges,
or the danger with which they might be invaded,”
said the admiral, “nor will I repeat to you
in how little regard these matters may be had by a
man who has presumed to arrest and imprison the
representative of his majesty himself, and who, surrounded
by an army, and separated from the sway
of the laws, is beyond the present responsibility of
any government but that of his own conscience. I
can only remind you that, as an emissary of the holy
order, you are doubly bound to avoid a quarrel with
a Christian and countryman; especially when, as
will presently be your case, you are in the lands of
the infidel. I must beg to remind you, too, that the
Biscayan, holding, as he believes, the authority of
the king, and compelled to act as may seem to him
necessary for the preservation of the king's interest,
should be respected accordingly; and his humours,
as well as his rightful commands, borne without anger
or opposition.”
“May his majesty live a thousand years!” said
the cavalier. “It is no part of my principle to oppose
his pleasure; wherefore, if contesting the authority
of this Biscayan general be such disloyalty,
I will refrain from it; that is, as long as I can. But
nevertheless, I will protest against any authority that
may hinder my present journey.”
“Moderation, and the exercise of patience,” said
Cavallero, “will doubtless secure you from restraint
and insult. It is quite necessary you report the
object of your travel to the commander Narvaez;
and even to desire his permission (a courtesy that
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has in it nothing of degradation) to continue your
journey.”
“Doubtless,” said Amador, sarcastically, “you
will tell me, as did the señor Gomez, the captain of
the caravel, that this submission of myself to his commands
will be nothing more than the rendering of a
customary compliment to his dignity. If there be
any way by which I may pass by the camp of Narvaez,
I shall be much bound to your excellency to
inform me of it; and I will pursue it, be it ever so
rough and long, with much more satisfaction than I
can ever make my entreaties to him.”
“There is no other way,” said the admiral. “The
Indian city, Zempoala, where Narvaez has established
his head-quarters, lies immediately on the path to
the Villa Rica; and the scouts of Narvaez, occupying
all the intermediate ground, render it impossible
you should pass him without observation, or them
without their leader's commands. I am now about
to despatch to Narvaez certain reinforcements, in
whose company I recommend you to travel, and
with whom I will send such representations to the
general as, I think, will secure you his instant permission
and, doubtless, aid, to join your kinsman, the
good knight, without delay. Only let me entreat of
you, as your true friend and relation, not wantonly,
by any overbearing pride, to exasperate the peevish
temper of my colleague.”
“I will take your advice,” said the cavalier, complacently,
“and treat the Biscayan with as much respect
as he may seem to deserve. Only, as it may
be a long day's journey to this Zempoala, I must entreat
your excellency to give orders for the instant
debarkation of my horses and attendants, and permit
me to follow them as soon as possible.”
“This shall be instantly done,” said the admiral.
“In the meanwhile, I must beg to entertain you with
the sight of one of those personages who will be your
companions on the journey.”
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CHAPTER III.
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At the signal of the admiral, an officer made his
appearance, received certain commands, the most
agreeable of which to the young cavalier were those
in reference to his own liberation, and then immediately
withdrew.
“Thou wilt now see, worthy cousin,” said Cavallero,
“a man, whom, although a base Moor and
infidel, thou shouldst regard with some sort of admiration;
since, from the reports of those who brought
him hither, he is endowed with a spirit and pugnacity
worthy even of a Christian.”
While the admiral spoke, the door of the cabin
was darkened by the bodies of several men, who, at
his beck, advanced, and stood full in the view of the
neophyte. He perceived in these, besides two or
three officers of the ship, nothing more, with a single
exception, than the rough figures of ordinary sailors.
This exception presented itself in the bronzed visage
and wildly attired person of the Moor; and Amador
almost started, when the bright eyes of the pagan
rolled from the admiral to himself in a brief but most
penetrating stare. In person, the Moor was somewhat
above the ordinary stature, but his limbs, though
hardy and active enough, were much attenuated.
His face was emaciated and bony, and the long black
locks falling wildly over it, gave it an appearance exceedingly
haggard,—a character greatly augmented
by the white eyeballs flashing like stars in its almost
Nubian blackness. Something perhaps was to be allowed
for the effect of his uncouth and savage attire,
which was composed almost entirely of skins, seemingly
of dogs or wolves, a portion of which encircled
his loins as a tunic, while the remainder lay, like a
cape or short cloak, about his shoulders. Under this
latter garment, however, was a shirt of cotton, stained
with bright colours; and kerchief of similar
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material glittered, not so much like a turban as a fillet,
round his head. Rude sandals, strapped as high as
the midleg with shreds cut from his cloak, completed
the primitive costume of the barbarian.
“This fellow,” said the admiral, turning from him
to one who seemed as chief of the seamen,—“this
fellow is then the commander of that Sallee pirate,
you took among the Canaries?”
“Commander or not, I cannot say,” said the sailor,
with a shrug; “but chief varlet at the gun, as I am
free to maintain; and freer was he at that same ordnance
than was like to be safe for the good snow, La
Encarnacion, as her ribs may yet testify. But the
knave speaks Spanish; and if your excellency chooses
to ask him, can tell you his rank and condition.”
“No commander—no pirate!” said the Moor, with
a voice whose soft and harmonious accents contrasted
strangely with his rude appearance. “No commander—
no pirate,” he repeated in good Castilian;
“but a poor Morisco of Fez, voyaging in a harmless
trader to the Gibbel-al-Tarik.”
“The Gibbel-al-Tarik,” said the admiral, dryly,
“would have been much beholden for the new visit
of an infidel.”
“No commander, no pirate, no infidel!” said the
Moor, earnestly; “but a poor shepherd of Fez,
brought to a knowledge of the true faith, and driven
from the home of his fathers for the exercise of it, to
the land of his fathers' enemies.”
“Moor,” said the admiral, composedly, “there are
three reasons why I should not believe thee: First,
because thou art a Moor, and therefore born to be a
liar and deceiver; secondly, because, unless God
should have worked a greater miracle for the good of
a besotted heathen than he often vouchsafes to prayerful
Christians, there is no possibility thou couldst be
converted to the faith among the sands of Barbary;
and thirdly, because the fact that thou art skilful in
the management of ordnance, is sufficient proof thou
canst not be an ignorant shepherd of Fez, whose
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hands are more commonly trained to the spear and
arrow, than to the quoin and linstock.”
“He manages them,” said the sailor, “as if he had
been born with them in his hands; as I have made
proof, sometimes, for my amusement, during the tedium
of the voyage.”
“If my lord will listen to me,” said the Moor
eagerly, though humbly, “I will make it apparent
that I speak nothing but the truth.—My father drew
his first breath among the Almogavars of the desert;
his son opened his eyes among the hills of Granada.”
“Ha!” cried the admiral; “thou art then one of
the accursed tribe of mine own land!”
“A Morisco of the Alpujarras,” said the Moor,
submissively; “whom, in my very early youth, it
pleased my father to have baptized in the holy faith,
as was the command of his most faithful and everblessed
majesty, the king Fernando, the conqueror of
the kings of Granada. This will show, my lord, that
I speak the words of a Christian. As an Almogavar,
I was born to be a soldier, and so trained to all arms
of an Almogavar, the knife and dart, the spear and
axe, the cross-bow and musket, as well as other weapons
of Christians. This will show my lord how it
came that I was found skilful at the cannon.”
“Thou speakest like a cunning and most honest
man,” said the admiral, gravely; “but all this revelation
does not show me how an Almogavar of Granada
became a herdsman of the desert; and, after that, how
the herdsman of the desert was transformed into the
gunner of a Sallee corsair, or, as thou callest her, a
harmless trader, on her innocent voyage to Gibraltar.”
“May it please my lord,” said the Almogavar,
bending for a moment his troubled eyes on the admiral,
as if to resolve himself whether or not these
questions were put to him in mockery, and then casting
them instantly on the floor; “may it please my
lord to remember that after the fall of Granada and
the subjugation of the Alpujarras, many Moors,
Christian as well as pagan, preferring rather to lament
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their miseries at a distance than in their own enslaved
country, chose to accept the merciful permission of
the king, and withdrew from the land altogether.
This did I, my lord's servant and slave. I fled to
the country of my father; and although, there, I suffered
many indignities and hardships, as well as constant
peril, as being suspected to be an apostate to
the faith of the land, I had been content to drag out
a wearisome life, but for one grief that was sharper
than others.”
“I will shrive thee as patiently as thy confessor,”
said the admiral; “but while thou art speaking the
sharpest of thy calamities, it will be much proof to me
of the sincerity of thy religion, if thou use language
somewhat of the briefest.”
“My son,” said the Moor, hurriedly, “my son,
that was the lamp of my eyesight, the perfume of my
nostrils, the song and music of my soul, was in great
danger to be led astray, and converted back to infidelity.
To save him from the contagion of heathenism,
I resolved to return to Granada, where, though
he might grow up to bondage, he should be free from
the thrall of darkness: it was better he should be a
slave than an infidel. With these thoughts and these
hopes in my heart, I embarked in the Sallee trader;
when it was my hard fate to be arrested in my course
by these men of the Canaries.”
“Thy course,” said the admiral, “was none of the
straightest; and how thou couldst find thy way to
Gibraltar by way of the Fortunate Isles, is much
more than my nautical experience can teach me to
understand.”
“A great storm,” said the Moor, with the deepest
humility, “drove us from our course; and it was the
will of God that when the tempest subsided, we should
find ourselves beset by two strong ships, which nothing
but the fears and desperation of our captain
could have tempted him to think of resisting. We
fought, and were subdued; the lives of my son and
myself were preserved out of the horrors of that
-- 067 --
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combat. The ships were traders of the Isles, bound to
these new lands; they brought us hither; where there
is nothing left us but to claim the privileges of our
faith, acknowledge ourselves the thrall and bondmen
of his majesty the king, and entreat of my lord to
send us, when it may suit his good pleasure, to our
homes and our altars in Granada.”
The Moor concluded his speech with a degree of
eagerness approaching almost to vehemence. The
admiral indifferently rejoined:—
“Thy name is Abdalla—?”
“Abdoul al Sidi,” said the Moor, hastily. “When
my father gave me up to be baptized, he called me,
in token of his true devotion and humility, Esclavo
de la Cruz; but in my days of darkness I was known
as Abdoul al Sidi, a poor Almogavar, but descended
from the ancient lords of Fez.”
“Sidi Abdalla, or sir Slave of the Cross, whichever
it may please you to be called,” said the admiral,
coolly, “in respect to your lordly descent and
most dignified title, which I think no Christian has
dared to assume since the days of the Cid Rodrigo,
I will, before determining how far I can make your
fate agreeable to your wishes, condescend to compare
your story with that of the brave sailor, master
of the Encarnacion, who captured you.”
“If I am to say any thing,” said the master, gruffly,
“it will be first to pronounce this same Abdalla, or
Esclavo, as he calls himself, a hypocrite and knave
not to be trusted. It is true there was a great storm,
which might have driven his piratical galley into the
neighbourhood of the Canaries; but that he showed
any extraordinary ardour to escape, as long as my
consort was out of sight, is a matter not to be believed.
Trusting to his skill in the management of
the great mangonneau, with which the galley was
armed, and not doubting to cripple me with some
lucky ball, before I could approach him, he fell to
with right good will; and it was not until my consort
joined in the melée that I was able to lay him
-- 068 --
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aboard. Even then, when our crews were springing
on his decks, and his fellow-pirates had fled in dismay
below, I saw him, this very knave Abdalla, with
mine own eyes, lay match to the last charge which
thundered against us; immediately after which, with
a most devilish spirit of desperation, he snatched up
his boy, as one would a kitten, and springing to the
opposite side, was in the act of dashing himself into
the sea, when he was brought down by a pistol-shot.”
“I thought they would have murdered my poor
Jacinto,” said the Almogavar, in a low voice; “and,
in my desperation, desired he should rather die the
easy death of the deep, than be mangled by cruel
daggers.”
“There was much fear of that,” said the master;
“for my sailors had marked him at the linstock with
no great love. In faith, there were some five or six
cutlasses aimed at his prostrate body; but I could
not bear they should slay the boy, who lay on his
breast; and therefore I commanded them to hold.”
“Thou art a right worthy and noble heart!” said
Amador ardently, interrupting him; “for there is no
reason a brave soldier, even in the heat of blood,
and with a pagan under his foot, should strike at
the life of a boy: and hadst thou done otherwise, I
swear to thee, I was so much moved by the relation,
I should have gone nigh to slay thee for thy
barbarity!”
“And besides, señor,” said the master complacently,
“I was beset with the idea, that if I preserved
his life, and brought him to this land of Mexico,
I might sell him at a good price as an able cannonier;
such a man, as I had good reason to know,
being worth the value of a dozen bloodhounds. And
besides,” he continued, without regarding the expression
of disgust and contempt which drove the look
of benevolence from the visage of the cavalier, “I
had greater reason to applaud my clemency, when
I discovered that the boy Jacinto, besides being a
comely and very dexterous stripling, was so great
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a master of the Moorish lute, singing withal in a
most agreeable manner, that I was well assured
some noble cavalier among the invaders would not
scruple, at any price, to have him for a page.”
“I am a Christian! the boy is a Christian!” cried
the Moor, hurriedly; “and neither of us can be
sold to bondage, except at the command of his most
faithful and merciful majesty, the emperor and king;
to whose gracious will and pleasure I desire, with
my boy, to be rendered.”
“Good Cid,” said the admiral, “that is a matter
wherein, if his majesty's will were certainly known,
thou shouldst not have to complain of our negligence;
but, under present circumstances, we must make our
own judgment the representative of the royal wisdom,
and dispose of thee in such manner as we may
think most conducive to his majesty's interest. We
are resolute thou wilt serve him better by directing
the thunders of his cannon against the heathen hordes
of Mexico, than by cultivating his vines and fig-trees
on the hills of Granada. We must send thee to the
commander Narvaez, whom if thou please, he will
doubtless advance thee to the command of a falconet,
wherewith thou mayst divert many of thy Almogavar
propensities for battle and bloodshed. As for the
boy, it not appearing to me that the strumming of his
strings, or the uplifting of his voice in ballad and redondilla,
are, in any wise, necessary to the conquest
of this barbarous empire, I may be able, if thou insistest
upon that, to send him to Spain.”
“I take my lord at his word!” said Abdoul, trembling
with eagerness and anxiety; “let the boy be
sent to Spain—to Granada—to either of the ports
Algeciras, Malaga, or Almeria; and he will find
some friends there, to protect his youth and inexperience;
while I submit to my harder fate in Mexico.”
“To Almeria?” said Amador quickly. “I have
myself some acquaintance with that town; and it
may perhaps advantage thee to make me thy confidant,
if there be any secret friend there thou wouldst
-- 070 --
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send the boy to; or to take my counsel as to what
Christians may be persuaded to show him kindness.”
The Moor regarded Amador for an instant with
a disturbed but piercing eye. His answer was, however,
prevented, by the admiral saying,
“Sir Slave of the Cross, (With the consent of my
very noble kinsman:) to cut short all needless discussion
on this subject, I may as well inform thee, first,
that if thy boy be sent to Spain, it will not be to any
port of thy choosing, but to such an one as may seem
most fit to other persons, and which will most probably
be the port of Seville; wherefrom thou canst
better imagine than myself, how thy boy will be
helped to Granada. In the second place, as I deem
it but honesty to acquaint thee, if the youth be taken
from this land, he will first be sent to the excellent
señor, the honourable Don Diego Velasquez, governor
of Cuba, to be disposed of by him as may seem
most agreeable to his judgment; and I warn thee, if
the lad be an adept at the lute, as is asserted, Don
Diego will find him such employment in twangling to
the ladies of our brave cavaliers, as will leave it uncertain
how much sooner than doomsday he will bethink
him to advance the poor youth on his voyage.”
“It is enough!” said the Moor with a gloomy
countenance. “God is with us; and it may be better
to have the boy among the perils of death than
the seductions of pleasure. Let my boy stay with
me, and I am content to follow my lord's bidding.”—
He bowed his head upon his breast, and, at the signal
of the admiral, was led away.
“Señor Capitan,” continued Cavallero, adressing
the master, who still lingered in the cabin, “I will
satisfy thee for the armament thou hast brought, by
acknowledgments, which thou must present to the
governor. What more Moors hast thou brought with
thee from the galley, capable of doing service in these
exigencies?”
“The father and son are all,” replied the master.
“The others, as I told your excellency, had fled
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below from the fury of my sailors. To make all sure,
while rummaging about their cabin, we had fastened
down the hatches. We had not picked up many
things of value, before there was a sudden cry that
the pirate was sinking. Whether this happened from
a shot she may have received, or because the accursed
runagates below had knocked a hole in her
bottom, was more than was ever determined. The
alarm sent us scampering to our own vessel; and in
our hurry, as was natural enough, we forgot the infidels
in the hold; so that, when she went down,
which she did as soon as we were well clear of her,
her crew went along with her.—But your excellency
has not told me whether I am to receive pay for Sidi
and the boy?”
“I swear to heaven,” said the admiral, “thou hast
no more heart than thine anchor! Thou shockest me
with the detail of a catastrophe, which, though affecting
the lives of nothing but heathen Moors, is nevertheless
both dreadful and pitiable; and yet thou dost
abruptly demand me, `Shall I have payment for the
two lives I saved?' Thou wilt have payment, if it
please the governor; and not otherwise. Betake
thee to thy ship: I will send thee thy warranties, and
the sooner thou leavest with them the better.”
The master departed, and again Amador found
himself alone with the admiral.
“Cousin,” said Cavallero, “I am now able to comply
with your wishes. I should have been rejoiced
to keep you a prisoner on board the Capitana for a
few days; but I will not invite you, when I perceive
you are so impatient for freedom. Your horses are
doubtless at this moment rolling on the beach; your
grooms are with them, either combing the sand from
their manes, or scraping the sea-spots from your armour.
A company of artisans, with a military escort,
is on the eve of marching to the camp of Narvaez.
I have given such commands as will secure you the
company and friendly aidance of that escort; in
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addition to which, I will immediately send after you a
trusty officer with despatches concerning yourself, to
the general, and recommendations to him to assist
you in joining your kinsman, the knight Calavar,
without delay. You will easily reach Zempoala by
night-fall. I beseech you to salute the general with
courtesy; and to-morrow you will be in the arms of
your leader.”
“I am so overjoyed,” said the Cavalier, “at the
thought of once more bestriding my poor Fogoso,
and exchanging the stupid pitching of a ship for the
bound of his gallop and curvet, that I know not how
I can do otherwise than treat the Biscayan with urbanity.”
“A barge is ready to conduct you to the shore,”
continued the admiral, leading the young soldier to
the side of the vessel. “I pray heaven to give you
a prosperous journey, and to carry you with as much
safety as honour through the weapons of the heathen
multitude. Make my devoirs to his noble valour, the
good knight of Rhodes; and say to the señor Cortes,
that though fate has arrayed me against him as an
enemy, I cannot forget the friendship of our past
lives. Nay,” continued Cavallero, with emphasis,
“tell him, that though it does not become me, as an
officer commissioned by Velasquez, to hold any communications
with him excepting those of simple form
and civility, I shall be well pleased when heaven
has removed the obstruction, and left me at liberty to
meet him with full friendship and confidence. This
salutation,” said the admiral significantly, “there is
no reason thou shouldst impart to Narvaez; for he is
distrustful and suspicious to that degree, that, I do not
doubt, he would torture its harmlessness into a matured
treason.”
“I will do your bidding,” said Amador blithely,
“both to the Biscayan, and the cavalier of Medellin.
And now, with a thousand acknowledgments for your
favour and assistance, and as many wishes for your
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weal and comfort, I bid you the farewell of a kinsman
and true friend.”
And so saying, and heartily shaking the hand of
his excellency, the young cavalier sprang into the
boat, and was soon wafted to the beach.
CHAPTER IV.
The rapture with which Don Amador de Leste
exchanged the confined decks of the caravel for the
boundless sands of Ulua, and these again for the back
of his impatient steed, was fully as great as he had
promised himself. Profound was his joy to find the
demon of ennui, which had beset the cribbed and
confined charger as sorely as the cabined master,
flying from his dilated nostrils, and giving place to
the mettlesome ardour which had won him the title
of the Fiery. The neigh that he sent forth was like
the welcome of the battle; the fire that flashed in his
eye was bright as the red reflection of a banner; and
when he reared up under his rider, it was as if to
paw down the opposition of crouching spearmen. A
few snuffs of the morning breeze, a few bounds over
the sandy hillocks, and the beast that had pined in
stupefaction in a narrow stall on the sea, was converted
into an animal fit for the seat of a warrior.
The cavalier galloped about for a few moments,
while his attendants made their preparations for the
journey. Then returning, like a thoughtful leader,
to inquire into their welfare, he beheld them with
great satisfaction, both horse and man, in good condition
to commence their adventurous campaign.
The elder of his followers was a personage of years
and gravity; a mass of grizzled locks fell from under
his iron skull-cap, and a shaggy beard of the same
reverend hue ornamented his cheeks and throat. He
had seen long and sharp service, for besides the many
scars that marked his swarthy visage, one of which,
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from its livid hue, seemed to have been won in recent
combat, a sabre-cut, extending over his left cheek
and brow, had darkened the sinister eye forever. But
his frame, though somewhat short and squat, was
robust and even gigantic in proportions; and the
muscles springing under the narrow cuishes, which,
together with a heavy breast-plate, made nearly the
whole of his defensive armour, did not seem less of
iron than their covering. He was truly a man-at-arms
worthy to follow at the heels of a valiant
cavalier.
The second attendant, though armed with little
more care than the former, had contrived, by the judicious
distribution of riband-knots and sashes about
his person, to assume a more gallant appearance:
and in addition, he had the smoother features and
gayer looks of youth. Both were provided with
horses strong and not inactive; and both, as Amador
returned, were busily engaged in disposing the
mails and accoutrements of the cavalier about the
bulky loins of their animals.
“Hearken, Lazaro, thou varlet, that flingest my
mailed shirt over thy crupper, as if it were a vile
horse-cloth,” he cried to the younger follower, “have
more care what thou art doing. Give my helmet to
Baltasar, and let him sling it, with my buckler, over
his broad shoulders. I will not entrust thee with such
matters; nor, by 'r lady, with my pistols neither.”
“If I may make bold to speak,” said Baltasar,
bending his eye bluffly, and with a sort of rude affection
on his young lord, “I can advise a way to
dispose of both casque and buckler more agreeably
and usefully than on the back of either Lazaro or
myself.”
“Thou meanest upon mine own, no doubt,” said
Amador: “I have ever found thee fonder of carrying
the arms of a dead foeman than of a living master,
though it were the knight Calavar himself.”
“That is very true,” said the veteran, chuckling
grimly at the compliment disguised in the sarcasm.
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“I am never loath to do such duty: because, then,
my conscience tells me I am bearing arms which
can no longer be of use to their owner.”
“And thou desirest now to intimate, that, if I were
arrayed in my harness, I might put it to some use?”
“Quien sabe? who knows?” said Baltasar, looking
around him with an earnest eye. “We are now
in a strange land, possessed by barbarians, who are
good at spear and bow, and fonder of fighting from
an ambuscado than on an open field; and with no
true companions that I can see, to look that they be
not lurking among yonder woodlands, some of which,
I take it for granted, we have to pass. I should
grieve sorely to see an arrow, even in a boy's hand,
aimed at your honour's present hauberk of cloth and
velvet.”
“Well, thy wisdom will not perish for want of utterance,”
said Amador; “and, in very truth, I must
own, it has sometimes stood me in good stead. I will
therefore relieve thee of thy burthen, and Lazaro
shall hang it to my own shoulders.”
He descended, and the linked surcoat soon invested
his person.
“I will also presume to recommend your honour
to have these snapdragons hung to your saddle-bow,”
said Baltasar, extending the rude and ponderous pistols,—
weapons then scarcely creeping into notice,
but within twenty years, not uncommon in the hands
of horsemen; “for if it should come to pass, that
some cut-throat pagan should discharge a missile at
us from the bushes, it will doubtless afford your honour
much satisfaction to shoot him dead on the spot;
a punishment that would not be so certain with the
weapons in my own hands, or in Lazaro's. And before
I could bring my cross-bow from my back, it is
possible the knave might have another opportunity to
do us mischief.”
“In this matter also,” said Amador good-humouredly,
“I will follow thy instructions. But, I give thee
warning, there is something in the feeling of my
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hauberk under this raging sun, that admonishes me how
soon my brain would seethe, as in a stew-pan, under
the cover of a steel helmet. Wherefore I will
have thee carry that in thine own hands, until, from
the change of atmosphere, or the appearance of an
enemy, I may see fit to alter my resolution.”
“I have ever found,” said Baltasar, with the pertinacity
of age, and, perhaps, of a favourite, “that, under
a broiling sun, a well-polished casque of metal is
something cooler than a cloth cap; a fact, the reason
for which I do not myself understand, and which I
should esteem too marvellous for belief, had I not
oft-times put it to the proof.”
“There is even much truth in what thou art saying,”
quoth the cavalier, “and I have perhaps philosophy
enough to explain the marvel to thee, but that
I know philosophy is not much to thy liking. There
must be a cold head, however, under the bright cap;
otherwise, and with a brain as inflammable as my
own, I am very well convinced that bright steel would
be just as ignitible as dull iron.” And so saying, he
again bestrode the champing Fogoso.
“It must be as your honour says,” muttered the
man-at-arms. “But, as we are all as well prepared
now to begin our journey as we will be to-morrow,
I would fain know of your favour whither lies our
path, or where lags the jackanapes that is to guide
us? I heard some talk in the caravel of a great troop
of horse and foot, that was to accompany us; but unless
it may have been the herd of vagabonds, who, a
full hour since, took up their march along the sands,
I know not where to look for them among these few
tinkers and sailors that are strolling yonder among
the huts of bamboo.”
“I have much reliance on the friendship and courtesy
of my cousin, the admiral,” said Amador hastily;
“but I must confess, that, saving the appearance of
yonder bridled horse, (which may be in waiting for
the officer he told me of,) it looks very much, now,
as if he had left me to mine own guidance. Nay, I
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wrong the worthy señor,” he cried quickly, as turning
with some doubt and indignation towards the
ship, he beheld a boat leave her, and approach the
shore with all the speed of oars; “the guide he promised
me is, without doubt, in that barge; and the
bridled horse, which, as I can perceive even at this
distance, is none of the bravest, is the beast whereon
he will keep us company.”
As Amador conjectured, the boat contained his
promised companion, who instantly sprang upon the
beach and on the caparisoned animal, and in a few
moments was at the side of the cavalier. He was
young and handsome, an adult in stature, but scarcely
a man in deportment, for as he removed his cap to
make the obeisance of an inferior, there was a strong
tincture of confusion and trepidation in his countenance.
This was perhaps owing, in part, to a consciousness
of having merited a reprimand for overdelay,
and in part also to his suddenly finding himself
confronted with so warlike a personage as the
neophyte. Amador of the caravel was a different
person from Amador armed and mounted; and, indeed,
as he sat on his noble bay, mailed and sworded,
and with two goodly armsmen at his back, he was
such a martial figure as might have moved an older
messenger to reverence.
“Señor caballero,” said the youth, with a stammering
voice, “my master and patron, the admiral,
has appointed me, his secretary, to be your guide to
the Indian city Zempoala; and I have to beg your
pardon, if, waiting for the letters wherewith it was
his excellency's will to charge me, and to make some
needful preparation of my own, I have detained your
favour somewhat longer than was agreeable.”
“I am ever bound to thank his excellency,” said
Amador; “and as I well suppose, your own preparations
had some weighty relation to the business you
have in charge, I will not take it upon me to express
any dissatisfaction with your delay.”
“In truth,” said the secretary, ingenuously, “I was
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loath to depart without such armour about me as
should beseem the attendant of a true cavalier; in
the fitting of which I fell into some perplexity, as not
finding a corselet that did not, in some manner, incommode
my ribs; and besides, the sabres were all
so unwieldy and rough about the hilts, I was in
some despair I should never find one to my liking.”
“Señor secretario,” said Amador, with a smile of
good-humoured contempt, surveying the youth, and
observing the cuirass chosen with no discretion and
donned without skill, “I am of opinion, that in the
company of myself and my attendants, you will find
no occasion for such troublesome apparel; and it is
my advice, grounded on your admission of inexperience
in such matters, that, should we, on our march,
be beset by any enemies, you take post instantly behind
my veteran Baltasar, whose broad breast will
stand you in greater stead than your ill-chosen cuirass,
and whose arm will do you better service than
the sabre in your own hands.”
“Señor,” said the youth, colouring, “I am no
soldier nor cavalier; I have ever had my breast
more bruised by the scribe's table than the weight
of a breast-plate, and my fingers have heretofore
known more of the goose-quill than the sword. Nevertheless
I am both willing and desirous to be placed
where the knowledge of weapons may be obtained,
and to encounter such risks as are the helpers to
knowledge. It was from no lack of beseeching on
mine own part, that his excellency has heretofore
denied me permission to try my fate among the cavaliers
ashore; nor should I have hoped that pleasure
so early, but that I found his excellency was bent to
do you honour, by making a confidential servant
your attendant, and was therefore easily persuaded
to give me the opportunity I have so long coveted, of
looking a little into the strange sights of this marvellous
land.”
“I am to understand then,” said Amador gravely,
“that his excellency, the admiral, has entrusted the
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charge of guiding me to Zempoala to an individual
who has never before put foot on the wilderness that
divides us from it?”
“It is true, señor,” said the secretary, “that I
have never been to Zempoala. But I hope your favour
will not doubt me for that reason, nor take offence
at the admiral. I am enjoined to conduct you
to the reinforcement that set out an hour ago. Its
tracks are plain enough along the beach; and as it
is composed principally of footmen, there is no doubt
we will overtake it before another hour has elapsed.
I am confident I can lead your favour without difficulty
to the party; among which are guides well acquainted
with the country.”
“Let us set out then, in heaven's name,” said the
cavalier: “the day is wasting apace; the sun climbs
high in the vault; and the sooner we are sheltered
from its fury among some of yonder distant forests,
the better will it be for us. St. John be our guide,
and the Holy Virgin favour us.—Amen! Let us
depart.”
CHAPTER V.
As the secretary anticipated, the tracks of the reinforcement
were plainly discernible over the sandy
downs and by the margins of the pestilent fens, which
gave an air of desolation to this part of the Mexican
coast, not much relieved by an occasional clump
of palms, nor by the spectacle, here and there disclosed,
of the broad ocean blackening among the low
islets; though the hazy and verdant ramparts which
stretched between these burning deserts and the imagined
paradises of the interior, ever presented a field
of refreshment and interest to the eyes of the travellers.
The novelty of their situation, felt more or
less intensely by all, was exciting: and many a dream
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of barbaric monarchs reposing on thrones of gold
and emeralds, and canopied by flowers and feathers,—
of dusky armies deploying among green valleys
and on the borders of fair lakes,—and perhaps of
themselves doing the work of heroes among these
mystic multitudes,—wandered through their overtroubled
fancies.
Such visions flitted over the brain of Amador, but
mingled with others, with which the past had more
to do than the present; for, despite the eager longing
with which he looked forward to a meeting with his
good knight and kinsman, and notwithstanding his
impatient ardour to gaze with his own eyes upon
those scenes which were filling the minds of men
with wonder, he looked back from a sand-hill to the
distant ships, and sighed, as, in an instant of time,
his soul was borne from them, over the broad surges
to the pleasant hills of Spain.
But with the view of the squadron vanished his
memory and his melancholy: the narrow belt of
sand-hills along the coast had been exchanged for
the first zone of vegetation; the mimosa afforded its
shade; the breeze and the paroquet chattered together
on its top; and when he came, at last, to journey
among the shadows of a forest rich in magnificent
and unknown trees and plants, with here a lagoon
fringed with stately ceibas (the cotton-wood
trees of Mexico) and gigantic canes, and there a
water-course murmuring among palms and other
tropical trees, he gave himself up to a complacent
rapture. He remarked with satisfaction the bright
plumage of water-fowl,—the egret, the pelican, the
heron, and sometimes the flamingo, sporting among
the pools; gazed with wonder after the little picaflor,
or humming-bird, darting, like a sunbeam, from flower
to flower; with still greater admiration listened to
the song of the calandra and the cardinal, and to
the magical centzontli,—the hundred-tongued,—as it
caught and repeated, as if with a thousand voices,
the thousand roundelays of other songsters scattered
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among the boughs; and it was not until the notes of
a trumpet, swelling suddenly in the distance, invaded
his reveries, that he roused from the voluptuous intoxication
of such a scene.
“It is the trumpet of the soldiers, señor!” cried
the secretary, joyously; “and it rejoices me much,
for I know not how much longer I could have followed
their obscure tracks through this forest. And
besides, I find, as I must in honesty confess, I have
in me so little of the skill of a leader, that I would
gladly submit to be led myself, especially by your
worship, though it were to follow you to battle as an
humble esquire.”
“I must commend your spirit, señor Lorenzo Fabueno,”
(for so the secretary had called himself,)
“though I must needs believe your inexperience in
all matters of war might render such an attempt exceedingly
difficult, if not altogether impossible.”
“Señor,” said the secretary, eagerly, “I have the
wish, and doubtless the ability, in course of time, to
learn all the duties, and to acquire some of the skill,
of a soldier; and under so noble a leader as your
favour, I am sure I should advance much faster than
ever I did in the learning of a clerk. And, in addition
to the little service I might render with my sword, I
have such skill with the pen as might be of good use
to your honour.”
“I have no certain assurance,” said Amador, “that
I shall have any occasion to use my own sword; it
is utterly beyond my imagination to discover to what
use I could put the inkhorn of a secretary; and finally,
I know not how the course of events in these deserts
may require me to add to the number of my associates.
Nevertheless, señor Lorenzo, if it be the wish
of his excellency the admiral, that his secretary should
be transformed into a soldier, I see not how I can
refuse to give my assistance to the conversion.”
“I know not why I should be dungeoned in a ship's
cabin,” said Lorenzo, with a sort of petulance, “when
other youths are roaming at liberty among these brave
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hills; and gnawing a quill with disgust, when all my
old schoolmates are carving out reputation with more
manly implements. I am sure I was not born to slave
forever at the desk.”
“This may be all true, as, in my opinion, it is both
natural and reasonable,” said Amador, with gravity;
“for, it seems to me, man was brought into the world
for a nobler purpose than to scribble on paper. Yet
you have not made it apparent that the admiral's
wishes are in this matter consonant with your own.”
“I know not that they are,” replied the secretary,
“but, as I now feel myself at liberty, with both horse
and sword, I cannot help feeling that they ought to
be. How I can ever have the heart to return to my
bondage again, is more than I can tell; and I am
confident, if it were your favour's desire he should
grant me permission to follow you through this land,
he would make no opposition, the more particularly
that your favour is his kinsman.”
“I doubt whether the consent would not be wrung
from his courtesy; and I cannot well agree to rob
him of one who may be a valuable servant. Neither,
under such circumstances, can I think of encouraging
you in your ardour, or recommending you, at present,
to change your pursuits, for which you are better
fitted than for mine. Nay,” said the cavalier good-naturedly,
observing the chagrin of the youth, “if
you are resolutely bent on your purpose, it is my advice
you make your petitions to his excellency; and
when he has granted them, as doubtless he will, you
can, with a free mind, seek the patronage of some
cavalier engaged in these armies of invasion.—Hark!
the trumpet sounds louder and nearer, and by my faith,
I see on yonder rising ground the bodies of men and
the glimmer of weapons! Spur thy horse a little; (and,
I pr'ythee, fling thy shoulders a jot backwards, sitting
erect and at ease; for I promise thee, this manner of
riding, as if thou wouldst presently be hugging at thy
nag's neck, is neither becoming nor advantageous;)
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—spur me up a little, and we will join company with
them.”
The long and straggling train with which the travellers
caught up, just as it issued from the forest
upon an open tract of low sandy hills and plains, was
composed of motley materials. A few mounted men,
who, by their armour and bustling activity, seemed
the leaders and commanders, were scattered among
a horde of footmen, a portion of whom were armed
and ranked as a company of military, but the greater
part being the ordinary native labourers, who served
the office of mules, and bore on their backs the burdens
of the invaders. Some five or six score of these
swarthy creatures, followed by a dozen Castilian
crossbowmen and a single horseman, brought up the
rear. They stalked in a line one after another, each
bending to his burden; and in their uniformity of
equipment, gait, muscular figures, and solemn visages,
added not a little to the singularity of the spectacle.
A narrow strip of some vegetable texture, so rude
and coarse that it seemed rather a mat than a cloth,
was wrapped round the loins of each, leaving their
strong and tawny bodies otherwise naked. No sandal
protected their soles from the heated soil; and
no covering, save only the long and matted locks
swinging about their countenances, defended their
heads from the scorching sun. A huge basket of
cane, the petlacalli, or petaca of the Spaniards, carelessly
covered with matting, and evidently well charged
with military stores and provision, weighed upon
the shoulders of each, while it was connected by a
broad strap to the forehead. Thus burthened, however,
and thus exposed to a temperature which, as
the day advanced, seemed, in the open plains, nearly
intolerable to their Christian companions, they strode
on with a slow but vigorous step, each bearing a knot
of gay flowers or of brilliant feathers, wherewith he
defended his face from insects, and perhaps, occasionally,
his eyes from the dazzling reflection of the soil.
These were the Tlamémé, or carriers of Mexico.
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The eye of Amador, though at first attracted by
this singular train, dwelt with more surprise and
curiosity on the crossbowmen, who were sweltering,
in common with nearly every Christian of the party,
under the thick and uncouth investment of the
escaupil, a sort of armour which the invaders of
Mexico had not disdained to borrow from their despised
enemies. This consisted of nothing more than
garments of woollen or cotton cloth, cut as much
after the fashions of Spain as was possible, quilted so
thickly with cotton as to be able to resist the arrow-heads
and lance-points of the Indians; which virtue,
added to the facility with which it could be obtained
and adapted to every part of the body, gave the escaupil
a decided preference over the few pieces of
iron mail which the poverty of the combatants denied
them the power of extending to the whole frame.
In truth, so common had become this armour, that
there were few among the cavaliers of the conquest,
except those leaders who despised so unknightly and
so unsightly an attire, who were provided with any
other. Nevertheless many distinguished captains
concealed garments of this material under their iron
armour; and the common soldiers of Cortes, after
long experience, had fallen upon the plan of quilting it
in pieces imitative of morions and breast-plates, which
were far from being uncouth or unwieldy. But its
efficacy, though strongly explained and urged by the
secretary Fabueno, could not blind Don Amador to
its ungainliness, as seen in the fashions of raw recruits;
and even the solemn gravity of Baltasar was
changed to a grin of ineffable derision, and the good-humoured
vivacity of Lazaro to a laugh of contempt,
when the secretary advised the cavalier to provide
his followers with such coats of mail.
“What thinkest thou, Lazaro, rogue?” said Don
Amador, merrily. “Thou wert but a bitter groaner
over the only cut it was ever thy good hap to meet:
and that was by a fair and courteous pistol-shot,
which hath something of an oily way about it;
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whereas these infidel flints and hard woods gash as
painfully as an oyster-shell. What sayest thou?
Shall I give thee an escaupil, to save thee from new
lamentation?”
“May your honour live a thousand years!” said
the serving-man. “The tortoise to his shell, the
Turk to his turban: heaven never thrust a hornet
into the cocoon of a caterpillar, nor a lion into a
sheep's skin. Wherefore I will keep my sting and
my claws free from the cotton bags; the only merit
of which is, that when a man is wounded in them, he
has lint ever ready at his fingers.”
“For my part,” said Baltasar, “I am, in this matter,
much of Lazaro's way of thinking. Howsoever,
please your favour, when I see these lubberly lumps
fight more courageously than myself in my iron trifles,
I will straightway change my mind on the
subject.”
“Hold thy tongue, then,” said the cavalier, “lest
thou give offence to some of these worthy cottoncoats,
who have, in no manner, furnished thee with
cause for a quarrel.”
The cavalier rode on, followed closely by his attendants,
courteously returning the salutations which were
everywhere rendered to his apparent rank and martial
appearance by the Spanish portion of the train;
though not even the glitter of his mail, the proud
tramp of his war-horse, nor the stout appearance of
his followers, drew a glance from the Tlamémé. The
dull apathy which the oppression of ages has flung
over the spirits of Mexicans at the present epoch,
had already been instilled into the hearts of this class
of natives, which with some others, under the prevalence
of the common feudalism of barbarians, were
little better than bondmen. He rode slowly by them,
admiring the sinewy bulk of their limbs, and the ease
with which they moved under their heavy burdens.
The van of the train was formed by a score of
footmen, all arrayed in the escaupil, and all, with the
exception of some five or six, who bore firelocks,
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armed with sword and spear. A cavalier of goodly
presence, and well mounted, rode at their head; and
Amador, thinking he perceived in him the tokens of
gentle blood and manners, pressed forward to salute
him. The ringing of Fogoso's heels arrested the
attention of the leader, who, turning round and beholding
the gallant array of the stranger, instantly
returned upon his path, and met him with many courteous
expressions. At the very moment of meeting,
Amador's eye was attracted by a figure, which,
in making way for the steed of the leader, had well-nigh
been trodden under the hoofs of his own; and in
which, when removed from this peril, he instantly
remarked the spare person and haggard countenance
of the Moor. Holding fast to the hand of the Almogavar,
and indeed, for an instant, while the danger
lasted, wrapped anxiously in his arms, was a boy,
whose youth and terror might have won a second
notice, had not the salutation of the officer immediately
occupied his attention.
“The señor Amador de Leste,” said he—“Thou
varlet of an infidel. I will strike thee with my lance!”
(This menacing objurgation was addressed to the
Moor, at the moment when, most endangered, he
wavered with his boy between the horses.) “The
señor Amador de Leste,” he continued, as the Moor,
recovering himself, cowered away, “will not be surprised
to find his coming expected, and his presence
welcomed, by the general Narvaez, or by his excellency's
humble friend and captain, Juan Salvatierra.”
“Señor Salvatierra, I give you good thanks,” replied
Amador; “and although I know not what
avant-courier has proclaimed the approach of so
obscure an individual as myself, I will not, for that
reason, receive your courtesy less gratefully.”
“I have with me here,” said Salvatierra, with a
stately condescension, “several of your fellow-voyagers
of the caravel; among whom it would have been
strange indeed if any had forgotten the name of so
honourable a companion.”
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“Those cavaliers of the caravel,” said Amador,
dryly, “who condescend to claim me as a companion,
do me thereby a greater honour than I am
desirous to do myself. My companions are, as you
may see, my two men-at-arms; to which we will at
present add the young señor, Fabueno, whom, as the
secretary of his excellency the admiral Cavallero, I
am not indisposed to acknowledge.”
There was something in the tone of the haughty
and even arrogant neophyte, that might have nettled
his new friend; but its only effect, beside bringing a
little colour upon his rather pallid cheeks, was to rob
his suavity of somewhat of its loftiness.
“It is for hidalgos and cavaliers of knightly orders,”
he said, “and not for ignoble adventurers, to aspire
to the fellowship of a valiant knight of San Juan.”
“I am no knight of San Juan,” said Amador, “but
a simple novice, who may one day claim admission
to the illustrious order (by right of birth,) or not, as
it may please the destinies and mine own humour.
Nevertheless I have much pleasure to speak of the
order and its valiant brothers, at every opportunity,
and at the present moment I am moved to ask your
favour, as relying much on your knowledge, what
tidings have been last had of the good knight Calavar,
an eminent branch of that most lordly, though thunder-stricken,
stock.”
“Concerning the knight of Calavar,” said Salvatierra
blandly, “it is my grief to assure you that his
madness—”
“Call it his melancholy! or his humour!” said Amador,
sternly; “and let it be some mitigation to your
surprise, if my correction sound like a rebuke, to
know that I am his kinsman.”
Again did the colour mount into the cheeks of the
cavalier, and again did his courtesy, or his discretion,
get the better of the impulse that raised it.
“The kinsman of that valiant and renowned gentleman,”
he said politely, “shall command me to any
epithet he chooses. The señor De Leste will
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doubtless ament to hear that his kinsman, with an eccentricity
scarce worthy his high birth and knightly dignity,
still stoops to be the follower of an inferior and
rebel, the outcast and proclaimed outlaw, Hernan
Cortes.”
“As far as my own judgment is concerned in this
matter, señor caballero,” said Amador coolly, “I very
much doubt whether I shall lament that circumstance
at all. The knight Calavar will not disparage his
dignity or his profession, by choosing to serve where
a little-minded man might covet to command. Such
a condescension in him, besides being a new proof of
magnanimity and fidelity to his vows, whereby he is
sworn never to make peace with the infidel, is only
an evidence to me that the cavalier Cortes, whom
you call a rebel and outlaw, must be a man worthy
of much more respectful appellations; as indeed,
methinks, your own reflections should show you
must be the due of any associate of the knight of
Calavar.”
The unaffected surprise, and even consternation,
with which the follower of Narvaez heard the neophyte
thus speak of his leader's enemy, might perhaps
have urged Amador to the utterance of commendations
still more unequivocal, had not his eye at
that moment been caught by the shadow on the sand
of a man striding nearer to the flanks of Fogoso than
he had supposed any footman to be. His own position
was near the side of the company of musketeers
and spearmen mentioned before; his followers, not
being willing to obtrude upon the privacy of the
cavaliers, had fallen a little back; and the Morisco,
as he took it for granted, was lagging some distance
behind. His surprise was therefore not a little excited,
when looking round, he beheld the Almogavar
so close at his side as to be able to overhear all that
was said, and drinking his words with an expression
of the intensest interest.
“Son of a dog!” cried Salvatierra, who beheld
him at the same time, and who was not unwilling to
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vent some of the gall that Amador had raised in his
bosom, upon so legitimate an object,—“I will see if
I cannot teach thee how to thrust thyself among soldiers
and hidalgos!”
“Softly, señor Caballero!” cried Amador, observing
the captain raising his lance; “strike not Abdalla;
for I have it in my power to inform you, that, although
in some sense your prisoner, and, to the eye
of a stranger, a most helpless and wretched varlet,
he has shown himself to be possessed of a spirit so
worthy of respect, that you will do yourself foul
shame to strike him.”
The lance of the cavalier was turned away from
the shrinking Moor.
“Don Amador de Leste shall command my weapon,
whether it be to smite or to spare,” said Salvatierra,
smothering the rage which every word and
action of the neophyte seemed fated to inspire, and
advancing to the head of the train.
“Harkee, Sidi Abdalla,” continued Amador, beckoning
complacently to the retiring Morisco, “it is not
in my nature to see indignity of any kind heaped
upon a man who hath not the power of vengeance,
and especially a man who hath in him the virtue of
courage, without raising a hand in his defence.”
“My lord speaks the truth,” said Abdoul, with a
subdued voice; “the Almogavar hath not the power
of vengeance:—The strong man may strike him, the
proud may trample, and he cannot resist; the cavalier
may wound with the lance, the soldier may smite
with the unthonged bow.—It is all one;—his head is
bare, his breast open, his hand empty:—he can neither
resist nor avenge.”
“By St. John of Jerusalem,” said the cavalier
warmly, moved to a stronger feeling for the friendless
Morisco, “I remember, as was confessed by that
beast of a Canary captain, that when thine enemies
were on thy decks, and thy friends fled from thy side,
(for which they deserved to sink to the bottom, as
they did;) thou hadst the courage to discharge thy
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mangonneau into the victorious trader; for which
reason chiefly, but partly because thou hast avowed
thyself a Christian proselyte, I will take it upon me,
as far as it may be in my power, to be thy protector
and champion.”
“My lord is good,” said the Moor, bending his
head low on his breast; “and in the day of my death
I will not forget his benevolence. The Almogavar
was born to grief; trouble came at his first hour; his
first breath was the sigh of Granada, his first cry
was mingled with the groans of his enslaved people
his first look was on the tears of his father. Sorrow
came in youth, anguish in manhood, and misery is in
the footsteps of years. My lord is great and powerful;
he protects me from the blow of a spear.—He
can save me from a grief that strikes deeper than a
thousand spears!”
“As I am a true gentleman and Christian,” said
Amador, “I will hold to my word, to give thee protection
and aid, as far as my power lies.”
“The feeble boy that totters over these scorching
sands!” said the Moor, raising his eyes wistfully to
the cavalier, and turning them for an instant with a
look of unspeakable wildness to his son.—The cavalier
looked back, in that momentary pause, and beheld
the young Morisco. He seemed a boy of not
more than twelve years. The soldier judged only
from his stature, for a garment of escaupil of unusual
thickness completely invested and concealed his
figure; while his face drooping, as if from weariness,
on his breast, was hidden by a cap slouching in disorder,
and by long ringlets that fell in childish profusion
over his shoulders.
“The boy!” continued Abdalla, turning again to
the neophyte, and raising his clasped hands as if in
supplication. “Is it fit his tender years should be
passed among the horrors of a camp? among the
dangers of a wild war? among the vices and contaminations
of a brutal soldiery? If it were possible,”—
and here the voice of the Almogavar trembled with
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eagerness;—“if it were possible that boy could be
sent to Granada,—nay, to Barbary,—anywhere,
where, for his father's sake, he should be granted a refuge
and asylum; then might the curse be uttered,
the blow struck, and Abdoul, receiving it as the payment
of his debt, would not call upon his lord for
vengeance.”
“Thou heardest from the admiral,” said Amador,
“how impossible would be the gratification of such
a wish; since, even were he parted from this shore,
it rests with another, who, I can, upon mine own
knowledge, assure thee, is not likely to help him on
his way, whether he shall not waste his days among
the planters of the islands; who, according to common
report, are not a whit less wild and debauched
than their friends here in Mexico.”
“God is just!” cried the Moor, clasping his hands
in despair.
“Nevertheless,” continued Amador, “I will not
fail to make thy petition, backed with my own request,
to the señor Narvaez; and at the worst, it is not improbable
some good cavalier may be found who will
consent to receive him as a page, and treat him with
kindness.”
“God is just!” reiterated the Moor, with a gloomy
sorrow; “and the arrow of the savage may save
him from the wrong of the Christian.”
“I tell thee again,” said Amador, “I will not forget
to do my best for his welfare, at the first opportunity.
But tell me, Abdalla”—The Morisco was
dropping behind: he returned.—“I had forgotten to
ask thee a question for which I first called thee. I
was speaking to this hot-tempered captain of the
knight Calavar—By heaven! it was thus I saw thine
eyes sparkle before! Is there any magic in the name,
that it should move thee to such emotion?”
“The knight Calavar,” said the Morisco, “was
among the conquerors of the Alpujarras; and how
can I hear his name, and not bethink me of the black
day of my country? His name is in our Moorish
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ballads; and when the orphan sings them, he mourns
over the fate of his father.”
“That the knight Calavar did good service among
those rebellious mountaineers, I can well believe,”
said the cavalier, hastily; “but that he did not temper
his valour with mercy, is an assertion which no
man can make to me with perfect safety. As to
those ballads of which you speak, I am not certain
if they be not the invention of some devilish magician,
opposed to honourable war and glory; since it is their
sole purpose to keep one thinking of certain sorrowful
particulars, that may be a consequence of victory
and conquest, such as tearful widows and destitute
orphans; and I must declare, for mine own part, such
is the mischievous tendency of these madrigals, that
sometimes, after hearing them, I have had my imagination
so enchanted, as to look with disgust at war,
and almost to lament that I ever had struck at the
life of a human being. I shall like well to have thy
boy sing to me; but, as I will tell him beforehand,
it must be of lovelorn knights, and of knights going
to battle, and never a word about widows and
orphans.”
CHAPTER VI.
At midday, the squadron, after having accomplished
more than half the journey, halted for rest
and refreshment on the banks of a little river, under
the shade of pleasant trees. The Tlamémé threw
down their bundles, and, apart from the rest, betook
themselves to their frugal meal. A plaintain, a cake
of maize, or a morsel of some of the nameless but
delicious fruits of the clime, perhaps growing at their
side, prepared them for the enjoyment of slumber;
while the Spaniards, grouped among the trees, added
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to this simple repast the more substantial luxury of
the tasajo, or jerked beef of the islands.
As for the cavalier De Leste, not having bethought
him to give orders for the preparation of such needful
munitions, he was glad to accept the invitation of
the captain Salvatierra to share his meal; and this
he did the more readily, that, having entered into
farther conversation with the leader, after the affair
of the lance, it was the good fortune of this gentleman
to stumble upon no more offensive topics. In
addition to this, he observed with great satisfaction,
that Salvatierra, preserving among his subalterns the
stateliness which he had vailed to the neophyte, did
not mean to trouble him with their society; and it
was only at his express desire that the secretary Fabueno
was admitted to partake of their repast. The
excellent taste of the worthy commander, or perhaps
the wisdom of his attendants, several of whom, both
Christian and pagan, being in constant waiting, gave
him an appearance of great rank and importance,
had provided a stock of food, which, in variety and
quantity, might have satisfied the hunger of half the
squadron. Here, besides the heavenly anana, the
grateful manioc, and other fruits and roots with
which the cavalier had become acquainted in the
islands, he was introduced to the royal chirimoya,
the zapote, and other fruits as new as they were delicious.
But, above all these delights with which
Providence has so bountifully enriched the lands of
Mexico, did Don Amador admire the appearance of
certain fowls, which, though neither reeking nor
smoking with their savoury juices, but drawn cold
from their covering of green leaves, were of so agreeable
a character as to fill his mind with transport.
“Either this land is the very paradise of earth!”
said he, “or, señor Salvatierra, you have the most
goodly purveyors among your household, that ever
loaded the table of man. I will be much beholden
to your favour to know the name of this fowl I am
eating, which, from its bulk, one might esteem a
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goose, but which, I am sure, is no such contemptible
creature.”
“That,” said the leader, “is a sort of great pheasant,
the name of which I have not yet schooled my
organs to pronounce, but which, being taken among
the hills and trained in the cottages of the Indians,
becomes as familiar and loving as a dog; and is
therefore always ready when its master is hungry.”
“By my life, then!” said Amador, “I am loath to
eat it; for it seems to me, the creature that loves us
is more worthy to be consecrated in the heart, than
immolated to the cravings of the stomach. I will
therefore desire to know something of that other featherless
monster at your elbow, previous to determining
upon its fitness for mastification.”
“Your favour need entertain no scruples about
this bird,” said the captain; “for although domesticated,
and kept by the Indians about their houses in
great flocks, it hath too much affection for itself to
trouble itself much about its masters. It is a kind of
peacock, and without possessing any of the resplendent
beauty of that animal, it is endowed with all its
vanity and pride; so that, when strutting about with
its shaven head and long-gobbeted beard, its feathers
ruffled in a majestic self-conceit, our soldiers have
sometimes, for want of a better name, called it el
Turco.”
“A better name could not have been invented,”
said the neophyte; “for if it be true, as is sometimes
asserted by those who know better than myself, that
heretics and infidels are the food of the devil, I know
no morsel should be more agreeable to his appetite
than one of those same pagans that give name to this
foolish and savoury creature.”
The thoughts of Amador, as he sat testing the
merits of the noble fowl, which is one among the
many blessings America, in after days, scattered over
the whole world, wandered from Mexico to Rhodes,
from the peaceful enjoyment of his dinner to the uproar
and horror of a siege, from a dead fowl to the
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turbaned Turk; and then, by a similar vagary, jumped
at once from the magnificent infidel to the poor Morisco
who had lately trod the desert at his side. As
the image of Abdoul al Sidi entered his brain, he
looked round and beheld the proselyte sitting with
his boy in the shadow of a palm, remote from the
rest; and a pang smote him, as he perceived, that,
among the scores who sat glutting their appetites
around, not one had dropped a morsel of food into
the hands of the Almogavar or his child.
“Harkee, Lazaro, thou gluttonous villain!” he
cried, with a voice that instantly brought the follower,
staring, to his side; “dost thou feed like a
pelican, and yet refuse to share thy meal, as a pelican
would, with a helpless fellow of thy race? Take
me this lump of a Turk to Sidi Abdalla, and bid him
feed his boy.”
“I will suggest to your favour,” said the captain
Salvatierra, with a grin, “that Lazaro be directed to
bring the urchin hither, with his lute, of which it is
said he is no mean master; and before he eats he
shall sing us a song, which, thus, he will doubtless execute
with more perfection than after he has gorged
himself into stupidity or the asthma.”
“I agree to that, with all my heart,” said the neophyte.
“The boy can sing while we are eating, provided
the poor fellow be not too hungry.”
Lazaro strode to the Moriscos; and in an instant,
as they rose, Amador beheld the Sidi take the instrument
from his own back where he had carried it, and
put it into the hands of his offspring. The boy received
it, and, as Amador thought, removed the gay covering,
with a faltering hand. Nevertheless, in a few
moments, this preparation was accomplished, and,
with Abdalla, the stripling stood trembling from weariness
or timidity at the side of the group.
“Moor,” said Salvatierra, before Amador had
commenced his benevolent greeting, “the noble and
valiant cavalier hath charitably commanded thou
shouldst eat thy dinner at our feet; which whilst thou
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art doing, we will expect thy lad to entertain us with
such sample of his skill in luting and singing as may
make our own repast more agreeable.”
“That is, if the boy be not too hungry,” said the
good-natured neophyte. “I should blush to owe my
pleasures to any torments of his own, however slight;
and (as I know by some little famine wherewith we
were afflicted at Rhodes,) there is no more intolerable
anguish with which one can be cursed, than this same
unhumoured appetite.”
“Jacinto will sing to my lord,” said the Almogavar
submissively.
But Jacinto was seized with such a fit of trembling,
as seemed for a time to leave him incapable; and
when, at last, he had sufficiently subdued his terror,
to begin tuning his instrument, he did it with so slow
and so hesitating a hand, that Salvatierra lost patience,
and reproved him harshly and violently.
It happened, unluckily for the young Moor, that,
at that moment, the eye of Amador wandered to Fogoso,
and beheld him wallowing, with more of the
spirit of a yeoman's hog than a warrior's charger,
in a certain miry spot near to which he had been
suffered to crop the green leaves. He called hastily
and wrathfully to Lazaro, and, in his indignation, entirely
lost sight of his dinner, his host, and the musician.
“Whelp of a heathen!” said Salvatierra to the
shrinking lad: “hast thou no more skill or manners,
but to make this accursed jangling, to which there
seems no end? Bestir thyself, or I will teach thee
activity.”
The boy, frightened at the violence of the soldier,
rose to his feet, and dropping his instrument in alarm,
clung to Abdalla. The wrath of the hot-tempered
Salvatierra exceeded the bounds of decorum and of
humanity. He had a twig in his hand, and with this
he raised his arm to strike the unfortunate urchin.
But just then the neophyte turned round, and beheld
the act of tyranny.
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“Señor!” he cried, with a voice even more harsh
and angry than his own, and seizing the uplifted hand
with no ceremonious grasp,—“Señor! you will not
so far forget your manhood as to do violence to the
child? Know that I have taken him, for this journey,
into my protection; know also, thou canst not inflict
a stripe upon his feeble body, that will not degrade
thee into the baseness of a hind, and that will not
especially draw upon thee the inconvenience of mine
own displeasure!”
The heart of Salvatierra sunk before the flaming
countenance of the cavalier: but observing that several
of his nearest followers had taken note of the insult,
and were grasping their arms, as if to avenge
it, he said with an air of firmness,
“The señor De Leste has twice or thrice taken occasion
to requite my courtesies with such shame as is
hard to be borne, and in particular by interfering
with the just exercise of my authority; and I have
to assure him, that when the duties of my office shall
release me from restraint, his injuries shall not be unremembered.”
“If thou art a hidalgo,” said the cavalier sternly,
“thou hast the right to command me; if of ignoble
blood, as from thy deportment to this trembling child,
I am constrained to believe, I have, nevertheless,
eaten of thy bread and salt, and cannot refuse to
meet thee with such weapons and in such way as
thou mayest desire; and to this obligation do I hold
myself bound and fettered.”
Some half-dozen followers of the captain had
crowded round their leader, and were lowering ominously
and menacingly on the neophyte. Lazaro
and Baltasar beheld the jeopardy of their master,
and silently but resolutely placed themselves at his
side; nay, even the youthful Fabueno, though seemingly
bewildered, as if doubting on which side to array
himself, had snatched up his bloodless sabre; and
it seemed for an instant as if this unlucky rupture
might end in blows. The señor Salvatierra looked
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from his followers to the angry hidalgo; the flush
faded from his cheek; and it was remarked by some
of his soldiers, not a little to his dispraise, that when,
as if conquering his passion, he motioned them to retire,
it was with a hurried hand and tremulous lip.
“The señor de Leste is right,” he said, with a disturbed
voice; “I should have done myself dishonour
to harm the boy; and although the reproof was none
of the most gentle and honeyed, I can still thank him
that it preserved me from the shame of giving too
much rein to my ill-temper. I therefore forget the
injury, as one that was merited, discharge my anger
as causeless, and desiring rather to devote my blood
to the subjugation of pagans, than to squander it in
contest with a fellow-Christian, offer the hand of re-conciliation
and of friendship to Don Amador de
Leste.”
There was an appearance of magnanimity in this
confession of fault and offer of composition, that won
upon the good opinion of the neophyte; and he frankly
gave his hand to the captain. Then turning to the
innocent cause of his trouble, who, during the time
that there seemed danger of a conflict, had exhibited
the greatest dismay, he found him sobbing bitterly in
the arms of Abdalla.
“Poor child!” said the benevolent cavalier, “thou
art fitter to touch thy lute in the bower of a lady,
than to wake it among these wild and troubled deserts.
It is enough, Abdalla: conduct thy son to
some shade, where he may eat and sleep; and when
we renew our march, I will think of some device to
spare his tender feet the pain of trudging longer over
the sands.”
The Moor laid his hand on his heart, bowed with
the deepest submission and gratitude, and led the boy
away to a covert.
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CHAPTER VII.
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
“Didst thou observe, brother henchman,” said
Lazaro, as, after having completed his meal, and
taken good note of the tethers of the horses, he threw
himself on the ground by the side of Baltasar, as if
to imitate the other members of the party, who were
making what preparations they could for the indulgence
of the siesta,—“Didst thou observe, I say, old
sinner, that, this moment, we were like to have made
experience of the virtue of cotton corslets? By my
faith, this gentle master mine will not suffer our hands
to be idle, so long as there be savages to curse the
faith, or hidalgos to cross his humours. I am ever
bound to the magnanimous señor commander, that
he thought fit to swallow his wrath, and send me
those black-browed vagabonds back to their dinner:
for otherwise, I assure thee, there was much fear of
our supping in purgatory.”
“For my part,” said Baltasar, raising his head
from the saddle, which served him for a pillow, and
looking curiously round on the various groups, “I am
of opinion, there was more discretion than dignity
about that same captain, when he became so moderate
of a sudden; for so sure as he was very foolish
to get into a quarrel with the boy Amador, who, I am
free to say, is no way unworthy to be a kinsman and
esquire of my master the knight, so surely would the
boy have dinged the feathers off his gilt casque with
the first blow; and how much of his head might have
followed the feathers, is more than I will take upon
me to determine.”
“Thou art so hungry after war,” said Lazaro,
“thou canst not perceive the valour of foregoing an
opportunity of battle now and then. Hast thou
never seen a man turn pale from anger, as well as
cowardice?”
“Of a truth, I have,” said the veteran; “and,
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provided there be a steady countenance along with it,
this sickly hue is ever a sight to be dreaded more
than the woman's blush, which some men fall into in
their anger. But a coward's mouth is always playing
him dog's tricks: I have sometimes seen the
nether lip shake in a brave man; but when the trembling
is all up in the corners, as I have learned to
know, after divers lessons, it is a sign the heart is in
a flutter. There are doubtless certain strings, whereby
the heart is fastened to the mouth; and it is when the
corners are writhing about in this cowardly snaky
manner, that the heart is drawn up further than is
comfortable; a thing, as I have no doubt, may have
sometimes happened to yourself.”
“If it have, may I become a Turk's slave!” said
Lazaro, with great indignation; “and if it do, I hope
it may be transformed, at that moment, from my
own mouth to a dog's, to be made a dinner of!”
“Thou art an ass to be in a passion, at any rate,”
said Baltasar, coolly, “and a very improbable idiot,
to deny, in thy vain-glory, what has happened to
braver men than thyself; and, which I am free to
confess, has sometimes chanced to myself, especially
in my youth, when I first went to fight the Moors;
and, I very well remember, that besides perceiving
there was a sort of emptiness under my ribs, on such
occasions, I could feel my heart beating at the back
of my throat as plainly as I ever felt the arrow-heads
tapping about my buckler. But it always went to its
place again, when we were come to close quarters.”
“May I die of the bastinado, if I ever felt any such
thing!” said Lazaro, proudly. “I was born without
any such gaingiving; and the only uncomfortable
feeling I have had, under such circumstances, was a
sort of cold creeping about the stomach, as if it were
raining inside of me.”
“Or as if there was a cold air brewing in your
gizzard!” said Baltasar, triumphantly. “That is the
very same thing,—the emptiness, I was talking about;
and if you never felt the beating in your throat, it
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was because your heart was in such a fit of fright as
to have no power of beating left.”
“Ay! that may be,” said Lazaro, with a grin:
“that beating is a business I keep for my arm, and
when that is in service, my heart is ever wise enough
to be quiet. But concerning the captain,—Dost thou
really esteem him a coward?”
“Who knows?” said the veteran. “A man may
be once in fear, and strong-hearted ever after. Yet
was there such a working about that cavalier's mouth,
as made me think he longed to strike Don Amador,
if he durst, and which still persuades he has some bitter
thoughts about the matter of the insult: for, as you
may remember, Don Amador said he was more of
a hind than a hidalgo, with other such loving remarks
as might stir a man's choler. For this reason, I am
of opinion it will be good service of thee to thy master,
to keep thine eyes open while he is taking his
siesta, lest, mayhap, some mischief might come to
him sleeping.”
“I am ever bound to your goodnatured discretion,”
said Lazaro, with a laugh. “I have no doubt it
would be more profitable to sit for an hour or two,
watching the sunbeams stealing through the wood,
than, for the same time, to slumber and snore, without
any other amusement than an occasional buffeting
of one's nose, to keep the flies off. I will therefore
surrender this agreeable privilege to thyself, as being
my senior and better; while I nap a little, and that
so lightly, that if an emmet do but creep near my
master, I shall hear the rustling of his footsteps. But
hark'ee, Baltasar: there is much wit about thee, for
an old man that has endured so many hard knocks;
and ever, about once in an hundred times, I have
found thy conjectures to be very reasonable. What
is thy opinion concerning those infidel Moors under
the bush yonder? and by what sort of magic dost
thou suppose they have so wrought upon our commander,
that he will neither suffer lance-shaft nor
cane-twig to be laid upon them?”
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“Ay, there they are!” said Baltasar, looking towards
the father and son. “The boy lies with his
head on Abdalla's knee, and Abdalla covers him with
his skin mantle; and the mantle shakes, as if the boy
were sobbing under it.—It is my opinion, the lad has
been used to milder treatment than he seems likely to
meet in these parts, unless Don Amador should see
fit to take him into his own keeping; and it is also my
opinion, if he be so much affected at the sight of a
green twig, he will go nigh to die of terror at the
flash of a savage's sword.”
“That is an opinion I have, in part, formed for
myself,” said the junior coolly: “and one that I
think is shared in common with every other person
in this quilted company, that has looked in the manikin's
face.”
“It is as white,” said Baltasar, “as that mountain
top we saw from the caravel; whereas the children
of common Moriscos are much the hue of my own
weather-beaten boots.”
“The boy was in a most pestilent fright,” said Lazaro,
“and therefore somewhat more snowy than
was natural; nevertheless, I have seen darker skins
among the damsels of La Mancha.”
“And he is, in a manner, well figured and comely,”
said the veteran.
“If thou hadst said he was such a Ganymede as
might hold the wine-cup and trencher to a princess,
I should have thought better of thine eye-sight. By
cross and spear! he has such eyes as I shall be glad
to find in any wench I may be predestined to marry.”
“And his hand,” said Baltasar, “is as small as a
hidalgo's son's. He hath an amiable countenance,
and such gravity in it, when not disturbed, as belongs
to older years; and he ever keeps it bent to the earth,
as if to shun observation.”
“Ay; I see what thou art driving at,” said Lazaro,
significantly. “Thou thinkest Sidi Abdalla is some
infidel prince of Granada—a Zegri or Abencerrage—”
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“I think no such thing,” said Baltasar, gruffly. “I
have fought, myself, hand to hand, with a Zegri,
while my young lord Gabriel was cleaving the head
of another; to which knightly and majestic infidels
the wretch Sidi bears such resemblance as, in comparison,
doth the hedge-hog to a leopard.”
“Thou art of opinion then, doubtless,” said Lazaro,
“that the boy Jacinto is some Christian nobleman's
son, stolen in his infancy by Sidi, to be made
a sacrifice to the devil?”
“I am no such ass,” said Baltasar, “to entertain
any such notion.”
“A bird's flight by his feather, a beast's rage by
his claw, and a man's thoughts by his tongue,” said
Lazaro; “but how I am to judge thee, is more than
I know. What a-God's name, dost thou think then
of these Christian heathens?”
“I think nothing at all,” said Baltasar, dryly: “I
only wonder by what chance a Morisco boor came
to have so tender and so handsome a boy.”
“Well, heaven be with thee, old oracle,” said Lazaro,
laying his head on his saddle: “If I should resolve
thy wonder in my dreams, I will enlighten thee
when I wake.”
The veteran gave a look to the horses,—to his
master, who, by the attentions of the captain Salvatierra,
had been enabled to enjoy the luxury of a hammock,
slung between two trees,—to the Moor, who
sat watching over his child,—to the Tlamémé, who
slumbered by their packs,—to the Spaniards, who
slept, as they had eaten, in groups,—to the few sentinels
who stood nodding under the trees,—and then,
dismissing all care, as if satisfied with the security
of the motley encampment, he was not slow to follow
the example of his companion.
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CHAPTER VIII.
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Two or three hours before sunset, the sleepers were
roused to renew their march. Horses were saddled
and armour buckled, and Don Amador de Leste
mounted his steed with great satisfaction at the
thought of still further diminishing the distance that
separated him from his knight. As the train began
to ford the rivulet, he turned round and beckoned to
Abdoul, who, with Jacinto, had taken the station assigned
them behind the musketeers.
“Sidi Abdalla,” said he, “I have thought it a great
shame that thy weary boy should trudge over these
sands afoot, when such men as myself and my people
are resting our lazy limbs on horseback. I have
therefore given order to my soldier, Lazaro, to take
the youth behind him; whereby much discomfort and
suffering may be avoided.”
“My lord will scorn the thanks of the poor Morisco,”
said Abdoul, humbly. “Sleep, and the food
which it pleased my noble lord to give to the boy,
have so refreshed his strength and his spirits, that
now, in the pleasant evening air, he will journey
without pain, as he has often, of yore, in the deserts
of Barbary. And let not my lord be displeased to
know, that Jacinto will be of better heart at the side
of his father, than on the saddle of my lord's servant.”
“If it be as thou sayest,” said the cavalier, “I am
content. Heaven forbid I should take him from thee,
but for his good; which, doubtless, thou must know
better how to compass than myself. Yet if he should
at any time grow weary, make me acquainted with it,
and Lazaro shall be still prepared to give him relief.”
The Moor bent his head to the ground, and fell
back; while Amador, followed by his attendants and
the secretary, rode to the head of the train.
No occurrence of moment interrupted the monotony
of the journey, until a thunderstorm, accompanied
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by rain, drove them for shelter into a forest, where
their march was interrupted for a time. But with a
capriciousness equal to the fury with which they had
gathered, the clouds parted and vanished in the sunbeams;
the earth was gladdened; the trees shook
the liquid treasure from their leaves; a breeze came
from the distant surges; and, resuming their path,
the train and cavalcade went on their way rejoicing.
As they advanced, and as the day declined, the
country assumed a more agreeable aspect; the woods
were thicker and more luxuriant; the mountains approached
nearer to the sea, and the streams gambolled
among piles of rocks, instead of creeping sluggishly
through the sands; the flowers were more
abundant, and the birds, resuming their songs, prepared
their vespers for the sinking luminary. At last
he set: the curlew wheeled his last flight; the plover
sent his last whistle, from the air; and the stars,
stealing out from the dusky arch, shed their celestial
lustre over the path of the travellers. With these
lamps of heaven, were also lit the torches of the cucujos,—
those phosphorescent beetles, with which Don
Amador had been made acquainted in the islands.
But he did not the less admire the splendour of the
spectacle, when he saw these resplendent insects
glistening among the trees, or flashing by him like
little meteors. The moon rose from the sea; and as
her mellow radiance streamed over the tree tops, or
sheeted itself on the sands, and as a thousand delicious
scents came to the nostrils of the soldier, he
thought he had never before, not even when watching
the same planet in the calm bosom of the Levantine
sea, looked upon a scene of more beautiful repose.
The commander of the squadron had not,
since the affair of the dinner, thought fit, frequently,
to trouble Don Amador with his presence; but by
the murmurs of satisfaction and curiosity which were
breathed about him, the cavalier knew he was approaching
the Indian city Zempoala. The party issued
from the wood upon what seemed a fair waving
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plain, dotted, in certain places, with clumps of trees,
and doubtless, in other spots, enriched with plantations
of maize and bananas. In the distance, from a
dark and shadowy mass, which might have been a
lofty grove or a low hillock, and whose gloom was
alike broken by the glare of insects and the flash of
many flambeaux, arose three lofty towers, square
and white, and glittering in the moonbeams as if
covered over with plates of silver.
“Zempoala!” whispered an hundred voices, as
these gleaming fabrics came fairly into view. The
languid horseman raised himself on his saddle; the
foot-soldier strode onwards with a firmer and quicker
step; and at each moment, as the three towers reflected
the moonbeams with increasing brilliancy,
more torches flickered and more structures were
seen shining among the trees; and it was evident to
Don Amador that he was approaching a city or town
of no little magnitude.
The secretary had pressed to his side, and over-hearing
his exclamations of surprise, took the liberty
of addressing him.
“Señor,” he cried, “they say this pagan city is
bigger and lovelier than Seville. I have often before
heard of the Silver Towers; for truly, when the men
of Cortes first saw them, they thought they were built
of blocks of plate, and rode forward to hack away
some samples with their swords; whereupon, to their
great shame and disappointment, they discovered the
brilliance to be owing to a certain white and polished
plaster, with which these barbarians have the art to
beautify their temples.”
“Are these then the sanctuaries of the fiend?” said
the neophyte, raising himself, and surveying the structures
with a frown of infinite hostility: “It drives me
to little esteem, to know that the señor Narvaez and
his companions should rest in sight of these accursed
places, without hurling them to the dust.”
“They are no longer the houses of devils,” said
Lorenzo: “Cortes, the great rebel, tore the idols
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from their altars, and putting an image of Our Blessed
Lady in their place, consecrated them forthwith to
the service of God.”
“I hear nothing of Cortes, that does not convince
me he is a truly noble and faithful cavalier,” said
Amador, with emphasis.
“There can be no doubt of that,” said the secretary;
“nevertheless, if I may presume to advise your
favour, I would beseech you not to mention the name
of Cortes among these men of Narvaez; or at least,
not with the respect which you may think his due.”
“Dost thou know,” said Amador, addressing Fabueno
so sternly, as to cause him instantly to repent
his presumption: “dost thou know, that what thou art
saying is of so base and boorish a spirit, that, if it be
the true prompting of thy heart, thou art utterly unworthy
to take upon thee the arms, as thou art wholly
incapable of winning the fame, of a soldier? Know
thou, for it is good thou shouldst be told, that all
hypocrisy is the offspring of cowardice, and is therefore
impossible to be practised by a brave man: know
also, that when thou art deceiving man, thou art lying
to God, which is an impiety not to be thought of
by an honest man: and know, in conclusion, that
when thou art called upon for thy opinion, if thou
givest not that which is in thy heart, thou art guilty
of that hypocrisy which is cowardice, and that deceit
which is perjury.”
“I beg your worship's pardon,” said Lorenzo,
abashed and confounded, and somewhat bewildered
by the chivalrous and fastastic system of honour
disclosed in the reproof of the cavalier. “I meant
only to let your favour know, that there could be no
travelling beyond this Indian city, without the good
will of Narvaez and his officers, which might not be
gained by commending their enemy. And moreover,
señor, if you will suffer me to justify myself,—
while I confess it would be both cowardly and impious,
as your worship says, to conceal or alter a
sentiment, when it is called for, yet was I thinking it
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could be in no wise dishonourable to retain in our
own mind opinions not called for, particularly when
they might be disagreeable to those upon whom they
were thus, as I may say, forced.”
“By my faith, thou art, in a measure, very right,”
said Amador, “and I hereby recall any expressions
which may have reflected on thy courage or thy religion;
for, I perceive, thou wert only touching upon
the obligation all men are under not to force their
opinions upon others; an obligation of which I am
myself so sensible, that, provided I am not called
upon by the questions of these people, or the enforcements
of mine own honour, I shall surely utter nothing
to displease them. But canst thou tell me, se
ñor secretario, how far from this town lies the commander,
of whom we were speaking?”
“I have heard, only at the distance of two or three
leagues,” replied Fabueno; “but I should think, considering
the wisdom of Cortes, he would be fain to
increase that distance, as soon as he came to know
the strength of Narvaez. Your favour may see, by
the many torches glimmering through the streets,
and the many voices that go chanting up and down,
that there is a goodly multitude with him.”
“I see, by the same tokens,” said Amador, “he
has a set of riotous, disorderly vagabonds, who seem
to think they are keeping carnival in Christendom,
rather than defending a camp among infidels: and,
by St. John, I know not any very good reason, why
the valiant Cortes might not, this instant, with his
knot of brave men, steal upon the town, and snatch
it out of the hands of the Biscayan. There is neither
out-post in the field, nor sentinel in the suburbs!”
There seemed some grounds for this notion of the
cavalier. As he approached nearer to Zempoala,
there was audible a concert of sounds such as one
would not have looked for in the camp of a good
general. A great fire had been lit, as it appeared,
among the Silver Towers, the ruddy reflection of
which, mingled with the purer light of the moon, had
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given them so shining an appearance, even at a distance.
In this neighbourhood, as Amador judged by
the direction and variety of cries, was the chief place
of the revellers; though in divers quarters of the
town might be heard the voices, and sometimes the
musical instruments, of idle soldiers, struggling in
rivalry with the ruder songs and harsher instruments
of the natives. Besides the bonfires among the temples,
there was another in the quarter of the town
which the train was just entering, and apparently
upon the very street which they were to pass. The
cavalier had, however, underrated the vigilance of
the sentinels; for, just as he had concluded his denunciation,
the trumpet with which Salvatierra announced
his approach to his companions, was answered
by a flourish from the fire; and there was straightway
seen a group of armed men advancing to challenge
the party. In fact, an out-post was stationed
at the fire; the worthy warriors of which, in the absence
of any important duties, had got together the
means of amusement in the persons of certain Indian
tumblers and merry-andrews, who were diverting
them with feats of agility. Besides these tawny sons
of joyance, there were others of the same race,
whose business it was to add to the pleasures of the
entertainment the din of the musical instruments
common to barbarians; only, as it seemed to Amador,
that if there was nothing superior in the tone
or management of these which he now heard, they had
an advantage over those of the islanders, in being
wrought with greater skill and ornamented with a
more refined taste. Thus, of the little drums which
were suspended to the necks of the musicians, and
which were at least equal in sound to the tabours of
Europe, some were carved and painted in a very
gay manner; while the flutes of cane, though not
less monotonous than the pipes of other savages, had
about them an air of elegance, from being furnished
with pendants of rich flowers, or beautiful feathers.
As Amador rode by, his attention was in a
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measure diverted from the tumblers by the agitation of
Fogoso, who regarded neither the great fire nor the
wild looking artists with friendship; and when, having
subdued his alarm, he turned to gratify his wonder,
his eye was caught by the appearance of the Moor,
who had stolen to his side, and now stood with a countenance
even more disturbed than when shrinking
from the blow of Salvatierra, and with hands upraised
and clasped, as if to beseech his notice.
“My lord is benevolent to the friendless, and pitiful
to the orphan,” he cried anxiously, as soon as he
perceived that Amador regarded him; “he has been
the champion of the father, and the protector of the
son; and when the heart's blood of Abdoul can requite
his benefactor, Abdoul will not deny it.”
“Good Sidi,” said Amador, “that I have protected
both yourself and your son Jacinto, from unjust violence,
is more than can be denied; but why it is
needful to thank me so many times for the favour, is
more than I can easily understand. I must therefore
command you to find some more novel subject for
conversation.”
“My lord is a knight of Rhodes,” said Abdalla
quickly,” and therefore by vow bound to charity,
justice, pity, and all the other good virtues acknowledged
as well by infidels as Christians?”
“I am no knight; a novice of the order I may be
called,” said Amador, “but no knight; though,” he
added with a most dolorous sigh, “how soon I may
take the vows after returning from the lands of Mexico,
is more than I can pronounce. I have therefore
not bound myself by oath to any of those virtues of
which you spoke; but had you been born of a nobler
blood than I can account that of the lord of Fez,
you should have known, that, being a gentleman and
a Christian, I cannot release myself from any of their
natural obligations.”
“For myself,” said Abdalla, “though insult and
danger will come to me among these riotous soldiers,
who are the enemies of my race, and these
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barbarians, who are surely the enemies of all, I can submit
to my griefs; but Jacinto needs the arm of power
to protect him. If my lord will take him to be his
servant, he will be merciful to misfortune; the
prayers of gratitude will ascend to heaven; and the
love of a faithful boy will watch ever at his side like
the vigilance of an armed follower.”
“Art thou content the boy should be parted from
thee?” demanded Amador. “I know not how,
among these strange lands and unknown wildernesses,
I may be able to take that care of his tender
years which should be the duty of a good master;
nor, to tell thee the truth, do I know in what manner
I can make use of his services.”—
“Let not my lord despise his skill,” said the Almogavar,
“because his fright and weariness palsied
his hand, when he should have played before him.
He hath good skill with the lute, and he has in his
memory a thousand redondillas, with which he may
divert the leisure of my lord. Besides this skill, he
hath a fidelity which nothing can corrupt, and a loving
heart which, once gained by kindness, no temptation
can lure from his master: and in these qualities
will I vouch for him with my head. I know not in
truth,” continued Abdalla, faltering, “since he has
never before served a master, if he have any other
qualifications. But he is quick to acquire, and perhaps—
perhaps, he may soon learn to preserve the
armour of my lord—yes, he will soon make himself
useful to my lord.”
“The cleaning of my armour,” said Amador, in a
very matter-of-fact manner, “is a duty which belongs
particularly to Lazaro; whose fidelity, as well as that
of Baltasar, is of so unquestionable a character, that
it fully meets all the exigencies of my course of life.
I would therefore receive thy son chiefly out of a
hope to be comforted, at times, with his music; and
partly out of pity for his forlornness. He will doubtless
serve me as a page and cup-bearer; in which
capacity, promising to give him as much protection
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and kindness as may be in my power, I consent to
receive him.”
“And my lord will permit that I shall often see
him?” said Abdoul, eagerly.
“Surely I must desire thou shouldst,” said Amador,
“if it were possible thou couldst be in the same
army.”
Abdalla looked at the cavalier with a bewildered
and confused countenance, as if not understanding
him.
“I must acquaint thee, good Sidi,” said Amador,
“with one fact, of which thou seemest ignorant, and
which may wholly change thy desires in this matter.
Thy destination is to this town of Zempoala, and
mine to the very far city Tenochtitlan; thy fate is to
submit thee into the hands of the general Narvaez, as
thou hast heard, to serve him as a cannonier, while
mine is to betake myself to the general Cortes, his
sworn and most indomitable enemy. Thou mayest
therefore inquire of thyself, if thy boy go with me,
whether thou wilt ever again look upon him; a question
that I cannot myself answer in a satisfactory
manner. Make thy election, therefore, whether thou
wilt keep him at thy side, or entrust him to my guardianship;
being assured, that if the latter be thy desire,
I will bid thee call him, and straightway take him
into my keeping.”
“It cannot be!” said Abdalla, vehemently;—“I
cannot trust him from my sight: it cannot be! God
is just; and justice may come with misery!”
Thus lamenting, Abdoul al Sidi retired from the
side of the cavalier; and Amador, whose pity was
not a little touched, suffered his image to be crowded
from his mind by the new and strange spectacles
which were now opening upon him.
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CHAPTER IX.
While he still talked with the Morisco, Don Amador
was able to cast his eyes about him, and to perceive
on either side a great multitude of low houses
of wickered cane, which seemed to him more to resemble
gigantic baskets than the habitations of men;
but which, even in these latter days, are found sufficient
to protect the humble aborigines from the vicissitudes
of that benignant clime. Each stood by itself
in an enclosure of shrubs and flowers, and where
it happened that the inmates were within, with torches
or fires burning, the blaze, streaming through the
wattled walls, illuminated every thing around, and
disclosed the figures of the habitants moving about
like shadows in the flame. Other buildings, equally
humble in size, were constructed of less remarkable
but not less romantic materials; and where the moonbeams
fell over their earthen walls and palmy roofs,
both were often concealed by such a drapery of
vines and creeping flowers, perhaps the odoriferous
vanilla and the beautiful convolvulus, as might have
satisfied the longings of a wood-nymph. As the approached
nearer to the centre of the town, these
lowly and lovely cottages were exchanged for fabrics
of stone, many of them of considerable size, and
several with walls covered with the bright and silvery
plaster which ornamented the temples. Each
of these, the dwellings of the Tlatoani, or, as the
Spaniards called them, in the language of Santo Domingo,
the Caciques of the city,—stood alone in its
garden of flowers, with vines trailing, and palm-trees
bending over its roof, commonly in darkness, though
sometimes the myrtle-taper of a fair Totonac, (for
such was the name of this provincial people of the
coast,) or the oily cresset of a Spanish captain, who
had made his quarters wherever was a house to his
fancy, might be seen gleaming from behind the
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curtains of cotton stuff, which were hung at the doors
and windows. These sights had been seen by Amador,
while yet engaged in conversation with Abdalla;
but when the Morisco dropped sorrowfully away, he
found himself on the great square of the city, immediately
fronting the sanctuaries, and gazing upon a
scene of peculiarly wild and novel character. The
centre of the square was occupied by a broad, and
indeed a vast platform of earth, raised to a height of
eight or ten feet, ascended from all sides by half
as many steps,—having the appearance of a low
truncated pyramid, serving as a base to the three
towers which crowned it. Upon its summit or terrace,
immediately in advance of the towers, was
kindled a great fire, the blaze of which, besides illuminating
the temple itself and all the buildings which
surrounded the square, fell upon sundry groups of
Indian tumblers, engaged in feats of activity, as well
as upon a host of cavaliers who surveyed them close
at hand, and many throngs of common soldiers and
natives who looked on at a distance from the square.
Here the detachment was halted; the burthens of
the Tlamémé were deposited on the earth; the horses
were freed from their packs; and Amador, at the
suggestion of Salvatierra, dismounted, and leaving
Fogoso to the care of his attendants, and these again
to the disposition of the captain, ascended the pyramid,
followed by the secretary. He was somewhat
surprised, when this worthy commander, whom he
looked for to conduct him to the general, resuming
much of the stately dignity he had found it inconvenient
to support on the march, made him a low bow,
and informed him with much gravity he would find
the commander-in-chief either on the terrace among
his officers, or at his head-quarters in the middle
tower. The feeling of indignation which for a moment
beset him, would have been expressed, had not
Salvatierra with another bow retired, and had he
not perceived, at the same moment, the young Fabueno
draw from his girdle the letter which was
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doubtless to secure him the good-will of Narvaez.
Checking therefore his anger, he straightway ascended
the platform. Arrived at its summit, he now
beheld the scene which he had imperfectly witnessed
from below. The great fire, crackling and roaring,
added the ruddy glare of a volcano to the pallid illumination
of the moon; and in the combined light, the
operations of the gymnasts and dancers, the athletes
and jugglers, were as visible as if performed in the
glitter of noon-day. For a moment Amador thought,
as had been thought by all other Spaniards, when
looking for the first time on the sports of these barbarous
races, that he had got among a group of devils,
or at least of devilish magicians; and he crossed
himself with an instinctive horror, when he beheld,
so to speak, three piles of men, each composed of
three individuals, half-naked, standing one upon the
head or shoulders of another, whirling about in a
circle, and each, as he whirled, dancing on the head
or shoulders of his supporter and tossing abroad his
penacho, or long plume of feathers, as if diverting
himself on the solid earth. This spectacle entirely
distracted his attention from others scarcely less
worthy of observation,—as was indeed that, where
two men see-sawed on a pole, in the air, and, as
might be said, without support, except that which
was occasionally rendered by the feet of a sinewy
pagan, who lay on his back, and ever and anon, as
the flying phantoms descended, spurned them again
into the air. Such also was that magical dance of
the cords, brought from the unknown tribes of the
South, wherein a score of men, each holding to a
rope of some brilliant colour, and each decorated
with the feathers of the parrot and the flamingo,
whirled in fleet gyrations round a garlanded post,
till their cords were twisted together in a net of incomprehensible
complexity, but which, before the
observer had leisure to digest his amazement, were
again unravelled in the rapid and mysterious evolutions
of the dance. A thousand other such
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exhibitions, similar in novelty but different in character,
were displayed at the same moment; but the eyes
of the neophyte were lost to all but that which had
first astounded him; and it was not till the voice of
the secretary roused him from his bewitchment, that
he collected his senses, and observed an officer of
the household of the general standing before him,
and doing him such reverence as was evidently the
right of his dignity. It was then that Don Amador
looked from the dancers to the cavaliers whom they
were diverting. The fire flashed over the walls of
the square and lofty towers up to the shelving thatch
of palm-leaves, under which they were grouped,
making, with the glitter of their half-armed persons,
a suitable addition to the romance of the scene. In
the centre of that group which lounged before the
middle and loftiest tower, in a chair, or indeed, as it
might be called, a throne, of such barbaric beauty
as was known only to the magnificos of this singular
people, sat a cavalier, tall and somewhat majestic
of stature, with a ruddy beard, and yellow locks
falling over an agreeable countenance; in whom, not
so much from the character of his deportment and
the quality of his decorations, as from the evident
homage rendered him by the officers around, Don
Amador did not doubt he beheld the Biscayan general.
At the very moment when his eyes fell upon
this smiling dignitary, he was himself perceived by
the general; and Narvaez started up with a sort of
confusion, as if ashamed to be discovered in such
trivial enjoyment by so gallant a cavalier. In fact,
the glittering casque of steel had supplanted the velvet
cap on the head of the novice; and as he approached
in full armour, clad also in the dignity with
which he was wont to approach his fellows in rank,
Don Amador presented a figure, to say the least,
equally noble with that of the commander,—and,
what was no slight advantage in those days, with the
additional manifestation of high blood, such as was
certainly less questionable in him than in Narvaez.
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It seemed for a moment, as if the general would have
retreated into the temple, doubtless with the view of
assuming a more stately character for the interview;
but perceiving that Don Amador had already recognised
him, and was advancing, he changed his purpose,
and making a step forward to do honour to his
visiter, he stood still to receive him. The eyes of
all those gallant adventurers were turned from the
dancers to the new-comer; but Don Amador, not
much moved by such a circumstance, as indifferent
to their curiosity as their admiration, approached
with a stately gravity, and, making a courteous reverence
to the general, said,—
“I have no doubt it is my felicity at this present
moment to offer my devoirs to the noble and very
respected señor, the general Don Panfilo de Narvaez;
on the presumption of which, I, Amador de Leste, of
Cuenza, a novice of the holy hospital of St. John of
Jerusalem, do not hesitate to claim the hospitalities,
which, as an hidalgo of Spain, and kinsman of the
noble señor, the admiral Cavallero, your excellency's
confederate, I hold myself entitled to expect.”
“The very noble and valiant señor Don Amador
de Leste shall not claim those hospitalities in vain,”
said the general, with a voice whose natural and voluminous
harshness did not conceal an attempt at
amenity; “and I hope he will not anticipate in them
too little of the roughness of a soldier, by reason that
he has seen us unbending a little from the toils of
war to the foolish diversions of these ingenious
barbarians.”
“I will not take upon me to judge either of the
tactics or the recreations of your excellency,” said
Amador, very coolly. “I will only demand of your
favour to accept, at this present moment, such protestations
of respect as become me in my function of
suitor; and, in especial, to accredit my companion, the
secretary Fabueno, the messenger of the admiral, who
is charged with certain letters to your excellency, of
which, I believe, I am myself, in part, the subject.”
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“I receive them with respect, and I welcome the
very distinguished Don Amador with much joy,” said
Narvaez; “in token of which I must beg him to allow
himself to be considered, at least so long as he honours
my command with his presence, as my own peculiar
guest: and that I may the sooner know in what it
may be my happiness to do him service, I must entreat
him to enter with me into my poor quarters.”
With such superb expressions of etiquette, the
common compliments of an over-chivalrous age and
people, Don Amador was ushered into the interior
of the temple. A curtain of a certain strong and
checkered matting, that served the purpose of a door,
was pushed aside, and, entering with the general and
two or three of his most favoured officers, he found
himself in the heathen sanctuary. A table covered
with brilliant drapery of cotton—a product of the
country—and strewed over with pieces of armour,
as well as with divers vessels wherein glowed some
of the rich wines ripened by the breath of the Solano,
contained also a great silver cresset filled with oil
tempered with liquidambar, which, besides pervading
the whole atmosphere with a delicious odour,
shed abroad such a light as enabled Don Amador to
survey the apartment. It was of good height, and
spacious: the walls were hung with arras of a sombre-hued
cotton, and the floor covered with thick
matting. In one corner was a ladder, leading to the
upper chambers. Two sides of it were occupied by
a low platform, on which lay several mattresses
stuffed with the down of the ceiba; over one of which,
on a small altar of wood, illuminated by tapers of the
myrtle wax, was a little image of the Virgin. In this
chamber, the chief adoratory of the temple, where
now flashed the weapons of the iconoclasts, stood
once the altar of an idol, whose fiendish lips had been
often died with the blood of human sacrifices. There
were rude chairs about the table; and Amador, at
the invitation of the general, did not hesitate to seat
himself, and cast an eye of observation on his
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companions, while Narvaez, with the assistance of the
secretary, proceeded to decipher the advices of the
admiral.
The individuals with whom Amador found himself
in contact, were of a genteel and manly presence:
and though evidently burning with desire to make
the acquaintance of the novice of Rhodes, and certainly
also with curiosity to know what strange event
had cast him among themselves, had yet sufficient
breeding to conceal their anxieties,—excepting one,
who, although of riper years than the rest, and even
of more gravity of deportment, was nevertheless
twice or thrice guilty of a very inquisitive stare.
This Don Amador did himself at last perceive, and
felt greatly moved to discover the cause of so remarkable
a scrutiny. Nevertheless, before he had resolved
in what manner to commence the investigation, and
before the general had well looked into the advices
of the admiral, they were both interrupted in their
purpose by the abrupt intrusion of an officer, who,
approaching Narvaez, said something to him in a low
voice, of which all that Amador could distinguish
were the words, twice or thrice repeated, of nigromante
and astrologo. The officer received a direction
equally obscure with his information; and Amador
observed that as Narvaez gave it, his face flushed
over with some sudden excitement. The speculations
of the neophyte were soon terminated. Before the
curtain had yet closed upon the retreating officer,
the cavalier whose curious looks had attracted his
own attention, rose and addressed the general.
“Señor general and governor,” he cried, “I doubt
whether this knavish impostor be worthy your attention.
He is accounted both a liar and traitor, and
he can tell us nothing that will not be spoken to deceive
us.”
“The señor Don Andres de Duero cannot be better
persuaded of the man's character than myself,” said
the general; “and he will not assure me that a good
general can refuse to listen to any intelligence of his
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enemy, though it be brought by a traitor.—The noble
Don Amador de Leste will pardon me, if I make so
free with him, as in his presence to introduce and
examine a prisoner, or deserter, I know not which,
on matters which it concerns me as a commander to
know. And moreover,” continued the Biscayan, with
a laugh, “I know not what better diversion I can
give my guest, than to make him acquainted with a
man who pretends to read the mysteries of the stars
by night, and to have a devil who gives him knowledge
of men's destinies by daylight.”
Before Amador could reply to this appeal, the se
ñor Duero spoke again.
“Surely he can bring us no information of Cortes
which we have not received at better hands; and as
for his magical art, I think your excellency holds that
in too much doubt and contempt to set much store by
its crazy revelations.”
“What may be my doubt, and what my contempt
for his art,” said the general, “is more than I have
yet resolved: only there is one thing of which I am
quite certain, and that is, that, with the blessing of
Our Holy and Immaculate Lady, I defy the devil and
all his imps, whether they come at the bidding of a
heathenish magician or a Christian enchanter; and,
moreover, that if there be any knowledge to be gained
of the devil, without jeopardy of soul, one is a
fool not to receive it. Señor,” continued Narvaez, addressing
himself again to Amador, “I may as well
tell you, that the magician Botello, whom you will
presently behold, is a favourite soldier and chief enchanter
to that infidel rebel, Cortes, (whom God confound,
with all his mutinous friends and upholders,
high and low, strong and feeble, Amen!)—I say, señor,
his chief magician,” continued the general, speaking
so rapidly and impetuously, as utterly to prevent Don
Amador from making the amendment he meditated
to the curse, and insisting that Narvaez should revoke
it, as far at least as it concerned his kinsman,
the knight,—“his chief magician, by whose aid, it is
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supposed, the runagate desperado has been enabled
to imprison the Indian emperor. And, knave or not,
Don Amador, it cannot be denied, that when struck
down, after surrendering himself, this morning, by
the currish soldier, Caboban, he cursed the smiter
with `a short life and a long death;' which curse was
fulfilled upon him on the instant; for striking Botello
with his spear again, his horse plunged, threw him
violently, and, falling, he was instantly spitted on the
spear of a footman. He has been dying ever since;
and sometime, doubtless, his agony will be over; but
he is as good as a dead man now.”
“I am by no means certain,” said Don Amador,
“that there was any connexion between the curse of
the magician and the calamity of the soldier; though,
as it appears to me, heaven could not visit with judgment
any one more righteously than the dastard who
strikes an enemy after he has rendered himself a captive.
Nevertheless, and though I am somewhat impatient
your excellency should determine upon my
own affairs, I have such respect for the superior
claims of your duties, that I will willingly defer my
anxiety until your excellency has examined the prisoner.”
There were several very meaning glances exchanged
among the cavaliers at this speech, which
seemed to imply a feeling of neglect and resentment
on the part of the speaker; but Narvaez did not notice
it, or if he did, the impression was immediately
driven from his mind by the entrance of the enchanter,
conducted by several soldiers and officers, among
whom was the captain Salvatierra.
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CHAPTER X.
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Amador surveyed the prisoner, though somewhat
indifferently. He was, in figure and age, very much
such a man as Baltasar, but in other respects very dissimilar.
His face was wan, and even cadaverous;
but this might have been the effect of the blows he
had received from the dying soldier, as was made
probable by the presence of several spots of blood
encrusted over his visage. His cheeks were broad,
and the bones prominent; his eyes very hollow, and
expressive of a wild solemnity, mingled with cunning;
his beard long and bushy, and only slightly grizzled,
and a rugged mustache hung over his lips so as almost
to conceal them. His apparel was of black
cloth, none of the freshest, the principal garment of
which was a long loose doublet, under which was
buckled an iron breast-plate,—his only armour; for, instead
of a morion, he wore a cloth hat of capacious
brim, stuck round with the feathers of divers birds,
as well as several medals of the saints, rudely executed
in silver. Besides these fantastic decorations,
he had suspended to his neck several instruments of
the Cabala,—a pentacle of silver, and charms and
talismans written over with mystical characters, as
well as a little leathern pouch filled with various
dried herbs and roots. This mystagogue, an agent
of no little importance among many of the scenes of
the Conquest, was led into the presence of the general,
and approached him without betraying any signs
of fear or embarrassment; nor, on the other hand,
did he manifest any thing like audacity or presumption;
but lifting his eyes to the visage of the Biscayan,
he gazed upon him with a silent and grave earnestness,
that seemed somewhat to disconcert the
leader.
“Sirrah sorcerer,” said he, “since the devil has
deserted you at last, call up what spirits you can
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muster, and find me why I shall not hang you for a
spy, early in the morning.”
“Tetragrammaton Adonai!” muttered the warriormagician
in the holy gibberish of his art, with a voice
of sepulchral hollowness, and with a countenance
gleaming with indignation or enthusiasm. “In the
name of God, Amen! I defy the devil, and am the
servant of his enemy; and in the land of devils, of
Apollyon in the air, Beelzebub on the earth, and Satan
in men's hearts, I forswear and defy, contemn
and denounce them; and I pray for, and foresee, the
day when they shall tumble from the high places!”
“All this thou mayst do, and all this thou mayst
foresee,” said the general; “but nevertheless thy
wisdom will be more apparent to employ itself a little
in the investigation of thine own fate; which, I promise
thee, is approaching to a crisis.”
“I have read it in the stars, I have seen it in the
smoke of waters and of blessed herbs, and I have
heard it from the lips of dead men and the tongues
of dreams,” cried the professor of the occult sciences,
with much emphasis. “But what is the fate of Botello,
the swordsman, to that of the leaders of men,
the conquerors of kings and great nations? I have
read my own destinies; but why shouldst thou trifle
the time to know them, when I can show thee the
higher mysteries of thine own?”
“Canst thou do so? By my faith then, I will have
thee speak them very soon,” said Narvaez. “But
first, let me know what wert thou doing when thou
wert found prowling this morning so near to my
camp?”
“Gathering the herbs for the suffumigation which
shall tell me in what part of the world thou shalt lay
thy bones!” said the magician, solemnly. “The
moon, in the house Alchil, showed me many things,
but not all; a thick smoke came over the crystal,
and I saw not what I wanted; I slept under the cross,
with a skull on my bosom, but it breathed nothing
but clouds. Wherefore I knew, it should be only
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when the wolf spoke to the vulture, and the vulture
to the red star, that Camael the angel should unlock
the lips of destiny, and lead me whither I longed to
follow.”
“I am ever bound to thee,” said the general, with
a manner in which an attempt at mockery was mingled
with a natural touch of superstition, “for the
extreme interest thou seemest to cherish in my fate;
and again I say to thee, I will immediately converse
with thee on that subject. But at present, señor
nigromante, I warn thee, it will be but wisdom, to
confine thy rhapsodies within the limits of answers to
such interrogatories as I shall propose thee.—Where
lies thy master, the outcast and arch-rebel, my
enemy?”
“My master is in heaven!” said Botello, with a devout
and lofty earnestness, “and there is no outcast
and rebel but he that dwelleth in the pit, under the
foot of Michael; and he is the enemy!”
“Sirrah! I speak to thee of the knave Cortes,”
cried the general, angrily. “When wert thou last
at his side? and where?”
“At midnight,—on the river of Canoes, where he
has rested, as thou knowest, for a night and a day.”
“Ay!” said the Biscayan fiercely; “within a league
of my head-quarters, whither my clemency has suffered
him to come.”
“Whither God and his good star have drawn him,”
said the magician.
“And whence I will drive him to the rocks of the
mountains, or the mangroves of the beach, ere thou
art cured of thy wounds!”
“Lo! my wounds are healed!” said Botello; “the
hand that inflicted them is stiff and cold, and Hernan
Cortes yet lies by the river! Ay, the holy unguent,
blessed of the fat of a pagan's heart, hath dried the
blood and glued the skin; and yet my captain, whose
fate I have seen and spoken, even from the glory of
noon to the long and sorrowful shadows of the evening,
marshals his band within the sound of thy matin
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bell; and wo be to his foeman, when he is nearer or
further!”
“Prattling fool,” said the commander, “if thou
hadst looked to the bright moon to-night, thou wouldst
have seen how soon the cotton-trees of the river
should be strung with thy leader and companions,
and with thyself, as a liar and an impostor, in their
midst!”
“I looked,” said the veteran, tranquilly, “and saw
what will be seen, but not by all. There was thunder
in the temple, and peace by the river, and more
wailing than comes from the lips of the Penitent
Knight.”
The angry impetuosity with which Narvaez was
about to continue the conference, was interrupted by
the impatience of the novice. He had listened with
much disgust both to the mystic jargon of the soldier
and the idle demands and bravadoes of the general.
The interest with which he discovered how short a
distance separated him from his kinsman, was increased
to an irresistible excitement, when he heard
the title with which, as the admiral had told him, the
knight was distinguished among the invaders, on the
lips of Botello. Rising therefore abruptly, he said,
“Señor Narvaez, I have to beg your pardon, if,
in my own impatience to be satisfied in a matter which
I have much at heart, I am somewhat blind to the
importance of this present controversy. If your excellency
will do me the favour to examine the letters
of the admiral, you will discover that it is not so
much my purpose to lay claim to your hospitable entertainment,
the proffer of which I acknowledge with
much gratitude, as to request your permission to pass
through the lines of your army, to join my kinsman
the knight Calavar. Understanding, therefore, from
the words of this lunatic, or enchanter, whichever he
may be, that I am within the short distance of a
league from my good knight, to whom all my allegiance
is due, I see not wherefore I should not proceed
to join him forthwith, instead of wasting the
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night in slumber. I must, therefore, crave of your
excellency to grant me, to the camp of the señor
Cortes, a guide, to whom I will, with my life and
honour, guarantee a safe return;—or such instructions
concerning my route, as will enable me to proceed
alone—that is to say, with my attendants.”
The effect of this interruption and unexpected demand,
on the countenances of all, was remarkable
enough. The cavaliers present stared at the novice
with amazement, and even a sort of dismay; and the
secretary Fabueno, looking by chance at the captain
Salvatierra, observed the visage of this worthy suddenly
illuminated by a grin of delight. As for the
general himself, nothing could be more unfeigned
than his surprise, nothing more unquestionable than
the displeasure which instantly began to darken his
visage. He rose, thrust his hand into his belt, as if
to give his fingers something to gripe, and drawing
himself to his full height, said haughtily and severely,
“When I invited the cavalier De Leste to share
the shelter of this temple, I did not think I received
a friend of the traitor Cortes or of any of his people;
nor did I dream an adherent of this outlaw would
dare to beard me at my head-quarters with so rash
and audacious a request!”
“The señor Narvaez has then to learn,” said Amador,
with a degree of moderation that could only be
produced by a remembrance of his engagement to
the admiral, and his promise to the secretary, not
causelessly to provoke the anger of the general,—but
nevertheless with unchanging decision, “that if I
boast not to be the friend of Cortes, whom you call
a traitor, I avouch myself to be very much the creature
of mine own will; and that if I cannot be termed
the adherent of an outlaw, I am at least a Spanish
hidalgo, bent on the prosecution of my designs, and
making requests more as the ceremonies of courtesy,
than the tribute of humility. I will claim nothing
more of your excellency than your excellency is,
without claim, inclined to grant; and allowing
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therefore that you invited me to your lodgings under a
mistaken apprehension of my character, I will
straightway release you from the obligation, only previously
desiring of your excellency to reconsider
your expressions, wherein, as I think, was an innuendo
highly unjust and offensive.”
“Now, by heaven!” exclaimed the Biscayan, with
all the irascibility of his race, and the arrogant pride
of his station, “I have happened upon a strange day,
when a vagabond esquire, wandering through my jurisdiction,
asks my permission to throw himself into
the arms of my enemy; and when I admonish him a
little of his rashness, rebukes me with insult and defiance!”
“A very strange day indeed!” muttered a voice
among the cavaliers, in which Amador, had he not
been too much occupied with other considerations,
might have recognized the tones of Salvatierra.
“Biscayan!” said he, with an eye of fire, “I have
given you all the respect, which, as a governor's governor,
and a captain's captain, you had a right to
demand; I have also done you the homage of a guest
to his host, and of a gentleman to a reputed hidalgo;
but neither as a governor nor commander, neither
as a host nor a nobleman, have you the privilege to
offend with impunity, or to insult without being called
to a reckoning.”
“Is this another madman of the stock of Calavar,
that the silly admiral hath sent me?” cried the enfuriated
leader, snatching up a sword from the table,
and advancing upon the novice.
“Señor Panfilo!” cried Amador, confronting the
general, and waving his hand with dignity, “unless
thou force me by thine own violence, I cannot draw
my sword upon thee on thine own floor, not even although
thou add to thy wrongs a sarcasm on my
knight and kinsman. Nevertheless I fling this glove
at thy feet, in token that if thou art as valiant as
thou art ill-bred, as ready to repair as to inflict an
injury, I will claim of thee, as soon as may suit thy
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convenience, to meet me with weapons, and to answer
thy manifold indignities.”
“Dios santisimo!” cried the commander, foaming
with rage and stamping furiously on the floor.
“What ho! swords and pikemen! shall I strike this
galofero braggart with my own hands? Arrest him!”
“The blood of him that stays me, be on his own
head!” said Amador, drawing his sword and striding
to the entrance. “I will remember thee, uncourteous
cavalier, when I see thee in a fitter place.”
The arm of the governor had been arrested by
Duero; and in the confusion of the moment, though
the door of the tower was instantly beset by a dozen
gaping attendants, Don Amador would doubtless
have passed through them without detention, notwithstanding
the furious commands of Narvaez. But at
the moment, when, as he waved his sword menacingly,
the hesitating satellites seemed parting before
him, Salvatierra stepped nimbly behind, and suddenly
seizing his outstretched arm, and calling to the guards
at the same time, in an instant Don Amador was disarmed
and a prisoner. His rage was for a moment
unspeakable; but it did not render him incapable of
observing the faithful boldness of the secretary.
“Señor general!” cried Lorenzo, though with a
stammering voice, “if your excellency will read this
letter to the end, your excellency will find my master
recommends Don Amador as of a most noble and
lofty family, and, at this moment, raised above arrest
and detention, by being charged with authority from
the Grand Master of Rhodes.”
The only answer of the general was a scowl and
a wave of the hand, which instantly left Fabueno in
the predicament of the cavalier. He was seized, and
before he could follow the example of his patron, and
draw his sabre, it was snatched from his inexperienced
hand.
All this passed in a moment; and before the neophyte
could give utterance to the indignation which
choked him, he was dragged, with Fabueno, from the
sanctuary.
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CHAPTER XI.
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The dancers had fled from the terrace; the fire
had smouldered away; but in the light of the moon,
which shed a far lovelier radiance, Don Amador, as
he was hurried to the steps, saw in place of the gay
cavaliers, a few sentries striding in front of the towers,
and among the artillery which frowned on either
edge of the platform. Nevertheless, if his rage had
left him inquisitive, he was not allowed time to indulge
his observations. He was hurried down the
steps, carried a few paces further, and instantly immured
in the stone dwelling of some native chief,
which, by the substitution of a door of plank for the
cotton curtain, and other simple contrivances, had
been easily converted into a prison.
In the meanwhile, the rage of the governor burned
with a fury that was not much lessened by the remonstrances
of his officers; and to the counsel of
Duero,—the personal secretary of Don Diego Velasquez,
accompanying the expedition less as an adviser
than as a spy over the general, and therefore necessarily
held in some respect,—he answered only with
heat and sarcasm.
“I have ever found the señor Don Andres,” he
cried, without regarding the presence of Botello, “to
be more friendly with the friends of Cortes than may
seem fitting in the honourable and confidential secretary
of Velasquez!”
“I will not deny that such is my temper,” said
Duero; “nor will I conceal from you that such leniency
springs less from affection than interest. Sure
am I, that had your excellency, from the first, held
out the arms of conciliation, instead of the banners
of vengeance, at this moment, instead of being arrayed
against you in desperate hostility, the forces of
Cortes would have been found enrolled under your
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own standard, and Cortes himself among the humblest
and faithfullest of your captains.”
“While I doubt that effect,” said the general
sharply, “I cannot but be assured of the strength of
Don Andres's interest, while I listen to the whispers
of his enemies.”
Duero coloured, but replied calmly:
“It is not unknown to me, that certain ill-advised
persons have charged me with being under the influence
of a secret compact with Cortes, formed before
his appointment to the command of the first army of
invasion; whereby I was to share a full third of the
profits of his enterprise. Without pretending to show
the improbability of such an agreement, I will, for an
instant, allow your excellency to take it for granted,
in order that your excellency may give me credit for
my present disinterestedness, in doing all I can to
ruin my colleague; in which I reckon, as no slight
matter, taking every opportunity to decoy away his
followers.”
“If thou wilt show me in what manner submission
to the whims and insults of this insolent boy could
have detached any of the mutineers from Cortes, I
will confess myself in error, and liberate him forthwith,”
said the general.
“The insult has been passed, the blow has been
struck,” said Duero gravely, “and unless your excellency
chooses to measure swords with him immediately
after his liberation, nothing can be gained by
such a step. I should rather counsel your excellency
to have the prison watched with a double guard.
But, in arresting him, you have, besides giving deep
offence to your colleague, the admiral, for ever won
the hate and hostility of the knight of Rhodes; and
when this is told him in the camp of Cortes, it will
harden the hearts of all against us.”
“When it is told in the camp of Cortes,” said Narvaez,
with a bitter smile, “it shall be with mine own
lips; and if I hang not upon a tree, afterwards, the
knight Calavar himself, it will be more out of regard
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to his madness, than to the dignity of his knighthood.
I will attack the rebel to-morrow!”
“Your excellency is heated by anger,” said Duero
temperately; “or you would observe you have a follower
of the rebel for a listener.”
“Ay! Botello!” cried the general, with a laugh of
scorn. “He will carry my counsels to Cortes when
the cony carries food to the serpent, and the sick ox
to the carrion crow. Hark, sirrah,—thou hast read
the fate of thy master: will I attack him to-morrow?”
“Thou wilt not,” said Botello, with an unmoved
countenance.
“Hah!” cried Narvaez; “art thou so sure of this
that thou wilt pledge thy head on the prophecy? Thou
shalt live to be hanged at sunset, with thy old comrades
for spectators.”
“Heaven has written another history for to-morrow,”
said Botello, gravely; “and I have read that
as closely as the page of to-day; but what is for myself,
is, and no man may know it: The fate in store
for the vain pride and the quick anger, may, in part,
be spoken.”
“Sirrah,” said Narvaez, “remember, that though
the vain pride might overlook one so contemptible as
thyself, the quick anger is not yet allayed; and if thou
wilt not have me beat thee in the morning, proceed
forthwith to discourse of our destinies.”
“Blows shall be struck,” said the magician, earnestly;
“but whether upon my own head or another's,
whether in this temple or another place, whether in
the morning or the evening, I am not permitted to
divulge. Repent of thy sins; call in a confessor, and
pray; for wrath cometh, and sorrow is behind! By
the spirits that live in the stars, by the elves that
dwell in stones and shrubs, by the virtues that are
caged in matter where the ignorant man findeth
naught but ignorance, have I been made acquainted
with many things appertaining to thy fate, but not
all. If thou wilt, I will speak thee the things I am
permitted.”
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“Speak then,” cried the general; “for whether
thy knowledge be truth or lies, whether it come from
the revelations of angels, or the diabolical instructions
of fiends, I will listen without fear.”
“Adonai Melech! under the heaven, and above the
abyss,—with my hand on the cross, and the rosary
in my bosom,—in Rome, near to the footsteps of his
holiness, and with one who was his favourite astrologer,
studied I mine art; and there is nothing in it that
is not blessed,” said Botello, with a solemn enthusiasm,
that made a deep impression upon all.—“Give me a
staff, that I may draw the curtain from this loop,” he
continued.
The sword of a younger officer was instantly extended,
the curtain removed, and the moon, climbing
the blue hills of paradise, looked down into the apartment.
The cavaliers stared at the astrologer and
magician, for Botello was both, some with an unconcealed
awe, and others, the general among the rest,
with an endeavour at looks of contempt not in good
character with the interest they betrayed in all his
proceedings. He raised his eyes to the beautiful luminary—
enough to create by her mystic splendour
the elements of superstition in the breast of a rhapsodist,—
crossed himself devoutly twice or thrice,
mumbled certain inexplicable words, and then said
aloud, with a mournful emphasis,
“Wo to him that sits in the high place, when the
moon shines from the house Allatha! But the time
has not come; and I dare not speak the hour of its
visitation.”
“And what shall it advantage me to know my
peril, if I have not such knowledge as may enable
me to prevent it?” demanded Narvaez, with a frown.
“And what would it benefit thee to know the time
of thy peril,” said the astrologer, “when God has
not given thee the power to avert it? What is written
must be fulfilled; what is declared must be accomplished.
Listen—the queen of night is in the eighteenth
mansion; and under that influence, discord is
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sown in the hearts of men, sedition comes to the
earth, and conspiracy hatches under the green leaf.”
The general turned quickly upon his officers, and
surveyed them with an eye of suspicion. They looked
blankly one upon another, until Duero, laughing
in a forced and unnatural manner, cried,
“Why should we listen to this madman, if we are
so affected by his ravings? Señor general, you will
straightway look upon us all as traitors!”
“There have been villains about us before,” muttered
the general, “but I will not take the moon's
word for it; and the more especially that I must receive
it through this man's interpretation.”
“It is the influence, too, that is good for the friendless
captive,” continued the magician; “and many a
heart that beats under bonds to-night, will leap in
freedom to-morrow.”
“Every way this is bad for us,” said Duero, ban-teringly.
“I would advise your excellency to clap
chains on the legs of De Leste and the scribe, who
are, I think, saving the few rogues of Cortes who
have craved to enter into our service, the only prisoners
in our possession.”
“And dost thou think this gibberish will move me
to any such precaution?” cried Narvaez, with a compelled
smile. “Thou canst not believe I listen to it
for aught but diversion?”
“Surely not, if your excellency says so. But still
may we guard the prisoners, without fear of being
laughed at for our superstition,—as long as we have
faith in the discretion of all present.”
“Guard them thyself, if thou wilt,” said the general;
“I am not moved enough for such condescension.—
Continue thy mummeries, Botello,” he went
on, “and when thou art done with the moon, of
which I am heartily tired, I will look for thee to
introduce me to some essence that speaks a clearer
language.”
“What wouldst thou have?” cried the astrologer;
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“what plainer language wouldst thou have spoken?
In the house Allatha is written the defection of friends,
the dethronement of princes, the fall of citadels in a
siege.”
“Villain and caitiff! dost thou dare to insinuate
that this citadel of Zempoala is in a state of siege?”
cried the Biscayan, with a ferocious frown.
“I speak of the things that are to come;” said
Botello. “What more than this wilt thou have?”
“It will doubtless be well,” interrupted Duero, significantly,
“to evacuate this city in the morning. By
encamping in the fields, we can certainly avoid the
danger of a besieged citadel.”
“Dost thou gibe me, Don Andres?” said Narvaez,
with a brow on which jealousy struggled with rage.
The secretary of Velasquez laid his hand on his
heart, with a gesture of respectful deprecation.
“Ay! I see thou art stirred by these phantasms!”
cried the governor, with a harsh laugh, looking from
Duero to the other cavaliers. “What means this,
my masters? Do ye all stare as if ye had got among
you a dead Samuel, telling ye of your deaths on the
morrow? Cheer up,—for, by'r lady, I intend, if this
old fellow's command of the black art runs so far, to
divert you with a more horrible companion. What
sayest thou, Botello? It is whispered thou canst raise
devils, and force them to speak to thee!”
“Ay!” said Botello, with a ghastly grin, staring
the general in the face, until the latter faltered before
him. “Wilt thou adventure then so far? Canst thou,
whose eyes tremble at the gaze of a living creature,
think to look upon the face of a fallen angel? Hast
thou confessed to-day, and been absolved? hast thou
been free, since the sun-rise, of thoughts of treachery
and feelings of wrath? The pentacle and the circle,
the consecrated sword and the crucifix, the sign of
the cross and the muttered paternoster, will not protect
the unshriven sinner from the claws of a raised
demon.”
“If thou canst raise him,” said Narvaez stoutly,
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“do so, and quickly. I fortify myself in the name
of God and the Holy Ones, against all spirits and
devils. It will be much satisfaction to my curiosity
to look upon one of the accursed.”
“They are about us in the air—they are at our
elbows and ears,” said Botello; “and it needs but a
spell to be spoken to bring them before us. But wo
to him that hath thought a sin to day, when the Evil
One looks on him!”
“Señor Narvaez,” cried Duero, with a most expressive
and contagious alarm, “if it be your inclination
to raise the devil, you must indulge it alone.
For my part, I confess there have been, this day,
certain sinful thoughts about my bosom, which have
unfitted me for such an interview; and—I care not
who knows it—my valour has in it so little of the fire
of faith, I would sooner, at any moment, speak with
ten men than one devil. God be with you, señor,—
I wish you a good evening.”
“Tarry, Duero; stay, cavaliers!” cried Narvaez,
losing much of his own dread in the contemplation
of the apprehension of others. “Why, you are such
a knot of sinners as I dreamed not I had about me!
Faith, I am ashamed of you, and of you in particular,
Duero; for I thought thy shrewdness would have
seen in this knave's attempt to frighten us from the
exhibition, an excellent evidence of his inability to
make it.”
“I could show thee more than thou couldst see,”
said Botello, “and, I know, more things will come to
thee than thou shalt see. I know, with all thy vaunting,
thou wouldst perish in the gaze of an angel of
hell; for thy heart would be the heart of a boy, and
it flutters already, even at the thought of the spectacle.—
I will show thee an essence thou mayest look
upon without alarm.”
“Do so,” said Narvaez, sternly; “and remember,
while saying what may be necessary by way of explanation,
that thou speakest to the chief and governor
of these lands, who will whip thy head from thy
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neck, in spite of all the devils, if thou discoursest not
with more becoming reverence.”
“My fate is written!” cried Botello, with neither
indignation or alarm; and drawing calmly from his
bosom an implement of his art, he advanced to the
light, and displayed it freely to the cavaliers. It
was, or seemed to be, an antique jewel of rock-crystal,
not bigger than a pigeon's egg, set in the centre
of a triangular disk of gold, on which last, were engraved
many unknown characters and figures. Crossing
himself twice or thrice, the enchanter swung it
by a little silver chain to which it was pendent, in
the full blaze of the lamp; so that either of the persons
present might have handled it, had any been so
disposed. But, in truth, the superstition of an age
for which no marvel was too gross, no miracle too
wonderful, was more or less shared by all; and
they merely surveyed it at a distance with curiosity
and fear.
“This,” said the magician,—“a gem more precious
to the wise than the adamant of the East, but
in the hands of the unfaithful, more pernicious than
the tooth of a viper,—is the prison-house of an essence
that was once powerful among the spirits of night.
The great Agrippa wedged him in this stone; and
from Agrippa, when I rested at his feet in the holy
city, did I receive the inestimable gift.—Kalidon-Sadabath!
the night is thy season, the midnight thy
time of power! The lord of men calls thee from thy
prison-house, the armed man calls thee with the sword!—
Lo! he wakes from his slumber, and will image out
the destiny of the seeker!”
The cavaliers, starting, gazed behind them with
fear, as if expecting to behold some mighty fiend
rising shadowy from the floor; but no intelligence
more lofty or more ignoble than themselves was visible
in the sanctuary. They bent their eyes upon the
crystal, and beheld, some with surprise and others
with deep awe, a little drop as of some black liquid,
glittering in the very centre of the jewel.
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The haughty soldiers who would have rushed with
cries of joy upon an army of infidels, shrank away
with murmurs of hesitation, when Botello extended
the talisman towards them. But they mistook the
gesture of the magician; his arm was outstretched
more to display the wonder than to part with it.
He surveyed it himself a moment with much satisfaction;
then turning to Narvaez, he said,
“Lay thy hand upon the cross of thy sword, say
a paternoster over in thy heart, and thou shalt be
protected from the mischief of this inquisition, while
I tell thee what I behold in the face of Kalidon-Sadabath.”
“With your favour,” cried Narvaez, suddenly and
boldly snatching the enchanted crystal from the
hands of Botello, “I will choose rather to see his
visage myself, than trust to your interpretations;
and as for the protection, I can con over a paternoster
while I am looking: though, why it needs to bestow
so much piety upon this juggler's gewgaw, is
more than I can understand.”
“Say at least the prayer,” cried Botello, earnestly,
“for neither enchanted crystal nor consecrated
gold can hold the strong spirit from the wicked and
self-sufficient.”
“I have much trust in the saints, and in myself,”
said the governor, coolly, greatly assured and inspirited
by the harmless appearance of the little mystery.
“Nevertheless, I will follow your counsel, in
the matter of the prayer,—the more readily that it
will keep my mind from wandering to more important
affairs; and because, in part, I am somewhat
burdened with the sin of neglecting such duties, when
there is more occasion for them.”
He drew the lamp to him, grasped the crystal
firmly in his hands, and bending over it so closely
that his warm breath sullied its lustre, regarded it
with a fixed attention. The cavaliers noted the proceeding
with interest; they gazed now at the jewel
almost concealed in his grasp, and now at the
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general, as his lips muttered over the inaudible prayer.—
Suddenly, and before he had half accomplished the
task, they observed his brows knit, and his lip fall;
his eye dilated with a stare of terror,—a deadly paleness
came over his visage,—and starting up and
loosing the talisman from his grasp, he exclaimed
wildly,
“By heaven, there is a living creature in the
stone!”
The sorcerer caught the magical implement as it
fell from the hands of Narvaez; and throwing himself
upon his knees, while the cavaliers looked on in mute
astonishment, exclaimed:—
“Forget not the prayer! and be content to hear
what is revealed by the imp of the crystal. Kalidon-Sadabath!
He flingeth abroad his arms, and is
in wrath and trouble!”
“It is true,” said Narvaez, looking to his officers
in perturbation. “While I looked into the shining
stone, the black drop increased in size, and grew into
the similitude of a being, whose arms were tossed
out as if in agony, while spots of fire gathered round
his visage!”
“Say the prayer, if thou wilt not die miserably before
the time that is otherwise ordained!” cried Botello
with a stern voice, that was remarkable enough,
to be addressed by one of his station to the proud and
powerful commander. “Once, twice—Ay! is there
no more to be reckoned by thee, Sadabath? Once,
twice—Yea, as the star sayeth, so sayest thou—
Once, twice!”
“What sayest thou?” said Narvaez, ceasing the
prayer he had resumed, to question the oraculous
adept.
“To thy prayer! Listen, and ask not.—Ay! thou
speakest in mystery! I turn thee to the north, which
thou knewest not, and the south, where thou hadst
thy dwelling,—to the east, which thou abhorrest, and
to the west, where was thy dark chamber; to the
heaven, whose light thou lovest not,—to the pit under
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the earth, where thou wast a wanderer,—and to
man's heart, which was pleasanter to thee than the
bonds of the crystal. In the name of the Seven that
are of power under the earth, and of the Seven that
are mighty above, I call to thee, Kalidon-Sadabath,
the bright star that is quenched! In shadows, in fire
and smoke,—in thunder and with spears—with blows
and with bloodshed, thou speakest, and I hear thee!”
“I hear nothing save thy accursed croaking, worse
than that of the crows of Biscay,” cried Narvaez,
liotly. “If thy devil have no more intelligible gabble,
cast him out, and call another.”
“He speaks not, but by images and phantasms
pictured on the crystal.—Now listen, for thy story
cometh. I see a great house on fire—”
“Ay, I shall perish then in a conflagration!” said
the governor, hastily. “I have ever had a horror of
burning houses.”
“The smoke eddies, the flame roars, and one sitteth
blindfold under the eaves, with the flakes and cinders
falling about him, which he sees not.”
“If thou meanest, that I shall rest, in that stupid
state, under such peril, thy devil Sadabath is a liar,
and I defy him!”
“And he that takes thee by the hand,” cried Botello,
without regarding the interruptions,—“is he thy
friend?”—
“Ay, answer me that question,” said the governor;
“for if I am to be led out of the fire by a foeman, I
will straightway forswear my friends, and give my
heart to the magnanimous.”
“Thou doest him obeisance!” cried the magician,
with extraordinary emphasis—
“Villain!” exclaimed the general.
“Thou placest thy neck upon the earth, and he
tramples it!”
“Liar and traitor!” roared the Biscayan, spurning
the magician with his foot, and, in his fury, snatching
up a weapon to despatch him.
“Why shouldst thou stain thy hand with the blood
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of the dotard?” cried Duero, interposing for a second
time between the intemperate commander and the
object of his anger. “He is a madman, incapable of
understanding what he says; and were he even sane,
and speaking the truth, your commands to have him
entertain you with his mummeries, should have ensured
him against your anger.”
“Very true,” said Narvaez, with a scowl; “I was
a fool to strike him.—Trample on my neck! Thou
grizzly and cheating villain!—Go! begone!—Thy
devil, though he cannot tell thee what awaits thee in
the morning, may show thee what thou deservest.”
“I deserved not to be spurned,” said Botello tranquilly,
after having gathered up his enchanted crystal,
and raised himself to his feet; “and the dishonour will
fall not on the side that was bruised, but on the limb
that was raised against it.—Once already, to-day,
have I cursed the man that struck me in my captivity;
and he lies a corse on his couch.”
“It is true,” said a young cavalier, shuddering.
“I inquired after Caboban, when I came from the prison
with Botello—he was dead!”
“I will curse no more to-day,” said the magician,
sorrowfully; “for it is a sin upon the soul to kill with
maledictions; and, moreover, thou, that hast done me
this wrong, wilt suffer enough, without a new retribution!”
The general waved his hand angrily and impatiently,
and Botello was led away, followed by most
of the cavaliers.
CHAPTER XII.
When Don Amador found himself alone in the
prison with Fabueno, with no other prospect before
him than that of remaining therein till it might please
the stars to throw open the doors, the rage that was
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too philosophic to quarrel with stone walls, gradually
subsided into a tranquil indignation. Nay, so much
command of himself did he regain, that hearing his
companion bewailing his fate in a manner somewhat
immoderate, as if regarding his incarceration as the
prelude to a more dismal destiny, he opened his lips
to give him comfort.
“I must counsel thee, friend Lorenzo,” he said,
“to give over this vain and very boyish lamentation,
as being entirely unworthy the spirit I beheld thee
display in presence of that Biscayan boar. The insult
and shame of our present imprisonment are what
thou dost not share; and therefore thou shouldst not
be grieved on that account. And, doubtless, as thou
wert arrested less because thou wert in fault, than
because this foolish governor was in a passion, he
will liberate thee, when he cools in the morning.”
“I have no such hope,” said Fabueno, piteously.
“Don Panfilo is a most bitter and unforgiving man,
sudden in his wrath, inexorable in his vengeance; and
he has already indulged his fury at the expense of men
so much more elevated and powerful than myself,
that I am in great fear he will give me to some
heavy punishment, for daring to oppose his humours.”
“Know, Lorenzo,” said the novice, “that, in that
opposition, thou didst show thyself possessed of a
spirit which has won my respect; and unless thou
dost already repent thy boldness, I will confess I
am very grateful to thee, that thou didst grasp thy
sword in my cause. For which reason, when we
are again free, I will beseech the admiral to grant
thee thy wish, and immediately receive thee into my
service, as a pupil in war.”
“And how is your worship to be freed?” said Lorenzo,
disconsolately. “Sure am I, Don Panfilo will
no more regard your worship's honour and dignity
than he did the privileges of the licentiate Vasques
de Ayllon, the agent of the holy monks of San Geronimo,
and, what is more, an oidor of the king himself;
whom, notwithstanding all these titles, he
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imprisoned and banished, for thwarting him in a small
matter.”
“I have, in my own present situation, a sufficient
and never-to-be-forgotten proof of his violence and
injustice,” said Amador. “Nevertheless, I entertain
hopes of being soon at freedom; for if some lucky
opportunity do not enable me myself to break my
bonds. I am assured, the news of this most causeless
and tyrannical outrage will, in some way, be carried
to the ears of my kinsman, the knight Calavar; after
which, I shall be very confident of liberation, and,
after liberation, as I may add, of satisfaction on the
body of my wronger. But, before we give ourselves
up to despondence, let us see in what manner we
may be able to help ourselves. We should at least
look a little to the various entrances that seem to lead
into this dungeon.”
The apartment was spacious, but low; a narrow
casement opened on one side, at the distance of six
feet from the floor, and admitted the moonbeams, by
which the captives were enabled to conduct their
examination. The door, through which they had entered,
was strongly barricaded on the outside. A
passage leading to the interior, was similarly secured,
and equally impassable. The neophyte, with a sigh,
turned to the casement. A thick grating defended it,
and shut out all hopes of escape.
“We can do nothing, unless assisted from without,”
said Amador.—“I would to heaven, I had kept
my knaves at my side! With such a wary servant
as Baltasar at my back, and so faithful a desperado
as Lazaro at my side, I should have made another
sort of departure from that abhorred tower. The
varlets are perhaps sleeping in security, without a
thought of their master. Nay, by my faith, it is not
probable they should give themselves to rest, without
being made acquainted with my instructions for the
night. Perhaps they may be lurking in the neighbourhood,
ready to hear my call, and to obey it! At
all events, señor secretary, I would thou couldst
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mount to those iron stanchions, and take note of
what is passing on the outside.”
“Iron!” cried the secretary quickly: “by San Iago
of Compostella! a thought strikes me. I know well,
señor, that in these lands, iron has almost the value
of gold, and is too scarce to be wasted on the defences
of a temporary dungeon, where it might be
stolen too, at the first opportunity, by the Indians.”
“Dost thou mean to say, that these bars are of
wood?” demanded Amador.
“Indeed, I think so, señor; and if I had but a knife
or dagger, and the means of climbing into the window,
I would warrant to be at liberty before morning.”
“Here is a poniard, of which the villains forgot to
divest me,” said Amador. “Strike it against the
stanchions:—if they be of wood, we have much hope
of freeing ourselves.”
The secretary did as he was directed. He raised
himself a-tiptoe, and the sharp weapon buried itself
in the flimsy barrier.
“If I had but something to stand on,” he cried
eagerly, “how soon might we not be free!”
“There is neither stool nor chair in this vile den,”
said Don Amador; “but I will not shame to give
thee the support of my shoulder, and the more readily,
that I think thy slight frame would be incapable
of supporting my own greater weight.—Pause not,”
he continued, observing that Fabueno hesitated: “If
thy foot be near my neck, I shall know it is not the
foot of an enemy.—I will kneel to take thee on my
back, as the Saracen camel does to his master.—
Stretch thyself to thy full height, so as to cut through
the tops of the bars; after which, without further
carving, thou canst easily wrench them from their
places.”
Fabueno submitted to the will of the novice, and
Amador rising without much effort under his weight,
he was soon in a position to operate to advantage.
“Why dost thou falter?” demanded the novice, as
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Lorenzo, after making one or two gashes in the
wood, suddenly ceased his labour.
“Señor,” replied the secretary, in a low voice,
“there is a guard at a little distance, sitting under
the shadow of the pyramid. A cavalier stands in
advance, watching—It is the captain Salvatierra!”
“May heaven strike me with pains and death,”
cried Amador, with an abrupt ardour, that nearly
tumbled the secretary from his station, “if I do not
covet the blood of that false and cowardly traitor!
who, after hiding his wrath under the cloak of magnanimity
and religion, was the first to seize upon me,
and that from behind!”
“What is to be done, señor?” demanded Fabueno,
in a whisper. “He will discover me; and even if I
can remove the grating, there will be no possibility
to descend without observation.”
“Cut through the wood as silently as thou canst,”
said Amador; “and then, when the window is open,
I will myself spring to the earth, and so occupy the
dastard's notice, that thou shalt escape without peril.
Cut on, and fear not.”
The secretary obeyed, but had not yet divided a
single stake, when suddenly a noise was heard as of
the clattering of armour, as well as the voice of Salvatierra
exclaiming furiously,
“To your bows, ye vagabonds! Quick and hotly!
Drive your shafts through and through! Shoot!”—
“Descend!” said Amador.
But before the secretary could follow his counsel,
there came four cross-bow shafts rattling violently
into the window; and Fabueno, with a loud cry,
sprang, or rather fell, to the floor.
“Have the knaves struck thee?” demanded Amador,
as he raised the groaning youth in his arms.
“Ay, señor!” replied the youth, faintly, “I shall
never see the golden kings of Mexico!”
“Be of better heart,” said Amador, leading him to
where the moonlight shone brightest on the floor.
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“Art thou struck in the body?—If thou diest, be certain
I will revenge thee.—Where art thou hurt?”
“I know not,” replied Lorenzo, piteously; “but I
know I shall die.—O heaven! this is a pang more
bitter than death!—Must I die?”
“Be comforted,” said the novice, cheeringly; “the
arrow has only pierced thy arm! I will snap it asunder,
and withdraw it. Fear not: there is no peril in
such hurt; and I will bear witness thou hast won it
most honourably.”
“Will I not die then?” cried Fabueno, with joy.
“Pho! it was the first time I was ever hurt, and I
judged of the wound only by the agony. Pho, indeed!
'tis but a scratch!”
“Thou bearest it valiantly,” said Amador, binding
his scarf round the wound; “and I have no doubt
thou wilt make a worthy soldier.—But what is now
to be done? If thou thinkest thou hast strength to
support me for a minute or two, I will clamber to
the window myself, and remove the bars, without
fear the arrows of these varlets can do me much
harm through my armour.”
“They are not above three-score yards distant,”
said Fabueno, “and, señor, I feel a little faint. I
know not, moreover, how I could escape, even if
your honour should be so lucky as to reach the
ground.”—
“I should not have forsaken thee, Lorenzo,” said
the cavalier, giving over, with a sigh, all hope of escape.
“There is nothing more to be done.—The foul
fiend seize the knave that struck thee, and the dastard
that commanded the shot! I would to heaven I had
beaten him soundly.—How feelest thou now? If thou
canst sleep, it will be well.”
“I have no more pain,” said the secretary, “but
feel a sort of exhaustion, which will doubtless be relieved
by rest.”
“Sleep then,” said Amador, “and have a care
that thy wounded member be not oppressed by the
weight of thy body. I will myself presently follow
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thy example. If aught should occur to disturb thee,
even though it should be but the pain of thy hurt,
scruple not to arouse, me.”—
The neophyte watched till persuaded the secretary
was asleep; then devoutly repeating a prayer, he
stretched himself on his hard mat with as much tranquillity
as if reposing on a goodly bed in his own
mountain-castle, and was soon lost to his troubles.
CHAPTER XIII.
The cavalier was roused from his slumbers by a
cause at first incomprehensible. The moonlight had
vanished from the prison, and deep obscurity had
succeeded; but in the little light remaining, he saw,
as he started up, the figures of several men, one of
whom had been tugging at his shoulder, and now
whispered to him, as he instinctively grasped at his
dagger,
“Peace, cavalier! I am a friend, and I give you
liberty.”
“I will thank thee for the gift, when I am sure I
enjoy it,” said the neophyte, already on his feet; “I
remember thy voice—thou art one of the followers
of the knave Narvaez?”
“I am one who laments, without extenuating, the
folly of the general,” said the voice of Duero. “But
tarry not to question. Hasten,—thy horse is ready.”
“Where is the youth Fabueno? It is not in my
power to desert the secretary.”
“Here, señor!” whispered Lorenzo. “I am ready.”
“Ah, friend Fabueno! I am glad to hear thee speak
so cheerily;—it assures me thy wound does not afflict
thee.—And my varlets, señor?”
“They wait for thee, Don Amador. Delay not:
the door is open. The magician will guide thee to
thy kinsman.—Commend me to Cortes; and if thou
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art at any time found fighting on the pyramid of
Zempoala, remember that Duero is not thine enemy.”
“By heaven, I should think I dream!” said Amador.
“Stay, señor! I would thank thee for thy
honourable and most noble benevolence; and, in addition,
would tax thy charity in favour of a certain
Moor—”
“Tetragrammaton! thou pratest as if thou wert
among thy friends in Christendom! and of infidels too,
as if there were no Christians to be thought of!” said
a voice, in which Amador instantly recognised the
tones of the enchanter. “I said, the captive should
be freed; but never a jot that he should not be reduced
to bonds again by his own folly!—Be silent,
and follow me.”
The neophyte had collected his scattered senses,
and instantly assuming the prudence, which, he now
understood, was necessary to his safety, he issued
from the prison. The moon was sinking behind the
vast and majestic peaks of the interior. A deep
shadow lay over the great square, on one side of
which stood the dungeon; and only on the top of the
principal tower trembled a lingering ray. A silence
still deeper than the darkness, invested the Indian
city; and Amador could distinctly hear the foot-fall
of a sentinel as he strode to and fro over the terrace
of the pyramid. He looked to that quarter, whence,
as he judged, had come the shafts which had so nearly
robbed him of his fellow-prisoner. The crossbowmen
slept on their post, in the mild and quiet air, at
the base of the temple.
“Give me thy hand, Fabueno,” said Amador,
drawing his poniard again from the sheath. “I will
shield thee from the dogs this time. And now that
I snuff the breath of freedom! I think it will need a
craftier knave's trick than, that of Salvatierra, to deprive
me of it a second time.”
Following the magician, as he stole cautiously
along, the brothers in misfortune crept on with a
stealthy pace, under the shadows of buildings and
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trees; till, exchanging the more exposed openness of
the square for the safer gloom of a street, they advanced
with greater assurance and rapidity. The
stone dwellings of the Tlatoani gave place to the
earthen and wicker cabins of the suburbs.—The gray
glimpses of morning had not yet visited the east,
when they reached the extreme edge of the town,
and betook themselves to the covert of a clump of
trees, under which, in the figures that were there visible,
Don Amador recognised with joy his war-horse
and his followers.
“Rejoice in silence,” said Botello, interrupting his
raptures; “for there is an ear at no great distance
very ready to hear thee. Mount and be ready.—Se
ñor secretary, thy sorrel is tied to the mimosa.—You
can look to your equipments a little, while I see if
heaven will not confirm the fate of visions; for I
dreamed I should ride back to Cortes on a good
roan charger to-day.”
The magician disappeared, and Amador, scarcely
suppressing his ardour, when he found that not only
his attendants and horses, but even the well-fleshed
sword wrested from him in the evening, was in readiness
to be restored to him, grasped it with exultation,
and sprang into the saddle. Then passing towards
Fabueno, and finding that his arm caused him
much pain in the act of mounting, he assisted him to
ascend with his own hand; a condescension that
went to the heart of the secretary. From Fabueno
also he learned, in a few words, somewhat of the secret
of their liberation. Less than an hour after
Amador had fallen asleep, and while Lorenzo was
still kept awake by the pain of his wound, the door
of the prison was opened, and Botello thrust in; who
comforted the secretary with a mystic, but still an
unequivocal assurance of freedom before sunrise;
and commanded him not to wake the novice, but to
follow his example—he would need invigoration from
slumber to support the toils of the coming day. What
previous understanding might have existed between
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the enchanter and the señor Duero, he knew not;
but, certain he was, Botello had predicted a speedy
deliverance for all; and all were now delivered.
“I have often considered,” said the novice, thoughtfully,
“that the existence of magical powers, either
for the purposes of prediction or enchantment, was
incompatible with the known goodness and wisdom
of God; for surely if the power to foresee would
have added any thing to the happiness of man, God
would not have denied it to men generally. And as
for the powers of enchantment, as they can only be
used for good or bad purposes, it seems to me that to
employ them for the first, would be to accuse the Divinity
of an insufficient benevolence; while to exercise
them for the last, would imply a supposition that
heaven had not all men equally under its protection.
This, therefore, is my opinion; though I must confess
that, sometimes, when governed more by passion or
imagination than by reason, I have had my misgivings
on the subject. Nevertheless, good Fabueno, in
this particular case of Botello, I must advise thee
not too much to abuse thy credulity; for, I think, all
circumstances go to show, he grounded his prophecy
of our deliverance more on a knowledge of the resolutions
of the good señor Duero than on the revelations
of stars or spirits. Yet must I confess,” continued
Amador, “that this very goodness of Duero,
implying, as it truly does, a state of opposition and rebellion
to the will of the uncivil Narvaez, his general,
is so very miraculous, as almost itself to look like
magic.”
Before the secretary could reply, the sound of
hoofs was heard approaching; and Botello, as they
discovered by his voice, rode up to the trees.
“The dream was true, the imp that speaks to slumber
was not a liar!” he cried, exultingly. “We
leave the jailor afoot; and Kalidon-Sadabath shall
swing on a galloping horse. God is over all, by night
and by day, afoot and on horse, in battle and in flight,
Amen!—Now ride, and Santiago for Spain!”—He
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shouted this sudden cry with a voice that amazed
Amador, after his often-repeated injunctions for
silence,—“Santiago for Spain! San Pedro for the
Invaders! and San Pablo for flying prisoners! Whip
and spur, guide and cheer! and rocks and thorns
spread over the path of pursuers!”
As Don Amador anticipated, the shout of the lunatic,
for such he began to esteem Botello, was carried
even to the head-quarters of the Biscayan. An arquebuse
was discharged from the pyramid, and, as
the fugitives began their flight, the flourish of a trumpet
in one quarter of the town, and the roll of a drum
in another, convinced them that the alarm had been
given, and was spreading from post to post in a manner
that might prove exceedingly inconvenient. The
cavalier pressed to the side of Botello,—an achievement
of some little difficulty, for he perceived his
guide was well mounted.
“Señor Magico,” he cried, as he galloped in company
with him, “dost thou know thou couldst not have
fallen upon a better plan to oppose our flight, and
perhaps reduce us again to bonds, than by the indulgence
of this same untimely and obstreperous shouting?”
“Trust in God, and fear not,” replied the magi
cian. “This day shalt thou look upon the face of
Cortes; and though the enemy follow us, yet shall
his pursuit be vain and unlucky.”
“I will allow that such may be the termination,”
said Amador; “yet, notwithstanding, can I perceive
no advantage in being pursued; but much that is to
be deprecated, inasmuch as we shall exhaust that
strength of our horses in our hurry, which might
have been reserved for a more honourable contingency.”
“Your valour will by-and-by perceive there is
more wisdom than looks to the moment,” said Botello,
coolly, without slacking his pace: “and, provided
you can keep your followers from swerving
from the path, and that inexperienced youth from
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falling out of his saddle, I will, with my head, answer
for your safety.”
Amador dropped behind a little: Lazaro and Baltasar
required no instructions to keep them in the
neighbourhood of their master; and the secretary,
though complaining that he rode in pain, professed
himself able to keep up with the party. From his
henchmen, as he rode, Don Amador obtained but
little to unravel the mystery of his escape. The two
attendants had been quartered alone in a deserted
building, in the garden of which they were instructed
to provide for their steeds. They had been roused
by a cavalier, who commanded them to follow him
to their master, in token of whose authority he showed
them the well-known blade of the novice. He had
conducted them to the grove, and left them, with
charges to remain, as they had done, in tranquillity,
until the appearance of Don Amador.
At the dawn of day, the neophyte became convinced
he had ridden more than the distance which, he supposed,
separated the camps of the rival generals; and
wondering at the absence of all signs of life in the
forest through which he was passing, he again betook
himself to Botello.
The magician had halted on the brow of an eminence,
where, though the dense wood, as well as the
obscurity of the hour, greatly contracted the sphere
of vision, he looked back as if striving to detect the
figures of pursuers among the thick shadows. The
shouts of men were heard far behind; but this circumstance,
instead of filling the mind of Botello with
alarm, gave, on the contrary, to his countenance an
expression of great satisfaction.
“We are pursued, enchanter; and yet, I perceive
neither tent nor outpost of thy friends, to give us refuge
from our enemies,” said Don Amador.
“Let them come,” cried Botello, tranquilly: “It is
worse for the stag, when the pack is scattered; but
better for the kite, when the pheasants have broke the
covey.”
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“There may be much wisdom in thy tropes, as
well as in thine actions,” said the novice; “yet am I
slow to discover it in either. Whether we are to be
considered the stag or the hounds, the hawk or the
pheasants, entirely passes my comprehension; but
sure am I that, in either case, our safety may be considered
quite as metaphorical as thy speech. I understood
from thee, last night, and I remember it very
well, because it was that communication which exasperated
me into a quarrel with the governor,—that
the river whereon Cortes was encamped, was but a
league from Zempoala; yet am I persuaded we have
galloped twice that distance.”
“He travels no straight road who creeps through
the country of a foeman,” said Botello, resuming his
journey, though at a more moderate gait than before;
“and Don Amador should be content, if he can avoid
the many scouts and vedettes that infest the path, by
riding thrice the two leagues he has compassed already.”
“Fogoso is strong, and, it seems to me, his spirit
revives at every new step he takes through these
fresh forests,” said the cavalier; “yet even for his
sake, were there no other reason, would I be fain to
pick the shortest road that leads to the camp of Cortes.
I am greatly concerned about my young friend,
the secretary, who, as thou hast doubtless learned,
was last night shot through the arm with an arrow, by
those knaves who kept watch at the window of the
prison; and therefore, for his sake, am I desirous to
find a resting place as soon as possible. If I should
give thee my counsel, (a thing I am loath to do, as
thou seemest experienced in all the intricacies of this
woody wilderness, in which I am a stranger,) it would
be, to forsake all these crooked and endless by-ways
without delay, and strike upon the shortest path,
without consideration of any small party of scouts we
might meet. For, even excluding the wounded Fabueno,
we are here together four strong men, armed,
and well mounted, who, fighting our way to freedom,
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would doubtless be an over-match for twice the humber
of enemies.”
“The youth must learn the science of a soldier,”
said Botello, “and suffering is the first letter of its
alphabet. Happy will he be if, in the life he covets,
he encounter no more agony than he shall endure today.
When we have time to rest, I will anoint his
arm with a salve more powerful than the unguents of
a physician.—What I do, señor, and whither I guide,
are best; as you will acknowledge, when the journey
is over. Why should your honour desire to exchange
blows with poor scouts? I shall win better thanks
of the knight Calavar, when I conduct you to him
unharmed.—Faster, señor—the pursuers are gaining
on us.”
The neophyte gave the rein to Fogoso, and greatly
inflamed by the mention of his kinsman's name, rode
by the side of Botello, to demand of him such intelligence
of the knight as it might be in his power to
impart. Little more, however, had the astrologer to
communicate than Amador had already acquired.
The knight Calavar was in the camp of Cortes,
among the most honoured of his followers, if such he
could be called, who divided the perils, without claiming
to share the profits of the campaign, and fought
less when he was commanded or entreated than when
moved by his own wayward impulses. That he was
in good bodily health, was also another point on which
Botello was able to satisfy curiosity; and as he made
no mention of another subject, on which Don Amador
scrupled to speak, he was glad to believe the distractions
of the new world had given some relief to the
mental maladies of his kinsman.
A very little circumstance served, however, almost
at the same moment to reveal one of his own infirmities.
As the morning dawned, and objects were seen
more distinctly, he began to bend an eye of observation
on the horse which Botello rode,—a spirited beast,
as he had already determined, by many evidences of
fleetness and mettle. When he came to regard it
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more closely, he perceived, by signs not to be mistaken,
that it was no other than the animal which
had, the day before, caracoled under the weight of
Salvatierra. Botello grinned, when an exclamation
made him acquainted with the thoughts of the cavalier.
To the demand where and how he had obtained
possession of the charger, the answer was brief and
significant. The captain Salvatierra, like many other
officers of Narvaez, preferred rather to waste the
moonlight nights with the olive-cheeked Dalilahs of
the suburbs, than with enemies and prisoners, even
though they might be men of such merit and distinction
as Don Amador. This was a peculiarity with
which (he did not say whether by the instrumentality
of his art, or the intervention of human agents,) Botello
had contrived to become acquainted; and being
also apprised of Salvatierra's favourite retreat, which
was at no great distance from the grove wherein
Don Amador had found his followers, he did not
hesitate to deprive him of so superfluous an appendage
as his charger.
“By St. John!” cried the neophyte, in a heat, “I
would have bestowed upon thee more cruzadoes than
thou canst gain by a month's exercise of thine art,
hadst thou but made me acquainted with his hiding-place.
I now know, the man who could strike a boy,
and attack one he hated from behind, is a most execrable
caitiff, more worthy of misprision than revenge;
but despite all this, I should have begun this day's
labours with more tranquillity and self-approval, had
I but enjoyed two moments of conference with him
previously.”
“Your worship may have a day for acquitting
scores with him more conveniently than you could
have done this morning,” said Botello.
“Hark'ee, Botello,” cried Amador, eagerly—“It is
thy absolute opinion we are at this moment pursued,—
is it not?”
“I do not doubt it—I hear shouts behind, ever and
anon.”
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“I will tell thee what I will do,” continued the
neophyte: “I will tarry here with Lazaro and Baltasar:
thou, if thou thinkest fit, canst advance with
the secretary—I should be loath to bring him into
combat before his wound is healed, and before Lazaro
has given him some instructions in the management
of his arms.”—
“All this thou wilt do then,” said Botello, interrupting
him, “on the presumption that Salvatierra is
among the pursuers? Your worship may satisfy
yourself, the vigilant cavalier is, at this moment, either
abiding the reproof of Narvaez for his negligence, or
biting his thumbs with disgust, as, among mounted
captains, he walks through the streets of Zempoala.
Horses are not in this land so plentiful as rabbits;
and I thank the blessed influences, which have given
to me so good a friend this day,” he went on, patting
the neck of the steed,—“so very good, that, until
there comes a new fleet from Cuba, the captain
Salvatierra will be scarce able to follow after his
charger. This may satisfy your honour on one point.
As to another, I beg to assure you, Don Amador, that
I am no lying juggler, selling my revelations for money.
I tell what is told me, when I am moved by
the spirit that is given to dwell within me; and neither
real of silver nor doubloon of gold can otherwise
buy me to open my lips!”
CHAPTER XIV.
To the surprise, and much also to the dissatisfaction,
of Don Amador, the noon-day sun still found
him struggling, with his companions, among the rocks
and forests. It seemed to him, from a review of his
journey, that he had been doubling and turning, for
the whole morning, like a boy at blindman's-buff,
within a circle of a few leagues; and though he
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could not, upon the closest inspection, detect a single
tree or brook which he remembered to have passed
before, he shrewdly suspected it was Botello's intention
to make him well acquainted with the forest, before
dismissing him from its depths. It was however
vain to wonder, and equally fruitless to complain.
For the whole morning, at different intervals, he was
assured, sometimes from hearing their shouts in the
thicket, sometimes from beholding them from a hill-top
crossing an opposing eminence, that his pursuers
were close at his heels: of which fact, and the
necessity it presented to move with becoming caution,
the enchanter took advantage in the construction
of his answers to every remonstrance. At length,
perhaps two hours after noon, the travellers approached
a hill, whence, as Botello assured them,
they might look down upon the River of Canoes.
This was the more agreeable intelligence, since the
day was intolerably hot, and they almost longed for
the bursting of a tempest which had been brooding
in the welkin for the last half hour, the drenching of
which, as they thought, would be far more sufferable
than the combustion of sunshine. They reached the
hill, and from its bushy and stony side, looked down
upon the valley, where the river, or, more properly
speaking, the rivulet, went foaming and fretting over
its rugged channel. On the hither side of the stream,
the vale was bare and sandy, and on the other, though
doubtless partaking of the same character, the trees
which bordered upon the water, making divers agreeable
groves, entirely shut out the view, so that Don
Amador saw not, as he had fondly anticipated, the
encampment of the invader of Mexico, and the resting-place
of his kinsman. But if he beheld not what
he so much desired to see, he surveyed another spectacle,
which caused him no little wonder. At a short
distance, and almost at the bottom of the hill, he was
struck with the unexpected apparition of the army
of Narvaez, drawn out in order of battle, as if a waiting
the approach of a foe, and commanding the
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passage of the river. He rubbed his eyes with astonishment;
but there was no delusion in the view.
“Señor,” said Botello, in a low voice, as if reading
his thoughts, “you marvel to see this army, which
we left sleeping at the temple, arrived at the river
before us; but you forget Zempoala lies only a league
from the river.”
“Let us descend, and cross to the other side,”
said Amador, impatiently. “I see the very spot
where sits the knave Narvaez on his horse; and
if the valiant Cortes have it in intention, as I do not
doubt, to give him battle, I should sharply regret to
watch the conflict from this hill-side.”
“I told Narvaez, himself,” said the magician, with
a sort of triumph, “he should not join battle with
Cortes to-day; and he shall not!—When the time
comes, Don Amador may join in the combat, if he
will.—Be content, señor: we cannot stir from this
hill without being observed, and captured or slain.
The thunder roars, the bolt glitters in the heaven;
the storm that levels the tall ceibas, will open us a
path presently, even through that angry army.”
Almost while Botello spoke, and before the cavalier
could add words to the disinclination with which
he regarded so untimely a delay, there burst such a
thunderbolt over his head, as made Fogoso, in common
with every other horse in the party, cower to
the earth, as if stricken by its violence. This was
immediately followed by a succession of separate
explosions and of multisonous volleys, less resembling
the furious roar of the ordnance of a great army
than of the artillery of volcanoes; and it became
immediately necessary for each man to dismount,
and allay, as he could, the frantic terrors of his
charger. In the midst of this sublime prelude, the
rushing of a mighty wind was added to the orchestre
of the elements; and, in an instant, the face of day,
the black vapours above and the varied valley below,
were hidden in a cloud of dust, sand, and leaves,
stripped in a moment from the plains and the forest;
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and in an instant also, the army of Narvaez was
snatched from the eyes of the cavalier. Presently,
also, came another sound, heard even above the peal
of the thunder and the rush of the wind; the roar
of a great rain, booming along like a moving cataract,
was mingled with the harsh music of nature;
and Don Amador looked anxiously round for some
place of shelter. Happily, though no cavern welcomed
them into its gloomy security, there was a spot
hard by, where certain tall and massive rocks lay so
jammed and wedged together, as to present most of
the characteristics of a chamber, except that there
was wanting the fourth side, as well as the roof, unless
indeed the outstretched branches of the great
trees that grew among these fragments, might have
been considered a suitable canopy. A spring bubbled
up from among these mossy ruins, giving nourishment
to a thick growth of brambles and weeds,
which added their own tangled covert to the stouter
shelter of the rocks and trunks. Into this nook the
party, guided by Botello, to whom it seemed not unfamiliar,
penetrated forthwith; and here they found
themselves, in a great measure, sheltered from the
rain. Here also, taking advantage of a period of
inactivity, and at the instigation of Don Amador,
who perceived with solicitude the visage of the secretary
covered not only with languor, but flushed
with fatigue and fever, the enchanter set about relieving
the distresses of the youth. He removed the
bandage and garment, examined the wound, bathed
the inflamed member in the cool waters of the fountain;
and having thus commenced proceedings with
so reasonable a preliminary, he drew a little silver
vessel from his wallet, containing the unguent `blessed,
' as he had before said, `of the fat of a pagan's
heart,' and which, as may be repeated to those who
might doubt the efficacy of so remarkable a compound,
was not only much used, but highly commended
by the Christian soldiers of that day in America.
The magician commanded Fabueno to repeat
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a pater-noster as slowly and devoutly as possible, (for
none of Botello's conjurations were conducted without
the appearance of deep devotion;) and mumbling
himself another, or perhaps repeating some superstitious
invocation, he applied the ointment, previously
spread over green leaves, to the wound; and when
it was again bound up, the secretary declared its anguish
was much mitigated, as well as his whole body
greatly refreshed.
Don Amador regarded the youth for a moment
with much grave kindness; and then said,—
“I owe this man so much gratitude for the good
he seems to have, and doubtless has, done thee, whom
I now, Fabueno,—at least until I can receive instructions
from my kinsman, the admiral,—must esteem
as being my ward and follower, that I am unwilling
to offend him by seeming to throw any discredit on
his remedy. Nevertheless I am not less bound to
instruct thee with counsel, than to repay him with
thanks; for which reason I must charge thee to remember,
that, when any miracle of a very unusual
or unnecessary character is wrought upon thyself,
much more of it may possibly be the product of thine
own imagination, than of that agent which seems to
thee to be the only cause.”
“Faith will work miracles, but fancy will not!”
said Botello, gravely.
“If I were a better philosopher, good Botello,”
said Don Amador, “I would attempt to show thee
how that which thou callest faith, is, in such a case
as this, nothing but imagination in very fervent action,
differing as much from that calm assurance
which constitutes true faith, as doth a potter's pitcher
gilded to resemble true gold, from a golden pitcher;
which difference, in the latter case, may be instantly
detected, by ringing them. And here I may tell thee,
Botello, by way of continuing the figure, that, as the
earthen vessel will really tinkle more pleasantly than
the vessel of gold, so also will the excited imagination
give forth a sound so much more captivating
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than the tranquil utterance of belief, that, in attempting
to distinguish between them, men are often seduced
into error. Nevertheless, I will not quarrel
with thee on this subject, for I perceive thou art religious;
and what thy religion does not blame in thee,
I have no right to censure.”
This was a degree of liberality doubtless produced
rather by the amiable feeling of gratitude than any
natural tolerance of disposition or education; for the
neophyte was in all respects a representative of the
nobler spirits of his age, in whom the good qualities
inherited from nature were dashed, and sometimes
marred, by the tenets of a bad philosophy.
CHAPTER XV.
This discourse of the novice, together with the
magical unction of the wound, occupied so much
time, that when it was finished, the storm had in a
great measure passed away; and Botello, either feeling
his inability to reply to it with an allegory of
equal beauty, or despairing to overcome the scepticism
of the cavalier, instead of answering, rose from
his seat, and led the way to the post on the hill-side,
which they had lately deserted.
Drops of rain still occasionally fell from the heavens,
or were whirled by the passing gusts from the
boughs; the clouds still careered menacingly in the
atmosphere; and though the sunbeams ever and anon
burst through their rent sides, and glimmered with
splendour on the shivered tops and lacerated roots of
many a fallen tree, it was still doubtful at what moment
the capricious elements might resume their conflict.
The river, that was before a brook, now rolled
along a turbid torrent, and seemed, every moment, to
augment in volume and fury, as its short-lived tributaries
poured down their foaming treasures from the
hills.—
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“The boy to his bed, and the fool to his fire-side!”
cried the enchanter, with a sudden exultation, as,
pointing down the hill, he disclosed to the cavalier the
valley deprived of its late visiters. The armed men
of Cadmus had not risen from the soil with a more
magical celerity than had the soldiers of Narvaez
vanished: the valley was silent and solitary. “I said
the tempest should open for us a path!” continued
Botello; “and lo! the spirit which was given to me
does not lie!”
“I must confess,” quoth Don Amador, with surprise,
“you have in this instance, as in several others,
verified your prediction. What juggler's trick is this?
Where is the hound Narvaez?”
“Galloping back to Zempoala, to amuse himself
with the dancers on the pyramid,” said Botello, with
a grin of saturnine delight. “He came out against
Cortes, and his heart failed him in the tempest: he
loves better, and so do his people, the comfort of the
temple, than the strife of these tropical elements. Wo
be to him who would contend with a strong man,
when he hides his head from the shower! He shall vapour
in the morning, but tremble when the enemy
comes to him in dreams!”
“And I am to understand, then,” said Amador,
with a voice of high scorn and displeasure, “that
these effeminate hinds, after drawing out their forces
in the face of an enemy, have taken to their heels,
like village girls in a summer festival, at the dashing
of rain?”
“It is even so,” said Botello: “they are now hiding
themselves in their quarters; while those veterans
who awaited them beyond the river, stand yet to
their arms, and blush even to look for the shelter of
a tree.”
“Let us descend, then,” said the cavalier, “and
join them without delay; for I believe those men of
Cortes are true soldiers, and I long to make their acquaintance.”
“It is needful we do so, and that quickly,” said the
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astrologer; “for this river, though by midnight it
shall again be shrunk to a fairy brook, will, in an
hour, be impassable.”
It required not many moments to convey the party
to the banks of the stream; but when they had reached
it, it was apparent, it could not be forded without
peril. Its channel was wild and rocky; fallen and
shivered trees fringed its borders with a bristling
net-work, over and among which the current raved
with a noisy turbulence. The cavalier regarded it
with solicitude; but perceiving that the magician was
urging his horse into it without hesitation, he prepared
forthwith to follow his example. He saw, however,
that the secretary faltered; and feeling as much
pity for his inexperience, as commiseration for the
helplessness to which, as he supposed, the arrow-hurt
had reduced him, he rode up to him with words of
comfort and encouragement.
“Thou perceivest,” he said, “that Botello goes into
the water without fear. Thou shalt pass, Lorenzo,
without danger; for besides placing Lazaro on one
side of thee, I will myself take station on the other.
If thou shouldst, by any mischance, find thyself out
of depth, all that thou canst do, will be to trust the
matter to thy horse, who is doubtless too sagacious
to thrust himself into any superfluous jeopardy. Be
of good heart: this is a small matter: thou wilt one
day, perhaps, if thou continuest to desire the life and
fame of a soldier, have to pass a more raging torrent
than this, and that, too, in the teeth of an enemy.”
The secretary blushed at his fears, and willing to
retrieve his character, dashed into the flood with an
alacrity that carried him beyond his patron. For a
moment he advanced steadily and securely, at the
heels of Botello; but becoming alarmed at the sight
of a tree surging down towards him, he veered a little
from the direction, and instantly found his horse
swimming under him. Before Lazaro or the cavalier
could approach to his aid, his discomposure got
so much the better of his discretion, that he began to
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jerk and pull at the reins in such a manner as to infuse
some of his own disorder into the steed. Don
Amador beheld the sorrel nag not only plunging and
rearing in the water, but turning his head down the
stream, and swimming with the current.
“Give thy horse the reins, and perplex him not,
Lorenzo!” he cried, urging the dauntless Fogoso to
his rescue; “jerk not, pull not, or thou wilt be in
great danger.”
But before the secretary could obey the voice of
Don Amador, and before the latter could reach him,
the hand of Lazaro had grasped the bridle, and turned
the animal's head to the bank.
“Suppose thou wert in the midst of a company of
fighting spearmen, instead of this spluttering gutter,”
said the man-at-arms, in his ear, “wouldst thou distract
thy beast in this school-boy fashion?”
The contemptuous composure of the soldier did
more to restore the spirits of Fabueno, than the counsels
of the cavalier; and yielding up the guidance of
himself as well as his animal, to Lazaro, he was soon
out of danger.
In the meanwhile, Don Amador, in his hurry to
give the secretary relief, had taken so little note of
his own situation, that when he beheld his ward in
safety, he discovered that he was himself even more
disagreeably situated. A few yards below him was
a cluster of rocks, against which, as he discerned at
a glance, it would be fatal to be dashed, but which
he saw not how he could avoid, inasmuch as the
bank above them was so palisaded by the sharp and
jutting boughs of a prostrate tree, that it seemed
impossible he could effect a landing there. While
balancing in doubt, at a time when doubt, as he well
knew, was jeopardy, he heard a voice suddenly crying
to him from the bank,
“What ho, señor! holla! 'Ware the rocks, and
spur on: your hope is in the tree-top.”
While Don Amador instinctively obeyed this command,
and urged his steed full towards the
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threatening branches, he raised his head, and perceived a
cavalier on a dun horse riding into the water, above
the rocks hard by the tree, as if to convince him of
the practicability of the passage, and the shallowness
of the water. This unknown auxiliary stretched
forth his hand, and doing to Amador the service rendered
by Lazaro to the secretary, the neophyte instantly
found himself in safety, and ascending the
bank of the river. Not till his charge was on dry
land, did the stranger relax his hand; and then perhaps
the sooner, that Don Amador seized it with a
most cordial gripe, and while he held it, said, fervently,—
“I swear to thee, cavalier! I believe thou hast
saved me from a great danger, if thou hast not absolutely
preserved my life: for which good deed, besides
giving thee my most unfeigned present thanks,
I avow myself, till the day of my death, enslaved under
the necessity to requite thee with any honourable
risk thou canst hereafter impose.”
While Don Amador spoke, he perused the countenance
and surveyed the figure of his deliverer. He
was a man in the prime and midway of life, tall and
long-limbed, but with a breadth of shoulders and development
of muscle that proved him, as did the
grasp with which he assisted the war-horse from the
flood, to possess great bodily strength. His face was
handsome and manly, though with rather delicate
features; and a very lofty and capacious forehead
shone among thin black locks, and under a velvet
cap worn in a negligent manner, with a medal of a
saint draggling loosely from it. His beard was black
and thin, like his hair, and Amador plainly perceived
through it the sear of a sword-cut between the chin
and mouth. His garments were of a fine and dark
cloth, without much ornament; but his fanfarrona, as
it was called in the language of the cavaliers, was a
gold chain of at least thrice the weight and bigness
of the neophyte's, linked round his neck, and supporting
a pendant of Christ and the Virgin; and in
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addition, Don Amador saw on a finger of the hand he
grasped, a diamond ring of goodly size and lustre.
Such was the valiant gentleman, who won the friendship
of the neophyte not less by his ready good will
than by his excellent appearance; although this last
qualification was perhaps not displayed to advantage,
inasmuch as his whole attire and equipments, as well
as the skin and armour of his horse, were dripping
with wet, as if both had been lately plunged into the
river or exposed to all the rigour of the storm. He
replied to Don Amador's courtesies with a frank and
open countenance, and a laugh of good humour, as if
entirely unconscious of any discomfort from his reeking
condition, or of any merit in the service he had
rendered.
“I accept thy offers of friendship,” he said, “and
very heartily, señor. But I vow to thee, when I
helped thee out of the stream, I thought I should
have had to give thee battle the next moment, as a
sworn friend of Don Panfilo, the Biscayan.”
“How little justice there was in that suspicion,”
said Amador, “you will know when I tell you, that,
at this moment, next to the satisfaction of finding
some opportunity to requite your true service, I know
of no greater pleasure the saints could send me
than a fair opportunity to cross swords with this ill-mannered
general, in serious and mortal arbitrement.
Know, señor, I am at this moment a captive escaped
out of the hands of that most dishonourable and unworthy
person, seeking my way, with my followers,
under guidance of a certain conjurer called Botello,
to the camp of the valiant señor Don Hernan Cortes:
and I rejoice in this rencounter the more, because I
am persuaded you are yourself a true friend of that
much-respected commander.”
“Ay, by my conscience! you may say so,” cried
the blithe cavalier; “and I would to heaven Cortes
had many more friends that love him so well as myself.
But come, señor; you are hard by his head-quarters.—
Yet, under favour, let us, before seeking
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them, say a word to Botello, who, with your people,
I perceive, has crossed the river.”
A few steps of their horses brought the two cavaliers
into contact with the travellers, with whom Don
Amador beheld some half-a-dozen strangers, all of
hidalgo appearance, on horseback, and dripping with
wet like his new friend, but, unlike him, armed to the
teeth with helm, mail, and buckler.
“How now, Botello, mi querido?” he cried, as he
rode in among the party; “what news from my brother
Narvaez? and what conjuration wert thou enacting.
while he was scampering away before the
bad weather?”
“Nothing but good, señor!” said Botello, baring
his head, and bending it to the saddle.
The neophyte was surprised at this mark of homage
in the enchanter, whom he had found, though
neither rude nor presumptuous, not over-burthened
with servility. Looking round to the other hidalgos,
he discovered that they all kept their eyes upon his
companion with looks of the deepest respect. At the
same moment, and as the truth entered his mind, he
caught the eye of his deliverer, and perceived at
once, in this stately though unarmed cavalier, the
person of the renowned Cortes himself. For a moment,
it seemed as if the general were disposed to
meet the disclosure with a grave and lofty deportment
suitable to his rank; but as Don Amador raised
his hand to his casque with a gesture of reverence, a
smile crept over his visage, which was instantly succeeded
by a good-humoured and familiar laugh.
“Thou seest, señor!” he cried, “we will be masking
at times, even without much regard either for our
enemies or the weather. But trust me, caballero, you
are welcome; and doubtless not only to myself, but
to these worthier gentlemen, my friends.” And here
the general pronounced the names of Sandoval, of
De Morla, of De Leon, De Olid, and others,—all, as
was afterwards proved, men of great note among the
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invaders of Mexico. The neophyte saluted them with
courtesy, and then, turning to the general, said:—
“I am myself called Amador de Leste, a poor
hidalgo of Cuenza, a novice of the order of St. John
of the Holy Hospital, and kinsman of the knight Gines
Gabriel de Calavar, to seek whom am I come to this
land of Mexico, and to the tents of your excellency.”
All bowed with great respect at this annunciation;
and Cortes himself, half raising his drooping cap,
said:—
“I doubly welcome the cavalier De Leste; and
whether he come to honour me with the aid of his
good sword, or to rob me of the true friendship of the
knight Calavar, still am I most glad to see him: and
glad am I that heaven has sent us a kinsman to watch
by the side of the good knight. Señor,” continued
the general, anticipating the questions of the neophyte,
“if you will moderate your impatience a little, until
I fulfil my duties with my mad friend here, the astrologer,
I will be rejoiced in person to conduct you to
your kinsman.”
The courteous manners of Hernan Cortes did more
to mollify the ardour of the novice than could any
degree of stateliness. He smothered his impatience,
though it was burning with a stronger and an increasing
flame; while the general proceeded to confer
with the magician.
“How is it, Magico mio?” he cried. “I had a
deserter this morning, who told me thou hadst been
entrapped,—that my brother Narvaez had cudgelled
thee with his own hands, and had some thoughts of
hanging thee.”
“Such is, in part, the truth,” said Botello, tranquilly.
“He was incensed at the stars, and struck me with
his foot, because the Spirit of the Crystal gave not
an answer to his liking.”
“Ay, indeed!” cried Cortes, curiously; “and Kalidon
hath been speaking to him! What said Kalidon-Sadabath
of Narvaez?”
“He said that, to-night,” replied Botello, with his
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most solemn emphasis, “the foot of Cortes should be
on the pyramid, and that, to-morrow, the Biscayan
should do homage to his rival.”
“Ay! and Kalidon told him all this?” said Cortes,
quickly, and, as Amador thought, angrily.
“He told only that which it was fitting the Biscayan
should know,” said Botello, significantly; “he
told him that which brought his forces into the
field to-day, so that they shall sleep more soundly for
their labours to-night; and yet he told him, no blow
should be struck in the field. He showed him many
such things; but he told him not, in manner as it was
written in the heaven and figured in the stone, that
to-night should his enemy creep upon him as he slept
blind and besotted, and while his best friends guided
the assailant to his bedside.”
“Ay, by my conscience!” cried Cortes, turning
with meaning looks to his companions; “this Kalidon
reads men's thoughts; for it was but an half hour
since, when I beheld these delicate warriors turning
their backs to the gust, that I vowed in my heart, I
would, to-night, give them a lesson for their folly.
What thinkest thou, son Sandoval? Will thy sunburnt,
lazy fellows of the Rich City march to Zempoala
by night?”
“Ay, by night or by day,—whenever they are bidden,”
said the sententious stripling, who, at this early
period of the campaign and of his life, was not only
the favourite of the general, but his second in fame.
As Don Amador listened to his rough voice, and surveyed
his bold and frank countenance adorned with
a curly beard and hair, both of amber hue, he bethought
him of the story of the heralds summoning
him to surrender his post into their hands, and receiving
an answer which they digested in the nets of
the Tlamémé, on the road to Tenochtitlan.
“And thou, Juan Velasquez de Leon,” said the general,
turning to a young and powerfully framed
cavalier, with a red beard and fierce countenance,
who, besides being clad in a heavier coat of mail than
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any other present, was more bountifully bedecked with
golden chains, and who sat on a noble gray mare,—
“What sayest thou? Wilt thou play me a bout with
Narvaez, the captain of thy kinsman, the governor
Velasquez?”
“Ay, by my beard, I will!” replied De Leon, with
a thick ferocious voice, suiting the action to the word,
and wringing the rain-drops from the beard he had
invoked; “for, though I love the governor, I love not
his dog; and if this godly enchanter will assure me
the stars are favourable to the enterprise, I will be
the last man to say, our two hundred and fifty men
are no match for the thousand curs that bark at the
heels of the Biscayan.”
“It is written that, if we attack to-night, we shall
prevail,” said Botello.
“If I am permitted to say anything in a matter of
such importance,” said the neophyte, “I can aver,
that if the people of Narvaez design to revel away
this night, as they did the last, their commanders trifling
with jugglers and rope-dancers, their guards
sleeping on their posts, or straying away into the
suburbs, as we discovered them when we escaped at
dawn, it is an opinion which I formed on the spot,
that some ten or fifteen score of resolute men may
take them by surprise, and utterly vanquish them.”
“I respect the opinion of Don Amador,” said Cortes,
“as well as the counsels of Kalidon-Sadabath and
the stars, which have never yet told me a falsehood.
But how comes it, Botello? Hast thou been flying
since dawn? I cannot understand the necessity thou
wert under to lead my worthy friend Don Amador
so long a ramble; and moreover I perceive that,
though yesterday thou wert constrained to trudge
upon foot, thou art, to-day, master of a steed that
may almost compare with Motacila, the wag-tail, of
my son Sandoval.”
“I stole the beast from the captain of the watch,
Salvatierra, while he kept guard over us at some distance
in the fields,” said the magician, while all the
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cavaliers laughed heartily at the explanation; “and
as for the long day's travel,—when I found myself
upon a good horse, I thought I could do no better
than give the alarm, and draw a party in pursuit,
and so entangle them among the woods, or wear them
out with fatigue, that they should make little opposition
when we came to attack their comrades at midnight.”
“A shrewd and most laudable device!” cried Cortes,
with unconcealed delight: “I have ever found
thee as good a soldier as astrologer; and if the fates
be as favourable to thee as I am myself, Botello, I can
promise thee many an acre of maize fields or gold
mountains, to recompense thy services.”
“It must be as it is written,” said Botello, gravely.
“Many a peril shall encompass me; but I know that,
in the worst, as it has been revealed to me, I shall
be rescued out of it on the wings of eagles!”
“Amen!” cried Cortes, “for the day of miracles
is not over. “If the señor De Leste,” he continued,
“claim to discharge his just anger for his imprisonment
on my brother Narvaez, I will invite him to
such a post of honour as shall be most likely to gratify
his longings. And after that, if my very noble
friend be inclined to exercise some of that skill in
naval warfare which he has doubtless acquired
among the knights of Rhodes, I will rejoice to entrust
to him the attack upon the fleet of Cavallero.”
“Señor,” said Amador, “though I burn to assist
you in the attack on Narvaez, I must first receive
the command of my knight Don Gabriel. I am not
so eager to draw sword upon the admiral; for know,
valiant Don Hernan, I have discovered in Cavallero
a kinsman of my mother. And señor,” continued
the neophyte, “I am now reminded of a message
which he charged me to deliver to your excellency,
wherein he begs to assure you, that, though fate has
arrayed him as your enemy, he cannot forget the
friendship of his former life.”
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“Ay!” cried Cortes briskly, “does the excellent
admiral say me that?”
“He bade me also avow to you, that, though it became
him not, as an officer of Velasquez, to hold
any communications with you, except those of simple
form and courtesy, he should be well rejoiced
when heaven has removed the obstruction, and left
him at liberty to meet you with former friendship and
confidence.”
“By my conscience,” cried the general, turning
to his officers, and exchanging meaning and joyous
glances with them, “though these be tidings which
Kalidon hath not revealed, yet are they of such pleasant
import, that I shall ever thank Don Amador for
being the bearer of them. Eh, my masters!” he
exclaimed; “did I not tell you, when we left Tenochtitlan
in gloom, we should return to it in merriment?
that when we sank our rotten fleet among the
surges of Villa Rica, heaven should send us another
and a better? Let us move on, and spread these good
news through the camp.”—
The neophyte perceived, by the exultation of the
general, that he had been in a manner cajoled by Cavallero;
but he was not sorry to think his kinsman
should rather prefer to command his fleet as they ally
of Cortes than as the friend of Narvaez.
CHAPTER XVI.
The sun was declining fast, when the travellers
made their way to the camp of Cortes. The River
of Canoes ran through a fertile valley; but this was
of no great extent, and towards its upper termination,
the scene of the events of the day, it was arid and
broken with rocks. Immediately beyond the river,
in a place made strong by rocks and bushes, impenetrable
to cavalry, and affording the safest covert to
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his arquebusiers and crossbowmen, the wary rival of
Narvaez had pitched his quarters. Temporary huts
of boughs and fresh-woven mats were seen withering
among the green shadows, and from these ascended
the smoke of fires, at which the soldiers were dressing
their evening meal. But in advance of this primitive
encampment, dripping with rain like their commanders,
yet standing to their arms with a patient
and grave constancy, as if still in readiness for an
enemy, Don Amador beheld the forces of Cortes.
They had a weather-beaten and veteran appearance;
most of them were apparelled in the escaupil, cut in
separate pieces resembling cumbrous plate-armour,
and occasionally so hacked by the weapons of the
natives, that the white lining gaped out somewhat ludicrously
from its darker covering. Those arrayed
in a better investment, had their morions and breast-plates
commonly covered with rust, as if kept too
much occupied with perils by night and day to allow
leisure for burnishing them. Nevertheless, they looked
like disciplined and experienced soldiers. Amador
observed that few of them had fire-arms; the crosshow,
the sword, and the great lance of Chinantla,
with its long double head of bright copper, were almost
their only arms; but they handled them as if
well acquainted with their value. Behind this advanced
guard, under the shelter of the rocks and
bushes, he remarked several officers, a few of them
mounted, as well as divers groups of Indian menials;
and, as his ear caught a low exclamation from the
general, he turned his eyes, and beheld the object of
his long and painful search.
Under the shadow of a tall tree, remote from the
rest, and attended only by a single armed follower,—
on a coal-black horse, heavily harnessed, which
stood under his weight with a tranquillity as marble-like
as his own, sat the knight of Calavar. He was
in full armour, but the iron plates were rusted on his
body, and in many places shattered. The plumes
were broken and disordered on his helmet; the spear
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lay at the feet of his steed; his buckler was in the
hands of his attendant; and instead of the red tabard
which was worn in a season of war by the brothers
of his order, the black mantle of peace, with its great
white cross, hung or drooped heavily from his shoulders.
His beaver was up, and his countenance, wan
and even ghastly, was fully revealed. The ravages
of an untimely age were imprinted upon his aspect;
yet, notwithstanding the hollow cheeks and grizzled
beard, the brow furrowed with a thousand wrinkles,
the lips colourless and contracted into an expression
of deep pain, he presented the appearance of a ruin
majestic in its decay. His hands were clasped, and
lay on the pommel of the saddle, and, together with
his whole attitude and air, indicated a state of the
most profound and sorrowful abstraction. In truth,
he seemed the prey of thoughts, many and deep;
and it scarcely needed the simple and touching legend,
Miserere mei, Deus! which usurped the place of a
scutcheon or other device on his shield, to know that
if fame sat on his saddle, sorrow rested under his
bosom.
No sooner had the neophyte beheld this gloomy
apparition, than, with a loud cry, he threw himself
from his horse; and, rushing forward, he seized the
relaxed hand of the figure, and pressed it to his lips
with reverence and affection. But the knight, not
yet roused from his revery, or struggling vainly with
imperfect recollections, looked only into his face with
a wistful stare.
“Patron and cousin! my friend and my father!”
cried the novice, passionately, “do you not know
me? I am Amador!”
“Amador!” muttered the knight, with a troubled
look and a tone of perplexity. “Very well,—to-morrow—
to-morrow!”
“He will not understand you now,” said the general.
“He is often in these trances.”
“Mi padre! mi amigo!” cried the youth, vehemently,
without regarding the interruption of the
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commander, “will you not know me? I am Amador!
Look,—here is Baltasar, old Baltasar! your servant
and favourite, that has been at your side ever from
the days of the Alpujarras to the fall of Rhodes.”
“The Alpujarras!” echoed the knight, with a deep
sigh. “Wo is me!—miserere mei, Deus!”
“He will recollect us now,” said Baltasar, who
had also descended, and who testified his fidelity by
a tear that glittered in his ancient eye. “I never
knew that word fail to call him out of his mood,
though I have often known it fling him into one.—
Master! I am Baltasar; and here is your honour's
kinsman, Don Amador!”
“Ay! is it so indeed? I thought I was dreaming,”
said the knight: “Art thou here indeed, my son Amador?
Give me thy brows, for I am rejoiced to find
thee in the world again.” And stooping and flinging
his arms round his neck, he kissed the forehead of
the neophyte, with a parental affection.
“This, my masters,” said Cortes, in an under voice,
“is not a spectacle for us. Let us pass on, and arrange
proceedings for the attack.” And, with his
suite, he instantly departed.
“And how dost thou prosper at Almeria?” continued
Calavar, mildly, and without any incoherence
of manner, though it was evident his thoughts were
far away. “Hast thou found me any brave hearts,
who will march with me against the infidels of Barbary?”
“Dear knight and patron,” said Amador, “we are
not now in Spain, but in the heathen lands of Mexico.”
“Ay! Dios mio, I had forgotten that!” said Don
Gabriel, with a bewildered air.
“Whither I have come,” said the novice, “to beg
your pardon for my negligence and desertion, and
never more to part from your side.”
“I remember me now,” said the knight, slowly and
sadly. “Wo is me! a sore infirmity is on my brain;
and sometimes I am not master of my own acts. But
I remember thee, my friend: I remember that, in an
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evil hour of forgetfulness, I forsook thee, to come to
this unknown land. But I beg thy pardon, my son;—
the dark mood took me from thee, and in truth I
knew it not.”
The tears came into the eyes of Amador, as he
listened to the self-accusation of his kinsman, and
remembered how much the blame should rest on his
own momentary defection.
“It is I that must bear the reproach, and I that
must look for forgiveness,” he cried. “But I will
never need to be rebuked or forgiven again; for I
swear, dear kinsman, I will follow thee truly now,
until my death.”
“And thou hast left the fair hills of Spain, thy true
friends, and thy lady-love,” said Calavar, with a
mournful voice, “to follow me over the wide seas
and the hostile deserts? I welcome thee with gratitude,
for thy love is great, and thy task will be bitter.
I welcome thee well, Amador, but surely it is with
sorrow; for I heard thou hadst won the love of a
noble and virtuous lady; and heaven forbid I should
not lament to sever thee, in thy youth, from the enjoyment
of thy affection.”
A flush of shame and pain mantled the countenance
of the devoted novice, as he replied,—
“I confess I have much need of thy forbearance,
dear knight; but they did me wrong, who said I
could forget thee for the love of woman. I acknowledge
no duty that is not to thee, and no passion but
that of serving thee with constancy and truth. But
I am sent to thee not more by the impulses of my
own love, than by the commands of his most eminent
highness, the Grand Master, who leaves it to
thyself, as a well-beloved and much-trusted follower
of the holy order, whether thou wilt remain fighting
the infidels of this new world, or return at thy pleasure
to the island Malta, which his majesty the king
and emperor, Don Carlos of Spain and Austria, hath
promised to bestow upon the good knights, the defenders
of Christendom.”
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“Among the infidels of the new world, then,” said
Calavar, casting his eyes meekly to heaven; “for I
know that what poor service I may yet render the
faith, must be rendered soon; and if God uphold me,
I will render it truly and well. But thou, Amador
my son, my faithful and my beloved! I adjure thee
that, when my task is finished, thou return to the land
of thy birth, and give thyself to a life of virtue, and,
if possible, of peace. Watch well the creatures that
are in thy breast, for among them are devils, which,
if thou do not chain them, will rend thee. Check thy
wrath, fetter thy fury,” continued the knight, vehemently;
“and when thou drawest thy sword, call on
God, that it may not fall unjustly; for when blood is
shed that should not have been shed, it lives on the
soul for ever—Ay de mi! Miserere mei, Deus!”
Don Amador feared, as he listened with a superstitious
reverence to the adjurations of the knight, that
he was about to relapse into his gloomy stupor; but
he was deceived. The lips of Calavar muttered on
for a moment, as if continuing to repeat the solemn
and impassioned appeal of the psalmist: and then,
making the sign of the cross on his breast, he turned
again to the novice with a kind of dismal cheer, and
said:—
“I welcome thee again to this land, Amador. And
Baltasar—What now, Baltasar? is it possible I should
forget thee? I am glad to look upon thy loyal
countenance; thine old friend Marco will rejoice to
fight again at thy side.—If I do not err, this is thy
henchman, Lazaro:—I greet thee well, Lazaro: be
very true to thy master, and forget not thy religion.
And this youth that rests behind thee—if he be thy
follower, my son, he shall share thy welcome.”
“I recommend the youth Fabueno to thy kindness,”
said Amador, well pleased to perceive his kinsman so
collected. “He is the secretary of the admiral Cavallero,
who claims to be related to your honour, and
sends you the assurance of his love. I have been
constrained, without yet knowing the pleasure of his
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excellency, to receive the youth into my protection;
and this I did the more cheerfully, that he was my
fellow-sufferer in the camp of Narvaez, and did, for
my sake, very courageously expose himself to the
painful shot of a cross-bow, which now maims his
right arm.”
“If he have suffered for thee, my friend, I will not
forget him,” said the knight; “and I am rejoiced for
his sake that now, in this season of peace, we may
cure his wound before we call upon him to endure
another.”
The countenance of Don Amador fell; he thought
the knight's dream of peace denoted that he was sinking
again into abstraction.
“Call this not the season of peace,” he cried. “The
commander Cortes is resolute to fall upon his enemy,
Narvaez, the enemy of honour; and it needs we should
burnish up our arms, to give him help.”
Calavar looked seriously at the youth, and touching
his black mantle with an expressive gesture, said:—
“It is the time of peace, my son,—the time of peace
for those that follow the good St. John. I remember
me now, that Cortes came down from the mountains,
to fight the man Narvaez and his host: but these are
not infidels, but Christians.”
“Cousin,” said the cavalier, warmly, “though this
man have the name, yet do I very much doubt if he
possess any of the religion of a Christian; and I have
to assure you, I have endured such causeless indignities
at his hands, such as direct insult, violent seizure,
and shameful imprisonment, as can only be
washed away with his blood.”
“Wo's me! wo's me!” cried the knight: “the blood
that is poured in anger, will not flow like water; it will
not dry like water; nor will water, though blessed by
the holy priest in the church, wash its crust from the
hand! Thou seest,” he cried, extending his gauntleted
member, and gazing piteously into the face of
his heated kinsman—“thou seest, that though, for
thrice five years, I have washed it in brook and font,
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in the river that flows from the land of the Cross, and
in the brine of the sea, it oozes still from between the
scales, like a well that must trickle for ever, and will
not be hidden.—Thou art very wroth with me, heaven!—
Miserere mei, Domine!”
Don Amador was greatly shocked and grieved, that
his imprudent obstinacy had so nearly again recalled
the distraction of his kinsman. But it needed not
many expressions of gentleness and submission, to divert
the current of his thoughts. The appearance of
the young and devoted follower had come to the spirit
of the penitent knight, like a cool breeze over the temples
of a fevered man; and having once been roused
from his gloom, he could not be long insensible to the
excitement of his presence. He cast an eye of kindness
and affection on the youth, and obeying, as one
who had been long accustomed to such control, the
humble suggestion of Marco, he turned to the tents of
the encampment.
CHAPTER XVII.
The sun had not yet set, when the ray, stealing
through the vapours that gathered among the distant
peaks, beheld the señor Cortes and his little army
crossing the River of Canoes. A quarter-league above
his encampment was the very ford which had given
him passage, when, with a force short of five hundred
men, and a few score of wild Totonacs, taken
with him less as warlike auxiliaries than as beasts of
burthen and hostages for the fidelity of their tribe,
he set out to cross mountains of snow and fire, rocky
deserts and foaming rivers, in the invasion of an empire,
whose limits, as well as its resources and power,
were utterly unknown. Here the stream was more
shallow than at that spot where it had been the fate
of Don Amador to ford it; the flood had also in a
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measure subsided; and while the mounted individuals
passed it with ease, the waters came not above
the breasts of the footmen. Don Amador rode at
the side of his knight, and though chafing with discontent
at the thought that he should share no part
in the brave deeds of the coming night, and be but a
looker-on, while strangers were robbing him of his
vengeance, yet did he conceal his troubles, lest the
exhibition of them should give new pain to his unhappy
kinsman. The three attendants were behind,
and Fabueno, though evidently regarding the knight
Calavar with a deep and superstitious awe, rode not
far from his patron.
The rivulet was crossed, and the hardy desperadoes
who were now marching with spears to attack
a foe of five times their own number, fortified with
cannon on an eminence, gathered about their leader
as he sat his horse on the bank, as if expecting his
final instructions and encouragement. He surveyed
them not only with gravity but with complacency,
and smiling as if in derision of their weakness,—for
they did not number much over two hundred and
fifty men,—he said, with inimitable dryness:—
“My good friends and companions! you are now
about to fight a battle, the issue of which will depend
very much on your own conduct; and I have to inform
you, that if, as seems reasonable enough, you
are vanquished, there is not a man of you that shall
not hang at some corner of Zempoala to-morrow!”
A murmur running through the whole crew, marked
the disgust of all at this unsavoury exordium.
“The reasons for this opinion,” continued the leader,
gravely, “both as to the probable fate of the battle
and of yourselves in the event of your being
beaten, I shall have no trouble in speaking; only that,
like one who knows how to use the butt as well as
the blade of his lance, I shall discourse first of the
hinder part of my argument; that is to say, of the
very great certainty with which a gibbet shall reward
every man who, this night, handles his weapon
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too tenderly. Know, then, my good brothers, that,
at this moment, though you very loyally and truly
avow yourselves the soldiers of his majesty, our king
and master, it hath somehow entered into the head
of the general Narvaez, the lieutenant of his majesty's
governor, to consider you as villain rebels and
traitors;—an imputation so exceedingly preposterous
and eccentric, that, were we in a Christian land, you
should not be required to deny it; but, standing as
you do, with no better present judge than your accuser,
it is certain your innocence could not be made
apparent to his majesty, until after the gallinazas had
picked the last morsel from your bones; at which
time, as I think you will agree with me, a declaration
of your true loyalty would not be a matter of
much consequence to any of you.”
Again a murmur, accompanied by sundry ferocious
looks and savage interjections, testified the discontent
of the adventurers.
“What I say, is the truth,” continued Cortes,
adopting the scowl which darkened the visages of all,
extending his drawn sabre above his head, and
speaking with a fierce and resolute indignation: “In
the face of that heaven, which has seen us, for its honour
and glory, devote ourselves to pain and peril,
landing friendless and unaided, save by its own divine
countenance, on the shores of bitter and murderous
barbarians, overthrowing their bloody idols,
and even in the chief sanctuaries of their diabolic
superstition, on the palaces of their emperors and the
pyramids of their gods, erecting the standard of the
crucified Saviour,—I say, even in the face of that
heaven that has seen us do these things that will immortalize
us on earth and glorify us in heaven, the
man Narvaez has dared to call us traitors to our king
and faith, has denounced us more as infidel Moors,
than as Christian Spaniards, and declaring war upon
us with sword, fire, and free rope, has sworn to give
us to the death of caitiffs and felons!”
The answer to this passionate appeal was loud and
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furious. The cavaliers clashed their swords upon
their bucklers, the footmen drove their spears into
the soil, and, foaming with rage, swore they would
thus answer the calumny in the heart of their enemy.
“Does it need I should give you more proof of the
bloody and insolent violence of Narvaez?” said the
general. “He hath set a price upon my head, and
on the head of my loyal friend Sandoval, as though
we were vile bandits and assassins.”
“What needs more words?” cried the young captain,
thus referred to. “He shall have my head for
the three thousand crowns, if he can take it.”
“How it happens he has not thought any other
head in this company worth buying,” said the commander,
with an adroit bitterness, “is an insult he
must himself explain.”
There was not a cavalier present that did not
swear, in his heart, he would avenge such forbearance
with the full swing of his weapon.
“It must be now manifest,” continued Cortes, with
composure, “that defeat will be the warrant and assurance
of a gallows-death to all that may render
themselves prisoners. And having convinced you of
this, I may now betake me to the first article of my
discourse, as one that concerns the possibility of your
defeat. It is quite probable,” he went on to say, with
an irony more effectual than the most encouraging
argument of hope, “that being but two hundred and
fifty strong, and enfeebled by your divers battles with
the Tlascalans, and the knavish herds of Cholula, you
will be easily beaten by a thousand men, who, besides
being fond of the valiant diversions of Indian
dancers, and the martial delights of house shelter and
soft beds, have hardened their bodies, and perfected
their knowledge of arms, among the plantain patches
of Cuba; and who, in addition, are of so magnanimous
a turn, that they would, the half of them, at this
moment, rather join your ranks than draw sword
against you. But why do I talk thus? A live dog is
better than a dead lion,—and a score of waking men,
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better than a hundred sleepers. Know, then, ye grumbling
and incensed companions, if ye will conquer this
man that comes with a rope, ye may. Botello hath
shown me how the stars are propitious, and how the
Spirit of the Crystal hath promised us success. Heaven
fights on our side, for we fight for heaven;—St.
Paul will be with us, for we contend for the privilege
to convert the heathen;—and Santiago will not
forget us, for with every thrust of our spears, we
strike a brave blow for Spain!”
“Let us on!” cried all, with a shout of exultation;
“We will conquer!”
“Nay!” cried the general, with a mock discretion.
“Rush not too eagerly on danger. Let us wait a
day for those two thousand brown varlets of Chinantla,
whom the loitering Barrientos conducts hitherward;
for though it be somewhat dishonourable to
share a triumph with Indian soldiers, yet will they
doubtless make that triumph the more certain.”
“We will win it ourselves!” cried the excited
desperadoes.
“Ye will have hotter work than ye think,” said
Cortes; “and surely I believe ye will take to your
heels, like the old Arrowauks of Cuba, leaving me to
die at the pyramid—For I swear you, if ye force me
to conduct you to Zempoala, I will not come from it
alive, unless as its master!”
“Let it be proclaimed death to any one that turns
his back!” cried an hundred voices.
“Ay then, ye mad valiant rogues! ye shall have
your wish!” cried Cortes, yielding to an excitement
he had not easily suppressed, rising in his stirrups
and looking round him with that fiery and fanatical
enthusiasm which was the true secret of his greatness,
and which left him not for a moment even in
the darkest and most perilous hour of his enterprise.
“We will march to Zempoala, with God in our
hearts, and the name of the Holy Spirit on our lips;
and remembering that, under such influence, we scattered
the tens of thousands that beset us on the plains
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of Tlascala, we will show this dog of a Biscayan
what it is to oppose the arms of heaven,—Amen!”
And Amen was uttered fiercely and frantically by
the adventurers, as they prepared to follow their
leader. But a wave of his hand checked their ardour
for a moment; a few words explained the order of
attack, and the duties of the several leaders, of whom
the young Sandoval was appointed to the most honourable
and dangerous task,—to seize the artillery by
a coup-de-main, and thus give passage for De Leon
in the assault of the towers, while Cortes himself
should stand by with a chosen body of reserve, to
witness the valour of his captains, and give assistance
where it might be needed. Again, when the announcement
of these orders seemed to have taken
the restraint from the ardour of his followers, the
general checked them. A huge and rugged cross of
cotton-wood raised its mouldering bulk before them
on their path,—a holy landmark, raised by the piety of
the invader, nine months before, while on his march
to Tenochtitlan.
“Under the cross will we commend ourselves to
God, and prepare ourselves for battle,” said the
leader, riding forward, and dismounting. His example
was followed by all the cavaliers, who, together
with the footmen, knelt upon the dank grass, and
baring their heads, prepared for the rites of penitence
and absolution. None knelt with a more devout submission
than the knight of Calavar; none exposed
with more humility their youthful heads to the evening
breeze than did he his silver-touched locks and
withered temples; and none, as the holy chaplain dictated
the act of general confession and contrition,
echoed his words with a more fervent sincerity. Under
the rude crucifix in the desert, knelt those men
who were about to imbrue their hands in blood, and
that the blood of their countrymen.
The words of penitence were said, the rite of absolution
pronounced; and the followers of Cortes
rose to their feet, with their hearts full of conquest.
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But before the helm was buckled and the horse
mounted, there came on the twilight air, from the
towers of Zempoala, the sound of the vesper-bell of
Narvaez.
“It is long since we have worshipped at the sound
of a Christian bell,” said Cortes, again flinging himself
on his knees. “God speaks to us in the omen.
We have not forgotten, among infidel savages, that
we are Christians!”
As if those tones were rung in the chapel of a brother,
instead of the barracks of an enemy, and as if
to join that enemy in one act of piety, before springing
upon him, sword in hand, all again knelt down;
and the Ave-Marias of two hostile armies, on the
brink of engagement, went up to heaven together.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Hard by to the town of Zempoala ran a little
brook, coursing through agreeable meadows, and
here and there skirted by green forests. In a wood
that overshadowed this current,—but at the distance
of a quarter-league from it,—lay concealed the forces
of Hernan Cortes, waiting patiently for the time
when the squadrons of Narvaez, satiated with the
sports of their tawny neighbours, should, additionally,
recompense the exploits of the day with the oblivion
of slumber. They had watched with contempt, and
with joy (for they perceived in such spectacle, a
symptom of the infatuated security of their enemies,)
the great fire that lighted the diversions of the evening,
blazing on the pyramid, until it began to die
away, as did many of the sounds of revelry, that, in
the still hour of the night, were borne to their ears.
But it was not until their spies brought word that the
last brand was flinging its decaying lustre over the
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caves of the towers, that they were bidden to arise,
cross the stream, and array for battle.
In deep silence—for they knew there were sentinels
on the path—they reached and forded the rivulet:
trooper and footman passed over, and were
ranked under their several leaders, and all seemed in
readiness for the assault.
Still, however, the knight of Calavar sat motionless
on his sable steed, as if all unaware of the tempest
of war that was brewing; and Don Amador beheld,
with a pang of unutterable grief and vexation, the
departure of those bold spirits to the scene of strife
and honour, in which he was to have no share. As
he sat fuming and frowning, now on the point of urging
his kinsman for permission to follow, now reproaching
himself in bitter reprehension, as if the
unuttered wish might recall some of those thoughts
of misery which so often perplexed the brain of the
crazed knight, he heard the foot-fall of a horse, and
perceived a cavalier riding towards him. To his
grief was superadded a pang of shame, as he saw
in this individual the person of Cortes himself, and
conceived the object of his return.
“I am loath to see that the noble Calavar still
abides by the black mantle,” he said, as if content to
waste no arguments on the knight; “but if the very
valiant Don Amador de Leste be desirous to repay
upon Narvaez the injuries done to his honour, or if
he be minded to bestow upon me that great favour
whereof he spoke on the River of Canoes, there can
never come a better opportunity than this present:
and for the services he may render me personally, as
well as a most loyal cause, this night, by leading his
followers with me to the pyramid, I shall ever remain
in thankful remembrance.”
The words stuck in the throat of the novice, as he
replied, “I am the slave of my kinsman: I burn to
follow you—but my knight must command.”
He turned to Calavar, with a look of despair; but
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the night which concealed it from the eye, could not
preserve the reproach from the ear.
“Stay thou by my side, Amador, my son,” said
Calavar, sorrowfully; “and let no man that follows
thee or me, think to draw his sword this night; for
we are the followers of St. John, and may not contend
with a Christian, except in self-preservation.”
“God shield thee, sir knight,” cried the general,
anxiously; “every man who strikes with us to-night,
strikes for his own life: victory preserves us, and
defeat conducts us to the scaffold; and I am free to
confess to thee, what I dared not speak to my companions,
that unless every man does his duty, and God
looks kindly upon all, I know not how soon we may
be under the foot of our enemy.”
“I have not refused thee my sword,” said the
knight calmly, “when an infidel stood in thy path;
nor will I, when such opposition is again made.”
“But thy noble and valiant kinsman, and thy people,”
said the general, hastily: “they long to divide
the honour of this combat, and they have no vows
to restrain them. Every sword to-night is as valuable
as a Cid's right arm.”
“Tempt them not! delude them not into the commission
of a great sin, that will fill their future days
with remorse,” said Calavar, earnestly. But before
he could add any thing further, the report of an arquebuse
from the front filled the forest with its roar,
and Cortes, plunging the spur into his charger, was
instantly borne out of sight.
“For God's sake!” cried Amador, with despairing
entreaty, “let us cross the brook, and follow these
brave men a little, though we join not in the battle.”
“I will not refuse thee so much as that,” said the
knight, with some little animation, which was perhaps
caused by the martial associations of the explosion.
“It is not forbidden us at least to look on; and
by so doing, heaven may perchance allow us the happiness
to save some wretched life.”
In a moment the little party had crossed the brook,
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and spurring their horses hard, followed, as they
thought, in the path of their late companion. But,
though the moon frequently displayed her resplendent
visage through loop-holes in the scudding clouds,
the many clumps of trees that dotted over the meadows
in the environs of Zempoala, so confounded
the vision, that they had reached the very suburbs.
without yet obtaining a view of the adventurers.
Indeed it had so happened, that not being provided
with a guide acquainted with the various approaches
to the town, they fell upon one entirely different from
that trodden by the assailants. Not doubting however
that they were following closely upon their rear,
they pushed boldly on through a deserted street,
echoing loudly to the clatter of their steps; nor did
they discover their error until, to their great surprise,
they found themselves issuing upon the great square,
in full view of the temple.
They paused an instant in confusion.—No tumult
of shouts or fire-arms came from the sanctuaries; a
deep silence brooded over the city as with wings; in
fact, no sound broke the solemn tranquillity of midnight,
save one which was the evidence and representative
of peace. The faint twangling of a lute,
mingling with the sweet tones of a youthful voice,
came from the chief tower; to hear which the sentinels
had doubtless stolen from their posts among the
cannon, which were now seen frowning in solitude
on the verge of the platform.
Before Don Amador could take time to ponder on
the infatuated recklessness of the Biscayan general,
or bethink him much of the young Moor of Fez,
whose voice it was, he did not doubt, that sounded
so plaintively from the tower, and which, by some
inexplicable principle of association, instantly wafted
his spirit to Granada, and wrung it with a sharp and
sudden anguish,—the clattering of a horseman riding
furiously up a neighbouring street, roused him from
the imperfect revery; and his heart waxed hot and
fierce, as the loud cry, Arma! Arma! A las armas!
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burst from the lips of the flying sentry. In a moment
of time this faithful watchman was seen dashing
across the square; and as he flung himself from his
steed, and rushed up the steps of the pyramid, still
shouting the alarm at the top of his voice, there was
heard another sound following at his heels, in which
the practised ear of the neophyte detected the tramp
of footmen, pursuing with the speed of death. In a
moment, also, ceased the lute and the voice of the
singer; torches flashed suddenly from the doors of
the towers; and as their light shot over the open
square, there was seen a hurried mass of men running
in confusion over the area of the pyramid. But
the same flash that revealed this spectacle, disclosed
also the wild figures and hostile visages of the men
of Cortes, rushing to the assault, and sending forth a
shout, that made the whole town ring and tremble to
its foundations.
It was not in the nature of man to see these sights
and hear these sounds with composure; and accordingly
Don Amador had no sooner dismounted and
flung the reins of Fogoso into the hands of Lazaro,
than he perceived the knight of Calavar, on foot, at
his side. He turned an inflamed, and perhaps a rebellious
eye on his kinsman; but the countenance of
Calavar was bent on his own, with a ghastly placidity;
and as the hand of the knight was laid on his
shoulder, as if to restrain his fury, the youth groaned
in bitterness and anger.
“By heaven!” he cried, “I see the very face of
Sandoval, as he darts at the steps!—O my friend!
my father!”—
“Shed no blood!” said the knight, with a hollow,
but stern and vehement voice. “The avenger will
follow thee by night and by day, at prayers and in
battle—Shed no blood!”
“We are alone, too!” cried Amador, with ungovernable
fire, as he found that Marco, Lazaro, and
Baltasar, after flinging the reins of their horses round
the shrubs that grew at the corner, had vanished from
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his side. “Even the varlets may strike at the knave
who has wronged me; yet may I not raise my hand!”
“Shed no blood!” reiterated Don Gabriel, in a sort
of frenzy: “Forget thy rage, forswear thy fury! slay
thyself, but strike not in vengeance!—Miserere mei,
Deus!”
All these wild words, though they take moments
to record, were the utterance of an instant; and while
the piteous plaint of the knight Calavar still winged
its way to heaven, and before Amador could reply a
single word, the shouts of the assailants, as they rushed
up the steps, were met by the roar of a cannon discharged
by a skilful hand, illumining tree and tower
with a hideous glare, and flinging death and havoc
among their ranks. But the foot of desperation was
on the earth of the temple; and before another piece
of artillery could answer to the hollow thunder of the
hills, the spear of Chinantla was drinking the blood
of the cannoniers. At this moment, and while even
the young Fabueno grasped the sword in his feeble
hands, and turned his pale face to the battle,—while
Amador gnashed his teeth with rage,—there rose
from the platform, above the shouts and yells of the
combatants, a shriek as though of a woman struck by
the spear of some ferocious dastard.—If the blow of
an enemy had fallen upon his cheek, the young cavalier
could not have started from the grasp of his kinsman,
and drawn his sword, with a more irresistible
impulse. But, in truth, the same cry that inflamed
his own brain, went also to the heart of Calavar;
and when he dashed up the pyramid, with furious
haste, as if to the rescue of a sworn friend, the knight
of Rhodes, drawing his weapon, followed fiercely
after.
The scene that awaited the neophyte on the platform,
though composed of men writhing together in
thick affray, did not dwell an instant on his eye. It
had caught, as if by providential direction, in the very
chaos of combat, the figure that had sent forth the
cry of affliction; and as he bestrid the body of
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Abdalla, and caught up the childish minstrel from his
person, he shivered with a single stroke of his sabre,
the spear that, in a moment, would have pinned to
the earth both father and son.
“Dog of a conjurer!” he cried, as he discovered
the person of Botello in the discomfited slayer, and
prepared, while the terrified stripling clung convulsively
to his body, to shield him from the weapons
of others; “dog of a conjurer! thy cruelty
cancels thy services, and I will cleave thee for a
viper!”
“What is written is written—God be thanked! I
knew not 'twas a boy.” And in an instant Botello vanished
among the combatants.
“I thought thee a woman, thou scared varlet!—
Cheer up, Abdalla!—they shall not harm thee.—Father!
my knight and my father! wilt thou protect
my boy, that I have saved, and his sire, the Christian
Moor?” cried Amador, as he perceived the knight
stand staring wildly at his side. “I leave them to
thee.—Surely there may be other lives to save!”
And thus concealing his excitement in what seemed
an excuse for his disobedience, and without waiting
for an answer, he rushed instantly into the thickest of
the combat.
CHAPTER XIX.
When Don Amador fled from the side of Calavar,
the instinct of his vengeance carried him to the spot
where it seemed most likely to be gratified. The
chief tower, as well as the two others, was invested;
but in the crowd of musketeers and crossbowmen
who stood valiantly at its door, repelling the assailants,
he not only heard the voice, but very plainly
perceived the tall figure, of his enemy, Don Panfilo.
Infuriated at the sight, he rushed forwards, and calling
out with an indiscreet vigour that drew both the
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attention of that general and the thickest shots of his
companions, he quickly found himself in a situation
of great jeopardy. Though bullet and cross-bow shaft
fell harmless from his mail of proof, the thrust of some
half a score partisans aimed at his shining and exposed
breast, beat down the insufficient defence of
his buckler, and hurled him instantly to the ground.
But the voice with which he had challenged the Biscayan
had been heard by friends as well as enemies;
and as his faithful Lazaro dashed aside the most
threatening weapon, the shield of another friend was
extended over his body, and he found himself raised
by the hand of Cortes.
“I knew my valiant friend would not desert me,
this night!” cried the commander. “But risk thyself
no further. We will sack these towers, without the
loss of so invaluable a life.—What ho! yield thee,
Narvaez!” he exclaimed, with a voice heard above the
din; “yield thee up a prisoner, or thine own cannon
shall bury thee under the temple!”
“El Espíritu Santo, and on!” cried fifty eager
men, as they rushed by their leader, and drove the
followers of Narvaez into the sanctuary. They vanished;
but the pikes and muskets bristling through
the curtain, checked the audacity of the besiegers at
the door; and the voice of Sandoval was heard exclaiming
from behind, “Clear for the cannon, and
stand aside!” when suddenly a fire-brand dashed by
some unseen hand to the roof, lodged among the
palm-leaves, and in a moment the whole superstructure
was in flames.
“Spare your powder, and stand by for the rats!”
cried Lazaro, for it was he who had achieved this
cunning and well-timed exploit; “Basta! So we catch
rabbits in La Mancha!”
“An hundred crowns to the knave of the fire-brand!”
cried Cortes, exultingly;—“and three thousand
paid in gold, to him who lays the first hand on
Narvaez!—Burn, fire! smother, smoke! the night is
ours!”
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“Ay! Don Panfilo! I await thee exclaimed Amador,
as the rushing descent of beams and ember
drove the besieged from the temple, and again discovered
the person of his wronger. He sprang to
wards the commander, who, however hot and foolise
of temper, now bore himself like a courageous soldier,
and struck fast and fiercely at his foes, while
shouting good cheer to his friends. But before Don
Amador could well reach him, he saw the unfortunate
man struck down, and in the act of being trans
fixed by many spears. Magnanimity—for the fury
of a brave man cannot live without opposition—too
the place of wrath; and no sooner did he hear Don
Panfilo exclaim, with a piteous voice, “Dios mio!
am slain, and mine eye is struck out forever!” than
he rushed to his assistance, and seemed resolved to
perform in his service the same act of valour with
which he had befriended Abdalla. Again, too, as he
caught an outstretched arm, did he find himself confronted
with Botello: but this time the magician's
arm was extended in the office of mercy; and as he
raised the vanquished general, and displayed his
countenance, covered with blood oozing from his
right eye, he exclaimed with a triumphal solemnity
“I saw him blindfold; and lo, his eye is blinded with
blood!—Victory! victory! A Dios, á Cristo, y al Esp
íritu Santo, gracias! gloria y gracias! Amen!—Victory!”
Loud was the shout with which the besiegers responded
to the cry of the magician; and the disordered
and unavailing shots from the other towers
were lost in the uproar of voices exclaiming, “Viva
Cortes, el soldado verdadero! Viva Don Carlos, el
rey! Viva el Espíritu Santo! el Espíritu Santo sant
ísimo!”
“Away with him!” cried Cortes. “Guard thy
prisoner, magico mio,—thou hast won the prize.—
Leave shouting, ye rebel hounds, and bring up the
cannon!—What ho, ye rogues of the towers! will ye
have quarter and friendship, or flames and
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cannonballs? Point the ordnance against the flank towers!
Bury me the knaves that resist us longer.—In the
name of God and the emperor, fire!”
But this measure was unnecessary. The shout of
triumph, with which the assailants proclaimed the
capture of the Biscayan, was carried to every ear in
the adoratories; and it was at this instant that the
besieged, as much bewildered by the surprise as discomfited
by the fury of the attack, disheartened, too,
by the misadventure of their general, looked from the
loops of their strong-holds, and made that famous
blunder of converting the host of cucujos, or fire-flies,
into a multitude of match-locks; whereby their hearts
were turned to water, and their assurance of victory
humbled to the hope of capitulation.
At the very moment that Don Amador, foiled in
the gratification of his passions in one quarter, turned
to indulge them in another, and rushed with increasing
animation to that tower, around which he heard
many voices echoing the name of Salvatierra, he
beheld that worthy captain issue from the door, fling
his weapon to the earth, and stretch out his arms, as
if beseeching for quarter.
“Oh thou thing of a white liver!” cried the young
cavalier, with extreme disgust, “hast thou not the
spirit to strike me one blow? I would I had brought
thee the boy Jacinto, to inflame thy valour a little.
Thou wilt fight me a boy!”
As the neophyte thus gave vent to his indignation,
he felt his arm touched, and, turning round, he beheld
the secretary, holding a sword ornamented with
drops of blood, and otherwise looking as though he
had commenced his pupilage in a manner that would
not shame his instructor.
“Well done, Fabueno!” he exclaimed, encouragingly:
“thou lookest like a soldier already. I am
glad thine arm is so strong.”
“I struck but one blow, señor, and I believe I have
killed a man! God forgive me!” he cried, in more affright
than elation,—“I am not sure I did right; for
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the very moment I struck the blow, my arm twinged
with a most horrible pang; which was perhaps a
judgment on me, for striking a man who had done
me no wrong.”
“These things must not be thought of too much,”
said Don Amador, hastily; “in battle, we must look
upon all opponents as our sworn enemies, at least so
long as they keep to their feet. But the battle is over—
I will have thy wound looked to by some better
surgeon than this crazy conjurer.”
“Señor,” said Fabueno, “I sought you out, not to
trouble you with my pains, but to recall you to the
knight, your kinsman, who is in some difficulty with
certain men, about the Moor, that may end in blows,
and never a henchman but old Marco by the good
Don Gabriel.”
Amador followed the secretary instantly, and found
his kinsman—not unprotected, however, for both
Marco and Baltasar were at his side—surrounded
by several men speaking with loud and fierce voices,
among which he quickly detected the tones of the
master of the Incarnation.
“I say, and I aver,” cried this man, as the neophyte
approached, “the two knaves, both father and
son, are my slaves, as can be proved by these runagate
men, my sailors; and no man shall have them
from me, without payment of my price.”
“Ay! we can bear witness to that,” said his companions.
“These are true pagan slaves, captured in
a fight at sea, out of a Barbary pirate;—very honest,
lawful slaves: and though we have deserted our captain,
to fight these other pagans, we will not see him
robbed of his property.”
To the great joy of Don Amador, he observed that
his kinsman was calm and collected, and though he
spoke with his usual voice of affliction, his answer
was still full of dignity and gravity.
“The Moor that is a Christian cannot be enslaved;
neither can he be bought and sold—and these claim
to be both Gazies, Christian Moriscos. I guard them
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at the desire of their protector, who can assuredly
support their claims; in which event thou must cease
thy importunity, and think of them no more.”
“They are my slaves, and I will have them!” said
the master, ferociously. “I meet nothing but robbers
in these lands; but robber peasant, or robber
knight, neither shall wrong me for naught.”
“Thou base and covetous cur!” said Amador, advancing
before the sailor, “if thou usest no better
language, I will strike thy head from thy shoulders!
Dost thou remember me, sirrah? Did not the admiral
satisfy thee in this matter? and dost thou follow me
still, like a blood-hound, after the prey that is not
thine?”
“Calm thy rage, son Amador,” said the knight.
“Thou hast done a good act to-night, in saving the
lives of this poor child and his father, and thou shalt
not want my aid to preserve their freedom. But let
us not quarrel: enough Christian blood has already
been shed, and a woful sight will the sun see, when
he presently rises. Let us go before Cortes: he shall
judge between this man, and these creatures whom
thou hast rescued from destruction.”
“I ask nothing but justice and my right,” grumbled
the master, somewhat pacified by the angry
bearing of the neophyte—for this was a more commanding
argument than the mildness of Calavar.
He fell back, and without further contention,
though with a lowering look, followed the two cavaliers
and the Moriscos in search of Don Hernan.
CHAPTER XX.
The morn, which by this time was breaking over
the sea, was ushered in with a thousand sounds of
triumph; and the drums of the vanquished rolled in
concert with the trumpets of the victors. In truth,
saving to the wounded and broken-spirited Biscayan,
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and some few cavaliers who had remained faithful to
him and to his employer, the change of others from
rivalry to subjection, was a circumstance more of
gratulation than regret; as was proved by the ready
alacrity with which they betook themselves to the audience
of their conqueror.
In the gilded and feather-broidered chair in which
he had first seen the person of the unlucky Narvaez,
Don Amador de Leste now perceived the figure of
the Conqueror, a rich mantle of an orange hue thrown
over his shoulders, his head bare, but his heel resting
on a certain footstool or ball of variegated feathers,
and altogether preserving an appearance of singular,
but superb state. His valiant and well-beloved officers
stood ranked on either side, and on either side, also,
his resolute followers were displayed, as if performing
the duties of a body-guard. In this situation of
pride, he prepared to receive the congratulations or
the griefs of his enemies; and, as if to add still further
to the imposing magnificence of the ceremony,
at that moment, as a wild roar of conches and drums
mingling with the wilder shouts of human beings,
burst over the city, a great multitude of native warriors
from the province of Chinantla, marching in regular
and alternate files of spearmen and archers,
and glittering with feathers and brilliant cotton garments,
strode upon the square, and dividing upon
either side of the pyramid, halted only when they
had surrounded it with their warlike and most romantic
array. The spectacle was no more surprising
to the people of Narvaez than to those friends of
Cortes, who had not before looked upon an Indian
army, among whom Don Amador was one. He regarded
the picturesque barbarians with much admiration;
though his eye soon wandered from them to
dwell upon the leader, and the ceremonious part he
was then enacting. He sat in his chair like a monarch,
and though, at times, when some conquered cavalier
more honoured, or better beloved, than others, approached,
he arose, and even extended his arms with
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a friendly embrace, in the greater number of instances
he was content to pronounce some simple
words of compliment, and present his hand to be kissed,—
a mark of homage reverentially rendered by all.
It did not become Don Amador, though he surveyed
these proceedings with some little contempt, as indicating
on the one side, too much arrogance, and on
the other, too much humility, to interrupt them; in
which persuasion, he stood patiently aside, with his
company, watching until such moment when he might
approach with propriety. Being thus a witness of
the degree of friendliness which characterized the receptions,
as well as the many petitions which the
comers made to be accredited and enrolled among
the general's true friends and followers, he began to
lose somewhat of the wonder with which he had regarded
the suddenness and facility of the victory. It
was apparent, that most of the officers of Narvaez
had long made up their minds to devote themselves
to the service of his enemy; and when they had paid
their compliments to Don Hernan, they dropped
among his officers, as if joining old friends and comrades.
It gave the neophyte some pain, when at the conclusion
of these ceremonies, he beheld the Biscayan
led forward in chains, (for he was heavily ironed,) to
salute his rival. His casque was off; a bandage covered
his eye; his face was very pale; and he strode
forward with an uncertain gait, as if feeble from the
loss of blood, or agitated by shame and despair. Nevertheless,
he spoke with a firm and manly voice,
when he found himself confronted with his vanquisher.
“Thou mayest congratulate thyself, Cortes,” said
the fallen chief. “Thy star has the ascendant, thy
fate is superior; and so much do I admire my own
misfortune, that I could compliment thee upon it, did
I not know it was wrought less by the valour of my
enemies, than the perfidy of my friends.”
“Thou doest thyself, as well as all others, a great
wrong to say so, brother Narvaez,” said the victor,
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gravely; “and it would better become thee magnanimously
to confess thou art beaten by thine own
fault, rather than to follow the example of little-minded
men, and lay the blame upon others.”
“I confess that I am beaten,” said the captive;—
“and that the shame of my defeat will last longer
than my grave. But I aver to God, and I maintain
in thy teeth, though I am but a captive in thy hands,
that this victory is altogether so miraculous, it could
not have happened unless by the corruption of my
people.”
“To heaven and my good soldiers, it is all owing,”
said Cortes, composedly: “and so little miraculous,
my brother, do I myself esteem it, after having twice
or thrice beaten thirty thousand Tlascalans, at a time,
all valiant men, that I vow to thee on my conscience,
I cannot do other than consider this triumph as altogether
the least of my achievements in Mexico.”
“It must be so, since you say it,” responded Narvaez,
his breast heaving under the sarcasm, with a
bitter and suffocating pang; “yet it matters not. Let
the glory be ever so little, the shame is not the less
notorious; and though thou scornest thy reward of
fame, I will not fly from mine own recompense of
contempt.—What more is expected of me? Dios
mio! I cannot, like the rest, kiss thy hand, and take
upon me the oaths of service. I am thy prisoner!”
“Had I been thine,” said Cortes, gravely, “thou
wouldst have fulfilled thy word, and hanged me,
wouldst thou not?”
“What matters it?” replied the unfortunate man,
with a firm voice. “Doubtless, if the passion that
beset me at the time of the proclamation, had lasted
after a victory, I should have been as good as my
word: for which reason I will anticipate thy excuses,
and assure thee out of mine own mouth, thou wilt
but retaliate fairly, to dismiss me to the same fate.”
“Thou canst not understand the moderation thou
hast not practised,” said Cortes rising, and speaking
with dignity. “The foolish rage that provoked thee
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to set a price upon my head, I remember not; the
madness that proclaimed these true and most loyal
men for rebels and traitors, must be passed by, as
other hallucinations: but as, in doing this, thou hast
greatly injured and jeoparded the interests of thy
master the king, thou art worthy to suffer the death
of a rebellious subject, for as such thou hast acted.
Nevertheless, I will do thee a grace thou wouldst not
accord to me; I will conceive, that, however traitorous
have been thy actions, thou mayest have been
faithful at heart,—mistaken, but not disloyal: in
which thought, I give thee thy life, and will recommend
thee into the hands of his majesty for judgment
and mercy.”
The conqueror waved his hand, and Narvaez was
led away:—to terminate, in after years, a life of mischance
by a death of misery, among those ruder
tribes of the North who are but now vanishing from
the borders of the Mississippi, and to add his melancholy
tale to the gloomy histories of De Leon and
De Soto.
“What will my noble and thrice-honoured friend,
Don Amador de Leste?” cried Cortes, as he perceived
the neophyte approaching him. “We should
be good friends, señor; for I owe thee much, and we
have been in peril together.”
“Twice, I thank your excellency,” said Amador,
“you have done me the office of a true cavalier; for
which I will not now trifle the time to thank you, inasmuch
as my arm is henceforth unshackled, and I
can write my gratitude better with it, than with my
tongue. What I have now to require, is that your
excellency will judge between me and this fellow, the
master of a ship, in the matter of a Moor called Abdalla,
otherwise Esclavo de la Cruz, and his son Jacinto;
both of whom being Christian Moors, though
captured in a Barbary vessel, this man doth claim to
be his slaves; I, on the other hand, as their vowed
protector and champion, upholding them to be free,
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and in the condition of wards to his majesty the
king.”
“They are my slaves,” said the master—but a
frown from the general instantly closed his lips.
“It is well for the Moor,” said Cortes, as, at his
command, Abdalla approached, followed by Jacinto:
“it is well for the Moor that he has so powerful a
protector as Don Amador; for otherwise, having discovered
it was his accursed hand shot off the falcon
which destroyed me four brave men and maimed as
many more, I had resolved to hang him like a hound,
this very morning!”
“There is no better cannonier in all your excellency's
train,” said the master, who, however likely
to be robbed of his property, could not check the impulse
to praise it.
“I fired the cannon with the fear of death in my
eyes, if I refused,” said Abdalla, humbly; “and my
lord should as well be wroth with the linstock as
with myself.”
“Say not a word, sirrah Moor,” said Cortes; “for
the favour of Don Amador having saved thy life, I
have nothing further to do, but to judge thy claims
to liberty; the which if thou establish, I will not
scruple to employ thee in mine own service.”
“The freedom of these twain,” said Amador,
“was recognised by his excellency, the admiral Cavallero;
and I thought he had satisfied this ship-master.”
“His excellency, the admiral, protested he would
represent the matter to the governor Velasquez,” said
the surly captain; “and I was content to abide his
decision. But my sailors, hearing there was more gold
to be gathered among these hills than on the sea, deserted
me; and not having the means to carry my
ship to Cuba, I was fain to follow after them; hoping
the excellent cavaliers would do me justice, and pay
me for my captives.”
“Sirrah,” said the general, “wert thou with Narvaez,
or with me, in this battle?”
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“With neither,” said the sailor. “I arrived at
night-fall; and not being able to make my way to
Narvaez, I slept off my fatigue in a hut below, till
roused by the din of this siege; coming forth to behold
which, I discovered my slaves, and straightway
claimed them: and my sailors yonder will witness I
won them in fair fight.”
“The Moriscos are Christians, and therefore not
thy property,” said the commander; “and if they
were, being taken out of the camp of an enemy, they
should be reckoned spoils of war, and for that reason,
my possessions, and not thine. Cease therefore
thy demands; follow thy sailors, if thou wilt,—for on
the lakes of Mexico, I shall have employment for thy
best skill; and if, in time, I discover thee faithful, and
this Moor as dexterous as thou representest, I will,
without allowing thee any right to the same, give thee
very good guerdon for his services.”
The master, concealing his dissatisfaction, retired.
“I hoped,” said Amador, “your excellency might
be persuaded to send Abdalla and the boy to Spain.”
“I am loath to say to Don Amador, that may not
be,” replied Cortes. “As a good Christian, Abdalla
will doubtless rejoice to fight the infidel; and as for
his boy, if there be no other cavalier willing to advance
him to the honours of a page, I will myself
receive him. I hear he is a good musician; and
I want a playmate for my little Orteguilla, whom I
left dancing boleros before the emperor Montezuma.”
The fame of Jacinto as a lutist and singer, had
already spread among the cavaliers; and his appearance
was at the same time so prepossessing, that
many of them stepped forward, and avowed themselves
ready to receive him into service. Don Amador
himself, now for the first time perusing his countenance
at leisure, and moved as much by its beauty
as by its air of grief and destitution, added himself
to the number; and it seemed as if the claims of the
various applicants might lead to heat and misunderstanding.
The cap of Jacinto had fallen from his
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head, and long ringlets, such as greatly stirred the
envy of the younger cavaliers, fell over his fair brow
and exceedingly beautiful countenance. His delicately
chiseled lips, parted in alarm and anxiety, moved
and played with an ever-varying expressiveness;
while his large black eyes, in which brilliancy was
mingled with a pensive gentleness, rolled from general
to cavalier, from Amador to his father, with a
wild solicitude.
The difficulty was terminated at last by Don
Hernan.
“I vow by my conscience,” said he, “I like the
boy's face well; but I will not oppose my wishes to
those of worthier gentlemen here present. In my
opinion, no man hath so fair a claim to the boy as
Don Amador de Leste, who first befriended him;
and not doubting that, herein, the boy will agree with
me, I propose the election of a master to be left to
himself, or, what is the same thing, to his father, as
a measure equally agreeable to all. Choose, therefore,
Abdalla, between these cavaliers and thy benefactor;
for it is not possible the stripling can remain
with thyself.”
Abdalla bent his troubled eyes around the assembly;
and Amador, not doubting his choice, regarded
him with a benignant encouragement. Long did the
Almogavar survey him, now with eagerness, as if
about to throw himself at his feet and beseech his
protection, and now faltering with hesitation and
doubt. Amador, mistaking the cause of his embarrassment,
prepared to reassure him; when the eyes
of the Moor, wandering away from himself, fell upon
the figure of Don Gabriel standing hard by. The
same hesitation that disturbed him before, again beset
him; but it lasted not long. Amid the clouds of dejection
and distraction that characterised the countenance
of the knight of Rhodes, there shone a ray of
benevolence as if the emanation of a fixed and constant
principle; and Abdoul al Sidi, as he remarked
it, forgot that Calavar was the slayer of his people.
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“If my lord, my very noble lord,” he said, bending
to the earth, “will hear the prayer of his servant,
and waste his charity on so great a wretch as
Abdoul, there is no one of all this noble assembly to
whose benevolent protection Abdoul would sooner
confide his helpless and sinless child.”
The cavaliers stared; yet Abdalla had not erred,
when he reckoned on the humanity of Calavar.
The knight received the hand of Jacinto from his
father, and regarding him with a paternal kindness,
said,—
“For the sake of Him who did not scorn to protect
little children, I will receive this boy into my
arms, and protect him with my best strength, both
from sorrow, and the sin that is the parent of sorrow.”
“And I may see him sometimes?” said the Moor,
lingering, though the general had motioned him away.
“Surely I keep him from harm, not from the love
of his father.”
“I commend thee to heaven, my child,” said the
Almogavar, embracing him. “Confide in thy master,
remember thy father, and pray often.—Farewell!”
But the boy, with a cry that drew the commiseration
of all present, threw himself into Abdalla's
arms, and clasping him as if forever, wept on his
bosom.
“Thy master waits thee, my child!” said Abdalla,
disengaging his hands, and again leading him to
Calavar. “Be wise and faithful, and remember, if
not always in thy presence, I shall not often be far
from thy side.”
The stripling once more kissed the lips of the Morisco,
and then checking his lamentations, as his father
left him, wrapped his cloak round his head, as if to
hide his tears, and stood by the knight in silence.
While this incident was passing, the attention of
Cortes was attracted by two Indians differing much
in equipment from the warriors of Chinantla, but still
of a soldier-like bearing, who, in company with two
or three of his chief cavaliers, hastily approached
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him, and conferred with him through the medium of
an interpreter. A cloud came over his countenance;
he arose, and smote his hands together with fury.
“What, ho, cavaliers!” he cried; “we must think
of other matters than crying babes and jingling pages.
I thank God for this victory, for never came one
more opportunely; and ye, true friends, who have,
this moment, protested your allegiance, prepare now
to make it more manifest. Sharpen your swords,
saddle your horses; for to-day we must march to
Tenochtitlan!”
A murmur of surprise ran through the multitude
that thronged the pyramid; and Amador forgot both
the boy, and the touch of indignation with which
he had seen him transferred to another, though his
kinsman, as he pressed towards the excited general.
“Know ye, friends and brothers!” continued Cortes,
“that the devil has, at last, waked up in the infidel
city; blood has been shed,—the blood of Spaniards
as well as of pagan Mexicans,—and, at this moment,
Alvarado is besieged in the palace by the whole
hordes of the valley; and he swears to me, by these
Tlascalan messengers, that unless I render him speedy
assistance, he must die of starvation, or perish under
the sword of the barbarians. So God speed us to
the Venice of the New World! the Babylon of the
mountains! The gold shall not be snatched out of
our hands, nor the fame blotted from our histories:
we have this good day numbers enow to chase the
imps from the islands, and to tumble the gods from
their temples; and so will we, in the name of God
and St. Peter, Amen!—God speed us to Tenochtitlan!”
The shout that answered this pious and valiant
rhapsody from the pyramid and the square, gave
note of the zeal with which his followers, both old
and new, were prepared to second the resolution of
their leader.
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CHAPTER XXI.
A HISTORY of moral epidemics, drawn up by a philosophic
pen, would add much to our knowledge of
the mysteries of human character and human power,
as well as of the probable contingencies of human
destiny. In the prosecution of such a subject, besides
tracing the development of those little causes which,
in former days, have spread their effects from man to
man, until whole communities have laboured under a
disease resulting in revolutions of the most stupendous
nature, we should, doubtless, perceive many of those
points of susceptibility and chains of impulsion, which
render men the creatures of change; and which,
being definitely understood and wisely influenced,
might at once put it in the power of philanthropists
to govern the operations of reform in such manner as
to avoid the evils of ill-considered innovation. Religion
and liberty have both come to us as diseases;
and the propagation of them throughout the lands of
the heathen and the slave, is yet a measure of pain
and peril, because we have not considered, or not yet
learned, how to address ourselves to infirmity. What
man will not say, that the enthusiasm which cumbered
the sands of Syria with the blood of the Crusaders,
might not, if properly directed, have brought light and
happiness to all Europe? or that the fever, which has
left the revolution of France a horror on the page of
history, might not, under the guidance of a less speculative
philosophy, have covered her valleys and
filled her cities with security and peace? Enthusiasm
comes and goes; and because we know not enough
of its weak and governable qualities to direct it in the
paths of justice and virtue, it is allowed yet to fill the
world with wrong and misery; and, misapplied to the
purposes of glory, avarice, and fanaticism, the engine
which God has given us to advance our civilization,
is still the preserver of barbarism.
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In the facility with which the aboriginal empires
of America were subverted by a handful of hotheaded
Spaniards, mankind has been willing to find
a proof of the savage imperfection of their institutions.
In the case of Mexico, at least, this testimony
is deceptive. If we remember that the tribes of
Anahuac, like the other races of America, were
struggling against obstacles which did not impede
the advancement of other nations, we shall be surprised
at the point of civilization they had reached.
Heaven had denied all the useful domestic animals to
America. The bison, which is perhaps not altogether
untameable, roamed only over the prairies and the
forest lands of the north, among tribes that were yet
in the bottom class of humanity. The horse and the
ass added not their strength to the labours of man;
and the little llama, bearing the burden of its master
over the icy Cordilleras of the south, was but a poor
substitute for the camel of the desert, to which it has
been compared. Accident, or the knowledge of a
thousand years, can alone teach men the use of that
metal which will bring him civilization, when gold
will not buy it; but the discovery even of the properties
of iron will soon follow the invention of an alphabet,
however rude or hieroglyphic. The Mexicans
could already record and perpetuate their discoveries.
Without the aid of iron and domestic animals,
they were advancing in refinement. Civilization had
dawned, and was shedding a light, constantly augmenting,
over their valleys; and, apart from these
deficiencies, saving only, perhaps, additionally, in the
article of religion, which was not yet purged of its
abominations, (and which, perhaps, flung more annual
victims on the altars than did, in after days, even the
superstition of their conquerors, in Spain,) the Mexican
empire was not far behind some of the monarchies
of Europe in that method, purpose, and stability
of institutions, both political and domestic, which are
esteemed the evidences of civilization.
A moral epidemic nerved the arm of the invaders;
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another paralyzed the strength of the invaded. Superstition
covered the Spaniard with armour stronger
than his iron mail, and left the Mexican naked and
defenceless; and, in addition, the disease of disaffection,
creeping from the extremities to the centre of
the empire, added its weight to the lethargy of religious
fear. When Hernan Cortes set out on his
march, the second time, against Tenochtitlan, believing
that God had chosen him to be a scourge to the
misbeliever, he knew well that thousands and tens of
thousands of malecontents were burning to join his
standard. Mexico was the Rome of the New World,—
a compound of hostile elements, an union of tribes
and states subdued and conjoined by the ambition of
a single city, but not yet so closely cemented as to
defy the shocks of a Gothic irruption. What might
have been the condition of the empire of Montezuma,
if the divine ray which conducted the Genoese pilot
over the Atlantic, had been reserved for an adventurer
of the present day, it is impossible to determine;
but, it is quite clear, its condition was such at the
time of the invasion, that, had not the indecision of
its monarch, founded on such a conjuncture of coincidences
as might have confounded a more enlightened
prince, entirely repressed its powers of resistance, no
armies, raised by the Spanish colonists, or even by
their European master, could have penetrated beyond
the shores; and the destiny of Cortes would have
been written in letters as few and as obscure as those
which have recorded the fate of Valdivia among the
less refined, but better united Araucanians of Chili.
The heart of the leader was bold, the spirits of his
confederates full of resolution and hope; and notwithstanding
the evil intelligence that their victims were
wakening to a knowledge of their strength, and confirming
their audacity in the blood they had already
shed, the united followers of Narvaez and Hernan
Cortes began their march over the mountains with
alacrity and joy.
The novelties and wonders that were each day
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disclosed, were remarked by no one with more satisfaction
than by Don Amador de Leste. He rejoiced
when, ascending among the mountains, the fens and
sandhills of the coast were exchanged for picturesque
lakes and romantic crags; when the oak woods and
pine forests began to stretch their verdant carpets
over the hill-sides; when, standing among the colossal
ruins of some shivered peak, he cast his eye
over glen and valley, glittering with verdure and fertility,
far away to the majestic ridges over whose
hazy sides tumbled the foamy fall, or crept the lazy
cloud, while among their gorges glistened the distant
cones of snow. Now he admired the ferns, lifting
their arborescent heads, like palms, among other
strange trees; now, as he exchanged the luxuriant
slopes for those volcanic deserts which strew the
base of Perote with lava and cinders, he beheld the
broad nopal, and the gigantic maguey, rearing their
massive leaves over the fissures, while a scorched
forest withered and rotted above. Sometimes, while
pursuing his weary way over these mountain paramos,
or deserts, he advanced bewildered, as what
seemed a fair and spacious lake withdrew its vapoury
waters from before him, and revealed a parched
and barren expanse of sand. The journey was
an alternation of mountain and valley, forest and
plain, with sometimes a pleasant little Indian village,
and, twice or thrice, a town of no mean magnitude
and splendour, rising in pleasant nooks among the
horrors of the waste.
Over this rugged region it was not possible to drag
the ordnance and heavy stores, with which Cortes
was now abundantly provided, without much labour
and delay; and it was not until about the time of the
summer solstice, more than a month after the fall of
Zempoala, that, at the close of a pleasant day, the
new invaders laid their eyes, for the first time, on
Tlascala,—the capital of that warlike republic, which,
for the singular object, as certain historians have
conjectured, of preserving an enemy to exercise their
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armies, as well as to furnish victims for their gods,
the Mexican monarchs permitted to subsist in the
heart of their empire.
The slowness of their march was productive of
many advantages to those particular individuals,
whose adventures it is the object of this history to
record. It gave to Don Amador an opportunity to
make the acquaintance of many of his new companions,
among whom were some not unworthy his
friendship. The services of the señor Duero were
remembered not without gratitude; and although he
reflected, at times, with some unreasonable disgust,
that these denoted as much treachery to a friend as
humanity to a stranger, the attentions of that cavalier
were so sedulously continued, that he could not well
refuse him his regard. The taciturn but ever-resolute
Sandoval,—the lofty and savage, but not the less
courteous De Leon,—the fiery De Olid,—the daring
De Ordaz, who, thirsting to accomplish exploits not
dreamed of by his confederates, had clambered among
the snowy pinnacles and burning caverns of the great
Volcan, and had thereby won the right, confirmed to
him afterwards by the Spanish king, to carry a fire-mountain
for his arms;—these, as well as divers
others of no mean renown, so recommended themselves
to the esteem of the neophyte, that he dismissed
much of his preconceived contempt, and began
to consider himself among honourable and estimable
cavaliers. But to none of them did his spirit turn
with so much confidence and affection as to Don
Francisco de Morla, a young hidalgo of his own native
town, greatly beloved throughout the army, as a
man of honour and tried courage. In this cavalier,
a modest carriage was united to great gayety of disposition,
and a warm heart, governed by gentleness
of temper. A milder enthusiasm than that which beset
his comrades, softened him to the barbarians, in
whose land he was more desirous to consider himself
a guest than an enemy; and without lacking
any sincerity of devotion to his own faith, he seemed
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to regard the ferocious superstitions of the natives
with less abhorrence than pity. He had followed at
the side of Cortes from Tobasco to Zempoala; and,
being as observant as brave, was not only able to acquaint
Don Amador with the marvellous events of
the invasion,—its perils, sufferings, and triumphs,—
but could also instruct him in many of the remarkable
characteristics of the land and the people.
The effects of this delay on the knight of Rhodes
were equally beneficial, though differently wrought.
The paroxysms of lethargy, as well as the fits of distraction,
which, as Don Amador learned from the
faithful Marco, had been many and ungovernable,
whenever the excitement of battle was over, began
to vanish under the interest of the society, and the influence
of the careful government of the neophyte;
who, from long acquaintance with his kinsman's eccentricities,
had acquired a power to soothe them.
But if such was the influence of Don Amador, the
power of the little Moorish page over his moody moments
was still more remarkable. The sorrows of
Jacinto vanished with the capriciousness of childhood;
and perceiving that, in the long and toilsome march,
he was never so far separated from his father that
he might not look to see him at night-fall, he quickly
recovered his spirits. Then, as if to express his gratitude
to the good knight who protected him, he studied,
with wonderful diligence and address, how best
to please and divert him. With a thousand pretty
stories, chosen with such discretion and prattled with
such eloquence, as often surprised the neophyte;—
with countless songs, which no one could sing with
more sweetness, or accompany with more skill on
the lute,—he would seduce the knight from his gloom,
and cheat him out of his melancholy. No dagger
shone so brightly as that polished by the hand of Jacinto;
no plume of feathers waved with more grace
than that set by the young Moor on the casque of
Don Gabriel. If a tiger-flower glittered on the path,
if a chirimoya put forth its fruit by the way-side,
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before the knight could turn his eyes upon them, they
were in his hand; and Jacinto smiled with delight, as
he received the thanks of his patron. The benevolence
of Don Gabriel soon changed to affection; he
almost smiled—not so much with joy as with love—
when, sometimes, the boy sat at his feet at evening,
and sang with fervour a hymn to the Virgin; he was
troubled if, by chance, Jacinto strayed from his sight;
and Don Amador sometimes found himself beset by
a sort of jealousy, when he perceived, or thought he
perceived, this stripling robbing him of the heart of
his kinsman. But to do Don Amador justice, it
needed not many suggestions of his honour or pride
to rid him of such envious emotions. The zeal of
the boy in the service of Calavar, as he confessed,
deserved much of his own gratitude; to which should
be added many acknowledgements of the satisfaction
with which he himself listened to his instrument and
voice. If the boy sang with alacrity at the wish of
Calavar, he was not less ready to obey the command
of the neophyte. Nevertheless, Don Amador fancied
this obedience was rendered less from love than duty:
he thought the stripling looked on him with fear,
sometimes with dislike; and he was persuaded that
(though on occasions of difficulty,—when a thunderstorm
met them on a hill, or a torrent roared over
the path,—Jacinto chose rather to fly to him for protection,
than to remain by the side of the knight,) he
was oftener disposed to shrink from his kindness.
This troubled Don Amador, for he loved the boy
well; and often he said to himself, “I have saved
this urchin from a beating, and, as I may add, from
the imminent danger of being speared like a frog;—
I have given him gentle words, as also praises for his
singing, which is indeed very excellent; I have helped
him over divers rivers, and a thousand times offered
him a seat on Fogoso's crupper, which it was his
own fault, or his own cowardice, he did not accept;
in short, I have helped him out of countless troubles,
and was, besides, the first to befriend him in these
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lands,—without reckoning what protection I have
given to his father, Sidi Abdalla;—and yet the lad
loves me not. It is a pity he was not born of Christian
parents;—ingratitude runs in Moorish blood!”
So thought Don Amador, a thousand times; but a
thousand times, as his displeasure waxed hot at the
unthankfulness of the lad, it was dissipated by some
little circumstance or another. Once, when he was
in a talkative mood, and desirous to have Jacinto at
his side, he was so displeased at his evident wish to
escape, as to vent his displeasure in a reprimand.
The boy ran to his side, kissed his hand, and raised
his eyes, suffused with tears, to the countenance of his
preserver.—The cavalier never rebuked him again.
On two or three occasions, also, greatly to his surprise,
he caught the stripling weeping; which was
the more wonderful, since he seemed not only reconciled,
but greatly pleased with his state of easy servitude.
On all such occasions, he excused himself
with such persuasive simplicity, as not only to remove
all suspicions of discontent, but greatly to increase
the affection of the neophyte. He was a favourite
as well with the men-at-arms, as with their
masters; and Don Amador often reflected with wonder,
how quickly he had wound himself into the hearts
of all. “If I could persuade myself into a belief of
magic,” he pondered, “I should think him a truer
conjurer than Botello. What Botello prophesied concerning
Narvaez, is very remarkable; yet, when a
man is prognosticating all his life, it is hard if he do
not sometimes blunder upon the truth. Truly he
blundered wrong about Lorenzo's arm, which is not
yet well healed; and I vow to St. John, I thought,
one time, it would have gangrened. But as to Jacinto,
he has enchanted my knight's heart. I have
ever thought he abhorred the Moors, and surely he
slew great numbers in the war of the Alpujarras. As
for myself, I was born with a natural detestation of
the Moorish race; and I never before knew but one
that I did not hate at first sight.” Here he sighed
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dolefully. “But this boy I love; yet loves he not me.—
I have heard of philters and love-medicines; and
surely, as many drugs attack the stomach, brain, and
other parts, there is no reason some should not be
found to affect the heart!”
But while the neophyte thus marvelled and reasoned,
Jacinto stole still deeper into his favour; and at
the end of a day's march, Don Amador was oftener
found sitting at the door of some Indian cabin, or under
the shade of its flower-garden, listening with Calavar
to the lays of the young musician, than sharing
the martial sports of his companions, or even
superintending the warlike exercises of his ward, Fabueno.
CHAPTER XXII.
To those invaders who had not yet witnessed with
their own eyes the peculiar wonders of the interior, the
approach to Tlascala was full of surprise and interest.
As the sun sank, the four hills on which lay the republican
city, and the pyramids and towers that crowned
them, sent their long shadows over the plain to the
feet of the cavaliers; and in the gloom, they beheld a
vast multitude,—the armies of the four tribes which
composed the nation, under their several banners, glittering
with feathers, and marching in regular divisions
to the sound of wild music, as well as a host of
women and children waving knots of flowers, and
uttering cries of welcome,—advancing to do them
honour. Don Amador forgot the valiant appearance
of the warriors of Chinantla, while gazing on the superior
splendour of the armed Tlascalans. These
warlike people, in imitation of their Christian confederates,
had learned to divide their confused throngs
into squadrons and companies, ranked under separate
leaders, and now approached in what seemed well-ordered
columns. Bunches of red and white feathers
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waved among their long locks, and ornamented their
wickered shields; the short tunic of nequen, a coarse
white cloth of the maguey, left their muscular and
well-sculptured limbs free for action; and as they
strode along, brandishing their swords of obsidian, (the
maquahuitl,—a heavy bludgeon, armed on either side
with blades of volcanic glass,) or whirling in their
slings those missiles of hardened copper armed with
sharp horns, which were capable of piercing the
toughest armour,—and ever and anon, mingling their
fierce cries with the savage sound of drum and flute,
they made a show not more remarkable than glorious.
At the head of each division, under his peculiar
standard, (the image of some bird of prey, or
wild beast, very gorgeously decorated,) marched
each chieftain, with the great plume of distinction, or
penacho, as it was called, rising full two feet above
his head, and nodding with a more than barbarous
magnificence. Thus appareled and thus displayed,
they advanced to the head of the Christian army, and
dividing on either side, so as to surround the Spanish
host with a guard of honour, each individual, from
the naked slinger to the feather-crowned chief, did
homage to the Christian general, by touching the
earth with his hand, and then kissing the humbled
member; while at the same moment, a number of
priests with black robes and hair trailing almost to
the ground, waved certain pots of incense before
him, as if to a demigod; a mark of distinction which
they afterwards extended to the cavaliers that surrounded
him. The religious ire of Don Amador de
Leste was inflamed, when it became his turn to receive
this fragrant compliment; and looking down
fiercely upon the innocent censer-bearer, and somewhat
forgetting that Castilian was not the language
of the realm, he cried;—
“What dost thou mean, thou pagan dog! to smoke
me in this idolatrous manner, who am neither a god
nor a saint?”
“Señor,” said De Morla, who sat at his side, “be
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not offended at this mark of reverence, which the
customs of the country cause to be rendered to every
man of dignity; and which is a harmless compliment,
and no idolatrous homage, as was first thought
among us. Thou wilt presently see them smoke their
own generals and senatorial lawgivers, the last of
whom thou mayest see yonder approaching us in a
group;—those old men with the feather fans in their
hands.”
As De Morla predicted, the priests were no sooner
done smoking their Christian visiters, than they turned
to do similar reverence to their own dignitaries;
and Don Amador's concern was soon changed to
admiration to behold with what lofty state these noble
savages received the tribute due to their rank.
“This fellow with the red plume, and the sword
that seems heavy enough for a giant's battle-axe,” he
cried,—“the knave over whom they hold a great
white bird like an ostrich?—He must needs be a
king! He bends to Cortes, like an emperor doing
courtesy to some brother monarch.”
“That,” said De Morla, “is Xicotencal, of the tribe
of the White-Bird, the most famous general of the
Tlascalans, and, in fact, the captain-in-chief of all
their armies. He is not less valiant than famous, and
not less arrogant than valiant; and at this moment,
beshrew me, I think he would rather be knocking his
bludgeon over our heads, out of pure love of war,
than kissing his fingers in friendship. This is the
man who commanded the armies which fought us on
our first approach; and truly I may say, he fought
us so well, that had he not been commanded by the
senators, who are the civil rulers of Tlascala, to
make peace with us, there is much suspicion we
should have seen heaven sooner than the vale of
Mexico. For, señor, after having supplied us with
food, as scorning to be assisted in his victory by
famine, which was somewhat pressing with us, he
fell upon us to win it in person; and I must confess,
as will be recorded in history, he quite broke and
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confounded, and would have utterly destroyed us,
had it not been for a providential mutiny in his camp
in the very midst of his triumph; whereby we had
time to rally, and take advantage of his distresses.
The same good fortune might have been his, another
time, without so inconvenient an interruption. But
it seems the senators of Tlascala only made war on
us, to prove whether or not we were valiant men,
and worthy to be received as their allies, according
to our wish; which being now proved to their satisfaction,
they ordered the war to be ended, and welcomed
us as friends. There never were more valiant
men than these soldiers of Tlascala.”
“Of a surety,” said Don Amador, “I begin to
think the captain Gomez of the caravel was somewhat
mistaken as to the courage of these barbarians.”
“Thou seest the second chief,—he of the green
penacho, with whom Cortes confers so very courteously!
That is Talmeccahua, chief of the tribe
Tizatlan, a very young warrior, but second in fame
only to Xicotencal; and being more docile and
friendly, he is much a favourite with our general
and doubtless will be selected to accompany us to
the great city. Of those reverend old senators I
could also give you an account; but we who are
soldiers, care not for lawgivers. It is enough to as
sure you, that they are the rulers of Tlascala; and
that though these proud people, the commoners, call
themselves free republicans, they are to all intents
and purposes the servants of many masters; a sort
of freedom somewhat more questionable than that of
a nation governed by one king. Thou seest, they
kiss their hands to us, as we enter their city. For
my part, I think them rogues to love us, their truest
enemies, better than their domestic rivals, the people
of Tenochtitlan. Wo betide them, who help us to
conquer their foes, when their foes are conquered!”
As De Morla spoke, Don Amador found himself
entering the city of Tlascala. Twilight had darkened
over the hills, and in the obscurity, (for the moon
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had not yet risen) he perceived long masses of houses,
not very lofty, but strong, on the terraced roofs of
which stood many human beings, chiefly women and
children, who waved a multitude of torches, and,
as they sung what De Morla told him were songs of
welcome, threw flowers down upon their guests.
Flambeaux were also carried before them in the
streets; and with this sort of pomp, they were ushered
to a great building with extensive courts, sufficient
to lodge the whole army, which was assigned
them for their quarters.
While the cannoniers were arranging the artillery,
the officers of the guard choosing their watchmen,
and preparations were made to hold a conference
with the chiefs of the republic, the neophyte was invited
by De Morla to accompany him to a pyramid
on one of the four hills, whence, as he assured him,
was a noble prospect of those huge mountains which
separated them from the valley of Tenochtitlan. Don
Amador looked about him for his kinsman. He had
retired with the chaplain of the army, in some sudden
disorder of spirit, for prayer or confession; and
Don Amador sighed, as he bethought him that yearly,
about the time of midsummer, the knight's disease
seemed to reach its intensest point.
“If thou couldst but sing to him that holy song of the
Virgin, written many years back by the priest of Hita,
Quiero seguir á ti, Flor de las flores!”—
said Don Amador to the Moorish page, (for it was
Jacinto who gave him this information,) “I have
no doubt thou wouldst do him more good than the
reverend father Olmedo; for, though I know not why
it should be so, he ever seems to me more troubled
than relieved by confession.”
`It was a song chanted the evening before that
had thrown the knight's spirit into disorder; and Baltasar
had commanded him never to sing again;' so
said Jacinto.
“Baltasar is an ass! though very zealous for his
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master,” said the neophyte in a heat, “and thinks
there is nothing comforts my kinsman's heart, save
the clanging of swords and bucklers; whereas, I
know very well, thy ditties are true medicine to him;
and, with heaven's blessing, thou shalt sing him very
many more.”
“Let the boy follow with us,” said De Morla: “I
like his piping well; and methinks, if he have not
forgotten that tender love-song about the Christian
knight who adored a pagan Morisca, I can listen to
it again with much good will, as I look towards the
mountains of Montezuma.”
“I am loath to have him away, for perhaps my
good knight may call for him when the confession is
over; and there is something raw in this night air,
that may be prejudicial to the youth.”
“Yo seguiré á mi señor—I will follow my master,”
said Jacinto, with simplicity. “My lord the knight
bade me this night to remain by the side of my lord,
lest some evil should happen to me among the infidels.”
“Take up thine instrument then,” said the neophyte,
“for thou seemest to-night to remain by me
in good will; and I am ever glad to have thy foolish
company, when such is the case. If thou wilt carry
a torch also, 'tis very well: 'twill be some half hour
yet ere moonrise.”
The two cavaliers, followed by the page bearing
a torch, as well as his lute, strode through the streets,
which were still thronged with their savage allies, as
in a gala-day, singing and shouting; many of whom,
from affection or curiosity, seemed disposed to add
themselves to the little party. Nevertheless, such
inquisitive individuals were easily repelled by De
Morla pointing in the direction he was pursuing, and
pronouncing a few words in their language, the effect
of which, as Don Amador observed, was always to
check their ardour, and cover their visages, when
these could be seen, with sadness and awe.
“I tell them,” said De Morla, in answer to the inquiries
of the neophyte, “that we are going to the hill
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to look upon the fire-mountain, Popocatepetl; and why
they are so stricken with superstition at the name,
I will explain to thee when we reach the temple.”
The temple was soon reached. The city,—a congregation
of cabins and rude stone dwellings, of
vast size,—lying on the prolonged base of a great
mountain, reared its principal sanctuaries on the
spurs of this elevation, on the highest of which stood
that consecrated to the god of the air. This was an
earthen pyramid, huge and lofty, surmounted by
towers such as Don Amador had seen at Zempoala.
As the friends approached this, the deep silence that
surrounded it was broken by the voices of men
speaking vehemently in a strange tongue; and as
they advanced, they beheld two or three figures glide
behind the pyramid, as if to escape observation. This
would not perhaps have attracted the notice of the
neophyte, had not his companion exclaimed,—
“Sidi, the cannonier, again! plotting his knaveries
with the two Moorish slaves of Cortes! There is
some villany in the wind: I have twice or thrice seen
Abdalla in close conference with these two varlets,
and he is often seen talking with his other countrymen
that we have in the army. I will represent this matter
to the general; for there can no good come of
such secret proceedings.—I have all along distrusted
that infidel cannonier to have some mischief in him.”
“Please my lord, my father is no infidel,” said Jacinto,
trembling, perhaps as much at his presumption
in contradicting a noble hidalgo, as at the presumed
danger of his parent,—“no infidel, but a Christian
Moor; as the good padre Olmedo will witness to my
lord.”
“Young page,” said De Morla, pleasantly, “I
should not have said so grievous a thing of thy father,
but that I forgot thou wert in hearing. I will grant
thee Abdalla to be a good Christian, if the padre say
so; but, if thou art as much of a wit as a singer, tell
me, how is it thy father is found so often skulking
about by night, in company with the Moorish slaves,
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who are yet unbelievers, instead of resting with
Christian soldiers?”
“Though the Moors be slaves and Mahometans,”
said the page, with much of the submissiveness of his
father, though recovering from his trepidation, “they
were born in the same land with my father, and are
his countrymen. As for the Christian soldiers, they
will not forget, that though a Christian, he was born
of the poor Moriscos: and, my lord knows, it is hard
to rest with those who hate us.”
“I should give thee a ducat for thy argument,”
said De Morla, good-humouredly, “but that I know
thou art so unsophisticated as to prefer sweet praise
to gold; and I intend soon to bestow some of that
upon thee. Thy oration has utterly persuaded me I
have wronged Abdalla; in token of my penitence for
which, I will relieve thee of the burthen of the torch,
whilst thou art climbing up these steps, which are
none of the smoothest nor shortest.”
“Take thou my hand, Jacinto,” said the novice,
benevolently; “for, as my friend says, these steps
are indeed very rugged; and I am willing to show
thee, that though thou art of Moorish blood, I myself
do by no means either hate or despise thee.”
The page humbly and hesitatingly placed his hand
in the grasp of Don Amador, and ascending at his
side, soon stood on the summit of the pyramid.
Here, besides two towers of stone that reared their
lofty bulk over head, the novice perceived in advance
of them, two great urns of rude workmanship, each
apparently carved out of a solid block of stone, and
each glowing with the remains of a fire not yet extinguished,—
though no priests stood by, to guard and
replenish them.—They had forsaken their altars, to
join in the festivities of the evening.
“Let us break these idolatrous censers!” said Don
Amador, “for my blood boils to look upon them.”
“Nay,” said the moderate De Morla, “let us wait
for heaven's own time, as is strenuously advised by
our wise and holy chaplain, who must know better
than ourselves how to attack the impieties of the land.
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We have ever found these heathens more easily converted
by gentle persuasions than by violent assaults
on their prejudices; and father Olmedo has shown us
how persecution strengthens instead of overturning
an abused superstition. He has also proved to the
satisfaction of most of us, that it is our bounden duty
to subdue the arms of the pagans, and leave their
faith to be conquered by the good priests who will
follow in our path.—Turn, señor, from these pigmy
vases to the great censers, which God has himself
raised to his majesty!”
As De Morla spoke, he turned from the altars, and
Don Amador, following with his eyes the direction
in which he pointed, beheld a spectacle which instantly
drove from his mind the thought of the idolatrous urns.
Far away in the south-west, at the distance of eight
or ten leagues, among a mass of hills that upheld
their brows in gloomy obscurity, a colossal cone elevated
its majestic bulk to heaven, while the snows
which invested its resplendent sides, glittered in the
fires that crowned its summit. A pillar of smoke, of
awful hue and volume, rose to an enormous altitude
above its head, and then parting and spreading on
either side through the serene heaven, lay still and
solemn, like a funeral canopy, over its radiant pedestal.
From the crater, out of which issued this portentous
column, arose also, time by time, great flames
with a sort of lambent playfulness, in strange and obvious
contrast with their measureless mass and power;
while ever and anon globes of fire, rushing up through
the pillar of vapour, as through a transparent cylinder,
burst at the top, and spangled the grim canopy
with stars. No shock creeping through the
earth, no heavy roar stealing along the atmosphere,
attested the vigour of this sublime furnace; but all in
silence and solemn tranquillity, the spectacle went
on,—now darkling, now waxing temporarily into an
oppressive splendour, as if for the amusement of those
shadowy phantoms who seemed to sit in watch upon
the neighbouring peaks.
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“This is indeed,” said Don Amador, reverently,
“if God should require an altar of fire, such a high
place as might be meeter for his worship than any
shrine raised by the hands of man. God is very great
and powerful! The sight of such a spectacle doth
humble me in mine own thoughts: for what is man,
though full of yanity and arrogance, in the sight of
Him who builds the fire-mountains?”
“Padre Olmedo,” said his companion, “will ask
you, what is this fire-mountain, though to the eye
so majestic, and to appearance so eternal, to the
creeping thing whose spark of immortality will burn
on, when the flames of yonder volcano are quenched
forever?”
“It is very true,” said the neophyte, “the mountains
burn away, the sea wastes itself into air, but
the soul that God has given us consumes not. The
life of the body passes away like these flames; the
vitality that is in the spirit, is a gift that heaven has,
not extended to the stars!”
“My friend,” said De Morla, willing to pass to
more interesting discussions, “will now perceive for
what reason it was that the Tlascalans were dismayed
and sorrowful when I pronounced the name of
Popocatepetl. The name signifies the Mountain of
Smoke; for this great chimney, though ever pouring
forth dark vapours, has not often been known to kindle
into flames. The present eruption, beginning
about the time of our descent upon the coast, has ever
since continued; and was considered to have heralded
our appearance. The Tlascalans, though as
securely fettered under the sway of their senators,
as are the people of Anahuac under their kings, are,
as I told thee, very intolerant of such chiefs as carry
the open names of masters. Nay, so bitterly do they
detest all tyrants, that they have constructed a fable,
which they now believe as a truth,—namely, that the
souls of such persons are concocted and elaborated
among the flames of yonder awful crater; whence,
at the times of eruptions, they are sent forth, in the
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shape of meteros and fire-balls, to afflict and desolate
the world. The globes that fall back into the
cavity, they think, are despots recalled by their relenting
gods; whereas, those that fall beyond the
brim and roll down the sides of the mountain, are
tyrants let loose upon them without restraint. This
being their belief, it may seem strange to you, they
have conceived so preposterous an affection for ourselves,
who are much liker to prove their tyrants
than any of the lords of Anahuac; but yet, so savage
is their detestation of these native kings, that, though
nightly terrified with the spectacle of so many fiery
tyrants flying through the air, they seem quite to have
lost sight of the danger of entrusting their liberties
to our care.”
“I hope,” said Don Amador, “we have come to
rid them of the bondage of idolatry, not to reduce
them to a new slavery.”
“We will see that by-and-by,” said De Morla.
“We broke the chains of superstition in the islands,
but we followed them with more galling fetters; and
what better fate awaits the good Montezuma, is more
than I can tell.”
“Dost thou call that savage emperor the good
Montezuma?” demanded the novice.
“I cannot do otherwise,” said De Morla, mildly,”
“A thousand times might he have swept us from the
face of the earth; for his armies are numberless. A
grain of sand from the hand of each of his warriors,
would have covered us with a mountain. But age
has come to him with a disgust of blood; and all
his actions have proved him rather a humane host
than a barbarous destroyer. I must confess, we have
repaid his gentleness and beneficence both with perfidy
and cruelty; yet, notwithstanding all this, and
notwithstanding that he is sorely afflicted by our
harshness, such is the goodness of his heart, that he
will not permit his people to do us any injury, nor,
by any violence, rescue him out of our hands.”
“I have heard another story from Don Hernan,”
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said Amador: “and, truly, I thought these ferocious
assaults upon the garrison left with the señor Alvarado
in the city, were proof enough of his deceitful
malice.”
“I will not take upon me to contradict what is
averred by Don Hernan,” said De Morla. “But, señor,
we have had other representations of these tumults,
by envoys from Montezuma himself, which, if Cortes
had not refused to hear them, would have entirely
changed the nature of our belief. I have myself
spoken with these ambassadors,” continued the young
cavalier earnestly, “some of whom were sent to us
at Zempoala, and others have met us at divers places
since, though without being hearkened to,—and having
no inducements to remain in a rage, like Cortes
himself, I was very easily persuaded, to my shame, that
the fault lay all on the side of the garrison.—Señor,
for the sake of lucre, we have done many unjust
things! We were received with all hospitality by
Montezuma, the great lord of Tenochtitlan; he gave
us a palace to live in, supplied us with food and raiment,
and enriched us with many costly presents.
We repaid all this kindness, by seizing him, in a moment
of confidence, and conveying him to our dwelling,
where we have kept him ever since a prisoner,
forcing him, by the fear of death, to submit to many
indignities unworthy his high rank and benevolent
character; and once even forcing him to sit in chains
and witness the cruel execution of some of his own
officers for a certain crime in which he could have
had no part. He forgave us this, as well as other
insults, and, while we were absent against Zempoala,
preserved his promise sacred, to remain in ward of
Alvarado until our return. Now, señor, you shall
hear the truth of the assault, of which so much is
said by Cortes, as fully proving the iniquitous duplicity
of the captive emperor. While we were gone,
there occurred the anniversary of the great festival
of Mexitli, the war-god, in which it is customary for
all the nobles, arrayed in their richest attire, to dance
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on the terrace of the great pyramid, before the emperor.
Alvarado, dreading lest such an assemblage
of chiefs, heated, as we well knew them to be, on account
of the imprisonment of their king, might encourage
them to rescue him from his thrall, refused
to let the Mitotes, (for so they call this ceremony,) be
danced on the temple; and, at his invitation, the Tlatoani
assembled in the court-yard of the palace which
Montezuma gave us for our quarters; and here the rite
began. Now, señor,” continued De Morla, speaking
indignantly, “you will blush to hear, that our Christian
garrison were so inflamed with cupidity at the
sight of the rich and precious jewels, with which their
guests were decorated, that they resolved to possess
them, though at the cost of blood-guiltiness; and
falling upon these poor unsuspicious and unarmed
revellers, when wearied with the dance, and calling
out `Treason!' as if to justify themselves, though there
was no treason, except that in their own hearts, they
butchered all that could not leap the high walls, and
rifled the corses, even in the sight of the emperor.
This, as you may well believe, excited the people to
fury, and drove them to vengeance. They assaulted
the palace, killed many of the perfidious garrison,
and would have destroyed all, but that Montezuma,
whom they call the traitor and murderer, moved by
the intreaties and excuses of Alvarado, commanded
them to retire; and such are their love and subjection
to this monarch, that they instantly obeyed him, and
have remained in peace ever since, waiting the return
and the judgment of Don Hernan.—And Don
Hernan will doubtless command us to give them
justice, by slaying as many as shall dare to demand
it.”
“By heaven!” said Don Amador, “if this be the
truth, there are more barbarians than those who
worship pagan idols; and I vow to God, if I find
thy narrative well confirmed, I will draw no sword,
not even at the bidding of my knight Calavar, on
the people of Tenochtitlan. Were I even sworn,
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like a vowed knight of Rhodes, to keep no peace
with the infidel, I could not fight in an unjust cause.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” said De Morla,
frankly; “for I have often, ever since I have been
assured of the friendly and docile character of the
Mexicans, been persuaded it would be wiser, as well
as juster, to teach them than to destroy. Your
favour will find the nobles very civilized; and surely
their daughters, if converted to the true faith, would
make more honourable wives for Spanish hidalgos
than the Moorish ladies of our own land.”
A sigh came from the lips of Jacinto, as he
heard this narrative, to which he had listened with
boyish interest, terminated with a slur so degrading
to his people. But his mortification was appeased
by Don Amador, exclaiming with great emphasis,—
“That these Mexican princesses may make very
good wives, when true Christians, I can well believe;
but I have my doubts whether they have any such
superiority over the Moorish ladies of Granada, who
possess the religion of Christ. I have, once or twice,
known very noble Moriscas, honoured among the
wives of Granada as much as those who boasted the
pure blood of Castile; and for myself, without pretending
to say I shall ever condescend to such a
marriage, I may aver, that I have seen at least one
fair maiden, and she of no very royal descent, whom,—
that is, if I had loved her,—I should not have
scorned to wed. But these things go by fate: a
Christian Moor is perhaps as much regarded by
heaven as a Christian Spaniard; and surely there
are some of them very lovely to look on, and with
most angelical eyes!”
The gentle cavalier smiled in his own conceits, as
he listened to the argument of his friend; but, without
answering it, he said,—
“While we have the authority of the Cid Ramon
of Leon before our eyes, I am much disposed to
agree with Don Amador; for the Cid adored an infidel,
and why should not we love proselytes? Come,
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now, my pretty page: of all thy ballads, I like best
that which treats of the loves of Cid Ramon; and
if thou hast not forgotten it, I shall rejoice to hear
thee chant it once more, while we sit under the tower
and gaze on the fire-mountain, that looks down on
Mexico.”
The boy agreed with unusual alacrity, and sitting
down at the feet of the cavaliers, on the flags that
surrounded the sanctuary, with the torch stuck in
the earth near him, he tuned his instrument with a
willing hand.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Lighted not more by the torch at his feet than by
the flames that crested the distant mountain, the
Moorish boy struck the lute with a skilful touch,
whispered, rather than wailed, the little burthen that
kept alive the memory of the Alhambra, and then
sang the following Romance;—a ballad that evidently
relates to the fate of Mohammed Almosstadir, king
of Seville, dethroned by the famous Yussef ben Taxfin,
Emir of Morocco. In the wars of the Moorish
kings of Spain with Alfonso V.I. of Leon, about the
year 1090, the Christian monarch prevailing, his infidel
enemies invited Yussef to their assistance. The
emir obeyed the call; but having fought one or two
battles with Alfonso, contented himself with turning
his arms on his confederates, and dethroning them,—
Mohammed Almosstadir among the number. It is
recorded, that his chivalrous enemy, the king Alfonso,
moved by the distresses of Mohammed, sent an army
of twenty thousand men to assist him against Yussef;
but in the obscurity of the historic legends of that
day, nothing can be discovered in relation to the devout
condition of “kissing the cross,” nor, indeed, of
the name or fate of the leader of the Spanish army.
We should know nothing of the good Cid, but for the
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ballad, which was doubtless of very antique origin;
though the simple burthen, Me acuerdo de ti, Granada!
commemorative of the fall of the Moorish city, must
have been added four hundred years after; perhaps by
the singer from whom Jacinto had learned it.
ROMANCE OF CID RAMON.
I remember thee, Granada!
Cid Ramon spurr'd his good steed fast,
His thousand score were near;
And from Sevilla's walls aghast,
The wtchmen fled with fear:
For Afric's Emir lay around,
The town was leaguer'd sore,
And king Mohammed wept with shame
To be a king no more.
I remember thee, Granada!
The Emir's powers were round and nigh,
Like locusts on the sward;
And when Cid Ramon spurr'd his steed,
They struck him fast and hard.
“But,” quoth the Cid, “a knight am I,
With crucifix and spear;
And for Mohammed ride I on,
And for his daughter dear.”—
I remember thee, Granada!
“Cheer up, dark king, and wail no more,
Let tears no longer flow;
Of Christian men a thousand score
Have I to smite thy foe.
The king Alfonso greets thee well:
Kiss thou the cross, and pray;
And ere thou say'st the Ave o'er,
The Emir I will slay.”
I remember thee, Granada!
“Or let the African be slain,
Or let the Emir slay,
I will not kiss the cross of Christ,
Nor to his Mother pray.
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A camel-driver will I live,
With Yussef for my lord,
Or ere I kiss the Christian's cross,
To win the Christian's sword.”
I remember thee, Granada!
“Mohammed, now thou griev'st me much—
Alfonso is my king:
But let Suleya kiss the cross,
And let her wear the ring.
The crucifix the bride shall bear,
Her lord shall couch the spear;
And still I'll smite thy foe for thee,
And for thy daughter dear.”
I remember thee, Granada!
Then up Suleya rose, and spoke,—
“I love Cid Ramon well;
But not to win his heart or sword,
Will I my faith compel.
With Yussef, cruel though he be,
A bond-maid will I rove,
Or ere I kiss the Christian's cross,
To win the Christian's love.”
I remember thee, Granada!
“Suleya! now thou griev'st me much—
A thousand score have I;
But, saving for a Christian's life,
They dare not strike or die.
Alfonso is my king, and thus
Commands my king to me:
But, for that Christian, all shall strike,
If my true love she be.”
I remember thee, Granada!
“Ill loves the love, who, ere he loves,
Demands a sacrifice:
Who serves myself, must serve my sire,
And serve without a price.
Let Yussef come with sword and spear,
To fetter and to rend;
I choose me yet a Moorish foe
Before a Christian friend!”—
I remember thee, Granada!
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“Ill loves the love, who pins his love
Upon a point of creed;
And balances in selfish doubt,
At such a time of need.
His heart is loosed, his hands untied,
And he shall yet be free
To wear the cross, and break the ring,
Who will not die for me!”
I remember thee, Granada!
The Emir's cry went up to heaven:
Cid Ramon rode away—
“Ye may not fight, my thousand score,
For Christian friend to-day.
But tell the king, I bide his hest,
Albeit my heart be sore;
Of all his troops, I give but one
To perish for the Moor.”
I remember thee, Granada!
The Emir's cry went up to heaven;
His howling hosts came on;
Down fell Sevilla's tottering walls,—
The thousand score were gone.
And at the palace-gate, in blood,
The Arab Emir raves;
He sat upon Mohammed's throne,
And look'd upon his slaves.
I remember thee, Granada!
“The lives of all that faithful be,
This good day, will I spare;
But wo betide or kings or boors,
That currish Christians are!”—
Up rode Cid Ramon bleeding fast;
The princess wept to see;—
“No cross was kiss'd, no prayer was said,
But still I die for thee!”
I remember thee, Granada!
The Moorish maid she kiss'd the cross,
She knelt upon her knee;—
“I kiss the cross, I say the prayer,
Because thou diest for me.
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To buy thy thousand score of swords,
I would not give my faith;
But now I take the good cross up,
To follow thee in death.”
I remember thee, Granada!
“Holy Maria! Come to us,
And take us to the blest;
In the true blood of love and faith,
Receive us to thy rest!”—
The Emir struck in bitter wrath,
Sharp fell the Arab blade;
And Mary took the Cid to heaven,
And bless'd the Christian maid.
I remember thee, Granada!
“I like that ballad well,” said De Morla, with a
pensive sigh, when the singer had finished, “and, to
my thought, no handsome maiden, though such always
makes the best ballad-singer, could have trolled
it with a more tender and loving accent than Jacinto.
`The Moorish maid,”' he continued, humming the
words in a sentimental manner,—
The Moorish maid she kiss'd the cross,
She knelt upon her knee.—
To my mind, it would read better, if we could say,
The Mexican maid.'—
The Mexican maid she kiss'd the cross—
But, pho upon it! that spoils the metre.—Is it not thy
opinion, señor, the princess Suleya would have shown
more true love as well as wisdom, to have kissed the
cross before the Cid came to his death-gasp?”
“By my faith, I cannot doubt it,” said Don Amador;
“yet, considering that she avowed herself a
proselyte, when the sword of that accursed Emir was
suspended over her head, and so provoked and endured
the death of a martyr for Don Ramon's sake,
it must be acknowledged she acted as became a loving
and truly devout lady. But what I chiefly esteem
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in this ditty, is the magnanimous art with which the
Cid Ramon both preserved his faith to his king, and
devoted himself to death for his mistress,—a reconciliation
of duties which some might have considered
impracticable, or, at least, highly objectionable.”
“Amigo querido mio,” cried De Morla, grasping
the neophyte's hand, and speaking with a voice half
comical, half serious, “if thou livest a hundred years
longer than myself, thou wilt hear some such mournful
madrigal as this sung in memory of my foolish
self; only that, in place of a Moorish Infanta, thou
wilt hear the name of a Mexican princess; and Minnapotzin
will doubtless be immortalized along with
De Morla.”
“Minnapotzin!” exclaimed Don Amador, with a
stare rendered visible enough by the distant flashings
of the volcano. “I swear to thee, my brother, I understand
not a word thou art saying!”
“To make the matter clear to thee then,” said De
Morla, with forced gayety, “conceive me for a moment
to be the Cid of whom we have been singing;
and imagine my Suleya to be wandering by the lake
side in the figure of a certain Minnapotzin, received
to our holy faith under the name of Doña Benita,—
a princess among these poor barbarians.”
“Dost thou indeed love one of these strange maid-ens,
then?—and is she baptized in our holy faith?”
demanded Don Amador, with much interest. “If she
be worthy of thee, Francisco, I pray heaven to make
thee happy with her.”
“Now, may I die!” cried De Morla, grasping Don
Amador's hand warmly, “if I did not fear thou
wouldst either censure or laugh at me,—or perhaps
turn thy ridicule upon Benita,—a wrong I never
could have forgiven thee. For I protest to thee,
there is no such gentle and divine being in all the
world beside. I make thee my confidant, hermano
mio, because I shall have much need of thy friendship
and counsel; for though I come not, like Cid Ramon,
with `a thousand score' to rescue her pagan father,
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sure am I, I cannot love the princess, and yet be blind
to the miseries of the king.”
“Assuredly,” said Don Amador, “I will aid thee,
and, for thy sake, both the fair princess and her unconverted
sire, wherever, in so doing, I may not oppose
my allegiance and religion.”
“I will not claim any sacrifice,” said De Morla,
“unless so much as will rob thee of thy prejudices
against this deluded people. In fact, I desire thee
more as a confidant, than as an abettor; for there is
nothing to oppose my happiness, saving the present
uncertainty of the relations betwixt ourselves and the
Mexicans. Minnapotzin is a Christian;—I dare be
sworn, the Cid was not better beloved than myself;—
and Cortes hath himself promised to ask the consent
of our Christian king to the marriage, as soon as
Montezuma has properly confirmed his vassalage.
No, there is nothing to oppose me,” continued De
Morla, with a sudden sadness, “saving only this uncertainty
I have spoken of,—and the darkness that
hangs over my own destiny.”
“I vow to thee, I am as much in the dark as before,”
said Don Amador.
“In good faith, my friend,” said the young cavalier,
with a faint smile, “it is promised me, I shall die
very much like Don Ramon. Did I never tell thee
what Botello hath prophesied?”
“Not a jot,” said the neophyte. “But I trust thou
puttest no faith in that worthy madman?”
“How can I help it?” said De Morla, seriously.
“He has foretold nothing that has not been accomplished,
from the quarrel of Cortes with the Adelantado
Velasquez, even to the fall of Zempoala.”
“I have reflected on this prediction with regard to
Zempoala, as well as all others whereof I have
heard,” said the neophyte, with a sagacious nod, “and
I have settled in mine own mind that there is nothing
in them beyond the operation of a certain cunning,
mingled with a boldness which will hazard any thing
in prognostic. Much credit is given to Botello for
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having, as I am informed, predicted, even before
the embarkation of Cortes, the rupture between him
and his governor that afterwards ensued. Now,
any man, acquainted with the unreasonable rashness
and hot jealousy of the governor, might have foretold
a quarrel; and I see not how it could have been
otherwise. So also, as I may say, I did myself, in
a manner, foretell the disaster of Narvaez, as soon
as I perceived his foolish negligence, in choosing
rather to divert his soldiers with legerdemain dances
than to set them about his city as sentinels. The victory
comes not to the indiscreet general.”
“All this might have been conjectured, but not
with so many surprising particulars,” said the cavalier.
“How could Botello have predicted, that, though
Narvaez should sally out against us, no blow should
be struck by daylight?”
“Marry, I know not; unless upon a conviction
that Cortes was too wise to meet his enemy on the
plain; and from a personal assurance, that the rocks
wherein the general had pitched his camp, were utterly
unassailable.”
“How could he have guessed that flames should
drive the Biscayan from the tower?”
“Did he guess that, indeed?” said the neophyte,
staring. “He could not have known that; for the
brand was thrown by mine own rogue Lazaro, who,
I know, was not his confederate.”
“How could he have averred that Narvaez should
lose his eye, and come blindfold to his conqueror?”
“Is it very certain Botello foretold that?” demanded
Don Amador, his incredulity shaking.
“The señor Duero was present, as well as several
other honourable cavaliers, and all confirm the
story,” said De Morla. “Nay, I could give thee a
thousand instances of the marvellous truths he has
spoken; and so well is Cortes convinced of his singular
faculty, that he will do no deed of importance,
without first consulting the magician.”
“When my head is very cool,” said Amador,
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musingly, “I find no difficulty to persuade myself that the
existence of the faculty of soothsaying is incredible,
because subversive of many of the wise provisions of
nature; yet I will not take upon me to contradict
what I do not know. And surely also, I may confess,
I have heard of certain wonderful predictions
made by astrologers, which are very difficult to be
explained, unless by admission of their powers.”
“What Botello has said to me,” said De Morla,
with a hurried voice, “has been in part fulfilled,
though spoken in obscure figures. He told me, long
since, that I should be reduced to bondage, `at such
time as I should behold a Christian cross hanging
under a pagan crown.' This I esteemed a matter for
mirth; `for how,' said I, `shall I find a pagan wearing
a crucifix? and how shall I submit to be a captive
among strange and cruel idolaters, when I have
the power to die fighting?' But I have seen the cross
on the bosom of one who wears the gold coronet of
a king's daughter; and now I know that my heart
is in slavery!”
Don Amador pondered over this annunciation;
but while he deliberated, his friend continued,—
“When Botello told me this, he added other things,—
not many but dark,—to wit, as I understood it,
`that I should perish miserably with my enslaver,' and,
what is still more remarkable, with an infidel priest
to say the mass over my body! Señor, these things
are uncomfortable to think on; but I vow to heaven,
if I am to die in the arms of Minnapotzin, I shall
perish full as happily as did Cid Ramon in the embraces
of Suleya!”
De Morla concluded his singular story with a degree
of excitement and wildness that greatly confounded
Don Amador; and before the neophyte could
summon up arguments enough to reply, a voice from
the bottom of the pyramid was heard pronouncing
certain words, in a tongue entirely unknown to him,
but among which he thought he recognised the name
of Minnapotzin. He was not mistaken. De Morla
started, saying, hastily,—
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“I am called, señor. This is the voice of one of
the envoys of Montezuma, with whom I have certain
things to say concerning Doña Benita. I will return
to thee in an instant.” And so saying, he descended
the stairs of the mound, and was straightway out of
sight.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The moon had now risen, and was mingling her
lustre with the blaze of the volcano. The shouts of
revelry came less frequently from the city, and, one
by one, the torches vanished from the house-tops and
the streets. A pleasant quiet surrounded the deserted
temple; a few embers, only, glowed in the sacred
urns; but the combined light of the luminary and
the mountain covered the terrace with radiance, and
fully revealed the few objects which gave it the interest
of life. In this light, as Don Amador turned
to his youthful companion, he beheld the eyes of the
page suffused with tears.
“How is it, Jacinto?—What ails thee?” he cried.
“I vow to heaven, I am as much concerned at thy
silly griefs, as though thou wert mine own little
brother Rosario, who is now saying his prayers at
Cuenza. Art thou weary? I will immediately conduct
thee to our quarters. Is there any thing that
troubles thee? Thou shouldst make me thy confidant;
for surely I love thee well.”
“Señor mio! I am not weary, and I am not grieved,”
said the stripling, with simplicity, as the good-natured
cavalier took him by the hand, to give him
comfort. “I wept for pity of the good Don Francisco
and the poor Minnapotzin; for surely it is a
pity if they must die!”
“Thou art a silly youth to lament for evils that
have not yet happened,” said Amador.
“But besides, señor,” said the page, “when Don
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Francisco made me sad, I looked at the moon, and I
thought how it was rising on my country!”
“It is now in the very noon of night, both in thy
land and mine,” said the neophyte, touched by the
simple expression, and leading the boy where the planet
could be seen without obstruction;—“it is now
midnight over Fez, as well as Castile; and, perhaps,
some of our friends, in both lands, are regarding this
luminary, at this moment, and thinking of us.”
The page sighed deeply and painfully:
“I have no friends,—no, neither in Fez nor in
Spain,” he said; “and, save my father, my master,
and my good lord, none here. There is none of my
people left, but my father; and we are alone together!”
“Say not, alone,” said Amador, with still more
kindness,—for as Jacinto made this confession of his
destitute condition, the tears fell fast and bitterly from
his eyes. “Say not, alone; for, I repeat to thee, I
have come, I know not by what fascination, to love
thee as well as if thou wert my own little brother;
and there shall no wrong come to thee, or thy father,
while I live to be thy friend.”
Jacinto kissed the hand of the cavalier, and said,—
“I did not cry for sorrow, but only for thinking of
my country.”
“Thou shouldst think no more of Fez; for its people
are infidels, and thou a Christian.”
“I thought of Granada,—for that is the land of
Christians; and I longed to be among the mountains
where my mother was born.”
“Thou shalt live there yet, if God be merciful to
us,” said the cavalier: “for when there is peace in
this barbarous clime, I will take thee thither for a
playmate to Rosario. But now that we are here
alone, let us sit by the tower, and while I grow melancholy,
bethinking me of that same land of Granada,
which I very much love, I will have thee sing me
some other pretty ballad of the love of a Christian
knight for a Moorish lady;—or I care not if thou
repeat the romance of the Cid: I like it well—`Me
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acuerdo de ti'—`me acuerdo de ti'—” And the neophyte
seemed, while he murmured over the burthen,
as if about to imitate the pensiveness of De Morla.
“If my lord choose,” said the page, “I would
rather tell him a story of Granada, which is about
a Christian cavalier, very noble and brave, and a
Christian Morisca, that loved him.”
“A Christian Morisca!” said Amador; “and she
loved the cavalier?—I will hear that story. And it
happened in Granada too?”
“In one of the Moorish towns, but not in the royal
city.—It was in the town Almeria.”
“In the town Almeria!” echoed Amador, eagerly.
“Thou canst tell me nothing of Almeria that will not
give me both pain and pleasure, for therein—But pho!
a word doth fill the brain with memories!—Is it an
ancient story?”
“Not very ancient, please my lord: it happened
since the fall of Granada.”
“It is strange that I never heard it, then; for I
dwelt full two months in this same town; and 'tis
not yet forty years since the siege.”
“Perhaps it is not true,” said the stripling, innocently;
“and, at the best, 'tis not remarkable enough
to have many repeaters. 'Tis a very foolish story.”
“Nevertheless, I am impatient to hear it.”
“There lived in that town,” said Jacinto, “a
Moorish orphan—”
“A girl?” demanded the neophyte.
“A Moorish maiden,—of so obscure a birth, that
she knew not even the name that had been borne by
her parents; but nevertheless, señor, her parents, as
was afterwards found out, were of the noblest blood
of Granada. She was protected and reared in the
family of a benevolent lady, who, being descended of
a Moorish parent, looked with pity on the poor orphan
of the race of her mother. When this maiden was yet
in her very early youth, there came a noble cavalier
of Castile—”
“A Castilian!” demanded Don Amador, with
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extraordinary vivacity,—“Art thou a conjurer?—What
was his name?”
“I know not,” said Jacinto.
“Thou learnest thy stories, then, only by the half,”
said the neophyte, with a degree of displeasure that
amazed the youth. “And, doubtless, thou wert forgetful
also to acquire the name of the Moorish
orphan?”
“Señor,” said the page, discomposed at the heated
manner of his patron, “the Moorish maiden was
called Leila.”
“Leila!” cried the neophyte, starting to his feet,
and seizing Jacinto by the arm—“Canst thou tell me
aught of Leila?”
“Señor!” murmured Jacinto, in affright.
“Leila, the Morisca, in the house of the señora
Doña Maria de Montefuerte!” exclaimed Don Amador,
wildly. “Dost thou know of her fate? Did she
sleep under the surges of the bay? Was she ravished
away by those exile dogs of the mountains?—Now,
by heaven, if thou canst tell me any thing of that
Moorish maid, I will make thee richer than the richest
Moor of Granada!”
At this moment, while Jacinto, speechless with
terror, gazed on his patron, as doubting if his senses
had not deserted him, a step rung on the earth of the
terrace, and De Morla stood at his side.
The voice of his friend recalled the bewildered
wits of the neophyte; he stared at Jacinto, and at De
Morla; a deep hue of shame and confusion flushed
over his brow; and perceiving that his violence had
again thrown the page into tears, he kissed him benevolently
on the forehead, and said, as tranquilly as
he could,—
“A word will make fools of the wisest! I think I
was dreaming, while thou wert at thy story. Be not
affrighted, Jacinto: I meant not to scold thee—I was
disturbed.—Next—next,” he added, with a grievous
shudder, “I shall be as mad as my kinsman!”
“My brother! I am surprised to see thee in this
emotion,” said De Morla.
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“It is nothing,” responded Amador, hastily and
gloomily: “I fear there is a natural infirmity in the
brains of all my family. I was moved, by an idle
story of Jacinto, into the recollection of a certain
sorrowful event, which, one day, perhaps, I will relate
to thee.—But let us return to our quarters.—
The air comes down chilly from the mountains—It
is time we were sleeping.”—
The friends retired from the temple, leaving the
torch sticking in the platform; for the moon was
now so high as to afford a better illumination. They
parted at the quarters; but Don Amador, after satisfying
himself that the knight of Rhodes was slumbering
on his pallet, drew Jacinto aside to question
him further of the orphan of Almeria. His solicitude
was, however, doomed to a disappointment; the
page was evidently impressed with the fear, that Don
Amador was not without some of the weakness of
Calavar; and adroitly, though with great embarrassment,
avoided exciting him further.
“It is a foolish story, and I am sorry it displeased
my lord,” said he, when commanded to continue the
narrative.
“It displeased me not—I knew a Moorish maid of
that name in Almeria, who was also protected by a
Christian lady; and, what was most remarkable, this
Christian lady was of Moorish descent, like her of
whom thou wert speaking; and, like the Leila of thy
story, the Leila of my own memory vanished away
from the town before—”
“Señor,” cried Jacinto, “I did not say she vanished
away from Almeria: that did not belong to the
story.”
“Ay, indeed! is it so? Heaven guard my wits!
what made me think it?—And thy Leila lived in Almeria
very recently?”
“Perhaps ten or fifteen years ago.”—
“Pho!—Into what folly may not an ungoverned
fancy lead us?—Ten or fifteen years ago!—And thou
never heardst of the Leila that dwelt in that town
within a twelve-month?”
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“I, señor?” cried Jacinto, with surprise.
“True—how is it possible thou couldst?—Thou
hast, this night, stirred me as by magic. I know not
by what sorcery thou couldst hit upon that name!”
“It was the name of the lady,” said Jacinto, innocently.
“Ay, to be sure!—There is one Mary in heaven,
and a thousand on earth—why should there not be
many Leilas?—Did I speak harshly to thee, Jacinto?
Thou shouldst not kiss my hand, if I did; for no impatience
or grief could excuse wrath to one so gentle
and unoffending. Good night—get thee to thy
bed, and forget not to say thy prayers.”
So saying, and in such disorder of spirits as the
page had never before witnessed in him, Don Amador
retired.
Jacinto was left standing in a narrow passage, or
corridor, on which opened a long row of chambers
with curtained doors, wherein slept the soldiers,
crowded thickly together. In the gallery, also, at a
distance, lay several dusky lumps, which, by the
gleaming of armour about them, were seen to be the
bodies of soldiers stretched fast asleep. As the boy
turned to retire in the direction of the open portal,
it was darkened by the figure of a man, entering
with a cautious and most stealthy step. He approached,
and by his voice, (for there was not light
enough yielded by the few flambeaux stuck against
the wall, to distinguish features,) Jacinto recognised
his father.
“I sought thee, my child!” he whispered, “and
saw thee returning with the hidalgos.—The watchmen
sleep as well as the cannoniers.—It is as I told
thee—art thou ready?”
“Dear father!”—stammered the page.
“Speak not above thy breath!—The curs, that are
hungering after the blood of the betrayed Mexicans,
would not scorn to blunt their appetites on the flesh
of the Moor. Have thyself in readiness at a
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moment's warning: Our destinies are written—God will
not always frown upon us!”
“Dear father!” muttered Jacinto, “we are of the
Spaniards' faith, and we will go back to our country.”
“It cannot be!—never can it be!” said Abdalla, in
tones that were not the less impressive for being uttered
in a whisper “The hills of thy childhood, the
rivers of thy love—they are passed away from thee;—
think of them no more;—never more shalt thou
see them! In the land of barbarians, heaven has
willed that we should live and die; and be thou reconciled
to thy fate, for it shall be glorious! We
live not for ourselves; God brings us hither, and for
great ends! To night, did I—Hah!”—(One of the
sleepers stirred in the passage.)—“Seek some occasion
to speak with me, to-morrow, on the march,”
whispered Abdalla in the page's ear; and then, with
a gesture for silence, he immediately retired.
“Fuego! Quien pasea alli?” grumbled the voice of
Lazaro, as he raised his head from the floor. “Fu!
el muchacho!—I am ever dreaming of that cursed
Turk, that was at my weasand, when Baltasar brained
him with the boll of his cross-bow. Laus tibi,
Christe!—I have a throat left for snoring.” And
comforting himself with this assurance, before Jacinto
had yet vanished from the passage, the man-at-arms
again slumbered on his mat.
CHAPTER XXV.
In the prosecution of his purpose, our historian, the
worthy Don Cristobal Ixtlilxochitl, though ever adhering
to his `neglected cavaliers' with a generous
constancy, is sometimes seduced into the description
of events and scenes of a more general character,
not very necessarily connected with his main object,
and which those very authors whom he censures,
have made the themes of much prolix writing. The
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difficulties that beset an historian are ever very great;
nor is the least of them found in the necessity of determinating
how much, or how little, he is called upon
to record; for though it seems but reasonable he
should take it for granted that his readers are entirely
unacquainted with the matters he is narrating, and
therefore that he should say all that can be said, this
is a point in which all readers will not entirely agree
with him. Those who have acquired a smattering
of his subject, will be offended, if he presume to reinstruct
them. For our own part, not recognizing
the right of the ignorant to be gratified at the expense
of the more learned, we have studied as much
as is possible, so to curtail the exuberances of our
original as to present his readers chiefly with what
they cannot know; for which reason, it will be found,
we have eschewed many of the memorable incidents
of this famous campaign, in which none of the neglected
conquerors bore a considerable part; as well
as all those minute descriptions which retard the
progress of the history. We therefore despatch in
a word the glories of the morning that dawned over
Tlaseala, the gathering together of the Spaniards,
who, upon review, were found to muster full thirteen
hundred men, and their savage allies, two thousand
in number, commanded, as had been anticipated, by
Talmeccahua of the tribe Tizatlan.
Amid the roar of trumpets and drums, and the
shouts of a vast people, the glittering and feathered
army departed from Tlascala, and pursuing its way
through those rich savannas covered with the smiling
corn and the juicy aloe, which had gained for this
valley its name of the Land of Bread, proceeded onwards
towards the holy city, Cholula.
What rocky plains were crossed and what rough
sierras surmounted, it needs not to detail: before
night-fall, the whole army moved over the meadows
that environ Cholula; and there, where now the traveller
sees naught but a few wretched natives squatting
among their earthen cabins, the adventurers
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beheld a city of great size, with more than four hundred
lofty white towers shining over its spacious dwellings.
The magnificent mountains that surrounded it—the
sublime Popocatepetl, still breathing forth its lurid
vapours,—the forbidding Iztaccihuatl, or the White
Woman, looking like the shattered ruins of some
fallen planet, vainly concealing their deformities under
a vestment of snow,—the sharp and serrated
Malinche,—and last (and seen with not the less interest
that it intercepted the view towards home,)—the
kingly Orizaba, looking peaceful and grand in the
east,—made up such a wall of beauty and splendour
as does not often confine the valleys of men. But
there is one mountain in that singular scene, which
human beings will regard with even more interest
than those peaks which soar so many weary fathoms
above it: the stupendous Teocalli—the Monte hecno á
manos, (for it was piled up by the hands of human
beings,)—reared its huge bulk over the plain; and,
while looking on the stately cypresses that shadowed
its gloomy summit, men dreamed, as they dream yet,
of the nations who raised so astonishing an evidence
of their power, without leaving any revealment of
their fate. Whence came they? whither went they?
From the shadows—back to the shadows.—The
farce of ambition, the tragedy of war, so many
thousand times repeated in the three great theatres
that divided the old world, were performed with the
same ceremonies of guilt and misery, with the same
glory and the same shame, in a fourth, of which
knowledge had not dreamed. The same superstitions
which heaped up the pyramids and the Parthenon,
were at work on the Teocallis of America; and the
same pride which built a Babylon to defy the assaults
of time, gave to his mouldering grasp the
tombs and the palaces of Palenque. The people
of Tenochtitlan and Cholula worshipped their ancient
gods among the ruined altars of an older superstition.
Great crowds issued from this city—the Mecca of
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Anahuac—to witness the approach of the Spaniards;
but although they bore the same features, and the
same decorations, though perhaps of a better material,
with the Tlascalans, it was observed by Don
Amador, that they displayed none of the joy and triumph,
with which his countrymen had been ushered
into Tlascala. In place of these, their countenances
expressed a dull curiosity; and though they kissed
the earth and flung the incense, as usual, in their
manner of salutation, they seemed impelled to these
ceremonies more by fear than affection. He remarked
also with some surprise, that when they came to
extend their compliments to the allies,—the Tlascalans,
from their chief down to the meanest warrior,
requited them only with frowns. All these peculiarities
were explained to him by De Morla:
“In ancient days,” said the cavalier, “the Cholulans
were a nation of republicans, like the Tlascalans,
and united with them in a fraternal league against
their common enemies, the Mexicans. In course of
time, however, the people of the holy city were
gained over by the bribes or promises of the foe;
and entering into a secret treaty, they obeyed its
provisions so well, as to throw off the mask on the
occasion of a great battle, wherein they perfidiously
turned against their friends, and, aided by the Mexicans,
defeated them with great slaughter. From that
day, they have remained the true vassals of Mexico;
and, from that day, the Tlascalans have not ceased
to regard them with the most deadly and unrelenting
hatred.”
“The hatred is just; and I marvel they do not fall
upon these base knaves forthwith!” said Amador.
“It is the command of Don Hernan, that Tlascala
shall now preserve her wrath for Tenochtitlan; and
such is his influence, that, though he cannot allay the
heart-burnings, yet can he, with a word, restrain the
hands of his allies. Concerning the gloomy indifference
of these people,” continued De Morla, “as now
manifested, it needs only to inform you how we
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discovered, or, rather, (for I will not afflict you with the
details,) how we punished a similar treachery, wherein
they meditated our own destruction, more than
half a year ago, when we entered their town, on our
march to Mexico. Having discovered their plot to
destroy us, we met them with a perfidious craft
which might have been rendered excusable by their
own, had we, like them, been demi-barbarians; but
which, as we are really civilized and Christian men,
I cannot help esteeming both dishonest and atrocious.
We assembled their nobles and priests in the court
of the building we occupied; and having closed the
gates, and charged them once or twice with their
guilt, we fell upon them; and some of them having
escaped and roused the citizens, we carried the war
into the streets, and up to the temples: and so well
did we prosper that day, and the day that followed,
(for we fought them during two entire days,) that,
with the assistance of our Tlascalans, of whom we
had an army with us, we slaughtered full six thousand
of them, and that without losing the life of a single
Spaniard.”
“Dios mio!” cried Don Amador, “we had not so
many killed in all the siege of Rhodes! Six thousand
men! I am not certain that even treachery could excuse
the destruction of so many lives.”
“It was a bloody and most awful spectacle,” said
De Morla, with feeling. “We drove the naked
wretches (I say naked, señor, for we gave them no
time to arm;) to the pyramids, especially to that
which holds the altar of their chief god,—the god of
the air; and here, señor, it was melancholy, to see
the miserable desperation with which they died; for,
having, at first, refused them quarter, they declined
to receive it, when pity moved us afterwards to grant
it. About the court of this pyramid there were many
wooden buildings, as well as tabernacles of the like
material among the towers, on the top. These we
fired; and thus attacked them with arms and flames.
What ruin the fire failed to inflict on the temple, they
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accomplished with their own hands; for, señor, having
a superstitious belief, that, the moment a sacrilegious
hand should tear away the foundations of their
great temple, floods should burst out from the earth
to whelm the impious violator, they began to raze it
with their own hands; willing, in their madness, to
perish by the wrath of their god, so that their enemies
should perish with them. I cannot express to
you the horrible howls, with which they beheld the
fragments fall from the walls of the pyramid, without
calling up the watery earthquake: then, indeed, with
these howls, they ran to the summit, and crazily
pirched themselves into the burning towers, or flung
themselves from the dizzy top,—as if, in their despair,
thinking that even their gods had deserted them!”
“It was an awful chastisement, and, I fear me,
more awful than just,” said Amador. “After this,
it is not wonderful the men of Cholula should not
receive us with joy.”
Many evidences of the horrors of that dreadful
day were yet revealed, as Don Amador entered into
the city. The marks of fire were left on various
houses of stone, and, here and there, were vacuities,
covered with blackened wrecks, where, doubtless,
had stood more humble and combustible fabrics.
The countenance of Cortes was observed to be
darkened by a frown, as he rode through this well-remembered
scene of his cruelty; but perhaps he
thought less of remorse and penitence, than of the
spirit of hatred and desperation evinced by his victims,—
as if, in truth, the late occurrences at Mexico
had persuaded him, that a similar spirit was waking
and awaiting him there.—It was in his angry moment,
and just as he halted at the portals of a large
court-yard, wherein stood the palace he had chosen
for his quarters, that two Indians, of an appearance
superior to any Don Amador had yet seen, and followed
by a train of attendants bearing heavy burthens,
suddenly passed from the crowd of Cholulans,
and approached the general.
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“Señor,” said De Morla, in a low voice, to his
friend, “observe these new ambassadors;—they are
of the noblest blood of the city; the elder,—he that
hath the gold grains hanging to his nostrils, in token
that he belongs to the order of Teuctli, or Princes by
Merit, is one of the lords of the Four Quarters of
Mexico—the quarter Tlatelolco, wherein is our garrison.
His name, Itzquauhtzin, will be, to you, unpronounceable.
The youth that bears himself so
loftily, is no less than a nephew of the king himself;
and the searlet fillet around his hair, denotes that he
has arrived at the dignity of what we should call a
chief commander,—a military rank that not even the
king can claim, without having performed great actions
in the field. 'Tis a sore day for Montezuma,
when he sends us such princely ambassadors.—I will
press forward, and do the office of interpreter; for
destiny, love, and my mother wit, together, have
given me more of the Mexican jargon, than any of
my companions.”
As the ambassadors approached, Don Amador had
leisure to observe them. Both were of good stature
and countenance; their loins were girt with tunics
of white cotton cloth, studded and bordered with
bunches of feathers, and hanging as low as the knee;
and over the shoulders of both were hung large mantles
of many brilliant colours, curiously interwoven,
their ends so knotted together in front, as to fall
down in graceful folds, half concealing the swarthy
chest. Their sandals were secured with scarlet
thongs, crossed and gartered to the calf. Their raven
looks, which were of great length, were knotted together,
in a most fantastic manner, with ribands,
from the points of which, on the head of the elder,
depended many little ornaments, that seemed jewels
of gold and precious stones; while from the fillets,
that braided the hair of the younger, besides an abundance
of the same ornaments, there were many tufts
of crimson cotton-down, swinging to and fro in the
wind. In addition to these badges of military
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distinction, (for every tuft, thus worn, was the reward
and evidence of some valiant exploit,) this young
prince—he seemed not above twenty-five years old—
were, as had been noticed by De Morla, the red
fillet of the House of Darts,—an order, not so much
of nobility as of knighthood, entitling its possessor to
the command of an army. His bearing was, indeed,
lofty, but not disdainful; and though, when making
his obeisance, he neither stooped so low, nor kissed
his hand with so much humility, as his companion,
this seemed to proceed more from a consciousness
of his own rank, than from any disrespect to the
Christian leader.
“What will these dogs with me now?” cried Cortes,
at whose feet, (for he had dismounted,) the
attendants had thrown their burthens, and were proceeding
to display their contents. “Doth Montezuma
think to appease me for the blood of my brothers?
and pay for Spanish lives with robes of cotton and
trinkets of gold?—What say the hounds?”
“They say,” responded De Morla to his angry
general, “that the king welcomes you back again to
his dominions, to give him reparation for the slaughter
of his people.”
“Hah!” exclaimed the leader, fiercely. “Doth he
beard me with complaint, when I look for penitence
and supplication?”
“In token of his love, and of his assured persuasion
that you now return to punish the murderers of his
subjects, and then to withdraw your followers from
his city for ever,” said De Morla, giving his attention
less to Cortes than to the lord of Tlatelolco, “he sends
you these garments, to protect the bodies of your new
friends from the snows of Ithualco, as well as—”
“The slave!” cried Don Hernan, spurning the
pack that lay at his foot, and scattering its gaudy
textures over the earth: “If he give me no mail to
protect my friends from the knives of his assassins,
I will trample even upon his false heart, as I do upon
his worthless tribute!”
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“Shall I translate your excellency's answer word
for word?” said De Morla, tranquilly. “If it be left
to myself, I should much prefer veiling it in such
palatable language, as my limited knowledge will
afford.”
But the scowling general had already turned away,
as if to humble the ambassadors with the strongest
evidence of contempt, and to prove the extremity of
his displeasure; and it needed no interpretation of
words to convince the noble savages of the futileness
of their ministry. The lord of Tlatelolco bowed
again to the earth, and again kissed his hand, as if in
humble resignation, while the retreating figure of Don
Hernan vanished under the low door of his dwelling;
but the younger envoy, instead of imitating him, drew
himself proudly up, and looked after the general with
a composure, that changed, as Don Amador thought,
to a smile. But if such a mark of satisfaction—for it
bore more the character of elation than contempt,—
did illuminate the bronzed visage of the prince, it
remained not there for an instant. He cast a quiet
and grave eye upon the curious cavaliers who surrounded
him, and then beckoning his attendants from
their packs, he strode, with his companion, composedly
away.
“In my mind,” said the neophyte, following him
with his eye, and rather soliloquizing than addressing
himself to any of the neighbouring cavaliers, “there
was more of dignity and contempt in the smile of
that heathen prince, than in all the rage of my friend
Don Hernan.”
“Truly, he is a very proper-looking and well-demeanoured
knave,” said the voice of Duero. “But
the general has some deep policy at the bottom of all
this anger.”
“By my faith, I think so, now for the first time!”
exclaimed the neophyte; “for, although unable to see
the drift of such a stratagem, I cannot believe that
the señor Cortes would adopt a course, that seems to
savour so much of injustice, without a very discreet
and politic object.”
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Here the discourse of the cavaliers was cut short
by the sudden appearance of Fabueno the secretary.
“What wilt thou, Lorenzo?” said his patron. “Has
Lazaro again refused to tilt with thee? I very much
commend the zeal with which thou pursuest thine
exercises; but thou shouldst remember, that Lazaro
may, sometimes, be weary after a day's march.”
“Señor, 'tis not that,” said the secretary. “But
just now, as Baltasar told me, he saw the page
Jacinto very rudely haled away by one of Cortes's
grooms; and I thought your favour might be glad to
know, for the boy seemed frighted.”
“I will straightway see that no wrong be done
him, even by the general,” said Amador, quickly,
moving toward the door into which he had seen Cortes
enter. “I marvel very much that my good knight
did not protect him.”
“Señor,” said Fabueno, “the knight is in greater
disorder to-day than yesterday. He took no note of
anybody, when we came to this palace; but instantly
concealed himself in some distant chamber, where, a
soldier told me, he was scourging himself.”
“Thou shouldst not talk, with the soldiers, of Calavar,”
said Amador, with a sigh. “Get thee to Marco.
If my kinsman need me, I will presently be with him.”
Thus saying, he discharged the secretary at the
door; and those servants who guarded it, not presuming
to deny admittance to a man of such rank, he was
immediately ushered into the presence of Cortes.
CHAPTER XXVI.
In a low but spacious apartment, the walls and
floor of which were both covered with mats, the neophyte
found Don Hernan, attended by Sandoval and
one or two other cavaliers, busy, to all appearance,
in the examination of the page and a Moorish slave
of Cortes's own household, whom he seemed to
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confront with the other. It needed no more than the
tears which Amador discovered on the cheeks of the
youth, to rouse him to a feeling very like anger.
“Señor,” said he, stepping forward to the side of
Jacinto, and looking gravely on his judge, “I have
exercised the privilege of a master,—or rather, as I
should say, of a servant,—for this boy is in the ward
of Don Gabriel, whom I myself follow,—to enter
into your presence, without the ceremony of a previous
request; for which liberty, if it offend you, I
ask your pardon. But I was told the boy Jacinto
was dragged away by one of your excellency's menials;
and I claim, as asking in the stead of his master,
to know for what offence?”
“By my conscience, for none at all!” said Cortes,
courteously; “at least, for none of his own commission.
And had he truly been guilty, both of treason
and desertion, I should have pardoned him, for
the precocious shrewdness of his answers. Señor,”
continued the general, “it was my intention to beseech
your presence at this examination; and nothing
but the suddenness of it, as well as the present
defection among my servants, could have caused me
to defer the invitation for a moment. By my conscience,
you have a treasure of wisdom, in this boy!”
This was an assurance Don Amador did by no
means deny: for, in addition to the singular address
with which he adapted himself to the humours of the
knight, he had seen in Jacinto many other evidences
of a diseretion so much in advance of his years, as
to cause him no little wonder; added to which, the
incident of the past night, in which the page had
stumbled upon a name, and indeed (for the after explanations
had not removed the first impression,) a
story, which he did not remember to have breathed
to any living creature, had attached to the youth a
sort of respect that bordered almost on superstition.
But Don Hernan gave the cavalier no time for reflections.
“Señor Don Amador,” said he, “the fault, if there
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be any, which we are now strrving to investigate,
lies, not in the page, but in his father, Sidi Abdalla,
the cannonier; who is charged by my varlet here,
this unconverted heathen, to be meditating, if not
now engaged in the accomplishment of a very heinous,
and yet, let me add, for your satisfaction, a
very improbable conspiracy. This is charged to be
nothing less than desertion from our standard, with
a design to throw himself into the arms of the enemy;
and what makes the matter worse, allowing it
for a moment to be credible, is, that he plots to carry
away with him all his countrymen who are slaves
with us, in number, I think, somewhat above half a
score.”
“This is, assuredly,” said Don Amador, “a very
vile offence; for which, if guilty, I must needs allow,
the Sidi deserves to suffer. Yet, I agree with your
excellency, the design seems quite as incredible as
its accomplishment must be impossible.”
“No one,” said Cortes, “could have shown this
with better argument than this same weeping boy;
for, `First,' said he, `'tis wrong to receive the accusation
of an unconverted man against a Christian;
and such an infidel hound is Yacub,—whom I will,
at some future day, give over to be burned for his
idolatry; but, at present, I cannot spare so precious
a servant, for he is an excellent cook, and a good
maker of arrow-heads for the crossbowmen.—In
addition to this argument, señor,” continued the general,
“the boy advances me another of still more
force; `For how,' says he, shrewdly, `would my
father leave his Christian masters and protectors, to
go over to savages, whose language he cannot understand,
and who would sacrifice him as a victim
to their detestable gods?'—which gods may heaven
sink into the pit, whence they came! and I say,
Amen!—Now, though one part of this argument is
answered by the subtle art of Yacub; for whether
he have Yacub or any other Moor who hath picked
up something of the tongue, to interpret for him, or
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whether he have no interpreter at all, it is not the
less certain, that, the moment he entrusts himself
into the power of the barbarians, that moment will
he be clapped into a great cage like a wild beast, and
devoured what time he is fat enough for the maws
of their diabolical divinities; I say, nevertheless, for
that very reason, it is not probable Abdalla should be
so besotted a fool.”
“Please your highness,” said Yacub, with the obstinacy
of one who presumed on his master's indulgence,
or on the strength of his cause, “he urged
me, last night, at the pyramid of Tlascala; and this
noble gentleman, as well as this boy, saw me in his
company.”
Don Amador started, as he perceived the eyes of
Yacub fastened on him, as well as those of every
other individual in the chamber. The look that Jacinto
gave him was one of terror and beseeching
earnestness.
“Señor,” said he, hositating a little, “though what
I have to say, may, in part, confirm the charge of
this fellow, I cannot scruple to speak it; and though
I may not aver, on mine own knowledge, that I beheld,
last night, either this man Yacub, or his countryman,
Abdalla, yet must I admit that I saw, stealing
by the basis of that heathen temple, three men,
whom my friend De Morla, who accompanied me,
pronounced to be the cannonier and two of your
excellency's servants.”—Jacinto wrung his hands.—
“But what passed between them,” the cavalier went
on, “whether they were hatching a plot, or discoursing
together of their hard fate, as would seem reasonable
for men like them, that have neither friends
nor country, I cannot take upon me to pronounce;
though, from what I know of Abdalla, as a courageous
and honest man, I am fain to think, their communication
could not have been of an evil nature.”
“He said,” muttered the treacherous Moor, “that,
provided he had but some one to interpret for him, he
had no fear of the Mexicans; but could promise us
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much favour and wealth from their kings, by virtue
of certain arts possessed by his son; and thereby he
hinted the boy was an enchanter.”
All started at this sudden announcement, and none
more than Don Amador de Leste; for though, as he
had said himself, he was, in his cooler moments, very
sceptical in affairs of magic, this incredulity was no
consequence either of nature or education; and besides
the shock that had been given to his doubts by
the disclosures of De Morla, the story of Jacinto, so
unaccountably begun, and so abruptly terminated,
had made a deeper impression on his mind, than such
a trifle should.—Its importance had been imputed by
his own feelings; but either he did not remember, or
he knew not that.—He stared at Jacinto, who stood
pale as death and trembling, now rolling his eyes
wildly on Don Hernan, and now on his patron. Before
the latter could summon composure to answer,
he was relieved by the general saying, humorously—
“I cannot doubt that this little caitiff is an enchanter,
because he has the faculty of exciting both
admiration and pity in an eminent degree; and,
though I doubt the power of such a charm over the
ears of barbarians that delight in the thunder of wooden
drums, and the yelling uproar of sea-shell trumpets,
yet I can believe, for it has been told me by good
judges, that the art with which he touches his lute, is
as magical as it is marvellous.”
The boy clasped his hands in delight, and seemed
as if he would have thrown himself at the feet of his
judge.
“Wherefore, my most worthy and honoured friend,”
continued Cortes, “have no fear that I will rob thee
of so serviceable a henchman. I could not burn so
pretty a log in the fire that was kindled for one who
had sold his soul; and I cannot, by allowing the
claims of a rival to lawful magic, kill my astrologer
Botello with envy.”
“He has a talisman round his neck, wherein is a
devil, that I have overheard him talking to!” said the
resolute Yacub.
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“Thou art an ass,” said Cortes, laughing at the
trepidation of Jacinto; for he again turned pale, and
lifted his hands to his neck, as if both to confess and
guard his treasure. “'Tis some gewgaw, given him
by his mother, or, perhaps, by some sweetheart
wench;—for these Moorish boys are in love when a
Christian urchin is yet in his grammer.—Señor,”—
he addressed himself to the neophyte,—“you may
perceive that the very grossness of Yacub's credulity
has destroyed the force of his testimony; for he who
can believe such a junior as this to be a conjurer, will
give credit to any other ridiculous imagination. I
will now confess to you, that, beside these charges,
which are already answered, there is only one more
circumstance against Abdalla; and that is, that at the
very moment of our halt, and while engaged in the
audience with those ambassadors, (whom I treated
somewhat harshly, but for a cunning purpose, which
you will soon understand,) he vanished away, in company
with another dog of my household called Ayub;
and hath not been since seen. Nevertheless, I attach
no more importance to this matter than to the others;
but, I swear to heaven, if he be caught stealing turkeys,
or any such trumpery things from these villains
of Cholula, I will give him to the bastinado!”
“Señor,” said Amador, earnestly, “the Sidi is of
too magnanimous a nature to steal turkeys.”
“I will take Don Amador's word for it, then. But
I see the page is still in some mortal fright, as dreading,
if he remain longer in our presence, lest some
new accusation should be brought against him.”
If Jacinto be absolved from censure, and is no
longer desired by your excellency, I will withdraw
him from your presence; and, thanking you, señor,
for the mildness with which you have questioned him,
I will beg your permission to take my own leave.”
Don Hernan bowed low, as the neophyte withdrew
with Jacinto; he waved his hand to Yacub,
and the Moor immediately retired.
“What think ye now, my masters?” he cried, as
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soon as these were out of hearing;—“Is it possible
this stupid cannonier hath either the wit or the spirit
to hatch me a brood of treason, to help the kites of
Mexico?”
“If he have,” said Sandoval, “he should hang.”
“Very true, son Gonzalo,” said the general; “for
in our condition, to be suspected, should be a crime
worthy death, especially in so contemptible a creature
as a Moor.—Didst thou observe what mortal
consternation beset our worthy and very precise
friend, Don Amador, when Yacub called his boy a
conjurer?”
“I think, that should be examined into,” said Sandoval;
“for if he be, 'twill be well to give him to Botello,
as a pupil; lest Botello should be, some day,
knocked on the head, as is not improbable, from his
ever thrusting it into jeopardy, and we be left without
a diviner.”
“By my conscience, 'tis well thought on,” said
Cortes, laughing, “for this boy, if he had but as
good a reputation, is much superior in docility, as
well as shrewder in apprehension; whereas Botello
hath such a thick-head enthusiasm for his art, as to
be somewhat unmanageable; and, every now and
then, he prophesies me all wrong; as was the case,
when he anointed the wound of De Leste's secretary,
and stupidly told him 'twould be well in a few
hours: and yet, all the camp knew, the lad was near
losing his arm.”
“Botello excuses himself there,” said Sandoval,
“by protesting that his injunctions were disobeyed,
especially that wherein he charged the youth not
to touch his weapon for twenty-four hours; whereas
he killed a man, that very night, on the pyramid,
very courageously, as I witnessed,—though the man
was hurt before; for I had charged him with my
own partisan.”—
“Amigo mio,” said Cortes, abruptly, “in the matter
of these Moors, I must have thine aidance. I
know not how it may have entered into the brain of
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such a boor, to suppose he could make himself useful
to the frowning infidels in Tenochtitlan; but I would
sooner give them a dead lion than a living dog. If
thou hast any very cunning and discreet rogues
among thy fighting men, send them, in numbers of
two and three, secretly about the city; and especially
charge some that they watch at the gate that opens
to Mexico.”
“I will do so,” said Sandoval, “and I will myself
hunt about the town till I find the rascal.—Shall I
kill him?”
“If it appear to thee he is deserting, let him be
slain in the act. As for Ayub, if he be found in the
cannonier's company, bring me him alive: I will
hang him for an example; for in his death shall no
intercessor be offended. I have no doubt, that, for
the boy's sake, both Don Amador and Calavar would
beg for Abdalla, if he were brought a prisoner; and
it would grieve me to deny them. Kill him, then,
my son, if thou findest him, and art persuaded he is
a deserter.”
With this charge, very emphatically pronounced,
and very composedly received, the friends separated.
CHAPTER XXVII.
During the whole time of the march from Tlascala
to Cholula, an unusual gloom lay upon the spirits of
Calavar; and so great was his abstraction, that,
though pursuing his way with a sort of instinct, he
remained as insensible to the presence of his kinsman
as to the attentions of his followers. He rode at a
distance from the rear of the army; and such was
the immobility of his limbs and features, saving when,
stung by some secret thought, he raised his ghastly
eyes to heaven, that a stranger, passing him on the
path, might have deemed that his grave charger moved
along under the weight of a stiffened corse, not yet
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disrobed of its arms, rather than that of a living cavalier.
When the army halted at noon to take food, he retired,
with his attendants, to the shadow of a tree; where,
without dismounting, or receiving the fruits which
Jacinto had gathered, to tempt him to eat, he sat in
the same heavy stupor, until the march was resumed.
Neither food nor water crossed his lips, during the
entire day; nor did the neophyte suffer any to be proffered
him, when he came to reflect that this day was
an anniversary, which the knight was ever accustomed
to observe with the most ascetic abstinence and
humiliation. For this reason, also, though Iamenting
the necessity of such an observance, he neither presumed
himself to vex his kinsman with attentions,
nor suffered any others to intrude upon his privacy,
excepting, indeed, the Moorish page, whose gentle
arts were so wont to dispel the gathering clouds.
But this day, even Jacinto failed to attract his notice;
and, despairing of the power of any thing but time,
to terminate the paroxysm, he ceased his efforts,
and contented himself with keeping a distant watch
on all Don Gabriel's movements, lest some disaster
might happen to him on the journey. No sooner, as
had been hinted by Fabueno, had the army arrived
at its quarters in the sacred city, than the knight betook
him to the solitude of a chamber in the very
spacious building; where, after a time, he so far
shook off his lethargy, as to desire the presence of
the chaplain, with whom he had remained ever since,
engaged in his devotions. Hither, guided by Marco,
came now Don Amador, conducting Jacinto. The
interview with Cortes had swallowed up more than
an hour, and when the neophyte stood before the curtained
door of his kinsman, a light, flashing through
the irregular folds, dispelled the darkness of the chamber.
As he paused for an instant, he heard the low
voice of the priest, saying,
“Sin no more with doubt.—Spera in Deo: grace
is in heaven, and mercy knoweth no bounds.—Misereatur
tui omnipotens Deus.”—
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A few other murmurs came to his ear; and then
the chaplain, pushing aside the curtain, issued from
the apartment.
“Heaven be with thee, my son,” he said to Amador;
“thy kinsman is greatly disordered, but not so
much now as before.”
“Is it fitting I should enter, father?”
“Thy presence may be grateful to him; but surely,”
he continued, in an under voice, “it were better
for the unhappy knight, if he were among the priests
and physicians of his own land. A sore madness
afflicts him: he thinks himself beset with spectres.—
I would thou hadst him in Spain!”
“If heaven grant us that grace!” said Amador,
sorrowfully.—“But he believes that God will call
him to his rest, among the heathen.—Tarry thou at
the door, Jacinto,” he went on, when the father had
departed; “have thyself in readiness, with thy lute,
for perhaps he may be prevailed upon to hear thee
sing; in which case, I have much hope, the evil spirit
will depart from him.”
He passed into the chamber: the knight was on his
knees before a little crucifix, which he had placed on
a massive Indian chair; but though he beat his bosom
with a heavy hand, no sound of prayer came from
his lips. Don Amador placed himself at his side,
and stood in reverential silence, until his kinsman,
heaving a deep sigh, rose up, and turning his haggard
countenance towards him, said,—
“Neither penance nor prayer, neither the remorse
of the heart nor the benediction of the priest, can
wipe away the sorrow that comes from sin. God
alone is the forgiver;—but God will not always forgive!”
“Say not so, my father,” cried Amador, earnestly;
`for it is a deep crime to think that heaven is not
ever merciful.”
“Keep thyself free from the stain of blood-guiltiness,”
said Don Gabriel, with a manner so mild, that
the neophyte had good hope the fit had indeed left
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him, “and mercy will not be denied thee.—Have I
not afflicted thee, my friend?” he continued faintly.
“Thou wilt have much to forgive me; but not long.
I will remember, in my death hour, that thou hast not
forsaken me.”
“Never will I again leave thee!” said Amador,
fervently. “I forgot thee once; and besides the pang
of contrition for that act, heaven punished me with
a grief, that I should not have known, had I remained
by thy side. But now, my father, wilt thou not
eat and drink, and suffer Jacinto to sing to thee?”
“I may neither eat nor drink this night,” said Calavar;
“but methinks I can hear the innocent orphan
chant the praises of the Virgin; for to such she will
listen!”
Amador strode to the door; but Jacinto had vanished—
He had stolen away, the moment that his patron
entered.
“Perhaps he has gone to fetch his instrument.
Run thou in search of him, Marco, and bid him
hasten.”
Before the novice could again address himself to
his kinsman, Marco returned. The page was not to
be found; the sentinel at the door had seen him pass
into the court-yard, but whether he had re-entered or
not, he knew not;—he had not noted.
“Is it possible,” thought Don Amador, “that the
boy could so wilfully disobey me? Perhaps the general
hath sent for him again: for, notwithstanding all
his protestations of satisfaction, it seemed to me, that,
while he spoke, there was still a something lurking
in his eye, which boded no good to Abdalla. I will
look for the boy myself.”
He charged Marco to remain by his lord, sought
an audience with the general, whom he found engaged
in earnest debate with Duero, De Leon, and
other high officers. Don Hernan satisfied him that
he had not sent for Jacinto,—that he had not thought
of Abdalla; and with an apology for his intrusion,
the novice instantly withdrew.
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“The story is true!” said Cortes with a frown,
“and that pestilent young cub of heathenism has fled
to give the traitor warning. But he that passes, unquestioned,
at the gate where Sandoval stands the
watchman, must have the devil for his leader, or, at
least, his companion. I hope he will not murder the
boy; for he is a favourite with Calavar, a subtle
knave, a good twangler; and it is natural he should
play me even a knave's trick for his father!”
In the meanwhile, after hunting in vain about the
different quarters of the building, as well as the court-yard,
for the vanished Jacinto, the novice returned
to the chamber of his kinsman. But Calavar also
had disappeared,—not, indeed, in disorder, but in
great apparent tranquillity; and he had commanded
Marco not to follow him.
“He has gone to the fields,” muttered Amador;
“such is his practice at this season: but there is no
good can come of solitude. I know not what to think
of that boy; but assuredly, this time, it will be but
my duty to censure him.” And so saying, Don Amador
also passed into the open air.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
It was late in the night; a horizontal moon flung
the long shadows of the houses over the wide streets
of Cholula, when the knight Calavar, wrapped in his
black mantle, strode along through the deserted city.
With no definite object before him, unless to fly, or
perhaps to give way, in solitude, to the bitter thoughts
that oppressed him, he suffered himself to be guided
as much by accident as by his wayward impulses;
and as he passed on, at every step, some mutation
of his fancies, or some trivial incident on the way,
conspired to recall his disorder. Now, as a bat flitted
by, or an owl flew, hooting, from its perch among
some of those ruins, which yet raised their broken
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and blackened walls, in memory of the cruelty of his
countrymen, the knight started aghast, and a mortal
fear came over him; for, in these sounds and sights,
his disturbed senses discovered the signs of the furies
that persecuted him; and even the night-breeze, wailing
round some lonely corner, or whispering among
the shrubbery of a devastated garden, seemed to him
the cries of haunting spirits.
“Miserere mei, Deus!” muttered Don Gabriel, as
a tree, bowing away from the wind, let down a
moonbeam through a fissure on his path—“the white
visage will not leave me!—Heavy was the sin, heavy
is the punishment! for even mine own fancies are become
my chastisers.”
Thus, at times, conscious, in part, of his infirmity,
and yet yielding ever, with the feebleness of a child,
to the influence of unreal horrors, he wandered
about, sometimes driven from his path by what seemed
a gaunt spectre flitting before him, sometimes impelled
onwards by a terror that followed behind:
thus he roved about, he knew not whither, until he
found himself, by chance, in the neighbourhood of
the great temple, the scene of the chief atrocities enacted
on that day which has been called, by a just
metonymy, the Massacre of Cholula. Here it was,
as had been mentioned by De Morla, that the miserable
natives, huddled together in despair, had made
their last cry to their gods, and perished under the
steel and flames of the Christians; and the memorials
of their fate were as plainly written as if the tragedy
had been the work of the previous day. No carcasses,
indeed, lay crowded among the ruins, no embers
smouldered on the square; weeds had grown upon
the place of murder, as if fattening on the blood that
had besprinkled their roots; life had utterly vanished
from the spot; and it presented the appearance of a
desert in the bosom of a populous city.
A great wall, running round the temple, had enclosed
it in a large court, once covered with the
houses of priests and devotees. The wall was
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shattered and fallen, the dwellings burned and demolished;
and the pyramid, itself crumbling into ruins, lay like
the body of some huge monster among its severed
and decaying members. The flags of stone, tumbled
by the victims, in their fury, from its sides and terraces,
though they had not called up the subterraneous
rivers, had exposed the perishable earth, that composed
the body of the mound, to the vicissitudes of
the weather; and, under the heavy tropical rains, it
was washing rapidly away. The sanctuaries yet
stood on the summit, but with their walls mutilated,
and their roofs burnt; and they served only to make
the horror picturesque. A wooden cross of colossal
dimensions, raised by the conquerors, in impious
attestation that God had aided them in the labour of
slaughter, flung high its rugged arms, towering above
the broken turrets, and gave the finish of superstition
to the monument of wrath. It was a place of ruins,
dark, lugubrious, and forbidding; and as Don Gabriel
strode among the massive fragments, he found himself
in a theatre congenial with his gloomy and wrecking
spirit.
It was not without many feelings of dismay that he
plunged among the ruins; for his imagination converted
each shattered block into a living phantasm.
But still he moved on, as if urged by some irresistible
impulse, entangling himself in the labyrinth of decay,
until he scarcely knew whither to direct his steps.
Whether it was reality, or some coinage of his brain,
that presented the spectacle, he knew not; but he was
arrested in his toilsome progress by the apparition of
several figures rising suddenly among the ruins, and
as suddenly vanishing.
“Heaven pity me!” he cried: “They come feathered
like the fiends of the infidel! But I care not,
so they bring no more the white face, that is so
ghastly!—And yet, this is her day!—this is her day!”
Perhaps it was his imagination, that decked out the
spectres with such ornaments; but a less heated spectator
might have discovered in them, only the figures
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of strolling savages. With his spirits strongly agitated,
his brain excited for the reception of any chimera,
he followed the direction in which these figures
seemed to have vanished; and this bringing him round
a corner of the pyramid, into the moonshine, he
instantly found himself confronted with a spectacle
that froze his blood with horror. In a spot, where
the ruins had given space for the growth of weeds
and grass, and where the vision could not be so easily
confounded,—illuminated by the moonbeams as if by
the lustre of the day,—he beheld a figure, seemingly
of a woman, clad in robes of white of an oriental
habit, full before him, and turning upon him a countenance
as wan as death.
“Miserere mei, Deus!” cried the knight, dropping
on his knees, and bowing his forehead to the earth.
“If thou comest to persecute me yet, I am here, and
I have not forgot thee!”
The murmur, as of a voice, fell on his ear, but it
brought with it no intelligence. He raised bis eye;—
dark shadows flitted before him; yet he saw nothing
save the apparition in white: it stood yet in his view;
and still the pallid visage dazzled him with its unnatural
radiance and beauty.
“Miserere mei! miserere mei!” he cried, rising to
his feet, and tottering forwards. “I live but to lament
thee, and I breathe but to repent! Speak to me, daughter
of the Alpujarras! speak to me, and let me die!”
As he spoke, the vision moved gently and slowly
away. He rushed forwards, but with knees smiting
together; and, as the white visage turned upon him
again, with its melancholy loveliness, and with a gesture
as of warning or terror, his brain spun round, his
sight failed him, and he fell to the earth in a deep
swoon.
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CHAPTER XXIX.
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Motion is the life of the sea: the surge dashes
along in its course, while the watery particles that
gave it bulk and form, remain in their place to renew
and continue the coming billows, heaving to each successive
oscillation, but not departing with it. Thus
the mind,—an ocean more vast and unfathomable
than that which washes our planet,—fluctuates under
the impulses of its stormy nature, and passes not
away, until the last agitation, like that which shall
swallow up the sea, or convert its elements into a
new matter, lifts it from its continent, and introduces
it to a new existence. Emotion is its life, each surge
of which seems to bear it leagues from its restingplace;
and yet it remains passively to abide and figure
forth the influence of new commotions.—Thus passed
the billow through the spirit of Calavar; and when it
had vanished, the spirit ceased from its tumult, subsided,
and lay in tranquillity to await other shocks,—
for others were coming.—When he awoke from his
lethargy, his head was supported on the knee of a
human being, who chafed his temple and hands, and
bowed his body as well as his feeble strength allowed,
to recall the knight to life. Don Gabriel raised his
eyes to this benignant and ministering creature; and
in the disturbed visage, that hung over his own,
thought,—for his mind was yet wandering,—he beheld
the pallid features of the vision.
“I know thee, and I am ready!” cried Don Gabriel.
“Pity me and forgive me;—for I die at thy feet, as
thou didst at mine!”
“Señor mio! I am Jacinto,” exclaimed the page,
(for it was he,) frightened at the distraction of the
knight;—“thy page, thy poor page, Jacinto.”
“Is it so indeed?” said Calavar, surveying him
wildly.—“And the spectre that did but now smite
me to the earth!—hath she left me?”
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“Dear master, there is no spectre with us,” said
the Moorish boy. “We are alone among the ruins.”
“God be thanked!” said the knight, vehemently,
“for if I should look on it more, I should die.—
Yet would that I could!—would that I could! for
in death there is peace,—in the grave there is forgetfulness!—
This time, was it no delusion either of
the senses or the brain: mine eye-sight was clear,
my head sane, and I saw it, as I see mine own despair!—
Pray for me, boy!” he continued, falling on
his knees, and dragging the page down beside him;
“pray for me!” he cried, gazing piteously at the
youth; “pray for me! God will listen to thy prayers,
for thou art innocent, and I am miserable. Pray that
God may forgive me, and suffer me to die;—for this
is the day of my sin!”
“Dear master,” said the page, trembling, “let us
return to our friends.”
“Thou wilt not pray? thou wilt not beseech God
for me?” said Calavar, mournfully. “Thou wilt be
merciful, when thou knowest my misery! Heaven
sends thee for mine intercessor. I confess to thee,
as to heaven, for thou art without sin. Manhood
brings guile and impurity, evil deeds and malign
thoughts; but a child is pure in the eyes of God; and
the prayers of his lips will be as incense, when wrath
turns from the beseeching of men. Hear thou my
sin; and then, if heaven bid thee not to curse, then
pray for me, boy!—then pray for me!”
In great perturbation, for he knew not how to
check the knight's distraction, and feared its increasing
violence, Jacinto knelt, staring at him, his hands
fettered in the grasp of his master; who, returning
his gaze with such looks of wo and contrition, as a
penitent may give to heaven, said wildly, yet not incoherently,—
“Deeply dyed with sin am I, and sharply scourged
with retribution! Age comes upon me before its
time, but brings me nothing but memory—nothing
but memory!—Gray hairs and wrinkles, disease and
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feebleness, are the portions of my manhood; for my
youth was sinful, and guilt has made me old! Oh that
I might see the days, when I was like to thee!—
when I was like to thee, Jacinto!—when I knew innocence,
and offended not God. But the virtues of
childhood weigh not in the balance against the crimes
of after years: as the child dieth, heaven opens to
him; as the man sinneth, so doth he perish.—Miserere
mei, Deus! and forgive me my day in the Alpujarras!”
As Don Gabriel pronounced the name of those
mountains, wherein, Jacinto knew, his father had
drawn the first breath of life, and around which was
shed, for every Moor, such interest as belongs to
those places where our fathers have fought and bled,
the page began to listen with curiosity, although his
alarm had not altogether subsided.
“Long years have passed; many days of peril and
disaster have come and gone; and yet I have not
forgotten the Alpujarras!” cried Calavar, shivering as
he uttered the word; “for there did joy smile, and hope
sicken, and fury give me to clouds and darkness forever.
Those hills were the haunts of thy forefathers,
Jacinto; and there, after the royal city had fallen,
and Granada was ruled by the monarchs of Spain,
they fled for refuge, all those noble Moriscos, who
were resolute to die in their own mistaken faith, as
well,—in after years,—as many others, who had
truly embraced the religion of Christ, but were suspected
by the bigoted of our people, and persecuted
with rigour. How many wars were declared against
those unhappy fugitives,—now to break down the
last strong hold of the infidel, and now to punish the
suspected Christian,—thou must know, if thy sire be
a true Moor of Granada. In mine early youth, and
in one of the later crusades, that were proclaimed
against those misguided mountaineers, went I, to win
the name and the laurels of a cavalier. Would that
I had never won them, or that they had come to me
dead on the battle-field! Know, then, Jacinto, that
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my nineteenth summer had not yet fled from me,
when I first drew my sword in conflict with men;
but if I won me reputation, at that green age, it was
because heaven was minded to show me, that shame
and sorrow could come as early. In those days, the
royal and noble blood of Granada had not been
drawn from every vein; many of the princely descendants
of the Abencerrages, the Aliatars, the Ganzuls,
and the Zegris, still dwelt among the mountains;
and, forgetting their hereditary feuds, united together
in common resistance against the Spaniards. With
such men for enemies, respected alike for their birth
and their valour, the war was not always a history
of rapine and barbarity; and sometimes there happened
such passages of courtesy and magnanimity
between the Christian and Moorish cavaliers, as recalled
the memory of the days of chivalry and
honour. Among others, who made experience of
the heroic greatness of mind of the infidel princes,
was I myself; for, in a battle, wherein the Moors
prevailed against us, I was left wounded and unhorsed,
on the field, to perish, or to remain a prisoner
in their hands. In that melancholy condition, while
I commended my soul to God, as not thinking I could
escape from death, a Moorish warrior of majestic
appearance and a soul still more lofty, approached,
and had pity on my helplessness, instead of slaying me
outright, as I truly expected. `Thou art noble,' said
he, `for I have seen thy deeds; and though, this day,
thou hast shed the blood of a Zegri, thou shalt not
perish like a dog. Mount my horse and fly, lest the
approaching squadrons destroy thee; and in memory
of this deed, be thou sometimes merciful to the people
of Alharef.' Then knew I, that this was Alharefben-Ismail,
the most noble of the Zegris,—a youth
famous, even among the Spaniards, for his courage
and humanity; and in gratitude and love, for he was
a Christian proselyte, I pledged him my faith, and
swore with him the vows of a true friendship. How
I have kept mine oath, Alharef!” he cried, lifting his
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eyes to the spangled heaven, “thou knowest;—for
sometimes thou art with my punisher!”
The knight paused an instant, in sorrowful emotion,
while Jacinto, borne by curiosity beyond the
bounds of fear, bent his head to listen; then making
the sign of the cross, and repeating his brief prayer,
the cavalier resumed his narrative.
“As my ingratitude was greater than that of other
men, so is my sin; for another act of benevolence
shall weigh against me for ever!—Why did I not die
with my people, when the smiles of perfidy conducted
us to the hills, and the sword was drawn upon us
sleeping? That night, there was but one escaped the
cruel and bloody stratagem; and I, again, owed my
life to the virtues of a Moor. Pity me, heaven! for
thou didst send me an angel, and I repaid thy mercy
with the thankfulness of a fiend!—Know, then, Jacinto,
that, in the village wherein was devised and accomplished
the murder of my unsuspecting companions,
dwelt one that now liveth in heaven. Miserere mei!
miserere mei! for she was noble and fair, and wept
at the baseness of her kindred!—She covered the
bleeding cavalier with her mantle, concealed him
from the fury that was unrelenting; and when she
had healed his wounds, guided him, in secret, from
the den of devils, and dismissed him in safety near
to the camp of his countrymen. Know thou now,
boy, that this maiden was Zayda, the flower of all
those hills, and the star that made them dearer to me
than the heaven that was above them; and more
thought I of those green peaks and shady valleys
that encompassed my love, than the castle of my sire,
or the church wherein rested the bones of my mother.
Miserere mei! miserere mei! for the faith that was
pledged was broken! my lady slept in the arms of Alharef,
and my heart was turned to blackness!—Now
thou shalt hear me, and pray for me,” continued Don
Gabriel, with a look of the wildest and intensest despair,
“for my sin is greater than I can bear! Now
shalt thou hear how I cursed those whom I had
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sworn to love; how I sharpened my sword, and with
vengeance and fury, went against the village of my
betrayers. Oh God! how thou didst harden our
hearts, when we gave their houses to the flames, and
their old men and children to swords and spears!
when we looked not at misery, and listened not to
supplication, but slew! slew! slew! as though we
struck at beasts, and not at human creatures! `Thou
sworest an oath!' cried Alharef. I laughed; for I
knew I should drink his blood! `Be merciful to my
people!' he cried,—and I struck him with my sabre.
Oho!” continued the knight, springing to his feet,
wringing the page's hands, and glaring at him with
the countenance of a demon, “when he fled from me
bleeding, my heart was full of joy, and I followed
him with yells of transport!—This is the day, I tell
thee! this is the day, and the hour! for night could
not hide him!—And Zayda! ay, Zayda! Zayda!—
when she shielded him with her bosom, when she
threw herself before him—Miserere mei, Deus! miserere
mei, Deus!”—
“And Zayda?” cried the page, meeting his gaze
with looks scarcely less expressive of wildness.
“Curse me, or pray for me,” said the knight,—
“for I slew her!”
The boy recoiled: Don Gabriel fell on his knees,
and, with a voice husky and feeble as a child's, cried,
“I know, now, that thou cursest me, for thou lookest
on me with horror! The innocent will not pray for
the guilty! the pure and holy have no pity for devils.
Curse me then, for her kindred vanished from the
earth, and she with them!—curse me, for I left not a
drop of her blood flowing in human veins, and none
in her's!—curse me, for I am her murderer, and I have
not forgot it!—curse me, for God has forsaken me,
and nightly her pale face glitters on me with reproach!—
curse me, for I am miserable!”
While Don Gabriel still grovelled on the earth,
and while the page stood yet regarding him with terror,
suddenly there came to the ears of both, the
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shouts of soldiers, mingled with the roar of firelocks;
and, as three or four cross-bow shafts rattled against
the sides of the pyramid, there were visible in the
moonlight as many figures of men running among
the ruins, now leaping over, now darting around the
fragments, as if flying for their lives from a party of
armed men, who were seen rushing after them on the
square. The knight rose, bewildered, and, as if in the
instinct of protection, again grasped the hand of the
page. But now the emotions which had agitated the
master, seemed transferred to his follower; and Jacinto,
trembling and struggling, cried,—
“Señor mio, let me loose! For the sake of heaven,
for the sake of the Zayda whom you slew, let me
go!—for they are murdering my father!”
But Don Gabriel, in the confusion of his mind, still
retained his grasp, and very providentially, as it appeared;
for at that very moment, a voice was heard
exclaiming,—
“Hold! shoot not there: 'tis the Penitent Knight!—
Aim at the fliers. Follow and shoot!—follow and
shoot!”
Immediately the party of pursuers rushed up to the
pair, one of whom paused, while the others, in obedience
to his command, continued the chase, ever
and anon sending a bolt after the fugitives.
“On, and spare not, ye knaves!” cried Sandoval,
for it was this cavalier who now stood at the side of
the knight of Rhodes. “On, and shoot! on and shoot!
and see that ye bring me the head of the Moor! Oho,
my merry little page!” he cried, regarding Jacinto;
“you have been playing Sir Quimichin, Sir Rat and
Sir Spy? A cunning little brat, faith; but we'll catch
thy villain father, notwithstanding!”
The page bowed his head and sobbed, but was
silent; and Don Gabriel, rallying his confused spirits
a little, said,—
“I know not what you mean, señor. We are no
spies, but very miserable penitents.”
“Oh, sir knight, I crave your pardon,” said
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Sandoval, without noticing the eccentric portion of his confession,
“I meant not to intrude upon your secrecy,
but to catch Abdalla, the deserter; of whom, and of
whose rogueries, not doubting that this boy has full
knowledge, I must beg your permission to conduct
him to the general.”
“Surely,” said Calavar mildly, “if Jacinto have
offended, I will not strive to screen him from examination,
but only from punishment. I consent you
shall lead him to Cortes; and I will myself accompany
you.”
“It is enough, noble knight, if thou wilt thyself condescend
to conduct him,” said the cavalier; “whereby
I shall be left in freedom to follow a more urgent
duty. God save you, sir knight;—I leave the boy in
your charge.”—So saying, Sandoval pursued hastily
after his companions; and Calavar leading the page,
now no longer unwilling, (for the Almogavar, with
his companions, was long since out of sight,) pursued
his melancholy way to the quarters.
CHAPTER XXX.
While these occurrences were transpiring, Don
Amador de Leste, in search of the knight, had rambled
through the streets, and following, very naturally,
the only path with which he was acquainted,
soon found himself issuing from that gate by which
he had entered from Tlascala. The domination of
the Spaniards had interrupted many of the civil, as
well as the religious, regulations of the Cholulans;
and, with their freedom, departed that necessity and
habit of vigilance, which had formerly thronged their
portals with watchmen. No Indian guards, therefore,
were found at the gate; and the precautions of the
general had not carried his sentinels to this neglected
and seemingly secure quarter. The neophyte passed
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into the fields, and though hopeless, in their solitudes,
of discovering the retreat of the penitent, was seduced
to prolong his walk by the beauty of the night
and by the many pensive thoughts to which it gave
birth. How many times his reflections carried him
back to the land of his nativity, to the surges that
washed the Holy Land, to the trenches of Rhodes,
to the shores of Granada, need not be here related;
nor, if he gave many sighs to the strange sorrow and
stranger destiny of his kinsman, is it fitting such
emotions should be recorded. He wandered about,
lost in his musings, until made sensible, by the elevation
of the moon, that he had trespassed upon the
hour of midnight. Roused by this discovery from
his reveries, he returned upon his path, and had arrived
within view of the gate, when he was arrested
by the sudden appearance of four men, running towards
him at a rapid gait, and presenting to his
vision the figures of Indian warriors. No sooner
had these fugitives approached near enough to perceive
an armed cavalier intercepting the road, than
they paused, uttering many quick and, to him, incomprehensible
exclamations. But, though he understood
not their language, he was admonished, by their
actions, of the necessity of drawing his sword and
defending himself from attack; for the foremost,
hesitating no longer than to give instructions to his
followers, instantly advanced upon him, flourishing a
heavy axe of obsidian. Somewhat surprised at the
audacity of this naked barbarian, but in no wise
daunted at the number of his supporters, the cavalier
lifted his trusty Bilboa, fully resolved to teach him
such a lesson as would cause him to remember his
temerity for ever; but, almost at the same moment,
his wrath vanished, for he perceived, in this assailant,
the young ambassador of the preceding evening;
and, remembering the words of De Morla, he felt
reluctant to injure one of the princes of the unhappy
house of Montezuma.
“Prince!” said he, elevating his voice, but
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forgetting his want of an interpreter, “drop thy sword,
and pass by in peace; for I have not yet declared
war against thy people, and I am loath to strike thee.”
But the valiant youth, misconceiving or disregarding
both words and gestures, only approached with
the more determination, and swung his bulky weapon
over his head, as if in the act of smiting, when one
of his followers, exclaiming eagerly, “Ho, Quauhtemotzin!
forbear!” sprang before him, and revealed
to Don Amador the countenance of the Moor Abdalla.
“Thou art safe, señor!” cried the Almogavar,
“and heaven be thanked for this chance, that shows
thee I have not forgotten thy benefits!”
The assurance of Abdalla was presently confirmed;
for the young prince, seeing the action of the
Moor, lowered his weapon, and merely surveying
the cavalier with an earnest look, passed by him on
his course, and was followed by the two others.
Meanwhile Don Amador, regarding the Almogavar,
said,—
“I know not, good Sidi,—notwithstanding this
present service, for which I thank thee,—not so
much because thou hast stepped between me and
danger, (for, it must be apparent to thee, I could,
with great ease, have defended myself from such
feeble assailants,) but because thou hast freed me
from the necessity of hurting this poor prince;—I
say, notwithstanding all this, Abdalla, I know not
whether I should not now be bound to detain thee,
and compel thee to return to the general; for it is
not unknown to me, that thou art, at this moment, a
deserter and traitor.”
“Señor!” said the Moor, withdrawing a step, as
if fearing lest the cavalier would be as good as his
word, “my treason is against my misfortunes, and I
desert only from injustice; and if my noble lord
knows thus much, he knows also, that to detain me,
would be to give me to the gallows.”
“I am not certain,” said Don Amador, “that my
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intercession would not save thy life; unless thou hast
been guilty of more crimes than I have heard.”
“Guilty of nothing but misfortune!” said the Moor,
earnestly; “guilty of nothing but the crimes of others,
and of griefs, which are reckoned against me for
sins!—”
“Guilty,” said the cavalier, gravely, “of treating
in secret with these barbarians, who are esteemed
the enemies of thy Christian friends; and guilty of
seducing into the same crime thy countrymen, the
Moriscos; one of whom, I am persuaded, did but
now pass me with the Indians, and one of whom,
also, hath charged thee with tempting him.”
“Señor,” said Abdalla, hurriedly, “I cannot now
defend myself from these charges, for I hear my enemies
in pursuit.”
“And guilty,” added Don Amador, with severity,
“as I think, of deserting thine own flesh and blood,—
thy poor and friendless boy, Abdalla!”
The Almogavar flung himself at the feet of the
cavalier, saying, wildly,—
“My flesh and blood! and friendless indeed! unless
thou wilt continue to protect him. Señor, for the
love of heaven, for the sake of the mother who bore
you, be kind and true to my boy! Swear thou wilt
protect him from malice and wrong; for it was his
humanity to thy kinsman, the knight, that has robbed
him of his father.”
“Dost thou confess, thou wert about to steal him
from his protector? Now, by heavens, Moor, this is
but an infidel's ingratitude!”
“Señor!” said Abdalla, “you reproached me for
forsaking him; and now you censure me for striving
not to forsake him! But the sin is mine, not Jacinto's.
I commanded him to follow me, señor; and he would
have obeyed me, had he not found thy knight Calavar
swooning among the ruins. He tarried to give
him succour, and thus was lost; for the soldiers came
upon him.”
“Is this so, indeed? My kinsman left swooning!
Thou wert but a knave, not to tell me this before.”
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“The knight is safe—he has robbed me of my
child,” said Abdalla, throwing himself before the neophyte.
“Go not, señor, till thou hast promised to
requite his humanity with the truest protection.”
“Surely he shall have that, without claiming it.”
“Ay, but promise me! swear it to me!” cried the
Moor, eagerly. “Don Hernan will be awroth with
him. The cavaliers will call him mine accomplice.”
“They will do the boy no wrong,” said Amador;
“and I know not why thou shouldst ask me the superfluity
of an oath.”
“Señor, I am a father, and my child is in a danger
of which thou knowest not! For the love of God,
give me thy vows thou wilt not suffer my child to be
wronged!”
“I promise thee this; but acquaint me with this new
and unknown peril. If it be the danger of an accusation
of witchcraft, I can resolve thee, that that is
not regarded by the general.”
“Señor, my pursuers are nigh at hand,” cried
Abdalla, “and I must fly! A great danger besets
Jacinto, and thou canst preserve him. Swear to me,
thou wilt not wrong him, and suffer me to depart.”
“Wrong him!” said the cavalier. “Thou art
beside thyself.—Yet, as it does appear to me, that the
soldiers are approaching us, I will give thee this very
unreasonable solace.—I swear to thee very devoutly,
that, while heaven leaves me my sword and arm,
and the power to protect, no one shall, in any way,
or by any injustice, harm or wrong the boy Jacinto.”
“I will remember thy promise, and thee!” cried
the Almogavar, seizing his hand and kissing it.
“Tarry, Abdalla. Reflect;—thou rushest on many
dangers. Return, and I will intercede for thy pardon.”
But the Moor, running with great speed after his
companions, was almost already out of sight; and
Don Amador, musing, again turned his face towards
Cholula.
“If I meet these soldiers,” he soliloquized, “I must,
in honour, acquaint them with the path of the Moor;
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whereby Abdalla may be captured, and put to death on
the spot. I am resolute, I cannot, by utterly concealing
my knowledge of this event, maintain the character
of a just and honest gentleman; yet, it appears to me,
my duty only compels me to carry my information
to the general. This will I do, and by avoiding the
pursuers, preserve the obligations of humanity to the
fugitive, without any forfeit of mine honour.”
Thus pondering, and walking a little from the path,
until the pursuers had passed him, he returned to the
quarters.
END OF VOL. I.
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