CHAPTER I.
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The traveller, who wanders at the present day
along the northern and eastern borders of the Lake
of Tezcuco, searches in vain for those monuments
of aboriginal grandeur, which surrounded it in the
age of Montezuma. The lake itself, which, not so
much from the saltness of its flood as from the
vastness of its expanse, was called by Cortes the
Sea of Anahuac, is no longer worthy of the name.
The labours of that unhappy race of men, whose
bondage the famous Conquistador cemented in the
blood of their forefathers, have conducted, through
the bowels of a mountain, the waters of its great
tributaries, the pools of San Cristobal and Zumpango;
and these, rushing down the channel of
the Tula, or river of Montezuma, and mingled with
the surges of the great Gulf, support fleets of
modern argosies, instead of piraguas and chinampas,
and expend upon foundering ships-of-war the
wrath, which, in their ancient beds, was wasted
upon reeds and bulrushes. With the waters,
which rippled through their streets, have vanished
the numberless towns and cities, that once beautified
the margin of the Alpine sea; the towers have
fallen, the lofty pyramids melted into earth or air,
and the palaces and tombs of kings will be looked
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for in vain, under tangled copses of thistle and
prickly-pear.
The royal city of Tezcuco is now, though the
capital of a republican state, a mean and insignificant
village. It was originally the metropolis of
a kingdom once more ancient and powerful than
that of Mexico; and which, when it had shared
the fate of all others within the bounds of Anahuac,
and acknowledged the sway of the Island Kings,
still preserved the reputed, and perhaps the real
possession of superior civilization. Its princes, in
becoming the feudatories, became also the electors,
of Mexico; and thus added dignity to an independence
which was only nominal. The polished
character of these barbarous chieftains, as the
world has been taught to esteem them, may be
better understood, when we know, that they sowed
the roadside with corn for the sustenance of travellers,
and the protection of husbandmen, built hospitals
and observatories, endowed colleges and
formed associations of literature and science, in
which, to compare small things with great, as in
the learned societies of modern Europe and America,
encouragement was given to the study of history,
poetry, music, painting, astronomy, and
natural magic. The various mechanical trades
were divided into corporate bodies, and assigned,
each, to some particular quarter of the city; courts
and councils were regularly established, and the
laws which they dispensed, digested into uniform
and written codes, some of which are still preserved.
The kings of Tezcuco themselves
mingled in the generous rivalries which they
fomented: there are still in existence,—at least, in
the form of translation,—several of the odes of
Nezahualcojotl, a royal Tezcucan poet; and his
hymns to the Creator, composed half a century
before the advent of the Spaniards, were admired
and chanted by the Conquerors, until devoted by
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misjudging and fanatical missionaries to the flames
which consumed the written histories and laws of
the kingdom, as well as the idolatrous rituals of
the priests, with which last the others were unfortunately
confounded.[1]
A few ruins—a cluster of dilapidated houses—a
galloping Creole on his high Spanish saddle, with
glittering manga and rattling anquera,—and, now
and then, an Indian skulking moodily along, in his
squalid serape,†—are all that remain of Tezcuco.
In the spring of 1521, the year that followed the
flight of the Spaniards from Mexico, the city of the
Acolhuacanese presented all its grandeur of aspect,
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and, to the eye, looked full as royal and imperishable
as in the best days of its freedom. But the
molewarp was digging at its foundations; and the
cloud which had ravaged the Mexican valley, and
then passed away into the east, where it lay for a
time still and small, `like to a man's hand,' had
again crept over the mountain barriers to its gates,
and was now brooding among its sanctuaries. A
group of Christian men sat under a cypress-tree,
without the walls, regarding the great pyramid, on
whose lofty terrace, overshadowing the surrounding
edifices, floated a crimson banner of velvet and
gold, on which, besides the royal arms of Spain,
was emblazoned, as on the Labarum of the Constantines,
a white cross, with the legend, imitated
from that famous standard of fanaticism, In hoc
signo vincemus. If other proof had been wanting
of the return of the Spaniards to the scene of their
discomfiture, their presence in Tezcuco, and their
unchangeable resolution to complete the work
of conquest so disastrously begun, it might have
been traced abundantly in the strange spectacle,
which, equally with the desecrated temple, divided
the attention of the group of Castilians at the
cypress-tree. They sat on a little swell of earth,—
a natural mound which jutted into the lake,
whose waters, agitated by a western breeze, dashed
in musical breakers at its base; while the rustling
of the leaves above, mingled with these sounds of
waves, a tone that was both melancholy and harmonious.
The beautiful prospect of Tezcuco,
rising beyond fertile meadows in the livery of
spring, flanked, on the right hand, by a sheet of
dark and glossy water,—with white towers, turrets,
and temple-tops, painted, as it seemed, on a background
of mountains of the purest azure, was
enough of itself to engross the admiration of a
looker-on, had there not been presented, hard by,
a scene still more singular and romantic.
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A train of warriors, artificers and labourers, the
latter bending under such burthens as had never
before descended to the verge of Tezcuco, was
seen passing, at a little distance, towards the city,
into which, as was denoted by a sudden explosion
of artillery and the blast of trumpets on the top of
the pyramid, the leaders were just entering, while
the rear of the procession, extending for miles, and
winding like some mighty snake, over hill and
meadow, was lost among distant forests.
The martial salutation from the town was answered
by the whole train with a yell, filling the
air, and causing the distant hills and lakes to tremble
with the reverberation. In this, the ear might
detect, besides the war-cry of Indians, “Tlascala,
Tlascala!” the not less piercing shouts of
Spaniards, “In the name of God and Santiago!” as
well as the flourish of bugles, scattered at intervals
among the train. If the broad Sea of Anahuac
trembled at the sound, it was with good reason;
for the clamour of triumph indicated the approach
of those unknown naval engines, which were to
plough its undefiled bosom, and convert every billow
into the vassal of the stranger. On the shoulders
of eight thousand Tlascalans, were borne the
materials for the construction of thirteen brigantines,
with which the unconquerable Spaniard, capable of
every expedient, meditated the complete investment
and the certain reduction of Tenochtitlan. The iron,
the sails, and cordage of that fleet which he had
caused to be broken up and sunk in the harbour of
Vera Cruz, were added to planks, spars, and timbers
from the sierras of Tlascala, and to pitch and
rosin from the pinales, or pine-forests, of Huexotzinco,—
a gloomy and broken desert, notorious, in
the present day, as the haunt of bandits, the most
brutal and merciless in the world.
The brawny carriers of these massive materials
were protected, on the front and in the rear, by
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legions of their countrymen, armed, after their wild
and romantic way, and clad in tunics of cotton or
maguey cloth, with tiaras of feathers; who passed by
in successive bodies of spearmen, archers, slingers,
and swordsmen, arranged and divided in the manner
of their Christian confederates. Besides these
guards of front and rear, of whom the historian
Herrera asserts, there were 180,000, while even the
modest Clavigero computes their numbers at full
one-sixth of this vast host, there were on either
flank, bodies of picked warriors, marching in company
with small bands of Spaniards, and personally
led by distinguished Christian cavaliers. A military
man may form a juster estimate of the numbers
of the train, by being told, that it formed a line
more than six miles in length, the whole marching
compactly, and in strict order, so as to be best able
to resist an attack of enemies.
The Spaniards under the cypress-tree, surveyed
this striking spectacle with interest, but not with
the grave wonder and absorbing admiration of men
unfamiliar with such scenes. On the contrary, it
was evident, from the tone of the remarks with
which they wiled away the time of observation, (for
it was many a long hour before the last of the train
drew in sight,) that they were of that levity of spirit,
or in that wantonness of mood, which can find matter
for ridicule in the most serious of occurrences.
Thus, they beheld, or fancied they beheld, somewhat
that was diverting in the persons, or motions,
of the stern and warlike Tlascalans, and especially
in the zealous eagerness with which these barbarians
strove to imitate the bearing and gait, as well
as the evolutions, of their disciplined associates.
Nay, their raillery was extended even to the
Spanish portion of the train; and, sometimes,
when a comrade passed by, if near enough to be
made sensible of the jest, he was saluted with
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some such outpouring of wit, as put to the proof
either his gravity or his patience.
These happy individuals, to whom we desire to
introduce the reader, were five in number, and,
with a single exception, though betraying none of
the submissiveness of inferior personages, were
evidently of no very exalted rank in the Christian
army. Their attire was plain, and consisted, for
the most part, of the cumbrous escaupil, or cottonarmour,
over which, in the case of one or two, at
least, were buckled a few plates of iron. Most of
them had on their heads, helmets, or rather caps, of
the same flimsy material, sometimes so thickly
padded as to assume the bulk, as well as the appearance
of rude turbans; all wore swords, and
two had crossbows hanging at their backs. No
distinction of station could have been inferred from
their manner of discoursing one with another; and
it was only by the morion of bright steel, richly inlaid
with gold, on the head of one, and the polished
hauberk on his chest, worn more for display than
for any present service, that the wearer would
have been recognized as of a grade superior to that
of his companions. He was a tall and athletic
cavalier, with a long chin, and cheeks broad and
bony; and a singular and rather unpleasing expression
was added to his countenance by eyes
disproportionably small, though exceedingly black,
keen, and resolute. A small, sharply peaked beard,—
mustaches so thin, long, and straight, that they
looked rather like the drooping locks of a woman
than the favourites of a vain gallant,—a narrow
but lofty forehead, on either side of which, divided
and smoothed with effeminate care, fell masses of
straight black hair, touched, yet almost invisibly,
with the traces of matured manhood,—a small mouth,—
a prominent nose,—and a complexion exceedingly
dark, yet rather of the hue of iron than mahogany,
completed a visage which a stranger would not
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have hesitated to attribute to a man of decided
character, but without daring to determine whether
that was of good or evil.
The individual who would have been the second
to attract the notice of a wayfarer, owed this distinction
rather to his personal deformity than to
any other very striking characteristic. He was a
hunchback, with much of the saturnine and sour
expression which distinguishes the countenances of
the deformed, and yet of a spirit so much belied by
his looks, that he heard, recognized, and constantly
replied to, without anger, the nickname of Corcobado,
or the humpbacked, to which his misfortune
exposed him. The most observable peculiarity in
his countenance, was the uncommon length of his
nose, which so far intruded upon the lower part of
his visage, as to give this a look of age, which was
contradicted, not only by other features, but by the
prodigious muscularity of his shoulders and arms.
It must be confessed, however, that his lower extremities
were entirely unworthy to compare with
the upper, being both so short and thin, that when
he stood upon his feet, his arms crossed behind,—
which was their ordinary position,—with the stout
iron plates protruding from both back and breast,
he looked rather like a bundle of armour and garments,
exposed to the air and supported above the
earth on two broken pikestaves or javelins, than a
living and human creature.
The next individual was a man of good stature,
who would have been considered, notwithstanding
his grey hairs, the strongest man in the company,
had it not been for his general emaciation and an expression
of suffering on a countenance over which
disease, contracted among the hot and humid
swamps of the coast, had cast the sickliest hues of
jaundice. Indeed, this discolouration, on a visage
naturally none of the fairest, was of so deep a tint,
that it had gained for the invalid, as well as for a
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whole ship's crew of his companions, the significant
title of Ojo Verde, or the Green Eye. And here we
may as well observe, that, in the army of Cortes,
the wit which shows itself in the invention of such
distinctions, was so prevalent, that there was scarce
a man, from the general down to his groom or scullion,
who had not been honoured by at least one
sobriquet.
The fourth personage was a man of indifferent
figure, remarkable for little save the marvellous
sweetness of his eyes, which were set among features
exceedingly sharp and harsh, and the volubility
of his tongue.
The fifth sat apart from the others, a little down
the slope of the hillock, with tablets in his hands,
yet so plunged in abstraction, or so much wrapped
up in the contemplation of the dark lake, the little
piraguas dancing over its billows, and the far-distant
turrets of the infidel city, that he seemed to have
forgotten, not only the presence of his companions,
and the passing procession, but the purpose for
which he had drawn forth his writing implements.
The sound of the cannon, as we have said, was
immediately responded to by the shouts of the
train; which, commencing at the gates of the city,
were continued and prolonged by the various
bodies that composed the huge and moving mass,
until they died away in the distance, like peals of
rolling thunder. At the same time, the Indians
struck their tabours, and sounded their conches
and cane-flutes, in rivalry with the Spanish buglers;
and a din was made, which, for a time, put a stop
to the conversation of the four Castilians. It also
startled the solitary man from his meditations, but
only for an instant. He rose, turned his eye listlessly
towards the procession, and then again resuming
his seat, he was presently sunk in as profound
abstraction as before.
In the meanwhile, the cavalier of the helmet had
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bent his gaze upon the pyramid, from the top of
which the cannon-smoke was driving slowly away
like a cloud, and revealing the proud banner, which
it had for a moment enveloped. He could see,
even at this distance, that the two stone turrets,—
the idol-chambers,—on the summit, were crowned
with crosses, and that the flag-staff,—a tall cedar,
that might have made a mast for an admiral's ship,—
was surrounded by a tent, or rather pavilion, of
native white cloth, broadly striped with crimson,
which glittered brilliantly at its foot. As he looked
he stroked his beard, and muttered, addressing
himself to the hunchback,
“Harkee, Najara, man! give me the benefit of
thy thoughts, and care not if they come out like
crab-apples. What thinkest thou of Cortes now?
Is there not something over-stately and very regallike
in the present condition of his temper?”
“Why dost thou ask that of me, when thou hast
Villafana at thy elbow?” replied the hunchback,
with a voice worthy the acerbity of his aspect: “if
thou wilt have dirty water, get thee to the ditch.”
“You call me Gruñidor, and grumbler I am,”
said he of the sweet eyes, with a laugh. “I grumble
when I am in the humour; and I care not who
knows it. Am I a ditch, old sinner? I'faith, I must
be, when I have such ill weeds as thyself growing
about me. Wilt thou have my thoughts, señor
Guzman, on this subject? I can speak them.”
“Be quick, then,” said the cavalier; “for Corcobado
is digesting an answer to thy fling, which
will leave thee speechless.”
“Pho, I will bandy mudballs with him at any
moment,” said Villafana: “I care not for the buffets
of a friend. As for the noble señor, the Captain
General, what you say is true. The king's letter
hath set him mad. While the Bishop of Burgos
was still in power, and his enemy, he was e'en a
good companion,—a comrade, and no master.
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Demonios! 'twas a better thing for us, when his authority
rested on our good-will, and no royal patent.”
“Ay,” said Guzman; “when we were but rebels
and exiles, denounced by the governor, cursed by
the priest, and outlawed by the king, Cortes was
the most moderate, humble, and loving rogue of us
all. I do think, he is somewhat altered.”
“Oh, señor, there is no such bond for our friendship
as a consciousness of dependence upon those
who love us; and nothing so efficacious in cooling
us to friends, as the discovery that we can do without
them. His authority is no longer our gift; the
bishop has fallen; the king has acknowledged his
claims, and sent him, besides a fair, lawful commission
and goodly reinforcements both of men and
arms, a letter of commendation written with his
own royal hands. May his majesty live a thousand
years! but would to heaven his letter were at the
bottom of the sea. It has brought us a hard master.
Can your favour solve me the riddle of the
king's change? What argument has so operated on
his mind, that he now does honour to a man he once
condemned as a traitor, and advances him into such
power as leaves him independent even of the Governor
of the Islands?”
“The very same argument,” replied Guzman,
“which has turned thee—a friend of Velasquez—
into the most devoted, though grumbling adherent
of our Captain—interest, sirrah, interest. It is
manifest, that this empire was made to be won; and
equally apparent, that the man who could half subdue
it, though trammelled and opposed by all the
arts and power of Velasquez, was the fittest to conclude
the good work; and what was no less persuasive,
it was plain, our valiant Don was fully determined
to do the work himself, without much
questioning whether the king would or not.”
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“Why, by heaven!” cried Villafana, “you make
out the general to be a traitor, indeed!”
“Ay;—for, in certain cases, there is virtue in
treason.”
“Hark now to Villafana!” cried the hunchback,
abruptly: “he will thank you for the maxim, as if
'twere a mass for his soul.”
“I, curmudgeon?” exclaimed the grumbler.
“There were a virtue in it, could it bring such
fellows as thyself to the block. What I aver, is,
that the king's honours have spoiled our general.
By'r lady, I see not what good can come of sending
us a Royal Treasurer, Franciscan friars with bulls
of St. Peter, and Lady Abbesses to build up nunneries,
unless to make up more state for our
leader.”
“Then art thou more thick-pated than I thought
thee,” replied the cavalier. “The bulls will make
us somewhat stronger of heart, and therefore better
gatherers of gold in a land where gold is not to be
had without fighting. La Monjonaza will sanctify
our efforts, by converting the women; and the
king's Treasurer will see that we do not cheat the
king, after we have got our rewards, as, it is rumoured,
we have done somewhat already.”
“Santos! I know what thou art pointing at, Don
Francisco,” said Villafana, significantly. “The
four hundred thousand crowns that have vanished
out of the treasury, hah! This is a matter that has
stained the General's honour for ever. And as
for La Monjonaza, thou knowest there are dark
thoughts about her.”
“Have a care,” said Don Francisco. “We are
friends, and friends may speak their minds: but I
cannot hear thee abuse Don Hernan.”
“Hast thou never been as free thyself?” cried
Villafana, with a laugh, which mingled a careless
derision with good-humour. “Come, now,—
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confess thou wert pleased to be appointed Grand
Guardian and Chamberlain,—or, if thou wilt, Grand
Vizier,—to his god-son, the young king of Tezcuco;
and that, since he gave thee Lerma's horse, thou
hast been better mounted than any other cavalier
in the army.”
“Thou art an ass. Cortes has ever been my
friend; and when I have complained, as I have
sometimes done, it was only like a good house-dog,
who howls in the night-watches, because he has
nothing better to amuse him. But hold,—look!
the carriers are passed. The rear-guard approaches.
Now is my friend Sandoval yonder, betwixt the
two Tlascalan chiefs, glorified in his imagination.
'Slid! he would have had me exchange my brown
Bobadil for his raw-boned Motacila!—Come, Najara,
rub up thy wit; fling me some sweet word
into the teeth of the Tlascalan generals. Dost thou
perceive with what solemn visages they approach
us?”
“I perceive,” said Najara, “that Xicotencal is in
no mood for jesting. It is said, he comes to join us
with his power reluctantly. Dost thou see how he
stalks by himself, frowning? A maravedi to a
ducat, he would sooner take us by the throat than
the hand!”
“Why then, be quick, show him thy scorn in a
fillip.”
“Hast thou forgotten it has been decreed a matter
for the bastinado, to abuse an ally?”
“Ay!” cried Villafana, “there is another fruit of
a king's patent. One may neither laugh nor scold,
gamble nor play truant, but straight he is told of
a decree. Faith, when Cortes was our plain Captain,
it was another matter: if there was aught to
be done or not to do, it was then, in simple phrase,
`I commend to your favours,' or, `I beg of your
friendships, do me this thing,' or, `do it not,' as was
needful. But now the Captain-General deals only
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in decrees or proclamations, wherein we have commands
for exhortations, prohibitions in place of
dissuasions, and, withal, a plentiful garnishing of
stocks and dungeons, whips and halters, all in the
king's name. By Santiago! there is too much state
in this.”
“Pho! thou art an Alguazil; why shouldst thou
care?” said the Cavalier. “The decrees are wholesome,
the restrictions wise. It is right, we should
not displease the Republicans: they are our best
friends,—very quick and jealous too; and we were
but a scotched snake without them.”
“If they fight our battles,” said Villafana, “they
divide our spoil. In my mind, that black-faced
Xicotencal is a villain and traitor.”
“Thy judgment is better, in such matters, than
another's,” said the hunchback.
“Right!” cried Guzman; “the Alguazil will be
presently in his own stocks, if thou dost heat him
into a quarrel. We are not forbidden to abuse one
another. Let the red jackalls pass by unnoticed;
we have mirth enough among ourselves,—we will
worry our Immortality. Look, Najara, man; dost
thou not see in what perplexity of cogitation he is
involved,—yonder dull Bernal? Rouse him with a
quip, now; pierce him with a jest. Come, stir;
rub thy nose, make thy wit as sharp as a goad, and
prick the ox out of his slumber.”
“Ay, good Corcobado,” cried Villafana, turning
from the procession, and mischievously eyeing their
solitary and abstracted companion, “fling out the
legs of thy understanding, like a rough horse, and
see if thou canst not strike fire out of his flinty
brain. All the scratching in the world will not
do it.”
“Now, were you not both besotted, and bent
upon self-destruction,” said the deformed, regarding
the pair with a commiserating sneer, “you would
not ask me to disturb our Immortality; who is, at
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this moment, meditating by what possible stretch of
benevolence he can hand your names down to
posterity; a thing, which if he do not effect, you
may be sure, nobody else will. Señor Guzman,
'twas but a half-hour since, that he asked me, if I
could, upon mine own knowledge, acquaint him
with any act of thine worthy of commemoration.”
“Ay, indeed!” said the cavalier, laughing; “was
Bernal of this mind, then? He asked thee this
question? By my faith, have I not killed as many
Indians as another? Have I not encountered as
many risks, and endured as many knocks? Out
upon the misbelieving caitiff! he asked thee this
question? Thy reply now? pr'ythee, thy learned
answer to this foolish interrogatory? What saidst
thou, now, in good truth?”
“In good truth, then,” replied Najara, with a sour
gravity, “I told him, I had it, upon excellent authority,
though I believed it not myself, that thou
wert a cavalier, equal to any, in the virtues of
a soldier,—bold, quick, and resolute,—cool and
fiery,—a lover of peril, a relisher of blood; one
that had won more gold than he could pocket, more
slaves than he could make marketable, and more
renown than he cared to boast of; a prudent captain,
yet a better follower, because of the ardour of
his temper, which was, indeed, upon occasion, so
hot, that, sometimes, it was feared, he might take
Cortes by the beard, for being too faint-hearted.”
“Oh, thou rogue, thou merry thing of vinegar,
thou hast belied me!” cried Guzman; “thou
knowest, I would sooner eat my arms,—lance,
buckler, and all,—than lift my hand against the
General: I would, by my troth, for I love him.
But come, now,—thou saidst all this, upon good
authority? You jest, you rogue,—we are all jealous
and envious. We have good words from none
but Cortes.—What authority?”
“Marry, upon that of thine own lips,” replied the
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hunchback; “for I know not who else could have
invented so liberally.”
“Out!” cried the cavalier, somewhat intemperately;
“you presume—”
“Ha! ha! a truce, a truce, Don Francisco!”
exclaimed Villafana; “a fair hit—no quarrelling;
for captain though thou be, thou knowest I am
sworn Alguazil, as well as head-turnkey, chief
executioner, and the Lord knows what beside.
No wrath among friends—A very justifiable, fair
hit! Najara must have his ways. Thou wilt see,
by and by, how he will lay me by the ears. Come,
Corcobado, begin.—He who plays with colts, must
look to be kicked.—Come now, be sharp, fear not;
I am a dog, and love thee all the better for cudgelling.”
“I know thou art, and I know thou dost,” said
Najara; “for I remember, that ever since Don Hernan
had thee scourged, for abusing the Tlascalan
woman, thou hast been a more loving hound than
any other of the Velasquez faction.”
“Fuego de dios! Pho,—Good! Ha! ha! very
good!” exclaimed Villafana, laughing, though
somewhat disconcerted. “I confess the beating;
but then I have a back to endure it—Hah! A Roland
for an Oliver, a kick for a buffet! Thou liest,
though, as to the cause: 'twas for taking the old
senator they call Maxiscatzin by the beard, when
he had given me the first sop of the Maguey-liquor.
I was drunk, sirrah, broke rules, disobeyed orders,
and so deserved my guerdon. Wilt thou be satisfied?
By this hand, I grumble not. I should trounce
thee for the like misdemeanour,—that is, if I could
find whereon to lay my scourge. Aha! wilt thou
pull noses with me? Come, what saidst thou of me
to Bernal? I bear thee no malice, man;—no, no more
than the general.—Drunk indeed? He should have
struck my head off!”
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
“I told him,” said Najara, “that thou wert, in
some sense, worthy to be chronicled.”
“Many thanks for that,” said Villafana, “were it
only on account of the beating.”
“For though thou wert as naturally given to
grovelling as a football, yet wouldst thou as certainly
mount, at every kick, as that same bag of
wind.”
“Bravo! bravo!” cried the Alguazil, with a roar
of delight, in which he was joined by Guzman;
“thou art as witty and unsavoury as ever, and
thou dingest me about the ears as with a pine-tree.
What else, cielo mio? what else saidst thou to
Bernal?”
“Simply, that thou hadst more boldness than
would be thought of thee, more dreams than would
be reckoned of thy dull brain, and such skill at
rising, notwithstanding the clog of thy folly, that it
was manifest thou wouldst not be content, till thy
feet were two fathoms from the earth, and thy
crown as near to the oak-bough as the rope
would.”
“Oh, fu! fy!” said Villafana, “hast thou no better
trope for hanging? Have you done? Am I despatched?
Get thee to better game, then; and see
thou art more metaphoric. Hast thou no verjuice
for our good friend here, Camarga?”
The individual thus alluded to, though giving his
attention to the conversation, had maintained a
profound and unsympathetic silence during all.
He stood leaning against the tree, folding over his
breast, and even wrapping about his chin, the long
cloak of striped cotton cloth—the product of the
country,—the bright and gaudy colours of which
contrasted unnaturally with the sickly hue of his
visage. Throughout all, when not particularly noticed,
his countenance wore an expression of as
much mental as bodily pain; but when thus accosted
by Villafana, it changed at once, and in a
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
remarkable degree, from gloom to good-humour,
and even to apparent gayety. It is true, that, at
the moment when his name was pronounced, he
started quickly with a sort of nervous agitation;
and a sudden rush of blood into his face, mingling
with its bilious stain, covered it with the swarthiest
purple: but this immediately passed away—perhaps
before any of his comrades had noted it.
“I cry you mercy, señor Villafana,” he said; “I
am as unworthy to be made the butt of wit as the
subject of history. My ambition runs not beyond
my conscience; the month that I have spent in this
land,—and it is scarce a month,—has been wasted
in disease and idleness. A year hence, I shall be
more worthy your consideration. But tell me,
good friends, is it true, as you say, that yonder
worthy soldier hath been appointed the historian of
your brave exploits? By mine honour, his head
seems to me better fitted to receive blows than to
remember them, and his hand to repay them rather
than to record.”
“He is, truly,” said Villafana, “our Immortality,
as we call him, or our Historian, as he denominates
himself. As to his appointment, it comes of his own
will, and not of our grace; but we quarrel not with
his humours. He conceives himself called to be
our chronicler. Who cares? He can do no harm.
I am told, he doth greatly abuse Cortes, especially
in the matter of the slaves, and the gold we fetched
from Mexico in the Flight. By'r lady, I have heard
some sharp things said about that.”
“You said them yourself,” muttered Najara. “It
is well you are in favour.”
“Ay, by my troth,” cried Guzman; “Cuidado,
Villafana! Don Hernan will be angry. Good
luck to you! You are the lion's small dog: seize
not his majesty by the nose.”
“Pho, friends! here's a coil,” said the Alguazil,
stoutly: “Don Hernan knows me: “I will say
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
what I think. I have maintained to his face, that
there was foul work with the gold, and that we
have been cheated of our shares; I have told him
what ill work was made of both Repartimientos,—
the partition of the slaves,—at Segura-de-la-Frontera,
and here at Tezcuco,—scurvy, knavish work,
señores: One may fetch angels to the brand, but,
ay de mi! the iron turns them into beldames!”
“Ay, there is some truth in that,” said Guzman,
a little thoughtfully. “No man honours Don Hernan
more than myself; and yet did he suffer me
to be choused out of the princess I fetched from
Iztapalapan.”
“Ay, the whole army witnessed it, and there was
not a man who did not cry shame on you for taking
it so—”
“Good-humouredly,” interrupted the cavalier.
“Rub me as thou wilt for a jest, Villafana; but
touch me not in soberness.”
“Pshaw! can I not abuse thee as a friend, without
the apology of a grin? Thou hadst been used
basely, had not Cortes made up the loss with Lerma's
horse. I have heard thee complain as much
as another; and even now, thou art as bitter as
any against this mad scheme of the ships. Demonios!
our general will have us rot in the lake, like
our friends of the Noche Triste!”
“Thou errest,” said the cavalier, gravely. “I
have changed my mind, on this subject: I perceive
we shall conquer this city.”
“Wilt thou be sworn to that?” exclaimed the
Alguazil, earnestly. “I tell thee, as a friend, we
are all mad, and we are deluded to death. If we
launch the brigantines, we are but gods' meat—food
for idols and cannibals. We were fools to come
from Tlascala. Would to Heaven we had departed
with Duero! We are toiled on to our fate,
to make Cortes famous: he will win his renown
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
out of our corses. What sayst thou, Najara, mi
Corcobado, mi Hacedor de Tropos?”
“Even that the will-o-th'-wisps, the Ignes-fatui,
rising out of our decaying bodies, will forsake each
honest man's corse, to gather, glory-wise, about
the head of our leader.—Is that to thy liking?”
“Marvellously! Thy wit explains and gives
tongue to my thoughts. Thou seest things clearly—
I am glad thou art of my way of thinking. This
is our destiny, if we continue our insane enterprise.”
“A pest upon thee, clod!” cried the Hunchback;
“I did but supply thee a simile, in pity of thine
own barrenness. I of thy way of thinking? Dost
imagine I will hang with thee? I see things
clearly? Marry, I do. Give tongue to thy
thoughts? Ratsbane!”
As Najara spoke, he bent his sour and piercing
looks on the Alguazil; who, much to the surprise
of Camarga, grew pale, and snatched at his dagger,
in an ecstasy of rage, greatly disproportioned to the
offence, if such there could be in what seemed idle
and unmeaning sarcasms. The wrath of Villafana,
however, was checked by the mirth of the cavalier,
Don Francisco, who exclaimed with the triumph of
retaliation,
“A fair knock, by St. Dominic! Art thou laid by
the heels, now? Sirrah Alguazil, if thou showest
but an inch more of thy dudgeon, I will have thee
in thine own stocks,—ay, faith, and on thine own
block, into the bargain. Forgettest thou the decree?
Death, man, very mortal death to any one
who draws weapon upon a christian comrade: thy
hidalgo blood, (if thou hast any, as thou art ever
boasting,) will not save thee. Pho! thou art notoriously
known to be a plotter. Why shouldst thou
be angry?”
“Hombre! I am not angry now: but, methinks,
Corcobado hath the art of inflaming whatever is
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
combustible in man's body. A good friend were
he for a poor man, in the winter. Why, thou bitter,
misjudging, remorseless, male-shrew, here is
my hand, in token I will not maul thee. Why
dost thou ever persecute me with thy hints? By
and by, men will come to believe thou art in
earnest. What dost thou see, that I care not to
have exposed? I am a plotter? I grant ye; so
Cortes hath called me to my face a dozen times, or
more. I am a grumbler? So he avers, and so I
allow. I must speak what I think; ay, and I must
growl, too. All this is apparent, but it harms me
not with the general: he scolds me very oft; but
who stands better in his favour?”
“Thou takest the matter too seriously,” said
Guzman. “Hast thou no suspicion that thy self-commendations
are tedious?”
“In such case, hadst thou ever any thyself?” demanded
the unrelenting Najara. “Pray, let him go
on. Let him draw his dagger, if he will, too.
What care I? I have a better fence than the decree.”
“Pshaw, man,” said Villafana, “why dost thou
take a frown so bitterly? I will not quarrel with
thee. But I would thou couldst be reasonable in
thy fillips: call me a knave openly, if thou wilt;
thy insinuations have the air of seriousness. But
come; you have robbed the señor Camarga of his
diversion with Bernal. Lo you now, if our
wrangling have disturbed him a jot! He sits there,
like an old horse of a summer's day, patient and
uncomplaining; and, all the time, there are gadfly
thoughts persecuting his imagination.”
“Methinks, señores,” said Camarga, “you should
be curious to know in what manner the good man
records your actions. For my part, I should be
well content to be made better acquainted with
them; especially with those later exploits, since
the retreat from Mexico, of which I have heard
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
only confused and contradictory accounts. Will
he suffer us to examine his chronicles?”
“Suffer us!” cried Guzman; “if you do but give
him a grain of encouragement, never believe me
but he will requite you with pounds of his stupidity.
What, have you any curiosity?—Harkee, Bernal,
man!—You shall see how I will rouse him,—Bernal
Diaz! Historian! Immortality! what ho, señor
Del Castillo! Are you asleep? Zounds, sirrah,
here are three or four dull fellows, who, for lack of
better amusement, are willing to listen to your history.”
eaf015v1.n1[1] These poems, we presume, were handed down orally.
We know not how far the picture-writing of the Mexicans
(the art of interpreting which appears to be now lost,)
was capable of conveying any such thoughts as could not be
represented by an absolute portrait. No system of writing
that is not essentially phonetic or dialectical, (i. e. representative
of sounds, or of language,) can be made to express
abstract ideas, which may be defined to be such as admit of
no ideographic or metaphoric representation. If they
could, mankind might, at once, enjoy the benefits of the
universal language, (or, to speak strictly, a substitute for it;
for it would convey ideas not words,) which Leibnitz
dreamed of, and Bishop Wilkins, and many others after
him, so vainly attempted to construct.
When, therefore, we relate any very curious and marvellous
matters, appertaining to Mexican literature, though
we speak upon the authority of historians, we invite the
reader to receive our accounts with some grains of allowance.
With the exception of a few arbitrary symbols, expressive
of numerals, and a few other objects of constant
recurrence, the picture-writing of Mexico spoke in ideas,
not words; and it may therefore be assumed, that it could
express nothing that did not, or by a stretch of ingenuity,
could not be made to, address and explain itself to the
eye.
eaf015v1.dag1† The Manga and Serape are Mexican cloaks worn
scapulary-wise, the one of richly embroidered cloth, the
other of blanket, or some such coarse material. The Anquera
is a leather housing, embossed and gilt, with a jingling
fringe of brass or silver ornaments.
-- 035 --
CHAPTER II.
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
At these words, the worthy thus appealed to,
woke from his revery, and staring a moment in
some little perplexity at his companions, took up a
long copper-headed spear, which rested on the
ground at his side, and advanced towards them.
Viewed at a little distance, the gravity of his countenance
gave him an appearance of age, which vanished
on a nearer inspection. In reality, if his
own recorded account can be believed, (and heaven
forbid we should attach any doubt to the representations
of our excellent prototype,) he did not
number above twenty-six or twenty-seven years,
and was thus, as he chose to call himself, `a stripling.
' Young as he was, however, there was not
a man in the army of Cortes who had seen more,
or more varied service than Bernal Diaz del Castillo.
His exploits in the New World had commenced
seven years before, among the burning and
pestilential fens of Nombre de Dios,—a place made
still more odious to an aspiring youth by the ferocious
dissensions of its inhabitants, and that blood-thirsty
jealousy of its ruler, which had rewarded
with the block the man[2] who disclosed to Spain
the broad expanse of the Pacific, and led his subaltern,
Pizarro, to the shores of Peru. With the two
adventurers, Cordova and Grijalva, who had preceded
Cortes in the attempt upon the lands of Montezuma,
(discovered by the first,) Bernal Diaz
shared the wounds and misadventures of both
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
expeditions; and he was among the first to join the
standard of Don Hernan, in the third and most
successful of the Spanish descents.
The hardships he had endured, the constant and
unmitigated suffering to which he had been exposed
for seven years, had given him much of the weatherbeaten
look of a veteran, which, added to the
sombre gravity of his visage, caused him to present,
at the first sight, the appearance of a man of forty
years or more. His garments were of a dusky red
cloth, padded into escaupil, with back and breast-pieces
of iron, over which was a long cloak of a
chocolate colour, well embroidered, and, though
much worn and tarnished, obviously a holiday suit.
To these were added a black velvet hat, ornamented
with three flamingo feathers, striking up like
the points of a trident, with the medal of a saint,
rudely wrought in gold, hanging beneath them.
His person was brawny, his face full and inexpressive;
his dull grey eyes indicated nothing but
simplicity and absence of mind, or rather inattentiveness;
and it required the presence of many
scars of several wounds on his countenance, to convince
a stranger that Bernal actually possessed the
fortitude to encounter such badges of honour.
He approached the group with a heavy and indolent
tread, bearing in his hand a bundle of leaves
of maguey paper, such as served the purposes of
the native painters and chroniclers of Anahuac, and
with which he was fain to supply the want of a
better material.
“Dost thou hear, señor Inmortalidad?” cried
Don Francisco de Guzman, as the martial annalist
took his seat serenely among the Castilians; “art
thou deaf, dumb, or still wrapt in thy seventh heaven,
that thou answerest not a word to my salutations?
Zounds, man, I will not ask thee a second
time.”
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
“What is your will?” said Bernal Diaz, “what
will you have of me, señores?” he repeated, surveying
each member of the group, one after the
other. “I did think that this being a day of license
and rejoicing to so many of us, I might have an opportunity,
not often in my power, of putting down
some things in my journal which it will be well to
do, before setting out on the circuit of the lake,
wherein there may happen some passages to drive
from my memory those which are not yet recorded.
But, by my faith, you have talked loud and much,
and so disturbed my mind, that I have entirely lost
some things I intended to say. I would to heaven
you would find some other place to your liking,
and leave me alone for a few hours.”
“Why, thou infidel!” said Guzman, “if thou
likest not our company, why dost thou not leave
it? Dost thou forget thou hast the power of locomotion?
Wilt thou wait for us to depart before
thou bethinkest thee of thine own legs? By'r lady!
thou art not yet in thy senses!”
“By my faith, so I can!” said the historian, abruptly,
as if the idea had just entered his mind:
“I will go down to the lake shore, where the sound
of the waves will drown your voices. There is
something encouraging to contemplation in the
dashing of water; but as for men's voices, I could
never think well, when they were within hearing.
I beg your pardon, all, señores: I will go down.”
“What! when here are four fools, who are in
the humour of listening to thee for some seven
minutes, or so? ay, man, to thy crazy chronicles!
When wilt thou expect such another audience?
Lo you, the señor Camarga has desired to be
made acquainted with your learned lucubrations.
Come, stir; open thy lips, exalt thyself, while thou
art alive; for after death, there is no saying how
short a time thou wilt sleep in cobwebs.”
“You jeer me, señor Guzman; you laugh at me,
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
gentlemen,” said the soldier, gravely; “and thereby
you do yourselves, as well as me, much wrong.
Is it so great a thing for a soldier to write a history?
The valiant Julius Cæsar of Rome recorded,
with his own hand, his great actions in France,
Britain, and our own Castile, as I know full well;
for when I was a boy at school, I saw the very
book; and sorry I am that the poverty of my parents
denied me such instruction, as might have
enabled me to read it. Then, there was Josephus,
the Jewish Captain, who wrote a history of the fall
of Jerusalem, as I have heard from a learned priest.
Besides, there were many Greek soldiers, who did
the same thing, as I have been told; but I never
knew much concerning them.”
“And hast thou the vanity to talk of Julius Cæ
sar?” cried Guzman, laughing.
“Why not?” said the soldier, stoutly; “I have
fought almost as many battles, and I warrant me,
my heart is as strong; and were it my fate to be a
general and commander, instead of a poor soldier
of fortune in the ranks, I could myself, as well as
another, lead you through these mischievous Mexicans;
who, I will be sworn, are much more valiant
heathens than ever Cæsar found among the French.
As far as he was a soldier, then, I boast to be as
good a man as he; ay, by mine honour, and better
too! for I am a Christian man, whereas he was a
poor benighted infidel. As for my history, I will
not make bold to compare it in excellence with his;
for it has been told me, that Cæsar was a scholar,
and possessed of the graces and elegancies of style;
whereas, I have myself none of these graces, being
ignorant of both Latin and Greek, and knowing
nothing of any tongues, except the Castilian, and
some smattering of this Indian jargon, which I have
picked up with much pains, and, as I may say, at
the expense of more beating than one gets from the
schoolmaster. Nevertheless, I flatter myself, that
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
what I write will be good, because it will be true;
for this which I am writing, is not a history of distant
nations or of past events, nor is it composed of
vain reveries and conjectures, such as fill the
pages of one who writes of former ages. I relate
those things of which I am an eye-witness, and not
idle reports and hearsay. Truth is sacred and
very valuable. In future days, when men come to
make histories of our acts in this land, their histories
will be good, because they will draw them from
me, and not from those vain historiographers who
stay at home, and write down all the lies that people
at a distance may say of us. This is a good
thing, and will make my book, when finished, a
treasury to men; but what is better, and what
should make it noticeable to yourselves, it will not,
like other histories, say, `The great hero Cortes did
this,' and `the mighty commander did that,' giving
all the glory to one man alone; but it will record
our achievements in such a way as to show who
performed them, relating that `this thing was done
by the Senor Don Francisco de Guzman, and this
by the valiant soldier Najara, and this by myself,
Bernal Diaz del Castillo,' and so on, each of us according
to our acts.”[3]
“What the worthy Del Castillo says, is just,”
said Camarga; “and whether his history be elegant
or unpolished, he should be encouraged to
continue it. For my own part, I shall be glad
when I have performed anything worthy to be
preserved, to know, we have with us a man who
will see that the credit of the act is not bestowed
upon another. And, in this frame of mind, I will
stand much indebted to the good señor, if he will
permit me at once, to be made acquainted with the
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
true relation of certain events, with which I am not
yet familiar.”
“What will you have?” said Bernal Diaz, much
gratified by this proof of approbation. “You shal
hear the truth, and no vain fabrication; for I cal
heaven to witness, and I say Amen to it, that I have
related nothing which, being an eye-witness, I do
not know to be true; or which, having the testimony
of many others, actors and lookers-on, to the
same, I have not good reason to believe, is true.
What, then, will you have, señor Camarga? Is
there any particular battle you choose to be informed
of? Perhaps, I had better begin with the first
chapter, which I have here, written out in full, and
which—”
“Fire!” cried Guzman, starting up, “will you
drive us away? Zounds! do you think we will
swallow all?”
“Read that chapter,” said Najara, “in which
you celebrate the exploits of the señor Guzman.”
“I have not,” said Diaz, with much simplicity,
“I have not yet had occasion to come to Don
Francisco.”
“Hear!” cried Villafana, clapping his hands with
admiration, in which the cavalier, after looking a
little indignant, thought fit to join.
“Unless indeed,” continued the historian, “I
should have resolved to relate the quarrel betwixt
his favour, and the young cornet Lerma, (whom
may heaven take to its rest; for there were some
good things in the young man.) But as to this
feud, I thought it better for the honour of both,
as well as of another, whom I do not desire to
mention with dispraise, that the matter should be
forgotten.”
“Put it down, if thou wilt,” said Guzman, with
a stern aspect. “What I have done, I have done;
and I shame not to have it spoken. If I did not
kill the youth, never believe me if it was not out of
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
pity for his years; and out of regard to Cortes,
with whom he was a favourite.”
At these words, which were delivered with the
greatest gravity, the historian raised his eyes to
Don Francisco, and regarded him, for a moment,
with surprise. Then shaking his head, and muttering
the word `favourite,' with a voice of incredulity,
and even wonder, he held his peace, with
the air of one who locks up in his breast a mystery,
which he has been on the point of imprudently
revealing.
“A favourite—I repeat the word,” exclaimed
Don Francisco, with angry emphasis; “a favourite,
at least, until his folly and baseness were made
apparent to Cortes, and so brought him to disgrace.”
“Strong words, Don Francisco!” said Villafana,
with a bold tone of rebuke; “and somewhat too
strong to be spoken of a dead enemy. And besides,
without referring to your share in the matter,
there are those in this army, who have other
thoughts in relation to the lad. It has been whispered,—
and the honour of Cortes has suffered
thereby,—it has been whispered —”
“By Villafana,” exclaimed the hunchback, abruptly
and sharply; “by thyself, certainly, Sir Alguazil,
if there be anything in it against the credit
of the general.”
“Pshaw! wilt thou buffet me again?” cried Villafana,
springing up and stamping on the earth,
though not in anger. “Dost thou know now what
thou art like?”
“Like a thorn in the foot, which, the more you
stamp, the more it will hurt.”
“Rather like a stupid ball tied to my leg,” said
the Alguazil, “which, without any merit of its own,
serves but the dead-weight purpose of giving me a
jerk, turn whichsoever way I will.”
“Right!” cried Najara, with a sneer; “you have
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
clapped the ball to the right leg. We do not so
shot honest men.”
“Gentlemen, with your leave,” said Camarga,
willing to divert the storm, which it seemed Najara's
delight to provoke in the breast of the Alguazil,
“with your leave, señores, I must not be robbed
of my curiosity. It was my purpose to ask the
señor del Castillo to read me such portions of his
journal as treated, first, of occurrences that happened
after the Noche Triste, and battle of Otumba,
and then of the history and fate of this very young
man, whose name is so efficacious in laying you
by the ears. But as I perceive the latter subject is
hateful to you all, —.” Here he turned his eyes on
Guzman.
“You are deceived,” said Don Francisco, drily.
“I bear the young man no malice: the wolf and
the dog may roll over carcasses—I have no anger
for bones. He slandered me: being no longer
alive, I forgive him. Ask Bernal what you will,
and let him answer what he will: I swear by my
troth, I care not.”
“What needs that we should look into noisome
caves, when we have green, wholesome lawns before
us?” said Bernal Diaz, hesitating; for, at that
moment, the eyes of all except Guzman, were
fastened eagerly on his own. “I could speak of
the quarrel, to be sure, between his favour Don
Francisco and the young colour-bearer; for though,
as I said, and for the reasons stated, I have not put
it down in my history, yet do I remember it very
well. But, should I get thus far, I should even
persist with the whole story; for, I know not how
it is, I never begin a relation, and get well advanced
in the same, but I am loath to leave it, till I have
recounted all.”
“Ay, I'll be sworn, thou art,” said Villafana:
“thy stories are much like to a crane's neck; 'tis
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
but a head and bill at first, and an ell or two of
nothing stretched out after.”
“Nor am I able,” said the worthy Bernal, without
stopping to digest the simile, “to read a full account
of those actions the señor Camarga speaks
of, which took place subsequently to our flight from
Mexico and our great victory on the plains of
Otumba, for the good reason that I have not yet
composed them; the failure of which is, in a great
measure, the consequence of your loud talking just
now, whilst I was addressing my mind to the same.
But, if you will have a verbal relation, señor Camarga,
I will do my best to pleasure you, and that
right briefly, and in true words; for I defy any man
to detect falsehood or exaggeration in what I
write.”
“Ay, by'r lady!” cried Guzman, who had recovered
his good-humour, and now laughed heartily,—
“in what you write, honest Bernal; but in what
you say, you are not so infallible.”
“You would not let me finish what I was about
to say,” murmured the historian.
“No, faith; you would make a day's work of it;
whereas I, who am no wire-drawer of conceits, can
despatch the whole thing in a minute. Do you not
see? the rear of the procession is in sight: in half
an hour we shall be summoned into camp. Be
content then, scribbler; I quote thy words, which
should be honour enough: `I defy any man to discover
falsehood or exaggeration in what I say.'
Know then, señor Camarga—after our victory at
Otumba, nine months since, we retreated to Tlascala,
four hundred and fifty in number, at which
city we rested five months, curing our wounds,
recruiting our forces, and preparing to resume the
war. During this time, the only remarkable incidents
were,—first—the meeting of those goodly
knaves who had come with Narvaez, sworn faith
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
to Cortes, looked at Mexico, and now, being satisfied
with blows and honour, demanded to be sent
back to Cuba, to the great injury and almost destruction
of all our hopes. Among the foremost of
these turbulent fellows, was our friend here, Villafana;
who, although he came not with Narvaez,
but was sent soon after us by Velasquez, was ever
found consorting with the disaffected, until his good
saint, in some dream of the gallows, brought better
thoughts into his mind, and converted him from an
open enemy into a doubtful friend. Peace, Villafana!
I am now playing the historian, and must
therefore tell what I believe to be the truth.”
At these words, Villafana, who had opened his
mouth to speak, checked the impulse, nodded,
laughed, and composed himself to silence.
“The defection of these men,” resumed the cavalier,
“and the reduction of our numbers that followed,
(for we were e'en forced to discharge the
more importunate of them,) were requited to us by
happy reinforcements of men, horses, and arms;
some of them sent by the foolish Velasquez—”
“Señor Guzman,” said Bernal Diaz, “the Governor
Velasquez is my relation. My father was an
hidalgo, and his wife, my mother—”
“Oh, I forgot!” said Guzman, nodding to the historian:—
“Some sent by the sagacious Velasquez
to his captain, Narvaez, who was in chains at Villa
Rica; some by De Garay, Adelantado of Jamaica,
to rob us of our northern province, Panuco,—and
it is supposed that thou, señor Camarga, with thy
crew of sick men, though thou comest so late, and
apparently of thine own good will, wert equipt by
the same inconsiderate commander; and some by
the merchants of the Canaries and of Seville, to be
exchanged for our superfluous spoils, which were
not then gathered;—no, by'r lady, nor yet, either.
In fine, we became strong enough, by these means,
to recruit our forces among the natives of the land;
-- 045 --
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which we did, by attacking divers provinces in the
neighbourhood of Tlascala, and compelling their
warriors to join our standard, along with the Tlascalans,
who were willing enough,—all save their
generalissimo, Xicotencal. Thus, then, with no
mean force of Spaniards, and with several armies
of Indian confederates, we came, 'tis now more
than three months since, to yonder city, Tezcuco,
and raised to the throne, (in place of his brother,
who fled to Mexico,) a king of our own choosing;
of whom I have the honour to be chief counsellor
and minister, that is to say, guardian, regent,
sponsor, or master, as you may think fit to esteem
me. Here, it has been our good fortune to receive
other and stronger reinforcements, and, as Villafana
said, from the king's own royal bounty, with
commissions and orders, priests and crown-officers,
and so on; which circumstances have caused our
army to be reorganized, the whole reduced to a
stricter discipline, and civil officers to be appointed,
for the better enforcing of martial law. Here, too,
we have been preparing for the siege and blockade
of yonder accursed metropolis, by bringing ships,
(they are on the shoulders of these crawling pagans,)
to give us the command of the lake; and by
attacking and destroying the neighbouring towns,
so as to secure possession of the shores. In the
meanwhile, the young cub of an Emperor, Guatimozin,
who has succeeded Cuitlahuatzin, the successor
of Montezuma, has been equally busy in
concentrating the warriors of all his faithful provinces
in the island, and providing vast stores of
corn and meat, for their subsistence,—as resolute
to resist as we are to assail. The materials for
our vessels being arrived, it is now known, that
the time of constructing and lanching them, will
be devoted to an expedition, led by Cortes himself;
in which we will make the circuit of the whole
lake, destroying the rebellious cities on the main,
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and driving to the island all who may think fit to resist.
When they are thus caged, we shall have them
like pigeons in a net; and good plucking there will
be in store for all.—This is my history, and methinks
it should satisfy you.”
“It wants nothing to be complete save the episode
of the Cornet Lerma,” said Villafana, with a
malicious grin; “and, in requital for the good turn
you have done me, when speaking of the mutiny
Tlascala, I will relate it,—ay, by St. James, I will!
frown and storm as you may. The señor Camarga
has avowed his curiosity in the matter. Our
dull Bernal, who is so frequent at boasting he tells
naught but truth, has confessed that he dares not
tell all the truth; which, I think, will be somewhat
of a qualification to the belief of his future admirers.
Najara, here, will say naught of any one but myself,
and that with a crusty and bitter obstinacy,—
wherein he seems to me to resemble a silly ox, who
rubs his stupid head against a tree, much less to
the prejudice of the bark than his skin. And as for
thyself, señor Don Francisco, thou hast but thine
own fashion of telling the story. But I told thee
before, there are those in the army who have another
way of thinking; and I am one—I will not
boggle at a truth, like Diaz, because it is somewhat
discreditable to Cortes, or to a chief officer.”
“Speak then,” said Guzman, gravely; “I have
said already I care not. I know full well how your
knavish companions belie me. I say again, I care
not. What you aver as your own belief, I will
make free to hold in consideration: for the reported
imputations of others, I release you from responsibility.”
“Oh, I speak not on my own knowledge, nor of
my own personal belief,” said Villafana, “and therefore,
(but more especially in consequence of the decree,
señor, the decree!—we will not forget the
decree,) I shall fear neither dagger nor black looks.
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
You called Lerma a `favourite' of the general: pho!
even Bernal smiled at that!”
“What I have said in that matter,” replied Guzman,
with composure, “I will condescend to support
with argument. The young man was received
into the household of Cortes, while Cortes was yet
a planter of Santiago: he picked him up, heaven
knows where, how, or why, a poor, vagabond boy.
It is notorious to all, that, in those days, Don Hernan
employed him less as a servant than as a son,
or younger brother, and as such, bestowed upon
him affection and confidence, as well as the truest
protection. Thou knowest, and if thou art not an
infidel altogether, thou wilt allow, that the sword-cut
on the general's left hand was obtained in a
duel which he fought with a man, ('twas the señor
Bocasucia,) who had thrown some sarcasm on the
youth's birth, and then ran him through the body,
when he sought for satisfaction.”
“I allow all this,” said Villafana; “I confess the
youth was an ass, to match his boy's blade against
the weapon of the best swordsman in the island;
and I agree that it was both noble and truly affectionate
in Cortes, to take up the quarrel, and so
baste the bones of Bocasucia, that he will remember
the correction to his dying day. I allow all
this; and I add to it the greater proof of Don Hernan's
love for the youth, that when Velasquez
granted him his commission to subdue these lands,
(I would the sea had swallowed them, some good
ten years since!) the captain did forthwith entrust
to the boy the honourable and distinguished duty
of recruiting soldiers for him, in Española, in which
island he was born.”
“Ay,” quoth Guzman, dryly, “and one may find
cause for the general's anger, in the diligence with
which the urchin prosecuted his task, and the success
that crowned it.”
“By my faith,” said Bernal Diaz, unable any
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
longer to restrain his desire to take part in a discussion
of such historical moment, “the young man
sped well; and that he came to us empty-handed
was no cause of Don Hernan's displeasure, as I
have heard Don Hernan say. It was, in the first
place, our haste to embark, when we discovered
that the governor was about to revoke our captain's
commission, that caused Lerma to be left behind
us; and, secondly, it was the governor's own
act, that Lerma was not permitted to follow us, with
the forces he had raised and brought as far as Santiago.
It is well known, that these men were arrested
on their course, and disbanded by Velasquez,—
for some of them came afterwards with
Narvaez, and have so reported. The youth was
thrown into prison, too, where he fell sick,—for he
had never entirely recovered from the effects of his
wound,—and it required all the exertions of Doña
Catalina, our leader's wife, backed by those of her
friends, to procure his release. His fidelity was
afterwards shown in his escape from Cuba, which
was truly wonderful, both in boldness of conception
and success of accomplishment.”
“His fidelity truly, and his folly, too,” said Villafana;
“for, I think, no one but a confirmed madman
could have projected and undertaken a voyage
across the gulf, in an open fusta,[4] (by'r lady! I
have heard 'twas nothing better than a piragua,)
with a few beggarly Indian fishermen for his crew.
But this he did, mad or not; and if Cortes were
angry, he took but an ill way to punish, since he
gave him a horse and standard, and kept him, for
a long time, near to his own person. His favourite
for a time, I grant you he may have been, having
heard it so related; but when I myself came to the
land, there were others much better beloved.”
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
“If I am not mistaken,” said Don Francisco, “he
was in favour at that time; and I have heard it
affirmed it was some news of thy bringing, or some
good counsel of thy speaking, which first opened
the eyes of Cortes.”
“I, indeed!—my news, and my counsel!” cried
Villafana, with a grin. “I was more like, at that
period, to get to the bastinado than the ears of Don
Hernan. I, indeed!—I loved not the young man,
I confess; and who did? He had even the fate of
a fallen minion; all spoke of him with dispraise,—
all hated him, or seemed to hate him, save only the
Tlascalan chief, Xicotencal, who loved him out of
opposition; and I remember a saying of this very
crabbed Corcobado, here, on the subject, namely,
that a hedgehog was the best fellow for a viper.”
“Ay, by my faith,” said Najara; “yet I meant
not Xicotencal for the animal, but a worthy Christian
cavalier; who was, at that time, rolling the
snake out of his dwelling.” As Najara spoke, he
fixed his eyes on Guzman.
“I understand thee, toad,” said the latter, indifferently.
“It was natural, the young man should
be somewhat jealous. But this leads us from the
story. If it be needful to find a reason for Don
Hernan's change, I can myself give a thousand. In
the first place, mere human fickleness might be
enough, for no man is master of his affections.
It might be enough too, to know, that the youth was
no longer the gay and good-humoured lad he had
been described, but a sour, gloomy, and peevish
fool, exceedingly disagreeable and quarrelsome;
and, perhaps, it might be more than enough, to remind
you, that, as was currently believed, this
change of temper was the consequence of certain
villanous acts, committed after our departure, and
which were thought to furnish a better and more
probable reason for the voyage in the fusta than
any particular zeal he had in the cause of Cortes.
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
If this be not enough,” continued the cavalier, looking
round him with the air of one who feels that
his arguments are conclusive, “then I have but
to mention what you seem to have forgotten,—
to wit, that this petulant and meddlesome
boy did presume to make opposition to, and very
arrogantly censure, certain actions of the general;
and, in particular, the seizure and imprisonment
of king Montezuma, and the burning alive of the
Cholulan prisoners, as well as the seventeen warriors,
who had fought the battle with Escalante, at
Vera Cruz.”—In the last of these instances, Don
Francisco made reference to the barbarous and most
unjust punishment of Quauhpopoco,—the military
governor of a Mexican province near to Vera Cruz,—
and of his chief officers, who had presumed to
resist with arms, and with fatal success, the Spanish
commandant of the coast, in an unjustifiable
attack.
“All this is true,” said Villafana, “and it is all
superfluous. What I desired to establish was, that
Lerma was no favourite, when sent on the expedition,
as would have been inferred from your words.
I come now, señor Camarga, to speak of that occurrence
in relation to this boy, Juan Lerma, (I
call him a boy, for, at that time, he was not thought
to exceed nineteen years of age,) which, as Bernal
Diaz says, touches the honour of Don Hernan, and
which, others think, bears as heavily upon that of
Don Francisco. The señores must answer for
themselves: I only give what is one version of the
story.”
“And, I warrant thee, it is the worst,” said Najara.
“Thou hast very much the appetite of a
gallinaza, who chooses her meat according to the
roughness of the savour.”
“Among the daughters of the captive Montezuma,”
said Villafana, nodding to the hunchback, in
testimony of approbation, “was one, the youngest
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
of all, and, in truth, the prettiest, as I have heard,
for I never beheld her, who was called Cillahula,—”
“Zelahualla,” said Bernal Diaz. “It is a word
that signifies—”
“It signifies nothing, so long as you give it not
the proper accent,” said Guzman, with infinite
composure. “Her true name was Citlaltihuatl;
or, at least, it was by that the Mexicans designated
her; for they of the royal family have, ordinarily,
a popular title, in addition to that used at court.
The name may be interpreted the Maiden of the
Star, or the Celestial Lady; for so much is expressed
by the two words of which it is compounded.”
“I maintain,” said Bernal Diaz, stoutly, “that
the word Zelahualla is more agreeable of pronunciation,
as well as much more universal in the
army.”
“I grant you that,” said Guzman. “Nor is the
corruption so great as that of many names you
have recorded in your journal: but I leave these
things to be examined by your admirers hereafter.
We will call the princess, then, Zelahualla; that
being the better and more common title.—And now,
Villafana, man, get thee on, in God's name; and
start not, señor Camarga, at the damnable inventions
of slander, which will now be told you.”
“Pho!” said the Alguazil, “I will not abuse thee
half so much as the General. Know, señor Camarga,
that there arose, between the young fool Lerma
and the excellent cavalier Don Francisco de Guzman,
a quarrel, very hot and deadly, concerning
this same silly daughter of Montezuma; with whom
Don Francisco chose to be somewhat rougher and
more tyrannical, in displaying his affection, than
was proper towards a king's daughter and a captive.”
“Dost thou speak this upon thine own personal
averment?” demanded Don Francisco, with a
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
countenance unchanged, but with a voice preternaturally
subdued.
“No, faith,” said Villafana, hastily, and with an
air that looked like alarm; “I repeat the innuen-does
of others, which may be slanders or not,—I
know not. But it is certain, the young man so
charged thee to Cortes; affirming that, but for his
interference, the villany meditated—But, pho! thou
growest angry! So much, certainly, he brought
against thee?”
“He did,” replied Guzman, smiling as if in derision;
“and I know not how any could have been
induced to believe him, except that man,—each
man,—being naturally a rogue himself, doth rather
delight to entertain those aspersions which bring
down his neighbour to his own level, than the commendations
which acquaint him with a superior.
He did!—He was a fool! I can explain this thing
to your satisfaction.”
“Basta! it does not need,” replied Villafana.
“The rear-guard is passing,—there is a stir on the
temple-top, and presently we shall hear the trumpet,
which, like a curfew-bell, will command us to
put out the fires of our fancy and the lights of our
wit, on pain of having them, somewhat of a sudden,
whipped out with switches. I must tell mine own
story; the señor Camarga looks a little impatient.
The end of this quarrel,” continued the Alguazil,
“was a duel; in which neither of the rivals in love
and the general's favour, came to much hurt; since
they were speedily seized upon and introduced to
the Calabozo, for fighting against the express orders
of the general. Then, being released, they were
separated,—our excellent friend Don Francisco
being sent on some duty to Tlascala, and the boy
Juan to—heaven.”
“Saints!” exclaimed Camarga; “he was not
executed?”
“Not on the block or the gallows, to be sure,”
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
said Villafana; “but in a manner quite as effectual.
He was sent on some fool's errand of discovery,
or exploration, to the South Sea, which, it was told
us, washed the distant borders of this mighty empire;—
his companions, two unlucky dogs of La
Mancha, and one Leonese of Medina-del-Campo,—”
“Ay,” said Bernal Diaz, with a groan,—“Gaspar
Olea; he was my beloved friend and townsman,
and—” But Villafana was in no humour to be
interrupted:
“All three, like himself, out of favour,” he continued.
“Besides these, the young man had with
him a band of knavish infidels, from the western
province Matlatzinco; and his guide and counsellor
was an old chief of the Ottomies—a half-savage,
(they called him Ocelotl or Ocelotzin, that is, the
Tiger,) who had been domesticated among Montezuma's
other wild beasts. Now, señor, you may
make your own conclusions, or you may take those
of men who are true friends of Cortes, and yet will
speak their mind. It was said, at the time, that the
young man was sent to his death; for the western
tribes are fierce and barbarous; it was an easy
way to get rid of him—and so it has been proved.
This happened fourteen months ago: neither the
young man, nor any of his companions, were ever
heard of more. The thing was understood, and it
was called a cruel and unchristian act.”
“Thou doest a foul wrong to Cortes, to say so,”
exclaimed Don Francisco, “imputing to him such
sinister and perfidious motives. Such expeditions
were at that time common; for we were then at
peace, and each explorer was furnished by Montezuma
with some royal officer by way of safe-conduct.
Did not Don Hernan send his cousin, the
young Pizarro, to explore the gold-lands of Guaztepec,
at that very time? Were not others sent to
search for mines, in the southern and northern provinces?
I affirm, that this expedition of Lerma, fatal
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
though it has proved, was not thought more, or
much more dangerous than Pizarro's:—thou knowest,
Pizarro lost three of his men.—Moreover, thou
doest the general an equal wrong, in the matter of
the three Spaniards, that went with Lerma. Olea,
at least,—Gaspar Olea, the Barba-Roxa—was notoriously
a favourite and trusted soldier, and was
sent with the youth, as being the fittest man who
could be spared, to aid his inexperience.”
“The history is finished,” said Villafana, rising;
“the trumpet flourishes; and, like hounds at the
horn of the hunter, we must e'en get us to the
general, and add our howls to the yells of these
curs of Tlascala. The history is finished; and I
have only to add, by way of annotation, that the
hatred you bore the youth, (I have heard some say,
he had the better in the duel!) will supply you good
reasons for defending his punishment.”
“I say to you again,” cried Guzman, “I have
forgiven the youth, and I hate him not.”
“Oh! the brown horse, Bobadil, that was sent
to him from Santo Domingo, a month since, and
given to your own excellent favour, as to his proper
heir, is a good peace-maker!”
“Thou art a fool,” said Don Francisco; “I lament
his death as much as another.”—
“Have masses then said for his soul, for, by
heaven and St. John, his spirit is among us!”
These words, pronounced by the hunchback,
Najara, suddenly, and with a voice of extreme
alarm, caused the cavalier, who, with Villafana and
Camarga, had already begun to walk towards the
city, to turn round; when he instantly beheld, and
with similar agitation, the apparition which had
drawn forth the exclamation of the deformed.
eaf015v1.n2[2] Vasco Nuñez de Balboa.
eaf015v1.n3[3] The historical reader will find that the worthy Bernal
has incorporated many of these judicious sentiments in the
work he was then composing, and some almost word for
word.
eaf015v1.n4[4] Fusta—a sort of galley, very small and open, with
lateen sails.
-- 055 --
CHAPTER III.
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
As the Castilians followed the eyes of Najara,
they beheld, approaching them from behind, three
men, in whom, but for the direction given to their
thoughts by the exclamation, they would have seen
nothing but the persons of Indians, belonging to
some tribe more wild and savage than any which
inhabited the valley. Their garments were coarse
and singular; their gait—at least, the gait of two
of them,—not unlike to that of barbarians; and the
look of wonder with which they surveyed the long
train of the rear-guard, in which the high penachos,
or plumes, and the copper-headed spears of Tlascalan
chiefs, shone among the iron casques of Spanish
cavaliers, was similar to the childish admiration of
natives, unused to such a spectacle. Their dark
countenances and long hair, their vestments and
arms, were all of an Aztec character; yet a second
and more scrutinizing glance made it apparent,
that one, at least, if not two of them, was of another
and nobler race.
The foremost, or leader, of the little band, was
undoubtedly a savage; as was seen by the depressed
forehead, the high cheek-bones, the eye of
a peculiar form, and the skin of even uncommon
swarthiness, which distinguished him from his companions.
His stature was short, almost dwarfish;
his toes were turned inwards; and as he moved
along with a shuffling gait, with advanced chest,
and head still more protruded, his long locks, grizzled
as with extreme age, fell from either side of
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[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
his face, like patches of gray moss from the bough
of a tree, and almost swept the ground. A coarse
cloth was wrapped round his loins; another of a
square shape,—its opposite corners tied round his
neck,—hung like a mantle, or rather a shawl, from
his shoulders, over which were also strapped a bow
and quiver of arrows; and a thick mat of canework
was secured by thongs to his left arm, in the
manner of a buckler, and swung at his side, or was
laid upon his breast, as suited his mood or convenience.
In other respects, he was naked,—though
not without the native battle-axe of obsidian. This
weapon consisted of a rod, or bludgeon, of heavy
wood, (it was sometimes of copper,) at the extremity
of which, and on either side, were fastened six
or seven broad blades, or flakes, of volcanic glass,
standing a little apart from each other. Its native
name, maquahuitl, was speedily corrupted by the
Spaniards into macana,—a name that is applied, in
Castile, to a sabre of lath; and which, being more
practicable to civilized organs of speech than the
original title, is worthy of being preserved. The
appearance of this aged warrior presented none of
the infirmities of years. His stooping carriage was
rather the result of habit than feebleness; his step
was quick and firm, though ungainly; and his eye
rolled with the piercing vivacity of youth over the
scene, which occupied so much of the attention of
his followers.
Of these, that one whom the Castilians at the
cypress-tree hesitated, for a moment, whether to
esteem an Indian or a Christian man, was of a
figure more remarkable for sturdiness than elegance.
The roll of cloth round his body extended
from his waist, where it was secured by a leathern
girdle, to his knees. The mantle about his shoulders
was more capacious than his fellow's, but it
left his brawny chest in part exposed, and thereby
revealed a skin fairer than belonged to the natives
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
of Anahuac. His hair, though very long, was of a
reddish-brown colour, and waving rather than
straight; and a rough beard of a ruddy hue, though
so short that its growth seemed to have been
permitted for not more than the space of a week,
was another phenomenon not to be looked for in a
barbarian. But the indications of civilized origin
offered by these characteristics, were set at naught
by the step and bearing of the stranger, which
were to the full as wild and peculiar as those of his
more ancient companion; like whom, he carried a
buckler and macana, though without the bow and
quiver. His eye rolled with a like wildness; but
his features were European; and instead of being
entirely barefoot, like the senior, his feet were defended
by stout sandals of untanned skin.
The third, and by far the most remarkable of all,
was he who had first caught the eye of Najara,
and upon whom was now concentrated the gaze
of the whole party. A figure of the most majestic
height, and noble proportions, though, at the present
moment, greatly wasted, was rather set off to
advantage than concealed by a costume as spare
and primitive as that of the red-bearded man. His
skin was much tawnier than his companion's; indeed,
it was of the darkest hue known among the
southern provinces of Spain and Portugal, where
the blood of Europe has mingled harmoniously with
the life-tides of Africa. His lofty stature was more
obvious, perhaps, since he adopted not the bearing
or gait of the others, but moved along erect, with a
graceful demeanour, and a step of natural case and
dignity. He had but one characteristic of a Mexican;
and that was the long hair, straight, and of
an intense blackness, that fell from his temples to
his breast, with much of a wild and savage profusion,
concealing, in part, a cheek of the finest contour,
though somewhat hollowed by hardship, and,
perhaps, suffering. The puffs of wind, blowing
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[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
aside this sable curtain, disclosed an elevated forehead,
crowning a visage in which every feature
was of the mould of Castile, and after the happiest
model of that order of beauty, each being sculptured
with a touch that preserved delicacy, even while
giving boldness. His age would have been a question
wherewith to puzzle a physiognomist: there
was much in the smoothness of his brow, and the
unaltered freshness of a mouth, over which was
sprouting a mustache, short and bushy, as if as
lately submitted to the tonsure as the beard of his
companion, that spoke of youth just verging into
maturity; while, on the other hand, the complete
development of his frame, and the seriousness of
his countenance, would have conveyed the impression
of an age many years farther advanced. This
seriousness of expression was, indeed, more than
mere gravity; it indicated a melancholy, or even
sadness, which, though of a gentle cast, was become
a settled and permanent characteristic.
As he approached, his eyes were, like his companions',
fixed with curiosity upon the long and
dense body of Tlascalans, from whom they were
only withdrawn, when the exclamation of Najara
attracted them suddenly to the group at the cypress.
The confusion of these personages was so manifest,
and they handled their arms with an air so indicative
of hostility, that the old warrior and the red-bearded
man came to an instant halt, and looked,
as if for instructions, to their taller and more noble-visaged
companion. He instantly stepped before
them, and waving his hand to Najara, who was
hastily fitting a bolt to his crossbow, and to the
historian, who presented his partisan with greater
alacrity of decision than would have been anticipated
from his sluggish appearance, cried aloud,
“Hold, friends! We are not enemies, but Christians
and Castilians.”
“Art thou Juan Lerma? and art thou truly
-- 059 --
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alive? or do I look upon thy phantom?” cried the
hunchback, with an agitated voice.
“Out, fool! we are good living men,” exclaimed
the red-bearded man, angrily; “and with flesh
enough upon our bones, to cudgel thee into better
manners, I trow. Is this the way you receive old
friends, returning from bondage among infidels?
What, Bernal Diaz, thou ass! dost thou not know
Gaspar Olea, thine old townsman of Medina-delCampo,
thy brother-in-arms and sworn friend? nor
yet the señor Don Juan Lerma, my captain and
friend in trouble? nor Ocelotzin, the old Ottomi
rascal, our guide here?”
“Ay, oho! old rascal, old friend; all friends, all
rascals,” cried the Indian, looking affectionately
towards the Castilians, who still stood in doubt,
and using the few Spanish words with which he
was familiar; “good friends, good rascals,—Castellanos,
Cristianos;—friends, rascals.”
While the rest were hesitating, the cavalier Don
Francisco de Guzman suddenly stepped out from
among them, and, advancing towards the young
man Lerma, with a smiling countenance and extended
hand, said,
“Though I am not thought to be the most loving
of thy friends, I will be the first to bid thee welcome,
señor Lerma, in token that old feuds do not
mar the satisfaction with which I behold a Christian
man rescued so happily, and as it appears to
me, so marvellously, from the grave.”
The emotions and changes of countenance with
which the young man heard these words, were
various and strongly marked. At the first tones
of Guzman, he started back, as if a serpent had
suddenly crossed his path, and grew pale, while
his eyes flashed a ferocious and deadly fire. At
the next, the blood rushed over his visage, and
throbbed with a visible violence in the vessels of
his temples; while he half raised the macana, which
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
he carried, in lieu of a better weapon, as if to
cleave the speaker to the earth. The next instant,
the angry suffusion departed, his brows relaxed
their severity, the deep melancholy gathered again
in his eyes, and he surveyed the cavalier with a
patient and grave placidity, until the latter had
finished his salutation. Then, bending his head,
and folding his hands upon his breast, he replied,
mildly, and without a shadow of anger,
“I have, as thou sayest, returned from the grave,
in the sight of which I strove, as a Christian should,
to make my peace with man as well as with heaven.
I have done so; I am at peace with all; I am
at peace with thee—But I cannot give thee my
hand.”
The cavalier Don Francisco received this rejection
of his good-will with no sign of dissatisfaction,
that was distinguishable by others, beyond a smile
or sneer; but inclining his head towards Lerma, he
muttered in his ear—
“The strife is unequal; but I accept thy defiance.
Thou art but a broken-legged wolf, and wilt fight
a fatted tiger—I am content.”
So saying, or rather whispering, for his words
were only caught by the ears of Juan, the cavalier
turned upon his heel, and without condescending
to exhibit his mortification in the vain air of pride
and scorn, assumed by ordinary men on such occasions,
he began to walk towards the city. He
was presently followed by the señor Camarga;
who, having fastened upon Juan, for a few moments,
a look of intense curiosity, flung, when he had satisfied
himself, his cloak over the lower part of his
visage, and thus departed.
“You give me but a cold welcome, good friends,”
said Juan, looking after the retreating man with a
sigh. “Will no one else in this company offer his
hand to one who burns with joy at the sight of
Christian faces?”
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“When thou art better acquainted with the bounty
of the compliment, doubtless, but no sooner,” said
the hunchback, who had surveyed the youth with
an interest which was belied by his present scorn.
“A good day to you, señor Juan Lerma, and God
keep you well. There is a good path over the
mountains, northward, by the way of Otumba. If
you like not the company of heathens, there are
fair maids enow in Cuba.”
With these hints, which the young man listened
to with a disturbed aspect, and which the hunchback
accompanied with sour and contemptuous
looks, he turned away, and began to hobble after
his companions.
“Now God be our stay!” exclaimed Juan, with
some emotion, “there is not a man who has a tear
for our sorrows, or a smile for our joy. It were
better we had perished, Gaspar!”
“I am not ashamed to give thee my hand,” said
Bernal Diaz, shaking off his amazement, and advancing,
“though I know not how far thou art deserving
of such countenance. But I must first
claim to embrace my old friend and brother, Gaspar;
whom, by my faith, I can scarce believe that
I see living before me! How didst thou thus learn
to turn thy toes in, Gaspar?”
“Away, thou dog-eared, ill-blooded block!” cried
the red-bearded Gaspar, who had watched the turn
of proceedings with indignation, and now poured
forth his accumulated wrath upon the worthy historian.
“Ashamed!—thou ashamed!—thy countenance!—
deserving of thy countenance, thou ill-mannered,
bog-brained churl and ass! Thou wilt
give the young señor thy hand! If thou dost but
lift it, I will smite it off with my battle-axe. Curmudgeon!
I thy friend and brother?—I discard
thee and forswear thee; I do, marry—”
“Peace, Gaspar,” said Lerma, mildly; “quarrel
not with thy friend on my account; thou hast no
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
offence on thine own. It is plain, there is but cold
cheer in store for me: make none for thyself.”
“Oh, señor!” said Gaspar, sharply, for his anger
was waxing hot and unrespective, “I am no servant,
no grinning lackey, to be told, `do me this,'
and `do me that,' by your excellent favour; no, by
your leave, no;—I am your soldier, not your foot-man.
I will quarrel when I like, and I will not be
chidden. I am your soldier, señor, your soldier—”
“My friend, I think,” said the young man;
“though thou dost now afflict me more than those
who seem my enemies.”
“Afflict!—enemies!—I afflict!” cried Gaspar,
fiercely; “I quarrel with your enemies!—ay, à outrance,
as the Frenchmen, say. I have fought them
in Italy. Fuego! enemies!—call this knave by the
name, and if I do not smite him to the chine, townsman
though he be—”
“Peace, Gaspar, if thou art my friend, as, I trust
this good Bernal is,—”
“Go to,” said Bernal Diaz, in high dudgeon, addressing
himself to Gaspar, “thou art turned heathen,
or thou wouldst not so abuse me. I care for
you not; I have nothing to do with you, nor with
any of your companions. By and by you will repent.
God be with you, and make you wiser.”
With these words, the historian followed the example
of the others, and was straightway stalking,
with impetuous strides, towards Tezcuco.
“Now art you not ashamed, Gaspar, to have
given way to this boy's wrath? Wilt thou be womanish,
too?”
“Ay,” said Gaspar, shaking his head with the
fury of a mastiff, rending some meaner animal, and
thus dashing away certain tears of rage or mortification,
that were starting in his eyes: “it doth
make a woman of me, to think we have escaped
from dangers such as were never dreamed of by
these false traitors,—from infidel prisons and hea
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
then maws, and come, at last, among Christian
men, whom I could have hugged, every ill loon of
them all; and not one to stretch forth his hand, and
say God bless me! You were right, señor; it were
better to have remained slaves with the King of
the Humming-bird Valley, than to have left him for
such hangdog welcome.”
“Thou wouldst have had nothing to complain of,
hadst thou bridled thy impatient temper. These
men meant not to provoke thee.”
“Bad friends, bad rascals!” said the Ottomi, who,
during these several passages, had been staring
from one Christian to another in unconcealed
amazement: “bad friends! no good rascals!” he
muttered in Spanish; then instantly changing to
Mexican, which though not his native tongue, was
more familiar to him, and was besides well understood
by Juan, he continued,
“Itzquauhtzin, the Great Eagle,” (for thus he
chose to designate the youth,) “has settled upon
the hill of kites. Where are his wings? Malintzin
is angry; he sends his young men to frown. Here
is another: he laughs with his eyes.—Ocelotzin is
an old tiger,—Techeechee is a dog without voice;
but the itzli[5] is sharp in his hand. Shall he
strike?”
The wild eyes of the barbarian (for the Ottomies,
or mountain Indians, were the true savages of
Anahuac,) were bent with the subtle and malignant
keenness of the tiger whose name he bore, upon
the Alguazil, Villafana, who, standing a little aside,
and for a time unseen, had watched the salutations,
and, finally, the departure of his companions, without
himself saying a word. He now stepped forward,
disregarding the evil looks of the Indian, as
well as those of Gaspar, whose feelings of mortification
were thirsting for some legitimate object
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
whereon to expend their fury: and stretching forth
his hand in the most friendly manner, said to
Juan,
“How now, señor? drive this old cut-throat dog
away.—I claim to be an old acquaintance, and, at
this moment, not a cold one. The foxes being
gone, the goose may stretch her neck.—Here am
I, one man at least, heartily glad to find you coming
alive from the trap, and not afraid to say so.—Does
your favour forget me? Methinks you have the
gift of rejecting the hands that are offered, howsoever
you may covet those that are withheld.”
“You do me wrong—I remember you well,”
said Juan, taking the hand, from which he had first
recoiled with a visible reluctance: “I thank you
for your kindness. Yes, I remember you,” he repeated,
with extreme sadness: “Would I did not.”
“Come, señor Gaspar,” continued the Alguazil,
turning to Olea. “You and I were never such
friends as true men should be; but, notwithstanding,
I give you my true welcome and most Christian
congratulations.”
“I ever thought you a knave,” said Gaspar,
clutching Villafana's hand, with a sort of sulky
thankfulness, “being but an eternal grumbler and
reviler at the general. But I see you are more of
a Christian and man than any other villian of them
all. Fire and blood! why do they treat us thus?”
“Oh, you shall soon know. But how now, señor
Lerma, what is your will? Will you walk with
me to the city? We have royal commanders now:
'tis a matter for the stocks, and, sometimes, the
strappado, to loiter beyond the lines, after the
trumpet's call. Will you walk to Tezcuco? or do
you choose rather to betake you to the hills, as
Najara advised you? Cortes is another man now,
señor, and somewhat dangerous, as you may have
inferred from the bearing of his favourites. If you
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would be wise, go not near him. It is not too
late.”
“Señor Villafana,” said Juan, “what I have seen
and heard has filled me with trouble; for, like
Gaspar, I looked for such reception as might be expected
by men returning from among heathen oppressors,
to Christian associates and old friends. I
know not well what has happened during the fourteen
months of my absence from the army, save
what was darkly spoken to me by a certain king,
in whose hands I have remained, with my companions,
many months in captivity. He gave me
to believe that my countrymen had all fallen in a
war with Montezuma, whom I left in peace, and in
strong, though undeserved, bonds. I perceive that
I have been cajoled: I rejoice that you are living
men; but I know not why I should fear to join myself
again among you. I claim to be conducted to
your general.”
“It shall be as you choose; but, señor, you are
no longer in favour. As for Gaspar and the Indian,
it will be well enough with them: a good soldier
like Gaspar is worth something more than hanging;
and such a knave as this old savage can be put to
good use. Señor, shall I speak a word with you?
Bid the two advance: I have somewhat to say to
you in private.”
The young man regarded the Alguazil with an
anxious countenance; and then, desiring his companions
to lead the way towards Tezcuco, followed,
at a little distance, with Villafana.
eaf015v1.n5[5] Itzli, the obsidian or volcanic glass.
-- 066 --
CHAPTER IV.
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
For a few moments, the two walked together in
silence, and at a slow pace, until the others were
beyond earshot; when Villafana, suddenly stopping
and casting his eyes upon Juan, said, with but
little ceremony,
“Señor Juan Lerma, I am your friend; and by
St. Peter, who was once a false one, you need one
that is both plain and true. Does your memory
tax you with the commission of any act deserving
death?”
To this abrupt demand, the young man answered,
with an agitated voice, but without a moment's
hesitation,
“It does. Thou knowest full well, and perhaps
all others know, now, that I have shed the blood
of my friend, the son of my oldest and truest
benefactor.”
“Pho!” cried Villafana, hastily; “I meant not
that. Your friend, indeed? Come, you grieve too
much for this. At the worst, it was the mishap of
a duel,—a fair duel; and, I am a witness, it was,
in a manner, forced upon you. You should not
think of this: there are but few who know of it, and
none blame you. What I meant to ask, was this—
are you conscious of any crime worthy of death at
the hands of Cortes?”
“I am not,” said Lerma, firmly, though very
sadly; “no, by mine honour, no! I am conscious,
and it is a thing long since known to all, that I
have entirely lost the favour with which he was
used to befriend me. Nay, this was apparent to
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
me, before I was sent from his presence. I hoped
that in the long period of my exile, something might
occur to show him his anger was unjust; and, with
this hope, I looked this day, to end my wanderings
joyfully. I am deceived; everything goes to prove,
that neither my long sufferings, (and they were
both long and many,) nor my supposed death have
made my appeal of innocence. But I will satisfy
him of this: I will demand to know my crime. If
it be indeed, as I think, the death of Hilario—”
“Pho! be wise. He counts not this against thee,—
he has been himself a duellist. Say nothing of
Hilario, neither; no, by the mass! nor be thou so
mad as to question him of his anger. Thou art
very sure, then—I must be free with thee, even to
the dulness of repetition:—thou art very sure,
thou hast done nothing to deserve death at his
hands?”
“I call heaven to witness,” said Juan, “that,
save this unhappy mischance in the matter of
Hilario, which is itself deserving of death, I am
ignorant of aught that should bring me under his
displeasure.”
“Enough,” said Villafana: “But I would thou
shouldst never more speak of Hilario. He is dead,
heaven rest his soul! He was a knave too; peace,
then, to his bones!—I am satisfied, thou hast done
naught to Cortes, deserving death at his hand. I
have but one more question to ask you:—Has
Cortes done nothing to deserve death at thine?”
“Good heavens! what do you mean?” cried
Juan, starting as much at the sinister tones as the
surprising question of the Alguazil.
“Do you ask me? what, you?” said Villafana,
“Come, I am your friend.”
As the Alguazil pronounced these words, with
an insinuating frankness and earnestness, he threw
into his countenance an expression that seemed
meant to invite the confidence of the young man,
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
and encourage him to expose the mystery of his
breast, by laying bare the secrets of his own. It
was a transfiguration: the mean person was unchanged,—
the insignificant features did not alter
their proportions,—but the smile that had contorted
them, was turned into a sneer of fiendish malignancy,
and the peculiar sweetness that characterized
his eyes, was lost in a sudden glare of passion,
so demoniacal, that it seemed as if the flames of
hell were blazing in their sockets. It was the
look of but an instant: it made Juan recoil with
terror: but before he could express a word of this
feeling, of curiosity, or of suspicion, it had vanished.
The Alguazil touched his arm, and said quickly,
though without any peculiar emphasis,
“Judge for yourself: Heaven forbid I should
breed ill-will where there is none, or plant thorns
in my friend's flower-garden. Judge for yourself,
señor: if, being innocent of all crime, Cortes has
yet doomed you, basely and prefidiously, to
death,—”
“To death!” exclaimed Juan, with a voice that
reached the ears of his late companions, and brought
them to a sudden stand; “Heaven be my help!
and do I come back but to die?”
“You went forth but to die!” said Villafana;
“and, you may judge, with what justice. Come,
señor,—the thing is said in a moment. The expedition
was designed for your death-warrant.”
“Villain!” exclaimed Juan; “dare you impute
this horrible treachery to Cortes?”
“Not,—no, not, if it appear at all doubtful to
your own excellent penetration,” replied the Alguazil,
with a laugh. “I do but repeat you the belief
of some half the army—had it been but before
the Noche Triste, I might have said, all: but, in
truth, we are now, more than half of us, new men,
who know but little of the matter.”
-- 069 --
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“Does any one charge this upon the general?”
said Juan, with a look of horror.
“Ay,—if you call them not `villains,”' replied
the soldier.
“I will know the truth,” said Juan. “I will
find who has belied me.”
“You will find that of any one but Don Hernan.
Señor Don Juan, I pity you. You have returned
at an evil moment; your presence will chill old
friends, and sharpen ancient enemies.”
“If he seek my life, it is his: but, by heaven, the
man who has wronged me,—”
“Get thy horse and arms first. Wilt thou be
wise? Thou shalt have friends to back thee.
Listen: A month since, there came for thee, in a
ship from the islands, two very noble horses, and
a suit of goodly armour, sent, as was said, by some
benevolent friend, whom thou mayst be quicker at
remembering than myself.”
“Sent by heaven, I think,” said Lerma, “for I
know not what earthly friend would so supply my
necessities.”
“Oh, then,” said Villafana, “the rumour is, they
were sent thee by the lady Catalina, our general's
wife.”
“May heaven bless her!” exclaimed Juan; “for
she is mine only friend: and this bounty I have
not deserved.”
“In this matter,” said Villafana, dryly, “she will
prove rather thine enemy; that is, if thou art resolute
to demand the restoration of her gifts.”
“The restoration!”
“In good truth, they were distributed among
thine heirs; the horse Bobadil, thought by many to
be the best in the army, falling to the share of thy
good friend Guzman.”
“To Guzman?” cried Juan, angrily. “Could
they find no better friend to give him to? I will
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[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
have him back again; yea, by St. Juan, he shall
ride no steed of mine!”
“Right!” exclaimed Villafana; “for if thou hast
an enemy, he is the man. Thou didst well, to refuse
his hand. He offered it not in love, but in
treachery. Thou wilt ask Cortes for thy maligner?
It needs not: remember Don Francisco.”
“I will do so,” said Juan, with a sigh. “I thought,
in my captivity, when I despaired of ever more
looking upon a Christian face, that I had forgiven
my enemies. I deceived myself,—I hate Don Francisco.
I will proclaim him before the whole army,
if he refuse to do me reparation.”
“I tell thee, thou shalt have friends,” said the
Alguazil, with an insinuating voice, “to back thee
in this matter, as well as in all others wherein thou
hast been wronged. But thou must be ruled.
Speak not to Cortes in complaint: he will do thee
no justice. Send no defiance of battle to Guzman,
for this has been proclaimed a sin against God and
the king, to be punished with loss of arms, degradation,
and whipping with rods,—sometimes with
the loss of the right hand. You stare! Oh, señor
Juan Lerma, you will find we have a master now,—
a master by the king's patent,—who makes his own
laws, beats and dishonours, and gives us to the
gallows, when the fit moves him, without any necessity
of cozening us to death in expeditions to the
gold mines, or the South Seas.”
“Señor Villafana,” said Juan, firmly, “I do not
believe that, in this thing, Cortes designed me any
wrong; nor will I permit myself to think of it any
more. You seem to have something to say to me.
Gaspar and the Indian are beyond hearing. If you
will advise me as a friend, in what manner I shall
conduct myself in this difficult conjuncture, I will
listen to you with gratitude; and with thanks more
hearty still, if you make me acquainted with a way
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
to redeem my honour and faith in the eyes of the
general.”
“I have but two things to counsel you: Make
your report of adventures, good and bad, to the
general, without words of complaint or suspicion;
and, this done, demand of him, and care not how
boldly, the restoration of your horses and armour.”
“If they be the gifts of his lady,” said Juan, with
hesitation, “methinks, it will not become me to
press this demand on him; but rather to leave it to
his own honour and generosity.”
The Alguazil gave the youth a piercing look; but
seeing in his visage no embarrassment beyond that
of a man who is debating a question of mere delicacy,
replied, coolly,—
“Ask him, then. It is not certainly known
that these horses came from Doña Catalina; and,
perhaps, they do not. Yet it will be but courteous
in thee to say, thou hast been so informed, and
that thou dost so believe. Get thy horses, by all
means: but again I say to thee, do nothing to incense
the general. If he provoke thee, show not
thy displeasure; at least, show it not now. I will
give thee more reasons for what I counsel, as we
walk through the city.”
By this time the speakers had reached the gates
of the city, where Gaspar and the Ottomi stood in
waiting for them.
-- 072 --
CHAPTER V.
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
The walls of Mexico were the foaming surges of
her lake. The cities on the shore, when much exposed
by defencelessness of site, great wealth of inhabitants,
or other causes, to the attacks of enemies,
were surrounded by walls, commonly of
earth, though sometimes, as in the case of Tezcuco,
of stone. These were, ordinarily, of no great
height or strength, but sufficient, when well manned,
to repel the assaults of the slingers and archers
of America.
The external fortifications of Tezcuco were, as
became the ancient rival of Tenochtitlan, of a more
imposing order. The walls were thick and high,
with embattled parapets, and deep ditches at the
base. The gates were protected in the manner
common to the land, by the overlapping, so to
speak, of the opposite walls; that is, being made,
as they approached each other, to change from their
straight, to a circular course, the one traversing
upon a greater radius than the other, they thus
swept by and round each other, in parallel curves,
leaving a long and narrow passage between them,
commanded not only by the walls themselves, but
by strong stone turrets, built on their extremities.
Besides these defences, there was erected within
the walls, and directly opposed to each entrance, a
small pyramid, elevated fifteen or twenty feet above
the walls, and crowned with little sanctuaries,—
thus serving a religious as well as a military
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
purpose. In the one sense, these structures might be
considered Chapels of Ease to the greater temples
of the quarters in which they stood; in the other,
they were not unlike the cavaliers, or commanding
mounds, of European fortification, from the tops
and sides of which the besieger could be annoyed,
whilst without the walls, and arrested on his course,
when within.
Thus, then, there were ready to his hands, fortifications,
of which the Spanish commander, now
the Captain-General of New Spain, as the unsubdued
Mexico was already called, was not slow to
reap the full advantage. A strong guard of Castilian
soldiers was posted before each gate; a native
watchman sat on each turret; and a line of Tlascalan
sentries, stepping proudly along in their
places of trust, occupied the lofty terrace of the
walls.
The edifices disclosed to Juan, when he had,
with his companions, passed through the staring
warders into the town, were similar to those of
Mexico,—of stone, and low, though often adorned
with turrets. In all cases, the roofs were terraced,
and covered with shrubs and flowers; and the
passion of the citizens for such delightful embellishments,
had converted many a spacious square into
gardens, wherein fluttered and warbled birds of a
thousand hues and voices.
Over these open spaces were seen, in different
quarters, the tops of high pyramids and towers,
scattered about the town in vast and picturesque
profusion.
The roaring sound of life that pervades a great
city, even when unassisted by the thundering din
of wheeled carriages, gave proof enough of the
dense multitudes that inhabited Tezcuco. The eye
detected the evidences of a population still more astonishing,
in the myriads of tawny bodies that
crowded the streets, the gardens, the temple
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
squares, and the housetops, many of whom seemed
to have no other habitation. In fact, the introduction
of the many thousands who composed the
train, or, as it was called, the Army of the Brigantines,
added to the hosts of other warriors previously
collected by Cortes, and the presence of the original
inhabitants, gave to Tezcuco that appearance
of an over-crowded, suffocating vitality, which is
presented by the modern Babylons of France and
Great Britain. The murmur of voices, the pattering
of feet, the rustling of garments, with the sounds
of instruments wielded by artisans, both native and
Christian, made, together, a din that seemed like
the roar of a tempest to the ears of one, who, like
Lerma, had just escaped from the mute hills and
the silent forests of the desert. At a distance—beheld
from the cypress-tree,—the view of Tezcuco
seemed to embrace a scene made up of tranquillity
and repose. The same thing is true of all other
cities; and the same thing may be said of human life,
when we sit aloof and contemplate the bright pageant,
in which we take no part. If we advance
and mingle with it, the picture is turned to life, the
peace to tumult, and we lose all the charms of the
prospect in the distractions of participation.
As Juan, conducted by the Alguazil, made his
way through the torrents of bodies which poured
through every street, and became more accustomed
to move among them, the excitement gradually
subsided in his breast, the colour faded from his
cheeks; and, by the time he had reached the end
of his journey, there remained no expression on his
visage beyond that of its usual and characteristic
sadness. This was deepened, perhaps, by the
scene around him; for it is the virtue of melancholy,
where it exists as a temperament, or has become
a settled trait, to be increased by the excitements
of a city or crowd. Perhaps it was darkened also
by the reflection, as he raised his eyes to the vast
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palace in which Cortes had established his head-quarters,
that among all its crowds,—the military
guards at the door, and the lounging courtiers
within,—there was not a single friend waiting to
rejoice over his return.
The house of Nezahualcojotl, who has been already
mentioned as the most famous and refined of
the Tezcucan kings, possessed but little to distinguish
it from the edifices of nobles around, except
its greatness of extent. It was a pile or cluster
of many houses built of vast blocks of basalt, well
cut and polished, surrounding divers courts and
gardens,—what might be termed the wings consisting
of but a basement story, which was relieved
from monotony by the presence of towers and battlements,
and the sculptured effigies of animals and
serpents on the walls, and particularly around the
narrow loops which served for windows. The
centre, or principal portion, had an additional story,
loftier towers, and more imposing sculptures. The
windows were carved of stone, so as to resemble
the yawning mouths of beasts of prey; the battlements
were crouching tigers; and the pillars of the
great door were palm-trees, round the trunks of
which twined two immense serpents, whose necks
met at the lintel, among the interlocking branches,
and embraced and supported a huge tablet, on
which was engraven the Aztec calendar, according
to the singular and yet just system of the ancient
native astronomers.—Sixty years after this period,
the sages of Europe discovered and adopted a mode
of adjusting the civil to the astronomical time, so
as to avoid, for the future, the confusion—the utter
disjointing of seasons—which had been the consequence
of the Julian computation. At this very
moment, the barbarians of America were in possession
of a system, which enabled them to anticipate,
and rectify by proper intercalations, the disorders
not only of years, but of cycles,—and how
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much earlier, the wisdom of civilization has not yet
divined.
On the whole, there was something not less impressive
than peculiar in the appearance of an edifice
which had sheltered a long line of Autochthonous
monarchs; and as Juan passed from the
square, in front of the artillery that commanded it,
under the folds of the mighty serpents at the door,
and into the sombre shadows of the interior, he was
struck with a feeling of awe, which was not immediately
removed even by the more stirring emotions
of the instant.
The hall, or rather vestibule, in which he now
found himself, was distinguished, rather than animated,
by the presence of many Spaniards of high
and low degree, some clustered together in groups,
some stalking to and fro in haughty solitude, while
others bustled about with an air of importance and
authority; but all, as Lerma quickly observed, preserving
a decorous silence,—conversing in whispers,
and moving with a cautious tread, as if in the
anteroom of a king, instead of the hall of a soldier-of-fortune
like themselves.
A few of them bent their eyes upon the strangers,
and stepped forward to survey their savage equipments.
The keen glances which they cast towards
him, the hurried and somewhat sonorous exclamations
with which they pointed him out to one another,
but more than all, the presence of Najara, of
Bernal Diaz, and of the stranger Camarga, among
them, convinced Juan that he was recognized.
But with this conviction came also the sickening
consciousness that not one had a smile of satisfaction
to bestow upon him in the way of welcome.
He remembered the faces of many; and, once or
twice, he raised his hand, and half stepped forward,
to meet some one or other who seemed disposed to
salute him. He was deceived; those who came
nighest, were only the most curious. They
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nodded their heads familiarly to Villafana; a few
returned the advances of Lerma with solemn and
reverential bows; but none raised up their heads
to meet the exile's advances.
“The curse of ingratitude follow you all, cold
knaves!” muttered Gaspar between his teeth. The
eyes of the Ottomi twinkled upon the groups, with
a mixture of wonder and malignant wrath. Juan
smothered his sighs, and strode onwards.
He stopped suddenly at a door, wreathed, like
the outer, with snakes, though carved of wood, over
which hung curtains of some dark and heavy texture,
and behind which, as it seemed to him, from
the murmuring of voices, was the apartment in
which the Captain-General gave audience to his
followers and the allied tribes of Mexico, who made
up what may be called, as it seemed to be considered,
his court. Here Juan paused, and turning
to the Alguazil, said, calmly, and with a low voice,
“From what I have seen and now see, I perceive,
it will not be fitting I should approach the general—
especially in these weeds, which can scarce
extenuate the coldness of my old companions,—
without the ceremony of an announcement and expressed
permission.”
“Fear not,” whispered Villafana, with a grim
smile: “thy friend Francisco will have done thee
this good turn. Remember—offend him not now:
but, still, lay claim to the horses.”
As he spoke, the Alguazil, pushed aside the curtain,
and, in a moment more, the youth was in the
presence of Cortes.
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CHAPTER VI.
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
The apartment into which Juan now found himself
introduced, was very spacious; and, indeed, had
the height of the ceiling corresponded in proportion
with the length and breadth, would have been esteemed
vast. Without being so low as to be decidedly
mean, it was yet depressed enough to show
how little the principles of taste had extended
among the natives, to the art of architecture; or,
what is equally probable, how wisely provision
was made against the earthquakes and other convulsions,
so naturally to be expected in a land of
volcanoes.
The huge rafters of cedar, carved into strange
and emblematic arabesques, were supported, at
intervals, by a double row of pillars of the most
grotesque shapes. On the walls were hung arras,
on which were painted rude scenes of battle and of
sacrifice, with hieroglyphic records of history, as
well as choice maxims of virtue and policy, selected
from the compositions of that king, who had finished,
and given name to the habitation, long since founded
by his ancestors. It was lighted in a manner
equally rare and magnificent. A considerable space
in the further or western wall, from which the tapestry
was drawn aside, was occupied by stone mullions
of strange forms, between which were fixed large
translucent blocks of alabaster, such as we now
behold in the church windows of Puebla de los
Angelos. Upon these were painted many incomprehensible
figures, which would have deformed the
beauty of the stone, but for the brilliancy and de
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licacy of their hues. As it was, the strong glare of
the evening sun, falling upon this transparent wall,
came through it, with the mellow lustre and harmonious
tints of a harvest-moon, shedding a soft but
sufficient light over the whole apartment, making
what was harsh tender, and what was lovely almost
divine.[6]
On the left hand, were several narrow doors,
opening upon a garden, which was seen, sometimes,
when the breeze stirred aside the curtains
that defended them; on the right, were others
leading to certain chambers, and carefully protected
by a similar drapery.
The floor of this hall of audience was covered
with mats stained with various colours.
At the farther extremity of the apartment stood
a group of Spanish cavaliers, surrounding a platform
of slight elevation, on which, sumptuously
dressed, and leaning upon a camoncillo, or chair of
state, stood Hernan Cortes. At his right hand, sitting
and supported by two gallant cavaliers, was his
royal godson, Ixtlilxochitl, now Don Hernan Cortes,
the king of Tezcuco;—a young man of mild aspect; at
whose feet sat his younger and more manly brother,
Suchel, from whom was afterwards derived one of
the noble families of New Spain. On the left of the
general, were two Indians of a far nobler presence,
and known by the singular loftiness of their plumes,
if not by the commanding sternness of their visages,
to be Tlascalans of high degree. They were, in
fact, the military chieftains Xicotencatl and Chichimecatl,
men of renown not only among their
tribes, but the Spaniards. Behind each stood his
page, or esquire, bearing the great shield of
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ceremony, whereon were emblazoned, in native heraldic
devices, the various exploits of his master.
Besides these distinguished barbarians, there
were others of note among the cavaliers, at the side
of the platform.
All these several details of a spectacle both romantic
and imposing, were seen by Juan at a single
glance; for, almost at the moment of his entrance,
a movement was made among those who stood on
the left of the platform, in the direction of the
great Conquistador, as if they desired to catch
something that instant falling from his lips. As
they left the view thus open, Juan saw that Cortes,
instead of speaking, was bending his head and
listening with eager interest to the señor Guzman,
who had ascended the platform, and was now
whispering in his ear. At the same moment, a
prodigiously large dog, with shaggy coat, hanging
lips, and ferocious eyes, roused by the motion of
the general, at whose feet he had been sleeping,
raised his head, and stared with the majestic gravity
of a lion, upon the speaker and his master.
There was something in the interested and agitated
eagerness with which the Captain-General
drank in the words of Guzman, that went to the
heart of Lerma. He doubted not, that Don Francisco
was, at that moment, speaking of him,—of
his return to the society of Christians, and to the
arms of his benefactor,—for such had Cortes once
been to him; and he read in the varying play of
Don Herman's features, nothing but refutation of
the malign charges of Villafana, and full proof that
the general was not indifferent to the friend of
former years.
As these thoughts entered his mind, he rushed
forward, under their impulse, with clasped hands,
and with an exclamation that brought the looks of
all instantly upon him. The huge dog raised himself
half up from the platform, and uttered a savage
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growl. He advanced yet another step, and the
ferocious beast, with a roar that filled the whole
chamber, dashed furiously from the platform, as
against an enemy not to be doubted. The young
man paused, but not at the opposition of the animal:
he had, that moment, caught the eye of Don
Hernan, and his heart failed as he beheld the frown
of rage, and, as it seemed to him, hate, with which
he was regarded.
“Down, Befo!” cried Cortes, with a voice of
thunder.
But Befo, who had leaped forward with such
ferocious determination, had, that instant, stopped
before Juan, whom he now eyed with a look of
wonder and recognition. Then, suddenly fetching
such a yelp of joy as would have better become the
playmate-cur of a child, than the grim blood-hound
of a soldier, he raised up his vast body, flung his
paws upon Juan's breast, and strove, evidently, to
throw them round his body, in the mode of human
embrace, whining all all the time with the most expressive
delight.
“Down, Befo! Thick-lips! thou cub of a false
wolf!” repeated the general, irefully, yet with an
expression that would have suited better, had he
been commanding him to tear the youth to pieces;
“Down, fool, down! I will stick thee with my rapier.”
As he spoke, he half drew his sword from the
scabbard.
“Harm him not,—call him not away,” cried
Juan, with a thick voice; “for by heaven and St.
Mary, he is all, of a troop of Christian men, once
my friends, who have any joy to see an old companion
return from bonds and the grave!”
As the young man spoke, he flung his arms
round the neck of the faithful beast, and bending
his head upon Befo's face, gave way to a passion
of tears.
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“The shame of foul knaves and false companions
be on you all!” cried the flaming Gaspar, without
a whit regarding the presence in which he spake,
His wrath was cut short, before it had been noticed
by any but the Ottomi, who stood gaping, at a distance,
with looks of visible alarm, first excited by
the appearance of the dog.
Among most of the cavaliers now present, Juan
had been once well known; and however their affections
might be chilled and their respect destroyed, by
untoward circumstances, there was something so
painfully reproachful in the spectacle of his tears,
that a strong impression was immediately produced
among them. All seemed, at once, to remember,
that he had been once esteemed, notwithstanding
his youth, of a bold heart and manly bearing; and
all seemed to remember also, that fourteen months'
suffering among unknown pagans, was worthy of
some little commiseration.
But there was one present of more fiery feelings
and determination more hasty than any of the
Christians. The elder and taller of the Tlascalan
chiefs, distinguished as much by a haughty and
darkly frowning visage as by an Herculean frame,
stepped down from the platform, and laid his hand
upon Juan's shoulder; in which position he stood,
without speaking a word, but expressing in his
countenance the spirit of one who avowed himself
a patron and champion. The tall plume rustled
like a waving palm, as he raised up his head, and
the look that he cast upon Cortes, seemed to mingle
defiance with disdain. But this hostile expression
was perhaps concealed by the approach of a cavalier
of gallant appearance, who stepped suddenly
from the throng, and snatching up Juan's left hand
from the dog's neck, cried with hasty good-will,
“Santiago! (and the devil take all of us that
have no better hearts than a cur or a wild Indian!)
I know no reason, certainly, why thou shouldst be
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treated like a dog. God be with thee, Juan Lerma!
I am glad thou art alive; God bless thee: and so
hold up thy head. If thou hast no better raiment,
I will give thee my fustian breeches and liver-coloured
mantle, as well as a good sword of iron,
which I have to spare.”
This quick-spoken and benevolent cavalier was
no less a man than the gallant Don Pedro de Alvarado,
at this time called, almost universally, in
memory of his famous leap over the ditch of Tacuba,
in the Night of Sorrow, the Capitan del Salto-
He gave place to another of still greater renown,
who would have been perhaps the first to extend
his hand, had he been as hasty of resolution as his
more mercurial comrade. This was the good
cavalier Don Gonzalo de Sandoval, better esteemed
for his skill in arms than any peculiar elegance of
conversation.
“Juan Lerma,” said he, “I am not sorry thou art
alive and well; and if thou wilt make any use of
the same, to put thee into more Christian bravery,
I will pray thee to take my gold chain, as well as
six good cotton shirts, which an Indian woman
made me.”
To these friendly salutations and bountiful offers,
as well as the advances of other cavaliers who now
bustled around him, Juan replied with a manner
more expressive of indignation than gratitude. He
was ashamed of having exposed his weakness, and
sensible that it was this alone which had obtained
him a charitable notice. He raised his head proudly,
as one who would not accept such compelled kindness,
pushed Befo to the floor, though still keeping
a hand upon his neck, acknowledged the presence
of Xicotencal with a word, and turned towards
Cortes a countenance now quite composed, though
not without a touch of sorrowful resentment.
The emotion which had produced such an impression
among the cavaliers, was not without its
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
effect even upon the Captain-General. His features
relaxed their angry severity, he stepped forwards;
and when Juan lifted up his eyes, he beheld a hand
extended towards him, and heard the voice of Cortes
say, in tones of concession, though of embarrassment,
“God be with you—you do us wrong in this
matter: as a Christian man escaped from bondage,
we are not unrejoiced to see you: as a soldier returning
from a delayed duty, we will declare our
thoughts of you anon.”
There was nothing very gracious either in the
words or tones of the speaker; but they were unexpected.
They swept away the proud and angry
resolutions of Juan, and restored to him the warm
feelings of affection and gratitude, with which he
had ever been accustomed to regard the general.
He seized the proffered hand, pressed it to his lips,
and seemed about to throw himself at Don Hernan's
feet, when suddenly a noise was heard at a
curtained door hard by, accompanied by what
seemed the smothered shriek of a woman. At this
sound the young man started up, with a look of
fear, and yielded up the hand which was abruptly
snatched from his own. He gazed round him and
plainly beheld the thick cloth before the nearest
passage, shaking, as if disturbed by the recent passage
of some one,—but nothing else. He perceived
no new countenance added to those of the many in
audience, which were directed upon his own, with
an universal stare of wonder. His attention was
recalled by the voice of Cortes. He turned; the
general was seated; a stern and iron gravity had
taken the place of relenting feeling on his visage;
and it was evident to the unfortunate Juan, that the
hour of reconciliation had passed away, and for
ever. The cavaliers retreated,—the Tlascalan and
the dog were all that remainded by his side; and, as
if to make his disgrace both undeniable and
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intolerable, the señor Guzman maintained, throughout
the whole scene, his post at the general's side, confronted
face to face with his fallen rival.
“We are ready to hear thee, Juan Lerma,” said
the Captain-General, with a voice at once cold and
commanding: “you went hence, to explore the
lands of the west, and the sea that rolls among
them. We argue much success, and great discoveries,
from the time devoted to these purposes,
and from the discretion you evinced in pursuing
them for a whole year and more, rather than by
returning with your forces, to share in the dangerous
fights of Mexico. What have you to say?
You had some good followers, both Christian and
unconverted.—Stand thou aloof, Gaspar Olea! I
will presently speak with thee.—Hast thou brought
none back with thee but the Barba-Roxa,—Gaspar
of the Red Beard?”
There was not a word in this address which did
not sting the young man to the heart; and the insulting
insinuation which a portion of it conveyed,
was uttered in a tone of the most cutting sarcasm.
He trembled, reddened, clenched his hand in the
shaggy coat of Befo,—who still, though beckoned
by Cortes, refused to leave the exile,—until the animal
whined with pain. Then, smothering his emotions,
like one who perceives that he is wronged, and,
knowing that complaint will be unavailing, is resolute
to suffer with fortitude, he elevated his lofty
figure with tranquil dignity, looked upon Cortes
with an aspect no longer reproachful, and replied,
“Besides Gaspar, who is worthy of your excellency's
confidence and thanks, no one returns with
me save the Ottomi, Ocelotzin,—the Tiger; a man
to whom should be accorded the praise of having
saved the life of Gaspar, which is valuable to your
exceliency, and my own,—which is worthless.”
As he spoke, he pointed to the ancient barbarian,
who stepped forward with the same affectionate
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smiles and grimaces which he had bestowed upon
the party at the cypress-tree, and with many uncouth
gestures of reverence, saying, in imperfect
Castilian, after he had touched the floor with his
hand, and then kissed it,
“Ottomi I,—good friend, good rascal; but Ocelotzin
no more. I am Techeechee,[7] the Silent Dog,—
the little dog without voice,—Techeechee!”
As he spoke, he cast his eyes, with less of love
than admiring fear, upon the gigantic beast, whose
voice was to him, as well as to his countrymen,
more terrible than the yell of the mountain tiger.
“I remember thee,good fellow,” said the Captain-General.
Then, without bestowing any further present notice
on him, he turned again to Juan, speaking with
the same cold and magisterial tones:
“And where, then, are the two Christians of La
Mancha, and the seventy warriors of Matlatzinco,
who composed your party? the arms you carried?
and the four good horses entrusted to your
charge?”
“Your excellency shall hear,” said Juan, calmly:
“The two Manchegos were ill inclined to the expedition;
and therein were my followers but unfortunately
selected.”
“They were mutineers!” cried Gaspar, whose
anger was not mollified by being made a witness
to the ill fate of his young captain: “they were
mutineers; and so the devil has them.”
“Hah!” exclaimed Cortes, starting up, with what
seemed angry joy: “didst thou dare arrogate the
privileges of a judge, and condemn a Christian man
to death?”
“I am guiltless of such presumption,” said Juan.
“To their dissatisfaction, to their disobedience,—
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nay, to their frequent threats, and open disregard
of the commands your excellency had yourself imposed
upon us, not to provoke the Indians among
whom we might be journeying,—I adjudged no
punishment but the assurance that your excellency
should certainly be made acquainted with their acts.
With much persuasion, I prevailed upon them to
follow me, until we had reached the sea, which it
was your excellency' command I should first examine.”
“Ay!” said Cortes, again starting up, but with
an air of exultation; “thou hast found it then? and
a port that may give shelter to ships of burthen?”
“Not one port only, but many,” said Juan, with
a faltering voice, mistaking the satisfaction of the
leader for approbation. “In a space of seventy
leagues, (for so much of the coast was I able to
survey,) there are many harbours, exceedingly
spacious, deep and secure; and some of such excellence,
that I question whether the world contains
any others to equal them. Near to some, there is
much good ship timber, as well as lands amazingly
fertile and beautiful.”
“This is well,” said the Captain-General, coldly.
“Thou hast well devoted a year of time to the examination
of seventy leagues of coast.”
“Had that been the only subject of your excellency's
orders,” said Lerma, “you should have had
no cause for dissatisfaction. This accomplished, it
became me, as your excellency had commanded,
to explore those gold lands to the northwest, and
discover that kingdom of Huitzitzila, as it was erroneously
called by Montezuma, which bordered
upon his dominions, and had ever maintained its
independence by force of arms.”
At these words, many of the cavaliers looked
surprised, as if made acquainted with this article
of Juan's instructions for the first time, and some
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exchanged meaning glances, which were not lost
on Cortes. He frowned, and hastily exclaimed,
“You are wrong; I commanded you not. That
kingdom being at enmity with Mexico, it was not
fit your lives should be endangered, by rashly adventuring
within its confines. You were advised,
if you should find we had been deceived in the
character of those infidels of Huitzitzila, to make
yourself acquainted with them and their country:
but this was left to your discretion.”
“It is true,” said Juan mildly, “your excellency
did so advise me; and the fault which I committed
was in thinking that I should best please you, by
penetrating to that land, without much thought of
difficulty or danger. In this, as in other things, as
Gaspar will be my witness, I was opposed by those
unhappy Manchegos; who deserted from me in the
night, carrying with them, (to replace a horse which
they had lost in a river,) the charger which your
excellency had given to me for my own riding,—as
well as their arquebuses,—which was still more
unfortunate; for Gaspar's piece had been broken
by a fall, and we were thus left without firearms,
with but one horse, and no better weapon to procure
us food, than mine own crossbow, and the arrows
of the Matlatzincos.”
“Now, by my conscience,” said Cortes, “I know
not which the more to admire,—the good vigilance
that allowed these knaves to escape, or the rash-brained
folly which led you to continue the expedition
without them!”
The sarcasm produced no change in Juan's
visage. He seemed to have made up his mind not
only to endure injustice, but to expect it.
“Their desertion was neither unforeseen nor unopposed,”
he answered. “It is my grief to say, that
they forgot the obligations both of discipline and
Christianity, and desperately fired upon Gaspar
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and myself; whereby they killed our remaining
horse, and wounded myself in the side.”
“And where then were thy knavish Indians, that
thou didst not slay the false traitors on the spot?”
cried Cortes, with an indignation, which, this time,
had the right direction.
The answer to this added but another item of
mischance to the young man's story. The arts of
the Manchegos had spread disaffection among his
Indian followers, many of whom had deserted with
them. Following after the mutineers, he was,
shortly after, abandoned by the rest; and then
his little party, consisting only of Gaspar and the
Ottomi, was attacked, by hostile tribes, driven back
upon the path, and finally forced to take refuge in
the dominions of that native monarch, whose reputed
grandeur and wealth had so long since excited
the curiosity of Don Hernan.
The relation of Lerma, though of such thrilling
interest that it absorbed the attention of all present,
and even so wrought upon the mind of Cortes, that
he gradually discharged the severity of his countenance,
and even at last ceased altogether to interrupt
it with sarcasm or commentary of any kind, has too
little, or at least too indirect a connexion with the
present history, to require it to be given in the exile's
words, or at any length. With the main facts,—his
long captivity and final escape,—the reader is already
acquainted; and it is not perhaps necessary to add
more than that the kingdom of which so much has
been said, was that of Mechoacan, and that its
capital Tzintzontzan, (the Place of Hummingbirds,)
corrupted by the Mexicans into Huitzitzila, lies yet,
though dwindled into the meanest of villages, upon
the beautiful lake Pascuaro. Juan knew nothing of
the fate of the Manchegos. By a comparison of
dates, it was discovered that the sudden outbreaking
of hostilities, which had driven him into this remote
land, had followed almost immediately upon
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the tumults in Mexico, which had resulted in the
death of Montezuma and the expulsion of the Spaniards;
and it was not doubted, that the mutineers
had met a miserable and speedy death. With the
account of lands of unexampled beauty and fertility,
of rivers of gold and hills of silver, we have nothing
to do, except to remark that it determined
the fate of Mechoacan as certainly as if the order
had been uttered for its immediate subjugation. The
whole account might have been omitted, except that
it was necessary, as the means of explaining some
of the feelings with which the young Lerma was regarded
by the general and his chief followers.
There is no eloquence so persuasive as that of
distress, uttered without complaint; and no story
of hardship and peril fails of exciting sympathy,
when recounted with truth and modesty. Accordingly,
the narrative of the exile produced among
the cavaliers a powerful impression in his favour,
which was heightened into admiration by the consciousness
that nothing but the greatest constancy
of purpose, and mental resources beyond those of
ordinary men, could have conducted him through his
long and perilous enterprise. Many of those, who
seemed to remember with most interest the breach
between the general and one who had been formerly
considered almost his adopted son, kept
their eyes curiously bent on Cortes; and they did
not doubt, from the changes of his countenance,
that his better feelings were deeply engaged, and
would perhaps restore the young man to the confidence
and affection which all knew he had lost.
This belief became universal, when, at the close of
the story, the Captain-General arose, and addressing
the throng, said,
“Cavaliers and friends, we will free all present
from the tedium of this audience, saving only the
gentlemen of the Secret Counsel, and these our returned
friends.—Nay, by my faith, Gaspar of the
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[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
Red Beard, thou mayst depart likewise, to speak
thy adventures to thine old friends, which thou art
doubtless itching to do; or, if thou likest that better,
get thee to Antonio de Quinones, our Master of the
Armory, and choose thyself a good sword, buckler
and breastplate. Thou art a true soldier, and, by
and by, I have somewhat to say to thee.—The
knave has the gait of an infidel!”
At this signal for breaking up the audience,
which was pronounced with the grave and easy
authoritativeness of one long accustomed to command,
the individuals present, Christian and heathen,
princes, chieftains, and cavaliers, took their
departure, leaving behind them Sandoval, Alvarado,
and a few other officers of high standing.
As Juan stood, embarrassed between hope and
doubt, the señor Guzman descended from the platform,
and, passing him, said with a low voice and
a derisive smile,
“You mount, señor, and Bobadil neighs for
you! It is better—the war is equal.”
So saying, he passed on.
eaf015v1.n6[6] Windows of this rich material were discovered in a
Roman villa at Pompeii. The effect of a lamp in an alabaster
vase will be familiar to the reader.
eaf015v1.n7[7] Techichi—a native animal of the dog kind, which does
not bark. It was domesticated.
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CHAPTER VII.
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“Señor Juan Lerma,” said Cortes, when the last
of the assemblage had reluctantly departed:—He
had descended from the platform, and spoke with
a voice, which, if not decidedly friendly, was, at
least, free from every trace of sternness:—“Señor
Juan Lerma, I have to say, that for the result of
your enterprise, however it has been attended by
calamity, you deserve both thanks and honours;
and it will rest upon your own determination whether
you shall obtain them or not. Some things
there are, growing out of this affair, of which it becomes
me to speak; and thereby I shall give you
an opportunity to remove certain stains not yet
washed from your good name; and after that, to
take off others that are thought to attach to mine.
Hast thou not heard of those fierce and fatal wars,
that broke out in Mexico shortly after thy departure.”
“I have,” said Juan; “the king's spies brought
the news to Tzintzontzan; and they were not only
lamentable to hear, but they caused us to be cast
into cages, and devoted, as we feared, to die the
death of sacrifice: For know, señor, the sanguinary
Mexitli is the god of all this land.”
“And hadst thou no suspicion, before departing,
that these wars were brewing, and threatening us
with destruction? Thou wert somewhat quicker in
catching the heathen tongue than others, and wert
not without counsellors and friends even among
the household of Montezuma.”
To this demand, the young man, though
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embarrassed by the innuendo that followed it, did not
hesitate to answer:
“I had such suspicions, and I made them known
to your excellency.”
“You did indeed,” said Cortes, musingly; “and
I derided them, being somewhat heated at the time:
but counsel to an irritated temper is even sharper
than salt on a wounded skin.—This knowledge,
señor,” he went on, “some will impute to thee as
good reason why thou shouldst loiter fourteen
months in the wilderness, to avoid sharing in our
perils, which were somewhat more horrible than
have ever before beset Christian men.”
“This,” said Juan, firmly, and a little dryly, for
there was something in the tone of the speaker,
which, though he knew not why, impressed him
unpleasantly,—“this is to make me a coward,
which your excellency will not believe me to be.”
“By my conscience, no!” said Cortes, with emphasis.
“Without much thought of this present
expedition of which we speak, there is no man will
accuse thee of fear, who has heard of thy voyage
in the fusta. By my conscience, a most mad piece
of daring!” he continued as if in admiration, although
it was observable, that, while he spoke, his
countenance darkened, as though there were some
disagreeable thought associated with the recollection.
“No,” he went on, “there will be more said
of anger and ambition than of terror. Thou knowest,
we have envy and detraction about us, that
spare none. I can hear, already, how Villafana
and other knaves of his peevish, malicious temper,
will speak of thee.—They will speak of thy causes
for resentment, of the promised favour of the plotting
king, a principality among the lakes, with the
hope of loftier succession, and the hand of the
princely Maiden of the Star,—”
“And this,” cried Juan, interrupting the general,
“this is to make me a traitor and apostate!
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Señor, I doubt not that the señor Guzman is at the
bottom of all this slander: and I therefore claim to
defie,—”
“Peace! wilt thou put thyself in opposition again?
If thou dost but raise thy hand in wrath, save
against an infidel enemy, thou wert better never
to have been born!”
The sudden sternness with which these words
were uttered, checked the impetuosity of the youth,
and filled him again with anxious forebodings. The
general, instantly resuming the milder tones with
which he had spoken before, continued,
“So much will be said of thee. Before I offer thee
my hand, in token that I desire to forget everything
of the past, but that I once truly loved thee, and
before I propose to thee a new and honourable
duty,—hear,—not what will be, but what has been
said of myself, in relation to thine expedition and to
thee.”
Here the general paused a moment, eyeing the
youth intently, as if to read his most secret
thoughts; then continuing, he said, with the utmost
gravity,
“It has been said of me, señor Juan Lerma, that
I sent thee upon thy enterprise of the South Seas,
in the malicious thought that the blow of savages
might execute the sentence of vengeance I cared
not to commit to a Christian assassin. What
thinkest thou of this?”
“Even that it is the blackest and insanest of
slanders; and that it shows me, I have little cause
to marvel at my own loss of credit, when I find
that malice can aim even at your excellency's.
Whatever may have been your anger, I never believed
your excellency would conceal it, much less
expend it, in secret vengeance upon a feeble wretch
like myself.”
“Thou hast but little worldly knowledge,” said
the Captain-General, half smiling, “or thou wouldst
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know, that revenge is of a reptile's nature, crawling
rather in secret among dark thickets than openly
over sunny plains, and none the less venomous,
that it can lie half a year torpid. Neither put thou
much trust in innocent looks; which, to a shrewd
eye, are like sea-water,—the smoother they lie,
the deeper can they be looked into.”
Having pronounced these metaphorical maxims
with much gravity, his eye all the time bent on the
youth, Cortes paused for a moment, as if for a reply;
when, receiving none, for, in truth, Juan, not
well comprehending them, knew not what to answer,
he continued,
“Let us understand one another. There has
been strife between us,—strife and ill-will. I have
perhaps done you injustice: I thought I had cause.
By my conscience, young man, I once loved you
very well—I have been sorry for you.”
“I have deserved your displeasure,” said Juan,
hurriedly, moved by the earnestness with which
the general spoke; “but, I hope, not beyond forgiveness.”
“Surely not, surely not,” said Cortes; “but what
I may forget as thy friend, I am still bound to consider
as thy general. I am now the king's officer,
and it becomes me, forgetting all private feelings,
to know no friends but those who approve themselves
true and valuable servants of his majesty.
In this character, I must remember some of thy
past acts with disfavour; but in both, it is not improper
I should desire thou shouldst have opportunity
fully to retrieve thy good name, and, in spite of
envy and detraction, to deserve such friendship as
I have shown thee in former years.”
The exile pondered a moment over the words of
the general, in more indecision than before. They
spoke of friendship and kindness, and seemed to
offer an apology for severity that was rather official
than personal; and yet, in this apology, was a
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degree of reproach, of which it appeared Cortes's
resolution to keep him always sensible. Nevertheless,
this very tone of complaint served to soothe
the little exasperation of feelings which had remained
in Juan's breast, while smarting under a sense of
wrong and injustice. Anger both irritates and hardens
the heart; reproach softens, while it distresses.
It seemed obvious to Juan, that Cortes, while apprizing
him that a full reconciliation had not yet
taken place, was willing, nay anxious, that it
should. He answered therefore with the greatest
fervour,
“If your excellency will but show me in what
manner I may regain your favour—at least your
belief that I have not wantonly rejected it—I call
heaven to witness, I will remember it as such an
act of kindness as that which this must ever keep
me in memory of.”
As he spoke, he touched with his finger a rapier-scar
on his right breast, which the narrowness
and peculiar fashion of his mantle scarcely enabled
him to conceal, even when so disposed.
At this sight, Cortes seemed disordered, if not
offended, saying after striding to and fro for an
instant,
“Let these follies be forgotten! Bury the past,
and think only of the future. It is true, I avenged
thy wrong—It gives me no pleasure to remember
it.—Did I think this, when I made thee my son,—
fed thee at my board, lodged thee on my couch,
advanced thee, honoured thee, fought thy battles?
did I think this? Pho! Juan Lerma, thou hast not
repaid me well!”
“Señor!” said Juan, surprised and confounded
by the sudden and reproachful bitterness of these
words; “when I presumed to speak to you in opposition
to your measures, it was with the boldness—
the folly—of affection, jealous for your excellency's—
your excellency's—”
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“Honour!” said Cortes, sharply. “Let us speak
of this no more. To business, señor, to business.
Leave mine honour to mine own keeping: thou
wilt find, I have it even in my thoughts. To
business, to business. What say ye, Councillors?—
Wilt thou truly steal my dog from me? If you
rob me of naught else, it is no matter.—What say
you, señor Capitan Del Salto? what say you, Sandoval?
Is this young man fit to be entrusted with
a captain's command? He was a good Cornet.—
Can we confide to him a duty of danger and trust?
His pilgrimage to the Hummingbird-land, methinks,
was well conducted. What say you? I have a
goodly thought for him—But I will abide your better
judgment.”
“By St. James,” said Alvarado, “there is no
braver lad in the army; and were he but of clear
hidalgo lineage, I should say, give him a command
with the best. But here is my thought: he is a
good sailor, especially in piraguas and galleys: give
him a brigantine. I will crave to have him in the
squadron attached to mine own division.”
“In my mind,” said Sandoval, “he is good for
the land service. It is needful we revenge the
death of Salcedo and his eighty loons, who suffered
themselves to be killed before Tochtepec. Lerma
has the love of the dog Xicotencal, who loves nobody
else. He can follow the young señor, with
some twenty thousand or so of his bare-legs; and
they can take the town among them.”
“A good thought,” said Cortes, “a good thought:
for this is a command which, nobody coveting,
there will be none to envy. What sayst thou,
señor Lerma? wilt thou adventure upon a deed
thought to be both dangerous and desperate?
Choose for thyself: I will compel thee to nothing.
I tell thee the truth.—No captain seeks after this
employment, and three have refused, except upon
condition that I give them, besides as many Indians
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as they can raise, three hundred picked Spaniards.
Thou canst not look for more than twenty, with
some five or six horsemen.”
The eyes of the exile sparkled.
“Your excellency honours me.”
“Never think so; deceive not thyself,” said
Cortes, with apparent frankness. “The enterprise
is dangerous, nay, as I have said, desperate; and
by my conscience, it will be said of it, as of the
South Sea journey, that it is devised for thy ruin.—
If I honour thee, I must suffer thereby: no evil
can happen to thee, that will not be maliciously imputed
to wicked and premeditated design. By my
conscience, there are many who think me but a
hangman in disguise!”
“I hope your excellency will not think of these
things,” said Juan, fervently. “I will do battle
with any one who presumes—”
“Peace: have I not told thee already that the
duel is forbidden under heavy penalties? I swear
to thee, they shall be enforced, in all cases of disobedience,
were it upon my own brother.—I tell thee
again, I can advance thee to no service which will
not make me the mark of slander. There are fools
about us, who, I know not why, have tortured anger
into hatred, and will now interpret good-will
into malignant treachery. But I care not for this:
the tall tree catches the bolts that pass by the underwood,—
the rock that rises above the sea, is
lashed by breakers, while the grovellers at the bottom
lie in tranquillity. It is thus with the condition
of man;—peace abides with the lowly, envy
shoots arrows at the high. Think of this, think
of this, Juan Lerma, when thou hearest me maligned.”
“I shall not need,” said Juan. “The more dangerous
the duty, the more must I thank your excellency
for your confidence. I beseech, therefore,
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that I may be permitted to undertake this present
enterprise.”
“Wilt thou march them on foot, and with no better
arms than thy Indian battle-axe and buckler?”
demanded the general, gravely.
“I have heard,” said Juan, with hesitation, “that
your excellency has in charge certain horses and
arms, which of right are mine, as being the gifts of
a bountiful friend.”
“It is even so,” said Cortes, “and the restoration
of them, which thou canst justly claim, will
cause some heart-burnings. I must crave your
pardon for having presumed to bestow them away,
as though they had been mine own property.”
“Under your favour,” said Juan, “considering
that they were the gifts of your excellency's ever
honoured and beloved lady—”
“Ha!” cried Cortes, with a darkening visage,
“what fiend possessed thee with this impertinent
conceit?”
“I beg your excellency's pardon for my presumption,”
said Juan, “which was indeed caused
no more by rumour than by a belief that there was
no other being in the world, who could thus far
have befriended me.”
“Why then,” said Cortes, “if thou knowest not
the donor, it is the more remarkable; for nobody
else does. Very strange! Two horses, the worst
of which is worth full nine hundred crowns, and
Bobadil almost priceless;—a suit of armour so well
chosen to thy stature, that never a man of us all
but is as loose in the cuirass as a shrivelled walnut
in the shell,—all very positively sent to thee from
Santiago,—for thee, señor, and for nobody else!”
“They are saint's gifts,” said Alvarado, devoutly:
“the young man has suffered much, and has found
favour with heaven.”
“Señor,” said Juan, mildly, “you are jesting with
me. I will hope, by and by, to discover this
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benevolent patron. What I have to say now, is that
my wants will be content with but one of the
horses; the return of which will cause your excellency
no trouble,—the same being in the hands of
the señor Guzman, who has already signified his
intention to restore him.”
“Ha! has he so, indeed? Why thy very enemies
have become thy friends!”
“As for the armour, señor,” continued the youth,
without thinking fit to notice the latter exclamation,
“I will make no claim to it, if you have bestowed
it away. A simple morion and breastplate,—
or indeed a good cap and doublet of escaupil, if
iron be scarce,—will content me, provided I have
but a good sword and steed.”
“Thou shalt have both,” said Cortes, “and the
plate-mail also; which being somewhat too gigantic
for any cavalier, and too good for a common
soldier, I have preserved, thinking some day to bestow
it upon the Tlascalan Xicotencal.—Thou art
not loath to undertake this business? I will give
thee a day to think of it.”
“Not an hour, señor,” said Juan, ardently.
“Give me but time to exchange these heathen
weeds and sandals for good armour and a war-horse,
and I will depart instantly, with whatsoever
force you may think fit to entrust to me.”
“Art thou really, then, so hot after danger?”
“God is my protection,” said Juan; “I thank
heaven, that this duty is the most dangerous your
excellency could charge me with: it is, for that reason,
the most honourable.”
“Sayst thou so?” cried the Captain-General,
quickly. “There is one duty, at least, I could impose
upon thee, which thou wouldst not be so hasty
to accept? No, faith; for the very name of it has
caused the boldest soldier in the army to turn pale.—
Get thee to the armory; rest and refresh thyself:
to-morrow thou shalt to Tochtepec.”
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“Señor, for your love I will do what others will
not: I have years of benefaction to repay. I claim
to be appointed to that task which is so dreadful to
others.”
“By my conscience, no,” said Don Hernan:
“this would be sending thee to execution indeed.
And yet I know none so well fitted as thyself:
Thou art fearless, cunning, discreet,—at least thou
canst be so; and thou art a master of the barbarous
language, I think?”
“Your excellency once commended the success
with which I laboured to acquire it: my year's
wanderings in the west have made it familiar to
me almost as the tongue of Castile.”
“It is a good endowment,” said Cortes. “What
thinkest thou of an embassage to Tenochtitlan?”
As he spoke, pronouncing each word with deliberate
emphasis, he bent his eyes searchingly on
Juan, and a smile crept over his features, as he perceived
the young man lose colour and start.
“The man that would do me that duty,” he continued,
gravely, “would indeed deserve well, not
only of myself, but of his majesty, the king of Spain.
But think not I mean to overtask thee,—or that I
seriously designed to try thee with this rack of probation.—
There are bounds to the courage of us
all.”
“Your excellency mistakes me,” said Juan, dispelling
all emotion with a single effort, and speaking
with a voice as firm as it was serious: “if there
be but one good can come of such an embassy—”
“There might be many,” said the general, “not
the least of which would be the conquest of the city,
and thereby of the whole land, without the loss of
Christian lives. Could I but find speech with the
prince Guatimozin, I have that which will move him
to peaceful submission. But this is impossible.”
“Again your excellency is deceived,” said Juan,
with the composure of one who has taken his
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resolution. “I will do your bidding,—I will carry your
message to Mexico.”
“Pho! I did but jest with thee. Three Indian
envoys have I sent already: the infidel slew them
all.”
“And cannot your excellency answer why?
Your envoys were Indians,—your excellency's allies,
but his subjects, who, in the act of alliance, had
committed the crimes of treason and rebellion; for
which he punished them with death, as seemed to
him right and just. A Spanish ambassador would
be received with greater respect, and perhaps dismissed
without injury. I will not, with a boastful
vanity, proclaim that I fear nothing; but such fears
as I have, are not enough to deter me; and again
I say, I will do your bidding.”
“My bidding!” cried Cortes; “I bid thee not;
heaven forfend I should bid thee any such thing.
But if thou really thinkest the danger is not great,—
if thou art so persuaded—” He paused; his eyes
sparkled; he strode to and fro in disorder. Then
suddenly halting, he exclaimed, with a faint laugh,
“No, by my conscience! no, by heaven! no, by St.
James of Compostella! thou art the bravest fool of
all, but thou shalt not die the death of a dog! I will
not catch thee with tiger-traps!”
To these extraordinary expressions, Juan answered
with emotion, but still with unvarying resolution,
“I wait your excellency's orders. I fear not
death; I am alone in the world;—father or mother,
brother or sister, kinsman or friend, there is not
one to lament me, should I come to disaster. If I
live, I will, as your excellency has said, have saved
the effusion of Christian blood; if I die, heaven will
remember the motive, and none will miss me.—I
will go to Tenochtitlan.”
“Thou art a fool,” said Alvarado. “Señor
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Captain-General, this embassy may not be; I protest
against it. The world will cry shame on us.”
“I do oppose the same,” said Sandoval, “as being
the wilful throwing away of a Christian life.”
The other cavaliers present were about to add
their voices against the measure, when Cortes cut
them short by saying, sternly,
“Are ye all mad, señores? Think ye, this thing
was said seriously? I did but try the young man's
mettle, and I do think he hath somewhat less of
gaingiving about him, as well as much more folly,
than any one here present. I must get me an ambassador;
but, Juan Lerma, thou art not the
man.”
“To my thought,” said Sandoval, “this old Indian,
Ocelotzin, will be a much safer emissary.”
Apparently the Ottomi, who had listened throughout
the whole conference with great attention, and
who understood just enough of it to know the course
that affairs were taking, did not at all relish the
suggestion of Sandoval. He started, flung the gray
curtain of hair from his visage, and began to pour
forth a torrent of such objurgations and remonstrances
as he could find Spanish to express:
“I am not Ocelotzin, the Tiger,” he exclaimed;
“very weak and old I am,—no claw, no tooth, no
roar.”—And here the barbarian, by way of confirming
his speech, set up a yell, so wild, shrill, and
hideous, that the cavaliers started back, catching
at their swords in alarm, and two or three soldiers
from the ante-room rushed in, as if apprehending
some act of treason. But the dog Befo, who had
hitherto maintained his post at the feet of Lerma,
now rubbing against his knees, now rearing
against his breast, and sometimes, when pushed
down and too long neglected, expressing his impatience
or affection, by extending his vast jaws, as if
to swallow the hand that repelled him,—the dog
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Befo heard the cry of the savage with such indignation
as he would have bestowed upon the howl
of a rival. He replied with a lion-like growl, and
stalking up to the Ottomi, he stood watching him,
ever and anon writhing his lips so as to disclose his
huge fangs, and seemed waiting the signal to attack,
greatly to the terror of the orator.
A wave of the general's hand dismissed the intruding
soldiers from the apartment; and at the
voice of Lerma, the dog returned to him.
“I am Techeechee,” said the orator, resuming
his discourse, but with tones greatly subdued; “I
am Techeechee, the Silent Dog,—the Silent Dog I
am; Techeechee, the Silent Dog,—the Silent Dog
I am.—Techeechee.”—
All this time, he kept his eyes fixed upon Befo as
if dreading an assault; and, in fact, his solicitude
had somewhat overpowered his mind, so that he
continued for some moments to reiterate the above
phrases, without any seeming consciousness of
their absurdity. At last, he fell into his vernacular
language, and this happily releasing him from his
trammels, he poured forth, with amazing volubility,
a string of sounds, so harsh, guttural, inarticulate,
and unearthly, that they seemed rather the basso
chatterings of an ape than the meaning accents of
a human being.
“What says the knave?” cried Cortes.
“He says,” replied Juan, “that he is the little
dumb dog of the hills, and will harm nobody; that
Montezuma was a big dog, like Befo, (wherein he
lies,) and that Guatimozin the prince is bigger still,
and will eat him,—which is to be understood figuratively.
He says, he is the Little Dog, and therefore
not fit to be an ambassador; but—Ha! what
sayst thou, Techeechee?”—
The young man spoke to the Ottomi in his own
tongue, and receiving an answer, turned immediately
to Cortes, saying,
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“It becomes me to inform your excellency of his
words; for savage though he be, this old man I
have ever found to be marvellously shrewd, as well
as faithful. It is his opinion, that the prince Guatimozin
would not injure me, if I went on the embassy;
wherefore, I beg your excellency to reconsider
your resolution. He says, too, he will go
with me.”
“Your destiny, señor, is to the rebellious and
bloody town Tochtepec,” replied the general, quickly
and decidedly.”
“He adds,” continued Juan, “that he is Techeechee
and no ambassador; but that he is cousin to
Quimichin, the Ground Rat, and that he will be
your spy,—for quimichin is the word by which
they express a spy throughout the whole land.”
“I am Techeechee; I will be Quimichin,” said
the Indian, as if to confirm the words of Juan, and
twisting his withered features into a smile, that was
meant to express both cunning and affection.
“Dost thou think him faithful?” said Cortes. “I
will find service for him. But go, amigo! I have
kept thee till thou art as faint and weary as myself.
Get thee to Quinones, and the armory.
Make thy preparations and take thy rest. I will
see thee on the morrow—perhaps to-night, and acquaint
thee with thy force and instructions. God
be with you—Nay, heed not the dog—Adieu,
señores—He has much of your own fidelity, roam
he never so much. Take him with you.”
When the last of the cavaliers had departed from
the chamber, the Captain-General, stepped upon the
platform, and throwing himself into the chair of
state, sat or reclined thereon, with the air of one
worn out by exertion of mind and body, and on the
eve of sinking into a swoon.
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CHAPTER VIII.
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According to the apologue, every man carries on
his back a satchel, in which are deposited his infirmities
and vices, and which, though thus concealed
from his own eyes, lies very invitingly open to the
inspection of his friends. Not satisfied with this
exposure of foibles, there are some good-natured
moralists, who would dive deeper into the secrets
of their neighbours, and who lament, with the old
heathen metaphysician, that heaven had not clapped
windows into their breasts, so that they might detect
even the iniquity of thoughts. This regret
may be avoided by all who are willing to satisfy
curiosity at their own expense; for heaven has
fitted most bosoms with private loopholes, through
which each man may survey at his leisure the
workings of his own spirit. A peep through the
secret casement will disclose something startling,
if not humbling, to many, who, in the vanity of
good works, are disposed to uplift themselves
above their fellows;—such, perhaps, as rational
principles, and even kindly feelings, taking their
hue from `that smooth-faced gentleman,'—that biassing
spirit which is more comprehensively expressed
in Shakspeare's phrase of Commodily than in the
more familiar one of Interest; for it is true of us all,
that virtues are sometimes nothing but passions in
disguise, and that reason has a marvellous facility
in acquiring the tones of worldly-wisdom. If the
mere grovelling villain,—the robber, assassin, or
slayer of man's peace,—can find some such spectacle
near to his heart as the surgeon's knife
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exposes in the breast of a cankered corse, what may
he detect, whose sublimer villany has led, or is
leading him, to distinction, upon a highway paved
with the miseries of mankind? Methinks, the
breast of the ambitious man is a labyrinth of some
such caverns as perforate the bowels of a volcano,
in whose depths are lost all the petty details of
crime, committed or meditated,—in which there is
no light but that which bubbles up from the lava of
the vast passion,—and in which there is even no
grandeur, that has not arisen from convulsions the
most disorganizing and unnatural. Such a heart
is, at least to the limited ken of others, a chaos,—
but a chaos from which he who imbosoms it, and
who alone can understand it, calls up,—less like a
god than a demon,—the evil elements, which create
the lurid sphere his greatness.
In the bosom of the Conquistador there was a
corner, into which the blaze of ambition had not
yet penetrated, and where the common passions of
our nature were left to rage and struggle as in the
heart of a meaner mortal. As he looked therein,
he gave himself up to thoughts which devoured
him, while his countenance betrayed, for a time at
least, nothing beyond such lassitude and faintness
as may have characterized the Spartan boy, while
bleeding under the fangs of the beast he concealed
in his bosom.
As he sat brooding in this apparently calm, yet
deeply suffering lethargy there glided into the
apartment, from one of the curtained doors on the
right hand, a figure, which, seen for the first time
and in the dusky twilight already darkening around,
might, to superstitious eyes, have seemed an apparition,—
it was so strange, so fair, so majestic, and
so mournful. It presented a stature taller than belongs
to the beauty of woman, yet not inconsistent
with the conception of a divinity; and to this a
singular dignity was given by flowing and
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voluminous robes of a grayish texture, which, both in
hue and fashion, bore an air of monastic simplicity,
without precisely resembling those of any one order.
A sort of hood, or veil, drawn a little aside and
resting upon the brow, gave to view a female countenance
of wonderful loveliness, and not without
a share of that commanding dignity, which distinguished
her figure. Her hair, shorn, or perhaps
bound behind by a fillet, and thus almost altogether
concealed by the hood, gave yet to the gaze two
long locks, broad and black, which, falling over
either cheek, were lost among the folds of the veil
which her right hand held upon her bosom. A
complexion dark, yet not tawny,—a chin and nostrils
carved like the most exquisite statuary,—lips
of dusky crimson,—a brow of marble, and an eye
of midnight, made up a countenance both beautiful
and characteristic, yet contradictory in the expression
of its several parts, and sometimes even in
the expression of the same features. Thus, the
first impression made upon a spectator by the whole
visage, was such as could only be effected by extreme
gentleness of disposition; while the second,
he scarce knew why, spoke of energy and decision,
none the less striking for being concealed under a
mask so captivating. Thus, also, the eyes, very
large and set widely apart, conveyed, on ordinary
occasions, the idea of a spirit passive, melancholy,
and inanimate; though the slightest depression of
the brow, the smallest motion of the lid, transformed
them at once into the brightest torches of passion.
If one could conceive the spirit of a Philomela—
a compound of sweet tenderness and still sweeter
melancholy—dashed with the fire of a Penthesilea,
he might conjure up to his mind's eye a correct representation
of the mysterious being, (alluded to by
Villafana, under the name of La Monjonaza, or the
Nun, the word being a sort of cant augmentative
of Monja, a nun,) whom an extraordinary destiny
had thrown among the warlike invaders of Mexico.
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As she passed from the thick curtain and advanced
towards the platform, on which sat the
moody general, her visage presented none of its
ordinary mildness; on the contrary, her brows were
knit together, her lip retracted, and the look with
which she—regarded him whom all others were
learning to fear, was bold, stern, and even fiercely
hostile.
The rustling of the curtain, the light sound of her
footstep, the bright glance of her eye, when she
paused before him, all alike failed to make an impression
on the general's senses. She perceived
that he was in a waking dream, absorbingly profound
and painful, and she stood in silence, from
disdainful pride, or perhaps with a woman's curiosity,
endeavouring to trace the workings of his
spirit from the revelations of his countenance,
which, by this time, had changed from a stony inexpressiveness
to agitation and distortion. At this
moment, the head of the Conqueror was bent forwards,
and his eyes directed upon the floor; but she
saw enough in the writhing features, and the forehead
almost impurpled with blood, to know that
the passions then convulsing his bosom, were dark
and deadly.
At this sight, the frown gradually passed away
from her own visage, and she stood regarding him
for the space of several minutes, with a calm and
melancholy intentness. Then, perceiving that his
lips, though moving as if in speech, gave out no
articulate sound, she exclaimed, with a voice that
thrilled to his soul, though subdued to the lowest
accents,
“Arise, assassin! It is not just, it is not expedient;
and he shall NOT perish!”
It seemed as if she had read his heart. He started
up, surprised and confounded; and his first act
was to cross himself, as if to exorcise a fiend,
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conjured up by the mere spell of evil thoughts. He
even gave voice to two or three interjections of
alarm, before perceiving that the rebuke came only
from lips of earth.
“Hah! hah! Santa Maria! Santos y Angeles!
hah!—Ho! ho! Infeliz! Magdalena! fair conqueror
of hearts! bright converter of souls that shalt be!
is it thou, Monja mia Santisima? most devout
saint of the veil?” he cried, recovering his self-possession,
and banishing every trace of passion with
astonishing address. “By thy bright eyes of heaven,—
and thanks be thine for the good deed,—thou
hast waked me from a dream of night-mare, a most
horrible vision. These naps o' the afternoon are
but provokers of Incubus,—ay, and Succuba into
the bargain. I thank thee, bright Infeliz: it is better
to be waked by thy voice, than by sweet
music!”
“And dost thou think,” said the lady, with a voice
whose deep but not unfeminine tones suited so well
with the mournfulness of her emphasis,—“dost thou
think, I see not, this moment, into thy bosom?
Visions and sleep! Speak of visions to thy dull
conquerors: they who dream of immortal renown,
can best appreciate a vision of bloodshed. Speak
of sleep to thy duller victims: the stupid wretches
who slumber with the chain at their necks, may
well believe that the enslaver has also his seasons
of repose. But talk not of these to me, who look
upon thee neither with the eyes of follower nor of
foe. Thou canst not sleep, thou dost not dream:
thy head is too full of fame, thy foot too deep in
blood, thy heart too black with evil thoughts—No,
nevermore canst thou sleep, nevermore, nevermore!”
The last words were uttered with a cadence so
extremely melancholy, and with a manner so much
like that of one who apostrophizes self, that a stranger
overhearing them, and marking the look and
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gesture—the upturned eye and the folding of arms
on the breast—would have naturally supposed they
referred rather to herself than to another. This
was, indeed, a suspicion, entertained, in part, by
Cortes, who, somewhat confounded by the calm
decision with which she rejected a deceitful attempt
to explain expressions of countenance so ominous
as those he had displayed, now recovered himself,
and said, with an air of grave sympathy, in which
earnestness could not conceal a vein of sarcasm
and bagatelle, that were parts of his nature,
“Fair Infeliz, the Unhappy, (since by this lugubrious
epithet you choose to be called,) it is now
some two months since you dropped among us
from the clouds, the fairest, shrewdest and strangest,
as well as the most broken-hearted and self-accusing
of all the angels that have fallen from paradise.
For mine own part, however fervently I may thank
heaven for sending me such a minister, I have not
yet got over my amazement at your presence;
which I indeed regard with much the same wonder
wherewith I should behold the sun of heaven take
up his quarters at my tent-door.”
“In this particular,” said the lady, with the utmost
tranquillity, “you should have been satisfied,
(had it accorded with your nature to believe any
solution of a problem, that was not suggested by
your own imagination,) that the deceptions of others,
and no will of my own, brought me from Santiago
to Mexico, in a ship which should have carried me
to Jamaica.—Your allies do not fit out vessels openly
for this land, under the eye of Velasquez.—But
why ask you me this? Hast thou no better device
to lure me from my purpose? I came, not to speak
of myself, but of others. Thou couldst have played
the lapwing more subtly, hadst thou dwelt upon the
whispers, the nods, the smiles of contempt and the
words of scorn, that heralded a compelled coming,
and which requite an inevitable stay. But learn,
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if thou hast not yet learned it, that these things are
felt more than they are feared, and that she who
has not deserved it, may sometimes have the courage
to endure even a degrading misconstruction.
Why hast thou not insinuated this?” continued the
singular being, with a voice that betrayed more
feeling than her pride confessed: “this would have
drowned every other thought in a true woman; for to
woman, good name and fame are more than lifeblood,—
yes, more than life!—I save thee, however,
the trouble; I am reminded of my condition,—a
woman alone in thy camp, alone in thy hands;—
and yet I return to my purpose, which concerns not
myself, but another. Wilt thou have me speak
further of myself? If it last till the midnight, be sure
I will yet speak of that which I have in view.”
“Of thyself, then, beauteous Infeliz,” said Cortes,
admiringly; “for I vow to heaven, thou art the
marvel of womankind, whom I desire to understand
even more than to adore. Sit thou upon my barbarian
throne, and I will fling me at thy feet, in
token that I acknowledge thy supremacy in wit,
wisdom, subtle observation, determination, and all
other virtues that can grace woman,—ay, or man
either; for I swear by my conscience, I think thou
art valiant also, fearing nothing that walks under
heaven or above the abyss. To the throne then, as
queen of my mystery.”
“I will answer thee where I stand,” said Infeliz,
calmly disengaging the hand which the Conquistador
had taken to lead her to the platform; “and
think not, this gallant folly will make me a whit
quicker of apprehension, or reply. Make thy demands,
and gain thereby what time thou wilt to answer
mine; for this is thy purpose.”
“Well then,” said the Captain-General, with a
look of not less respect than curiosity, “make me
acquainted with this. Wherefore, as thy coming
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hither was so much against thy will, hast thou not
once demanded to be taken back to the islands?”
“Because it is not yet my will to be discharged
from your presence,” replied the lady, calmly.
“Be thou of this mind for ever,” said the general,
with an air of sincerity. “Now let me know, I
pray you, why it is that I am somewhat more forward
in confiding to thy scrutiny my secret
thoughts than to the best and wisest of my bold
cavaliers?”
“Because thou knowest I neither love thee nor
hate thee; because I lose not good-will by asking
honours and spoils, nor by boasting of services and
ability; but chiefly am I troubled with your confidence,
because I am the only one who lists not to
have it.”
“By my faith, thou art very right, especially in
the last reason of all,” said Cortes, with a laugh;
“for secrets are like gnats and musket-bullets, they
ever crowd thickest after those who strive most to
avoid them.—Tell me now, fair and most provoking
Infeliz, why, when I have flung thee open the
whole book of my confidence, thou givest me not a
single chapter of thine?”
“Because it extends not beyond that single chapter,”
replied La Monjonaza, patiently, “hath neither
beginning nor end, and is, beside, in a language
which thou canst not understand.”
“Pho, you put me off with nothing,” said Don
Hernan, again taking the hand of his remarkable
guest. “I have but one more question to ask you.
Why is it, (and I pray you to forgive me the question,)
that, with the consciousness that your situation
in this mad land and knavish army, exposes
you not only to degrading suspicion, but even to
absolute personal danger, you betray no apprehension
of the wild reprobates among whom you are
placed? that you show no dread even of me?”
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“Because,” said the maiden, removing her right
hand, which she had, up to this moment, preserved
upon her breast, and drawing aside the thick folds
of veil and mantle,—“because, for the wretch who
fears not the woman's arms of modesty and helplessness,
I bear with me a weapon which will secure
his respect.”
And as she spoke, the eye of Don Hernan fell
upon a naked and glittering poniard thrust through
her girdle, and worn as if it had long formed a part
of the habit.
There was something inexpressibly impressive
in the calm and simple dignity with which, in the
very gesture that pointed out a protection so insufficient,
she acknowledged a weakness, in all other
respects, unfriended. Cortes, in the multitude of
his base and graspingly selfish attributes, was not
without some traits of a more generous character;
and especially admiring a courage so self-relying,
so unaffectedly real, and perhaps so much akin to
his own, he had enough of the old leaven of chivalric
feeling, to understand and appreciate the claims
of the sex to his compassion and protection. That
he had other reasons for treating La Monjonaza
with respect, cannot be denied.
“Give me thy hand, Magdalena,” he said, with
an action and voice rather indicating the familiarity
of a patron than that of a presumptuous suitor:
“Thou art right; thou art a creature after mine
own heart; and I swear to thee, I will do thee no
wrong, nor suffer it to be done thee by another.
Heed not what may be said of thee: my dogs would
bay an angel, should one condescend to pay them
a visit. Thy cloister-like garments are not amiss;—
there be more that venerate than malign thee,
for this reason; and, thank heaven, the padre Olmedo
finds no sin in thy wearing them. Wilt thou
be seated? There is peace between us; let there
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be confidence. What hast thou to ask of me, Magdalena?
Thy revenge is at hand.”
The maiden returned the scrutinizing look of the
general with one which, if not so piercing, was at
least quite as steady:
“Your excellency has thrice called me, who call
myself Infeliz, by a name not authorized by any
revealments of mine,” she said: “you speak also of
revenge,—of my revenge!—Yes,” she muttered,
with a quivering lip; “this is a thing to be thought
of, not spoken.”
She paused a moment, and Cortes, casting a
quick eye round the apartment, said, in a voice
confidentially low and insinuating,
“I would the story had come from yourself. But
it matters not,—I have it; and disguise is no longer
availing. You lose nothing by the change, for I
see, thy spirit hath the elements of mine own. Ah!
water in the desert! the first kiss of a lover! breath
to the suffocating!—such is revenge to the soul of
the mighty!—I know thee, thy history and thy purpose.—
I have dandled the boy Hilario upon my
knee!”
The strong and meaning stress laid upon the last
abrupt words, only served to drive the colour from
the maiden's cheeks and lips. In all other respects,
she remained calm and collected, and replied gravely,—
“The tale comes from the Alguazil Villafana—”
“Hah!” said Cortes, in surprise; “how knowest
thou that?”
“Because there is no other,—no other, save one,
who will not speak it,—in all this land, who knows
so much of me; and because, were there twenty,
the man whom heaven has cursed with the industrious
treachery of a spider, and the rage to entangle
all things in his flimsy web, would be the first to
betray me.”
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“Thou sayst the truth of Villafana,” said Cortes,
with a laugh of peculiar exultation. “In spirit and
intention, he is the insect you have named; but yet
he spins his web, less like the spider, with the
chance of destroying, than the silken-caterpillar, that
toils for his master, who will smother him in his
work, as soon as it is perfected. Ay, thy penetration
is clear, thy conception just; the knave is, in
all things, a traitor,—a double, a triple,—a centupled
traitor!”
“And you both spare him, and give him the
means of multiplying his dangerous villanies?”
“I do, by my conscience!” said Cortes, vivaciously.
“There is a charm in it, and no little policy.
Dost thou think this little fly can deceive?
can deceive me?—Wert thou a man, thou wouldst
know, that even above the triumph of vengeance, is
the joy of him who watches the nets that his foe is
spreading, and, as he watches, fastens them softly
down upon the ensnarer.”
“And is the insect worthy to be toiled by the
lion?”
“Ay,—when tho lion is a man!—This is my diversion;
it is also my profit. I would not for a
thousand crowns, any harm should come to so serviceable
a tool: a better decoy never circled the
disaffected about him. He is the touchstone that
reveals me the metal of the doubtful,—the diamond
that cuts me the adamant of malignancy. I look
through him, as through the philosopher's glass,
and behold the million things of corruption that
swarm in the hearts of the curs beneath him—By
heaven! it joys me, that I have one to whom I can
speak these secret blisses. Thou art my vizier,
my very familiar. Know then, that this very night,
the dog meditates a treachery, with which I will be
acquainted, and yet seem unacquainted. By my
conscience, it delights me to tell thee, with what
exquisite industry the poor knave works me a good,
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while foolishly believing he is doing me an ill. Dost
thou not remember that I have told thee, how much
it concerns me to procure some trusty envoy, to
go between me and the young infidel, Guatimozin
of Tenochtitlan?”
“I am familiar with your wishes.”
“Learn then, that, this night, Villafana himself
procures me the emissary I have myself sought after
in vain,—a Mexican noble of high rank.—I could
kiss the dog for his knavery!”
“And wherefore does he this?”
“Faith, in the amiable wish to reconcile some of
the jarring elements of his conspiracy; to wit, the
Tlascalans and Mexicans; the latter of whom, this
night, will, with his good help, show the black-cheeked
Xicotencal the advantages to be gained by
uniting with his mighty and royal enemy of Mexico,
to secure the destruction of my insignificant self.
Ha! ha! Is not the thought absurdly delightful!
Ah, Villafana! Villafana! I have no such merry conceited
good-fellow as thou!”
La Monjonaza beheld the exultation, and listened
to the mirthful laugh of the Conqueror with much
interest, and not a little surprise. It did indeed
seem extraordinary, that he should be so heartily
diverted by the audacity of a villany that aimed
at his downfall, and perhaps his life. But this
very merriment indicated how many majestic fathoms
he felt himself elevated above the reach of
any arts of human malevolence or opposition. It
was as if the eagle, flapping his wings among thunder-clouds,
shrieked with contempt at schoolboys
shooting up birdbolts from the village-green.—It
gave a clew to a characteristic which Infeliz was
not slow to unravel. A deep sigh from her lips recalled
the general from his diversion.
“Thou sighest, Magdalena?” he cried.
“It was for thee,” she answered: “I sighed, indeed,
to think how much and how truly thou, thus
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elevated by a touch of divinity above the children
of men, dost yet resemble this miserable, grovelling,
befooled Villafana!”
“What, I? Resemble him? resemble Villafana?”
“Deny it, if thou canst,” said the maiden, with
rebuking severity; “and if thou canst not, then
humble thyself, and confess the base similitude.
Thou differest from him but in this,—that, whereas,
in one quality, thou art uplifted miles above his
head, thou art, in another, sunk even leagues below
him.—Thou frownest? Hast thou discovered that
anger adds aught to the state of dignity? Thou
dost, this moment, even with the crawling venom
of Villafana, with a rage still more abased, seek a
life thou hast not courage openly to destroy.”
“Santiago!” cried Cortes, in a heat; “by St. Peter,
you are over-bitter. But pho, I will not be angry
with thee. Dost thou think me this coward
thing?”
“Hast thou not doomed the young man, Juan
Lerma, a second time, to death?” cried La Monjonaza,
with an eye that trembled not a moment in
the gaze of the Captain-General; “and was it not
with the embrace of a Judas? Oh, señor!” she continued,
firmly, “say not that Villafana is either base
or craven. He strikes at the strong man, who sits
armed and with his eyes open: but thou, oh thou,—
thou art content to aim at the breast of the friendless
and naked sleeper!—Judge between thyself and
Villafana.”
It is impossible to express the mingled effects of
shame and rage, that disfigured the visage and convulsed
the frame of the Captain-General, at this
powerful and altogether unexpected rebuke. He
smote his brow, he took two or three hasty steps
over the floor; when, at last, a thought striking
him, he rushed back to the chider, snatched up her
hand, and said, with an attempt at laughter,
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painfully contrasted with his working and even agonized
visage,
“Dost thou quarrel with me for fighting thy battles?
Oh, by St. James, it is better to draw sword
on a friend than for him: ingratitude always comes
of it. Had I thought this of old, I had been a happier
man, and thou never hadst mourned the death
of Hilario;—no, by'r lady, Hilario had been a living
man, and thou happy with him in the island!”
As he hurried over these words, the diversion
they gave to his thoughts, enabled him rapidly to
recover his self-command, in which, as in affairs of
less personal consequence, he always exhibited
wonderful power. This accomplished, he continued,
with an earnest voice,
“Concealment is now useless: the time waxes,
when I must think of other things: let us shrive
one another even as two friars, and deceive one
another no further than they. Methinks, what I do
is for thy especial satisfaction.—An ill loon I am, to
do so much for one who so bitterly censures me!—
Who thou art, and what thou art, I know not:
thou wert an angel, couldst thou give over chiding.
The young Hilario del Milagro was the son of mine
old friend Antonio:—a very noble boy,—I remember
him well.—By heaven, thy hand is turned to
ice! Art thou ill?”
“Do I look so?” said the maiden, with a faint
laugh. Her face had of a sudden become very pale,
yet she spoke firmly, though not without a visible
effort. “I listen to thy confession.”
“To mine! By my troth, I am confessing thy
sins and sorrows, and not mine. Well, Magdalena,”
he continued, “thy emotion is not amiss: it is
not every maiden can think calmly of the death of
her lover, knowing that his slayer is nigh.—I knew
Hilario, when a boy,—ay, good faith, and Juan
Lerma, too, his playmate and foster-brother, or his
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young page and varlet, I know not which. It was
on Antonio's recommendation, that I afterwards
took this foundling knave to my bosom, and made
him—no, not what he is! for this is a thing of his
own making. I sent him to Española to recruit:
he loitered,—he returned to the house of Milagro—
Shall I say more? Hilario, his brother, the son of
his best friend and patron, was the betrothed husband
of Magdalena; and him did the wolf-cub
slay. Wo betide me! for it was I that taught him
the use of his weapon.—Is not this enough? Accident
hath brought thee to Mexico; thou seest the
killer of thy lover; and, like a true daughter of
Spain, thy heart is full of vengeance.—Is not this
true? Disguise thy wrath in wild sarcasm no longer.
Were he the king's son, he should—-Pho!
recall thy words: Is it not `just?' is it not `expedient?”
'
To these sinister demands, Magdalena replied
with astonishing composure:
“All this is well. Shrive now thyself—Hast
thou any cause, personally, to desire his death?”
“Millions!” replied the general, grinding his
teeth; “millions, millions! to which the death of
Hilario, wringing at thy breast, is but as a gnatbite
to the sting of adders.—Millions, millions!”
“Give him then to death,” said Magdalena, with
a voice so grave and passionless, that it instantly
surprised the Conquistador out of his fury; “give
him to death,—but let it be in thy name, not
mine.”
“Art thou wholly inexplicable?” he cried. “I
read thee by the alphabet of human passions, and I
make thee not out,—no, not so much as a word.
Thy flesh warms and chills, thine eye swims and
flashes, thy brow bends, thy lip curls, thy breast
heaves, thy frame trembles; and yet art thou more
than mortal, or less. When shall I understand
thee?”
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“When thou canst look to heaven, and say, `I
have done no wrong'--No, no! not to heaven; for
what child of earth can look thitherward, and unveil
the actions of life?--When thou canst lay thy
hand upon thy bosom, and appealing, not to divine
justice, but to that of human reason, say, `What I
do is just:'—in other words, never. You are surprised:
you bade me repeat my words: I do:--`It
is not just, it is not expedient, and Juan Lerma
shall not die!”'
“Now by my conscience!” said Cortes, “this is
the true dog-star madness! Wert thou not behind
the curtain, and didst thou not shriek at sight of
him? Mystery that thou art, unveil thyself--
Wherefore tarriest thou in this land, suspected,
scorned, degraded, if not to have vengeance on
him? Wherefore, I say, wherefore?”
“To save him,” replied the lady, boldly,--“to
save him from the fury that has brought thee to the
level of the Alguazil. Else had I long since returned
to the islands. Revoke therefore thy commission,
and, in any way thou wilt, so that it carry
with it neither secret malice nor open insult, contrive
to discharge him from thy service. His life
is charmed--it is in my keeping.”
“Oho!” said the Captain-General, surveying La
Monjonaza with an exulting sneer; “sits the wind
in that quarter? And thou art but a woman after
all! Now was I but a fool, I trow, not to bethink
me how the wife of Uriah forgot the death of her
husband, when she saw a path open to the arms of
his murderer. Is it so indeed? Thou hast fallen
from admiration to pity.”
“She who withstands evil thoughts and maligning
words, will not weep even at the contempt of
commiseration,” said Magdalena, with a sigh.
“Villafana has then deceived me,--or rather,
poor fool, has deceived himself, as is more natural,”
said Cortes, with a malicious grin. “Never believe
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me, but thou shalt rule me in this matter, as in
others. Juan Lerma shall thank thee for his life,
even for the sake of the Maid of Mexico,--thy
brown rival, Zelahualla.”
As he spoke thus, he watched closely the effect
of his words on Magdalena, and beheld a sudden
fire light up in her eyes, succeeded by such paleness
as had always covered her visage, when he referred
to the death of Hilario. Nevertheless, she did not
avert her glance, nor exhibit any other manifestation
of feeling, except that she replied not a single
word.
“It is the truth that I tell thee,” he muttered in a
low voice, taking up, as if in compassion, her hand,
which was yielded passively, and was again cold
and dewy; “she is very lovely,—very,—and a
king's daughter. He fought for her love with Guzman.
So, perhaps, he fought Hilario for thine.
By my conscience! he makes love over blood-thirstily!
When I spoke to him of Zelahualla,—
nay, I mentioned not her name; I spoke only of his
friends in the palace of Mexico—yet the colour
flushed over his cheeks. Nevertheless, thou shalt
rule me; thou shalt have time for consideration:
the expedition to Tochtepec can be delayed. Dost
thou think he would have consented to be mine
envoy to Tenochtitlan, but for the hope of seeing his
princess? I could tell thee another thing—(there
are more rivals than one)—but it matters not,—it
matters not! Thou wilt not be content with—
pity!—Arouse thee, and speak.—Art thou marble?”
At this moment, and while it seemed indeed that
the unhappy Monjonaza, notwithstanding that her
countenance was still inexpressively placid, had
been turned to stone, the curtain of the great door,
or principal entrance, was drawn aside, and the
cavalier Don Francisco de Guzman strode hastily
into the apartment. The sound of his footsteps,
more than the warning gesture of Cortes, recalled
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her to her senses. She raised her hand to her
brow, and the long hood falling over her countenance,
she turned to depart through the door by
which she had entered. The evening was already
closing fast, and the shadowy obscurity of the
chamber perhaps concealed her from the eyes of
the intruder. Nevertheless, Cortes perceived, as
she glided away, that her step was altered and
tottering, and that her hands fumbled for a moment
at the door curtain, as if she knew not how to remove
it. It yielded, however, at last, and she
vanished from his eyes.
“Poor fool,” he muttered, with a feeling divided
between scorn, anger, and pity, “thou hast discovered
to me the broken postern of thy spirit: the
walls are strong, but the citadel is in ruins. This
is somewhat marvellous,—I will know more of it.
It is a new and another thing to be remembered.—
Come, amigo: it is over dark here for thy business.
We will walk in the open air.”
So saying, he took Guzman's arm, and departed
from the chamber.
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CHAPTER IX.
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Some two hours or more after he had been discharged
from the presence of the Captain-General,
Juan Lerma sat musing in one of the many hundred
chambers which composed the vast extent of
the palace of Nezahualcojotl, a different being from
that the reader beheld him returning from exile.
The coarse tilmaltli, or native cloak, and the barbarous
tunic, had been exchanged for raiment of a
better material and fashion, a part of which,—the
bragas and xaqueta, at least—were from the wardrobe
of the general, while modesty, or reluctance to
accept any further of such assistance than was absolutely
necessary, had induced him to substitute for
the plain but costly capa, or mantle, of velvet, the
long surcoat of black cloth, very richly embroidered,
which had, as he was told, accompanied the suit of
armour, sent by his unknown friend. This valuable
and well-timed gift lay upon a platform beside
his matted and canopied couch, shining brilliantly
in the light which a waxen candle diffused throughout
the apartment. He sat upon a native stool,
carved of a solid block of wood, and his fine countenance
and majestic figure, besides the advantages
they received from becoming garments, appeared
even of a more elevated beauty, when seen by this
solitary ray.
His only companion was the dog Befo, whose
shaggy coat, yet gleaming with moisture, betrayed
that he had shared with the young man his evening
bath in the lake. The attachment of this beast
was much more natural than remarkable. Five
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years before, when Juan was but a boy in Santo
Domingo, Befo had been his playmate and companion;—
had followed him to Cuba, when the youth
began to weary of dependence, and long for a life
of activity and distinction; and was finally presented
by the grateful adventurer to Cortes, as the only
gift in his power to bestow; for, at that time, saving
his youth, health, and good spirits, Befo made up
the sum of his worldly possessions. In the change
of masters, however, Befo did not trouble himself
to acquiesce; nor did he perceive any necessity,
while treating Cortes with all surly good-will and
respect, to abate a jot of his love for the hand which
had first sustained and caressed him. The dog is
the only animal that shows disinclination to be
transferred from one master to another. The
horse cares not, the ox submits, and man makes
no opposition. The dog has a will of his own, and
acknowledges no change of servitude, until conscious
of a change of affection.
The stirring and harassing events of the day,
though they had exhausted the spirit of the youth,
had yet brought with exhaustion that nervous irritableness
which drives away slumber from the eyes
of the over-weary. Twice or thrice, Juan had flung
himself on the couch to repose, but in vain; and as
he now sat questioning himself how far the substitution
of soft mats and robes for a bed of earth,
might account for his inability to sleep, he began to
revolve in his mind, for the twentieth time, his
change of fortunes, and wonder at the inauspicious,
and, as it seemed to him, unnatural sadness, which
oppressed his spirits.
“I have been restored,” he muttered, half aloud,—
and, as he spoke, Befo, roused by the accents
from the floor, thrust his rough head over his knees,
to testify his attention,—“I have been restored to
favour, and, in great part, to the friendship of the
General.—Thou whinest, Befo! I would I could
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read the heart of a man as clearly as thine.—Yet
has he not distinguished me with a high command,—
a captain's? I trow, it is not every one who
can so soon step into this dignity, especially when
without the recommendation of birth, as Alvarado
hinted.—I will show this proud cavalier, that God
does not confine all merit to hidalgos' sons. If he
give me but a capable force—Twenty foot and six
horse?—'tis but a weak array for a field where
eighty men have perished. Yet I care not: if I
have but Xicotencal to back me, with some two or
three xiquipils[8] of his Tlascalans, it will be enough.
If I fall,—perhaps that will be better: I am too faint-hearted
for these wars. Villafana says, that he
brands the prisoners too, and sells them for slaves.
This is surely unjust—He was another man at
Cuba.”
At this moment, the dog raised his head and
growled, and Juan heard steps approaching through
the long passage, that ran by his door. Here they
stopped, and Befo continuing to give utterance to
his displeasure, the voice of Villafana whispered
through the curtain,
“Put thy hand on the beast's neck, or box him
o' the ears—Ile is no friend of mine.”
“Enter,” said Juan, “if thou art seeking me. He
will do thee no harm.”
“Ay, marry,” said Villafana, coming in; “for at
the worst, and when other things fail, I will stop
him with my dudgeon, be he Cortes's, thine, or any
one's else. It stirs my choler to be growled at by
so base a thing as a dog.”
“Put up thy weapon, nevertheless,” said Juan,
observing that Villafana had a poniard in his hand;
“thou seest, the dog is quiet. In this he pays me
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the compliment of supposing I can protect myself.
What is thy will with me, Villafana?”
“First,” said the Alguazil, with a laugh, “to give
thee my congratulations touching thy sudden rise
from the abyss, and thy meditated flight heavenward.
And, secondly,” he continued, when Juan
had nodded his thanks, “to ask, in the way of
friendship, from how high a cliff thou canst tumble
headlong, without danger of breaking thy neck?”
“This is but a silly question, friendly though it
may be,” replied Juan.
“Oh, señor,” said Villafana, “you must remember,
the first night we slept with the army, at the
base of El Volcan, the mighty Popocatepetl, how
much we admired the great stones, that the devils
therein flung up against the stars! You nod again:
good luck to your recollections! Did you observe
any one of those ignited masses stick against the
vault, and there hang among the luminaries?”
“Surely not,” said Juan; “those that fell not immediately
back into the crater, rolled down among
the snows on the mountain-side, and were there
extinguished.”
“Very well, señor—When you are mounted,
you can remember the fire-stones, and make your
choice whether to tumble back into the fire of
wrath, that now sends you upward, or to quench
yourself for ever in the frozen bed of degradation.—
You go to Tochtepec?”
“I do,” said Juan, somewhat angrily; “and I
warn thee, thy malicious metaphors will not make
me less grateful for the kindness that sends me.”
“God rest you—it were better you had accepted
the embassy to Guatimozin.”
“Hah!” said Juan, “how knowest thou of this?
It was spoken only in secret council?”
“Oh,” said Villafana, with a second laugh, “if
thou wilt but scratch on one end of a long log, be
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sure I will hear it at the other. There is something
more in the world than magic.”
He spoke with marked exultation; indeed Juan
had already observed that his carriage was freer
and bolder than common, and that he bore himself
like a man who cares not wholly to conceal a triumph
of spirit, which he thinks it not needful altogether
to divulge.
“Harkee, señor Don Juan,” he went on, abruptly
and inquisitively, “thou art good friends with Xicotencal?”
“So far as a Christian man can be with one,
who, though a very noble being, is yet a misbeliever.”
“And thou wert sworn friends, at Mexico, with
the young prince, Guatimozin?”
“Not so,” said Juan: “the young man kept aloof
from us all, being of the hostile party; and there
was scarce one of us who had ever seen his face.
I must confess, however, if I can believe Techeechee,
that my preservation in the expedition was
owing to his good act; for Techeechee avers, that
it was through Guatimozin's good will that he was
sent with me, to secure me from the death which
was designed for all the rest of the party.”
“Designed! dost thou allow it then?” cried the
Alguazil, quickly.
“Ay,” replied Juan, dryly; “designed by the
Mexican lords, but not by Christian leaders.”
“And art thou not sorry thou wert not despatched
to him as envoy?”
“Why need we talk of this?” said Juan, hesitating.
“Guatimozin the king, may be different from
Guatimozin the prince.”
“He is not yet the king,” said Villafana. “He
will not be crowned till the day of the great war-festival,
and not then, unless he can furnish a
Spaniard for the sacrifice. I'faith, he loves not the
blood of his red neighbours.”
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“Villafana,” said Juan, struck with certain uneasy
suspicions, “thou seemest better acquainted
with these things than becomes a true follower of
Don Hernan.”
“Not a whit, not a whit,” cried the Alguazil,
hastily: “this is but the common talk,—the common
talk, señor; and I am but a fool to indulge in
it, to the prejudice of other business more urgent.
Come, señor,—will you walk in the garden? There
is a friend to speak with you.”
“What friend?” said Juan.—“Villafana, I half
suspect you are engaged in some foul work. I will
have naught to do with it.”
“Lo you now,” said the Alguazil, impatiently;
“this is wild work. Do you think I will assassinate
you? Ho! this is a thing thy best friend would
entrust to another. Come, señor;—you have your
rapier,—you can take your casque, too, if you have
any fear. It is a friend, who has that to say which
it concerns your life to know. You know not your
danger. God be with you, and your blood be upon
your own head! If you refuse, you will not repent
you:—no, faith—you will not have time left for
lamentation.—Farewell, señor,—”
“Stay, Villafana,” exclaimed Juan, much disturbed:
“Friend or foe,—it is not that which stays me,
but the fear of being entrapped into something more
to be dreaded than death. Thou art a schemer;
it is thy nature: I will have nothing to do with thy
plots, or with those who—”
“Pho! this concerns thyself alone, not me. My
only plot is to help one who desires to drag thee
out of the fire thou art so bent to burn in. I take
you to your friend, and depart: I have other things
to occupy me. I am but a messenger. Will you
go? I must give you a token then.—You have not
forgotten Hilario?”
At these words, muttered under breath, Juan
started and turned pale, exclaiming,
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“Saints and angels! and heaven forbid! Mine
ears did not then deceive me? Oh wo to us all!
Alas for thine ill news! Have I not pain enough of
mine own?”
As he spoke, with a trembling voice, Villafana
handed him his cap and sword, saying, as he put
into his hand the latter, which was a light rapier,
“A good blade! and has hung at Don Hernan's
girdle.—Leave the dog behind: he will but set up
his cursed growling, and so bring upon you some
one who may not relish the meeting.”
“It is true, then?” cried Juan, with tones and
aspect of the greatest distress: “So fair, so young,
so noble, so fallen!”
“Back, cur! thick-lips! Befo!” cried the Alguazil,
as the two left the chamber.—“He grumbles at
me, as if to say Ehem, with disdain. Command
him thyself: he is a superfluous companion.”
The young man waved his hand to Befo; at
which signal Befo threw himself upon his haunches,
looking after Juan till he beheld him issue from the
long passage into the open air. Then rising, with
the air of a servant who understands his duty
much better even than his master, he followed
slowly after the pair into the garden.
eaf015v1.n8[8] Xiquipil—a military division of natives, consisting of
eight thousand men.
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CHAPTER X.
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The royal garden of Tezcuco was an extensive
piece of ground, fenced, on three sides, by the palace
and its dependencies, and bounded on the
fourth, by the waters of the lake, from which it was
divided by a low wall, long since broken down by
the Conquerors, by certain shadowy buildings, and
by clumps of noble cypresses and other trees. The
moon, not yet near her full, shone westward of the
meridian, in a sky intensely azure and almost
cloudless; and her beams could be traced, through
the wall of cypresses, glittering and dancing on the
light waves, as they rippled up merrily to the night-breeze.
What taste was displayed in the plan and
cultivation of the garden, could not be determined,
at this hour, and in this insufficient, though beautiful,
light. One could behold, indeed, obscurely,
flower-beds and shrubberies, winding alleys and
hanging groves, little still pools and even, here and
there, a jetting fountain, scattered about in a manner
which the imagination might believe was designed
and judicious; but it seemed, at night, rather
a wilderness, in which the nostrils had greater reason
to be gratified than the eyes. A thousand
odours fell from the trees, a thousand scents rose
from the flowers, as the heads of the one and the
petals of the other were shaken by the flitting gusts.
It was a scene calculated at least to soothe exasperated
feelings, and induce sentiment and melancholy
in the breast of the contemplative.
To Juan's temperament, it would have been, at
any other moment, saddening enough; but his
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thoughts were, at present, far too much, and far too
painfully, engaged, to permit any to be wasted upon
it.
As he followed hastily at the heels of the Alguazil,
he made one or two agitated attempts to draw
from him some further tokens to remove or confirm
his boding suspicions; but the Alguazil had on the
sudden grown very cautiously or very maliciously
silent, and answered only by pressing his finger on
his lips, eyeing the youth significantly, and hurrying
him more rapidly along.
He led him to a spot, almost in the centre of the
garden, where a little oval-shaped pool lay embosomed
among schinus-trees, whose long weeping
branches, stirred by the wind, swept gracefully
over and in the water, which was only agitated,
when thus disturbed by the motion of a bough, or
by the plunge of the fragrant berries, the harvest of
a former year, which dropped at intervals from the
cluster. A single moonbeam found its way into
this solitary inclosure, falling upon a limited portion
of a path which seemed to surround the pool. In
other respects, all was dark and invisible, and not
a ray could be seen on the water, save when the
spectator, peering over the brink, beheld some faint
star of the zenith glimmering down among the
shadowy depths.
Upon this path, and in this moonbeam, the Alguazil
paused, and pointing hastily to a nook—the
darkest of all where all were dark,—Juan perceived
obscurely what seemed a moving figure. The next
moment, Villafana passed among the boughs, retracing
his steps, and strode again into the moonlight.
As he stood an instant shaking the dewdrops
from his cloak, he beheld a dark object approaching
slowly on the path. It was the faithful
Befo, who, with his head to the ground, and his tail
draggling in the grass, as if sensible of having committed
a breach of discipline, yet crawled along
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after his master, under the irresistible instinct of
fidelity.
“This is ill thought on, and may be unlucky,”
muttered Villafana, with a subdued voice. “Here,
Befo! you rascal! come with me, and you shall
have a bone.—Ay, thou ill devil!” he continued, in
the same whispered tones, as Befo, without stirring
to the right or the left, and merely showing his
teeth, when the Alguazil seemed disposed to check
him with his hand, passed on towards the grove,—
“go thy ways, and growl as thou wilt: thou art
the only thing in the land incorruptible. But thou
wilt be acquainted with my dagger yet, if thou hast
no better appetite for my dinner.”
He resumed his path. He had not taken a dozen
steps, before he became sensible of the approach of
another intruder: but this time the intruder was
human. There was something in the fashion and
sweep of the garments, which, even at a distance,
apprized him of the character of the comer.
“The devil take these prying priests, monks,
friars, and all!” he muttered irreverently betwixt
his teeth.—“Holy father,—Hah! by the mass,
is it thou, Camarga! my brother of all orders,
monkish, mendicant, martial, and so on? Thy
masking goes the wrong way: I told thee to meet
me at the prison. 'Tis my palace, man; and the
princes are in waiting.—Come, these damp mazes
are ill for thy years and diseased liver. We will
walk together.”
“Señor Gruñidor, as they call you,” said Camarga,
flinging back the white cowl, and revealing
his sallow features in the moonshine, “señor Alguazil,
carcelero, rogue, conspirator, devil, and
what-not, how I came to be so deep among your
damnable devices, in the short month I have been
in this land, I know not, except that I have, like
thyself, a greater aptitude to be groping among
caverns than journeying on kings' highways. But
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know, sirrah, that besides thy subtleties, I have
some whimseys of my own; to which, when the
wind stirs them, yours must give place, were they
ten thousand times more magnificent than your
wit strives to make them appear. Begone, therefore;
get thee to thy scurvy Tlascalan, whom thou
art training to the gallows; to thy Mexican Magnifico,
who is an ass to trust his neck to thy keeping;
and to what vagabond Christians will give thee
their countenance, who are e'en greater fools than
thyself, and the Indians together. Get thee away:
I have business of mine own; and I will come to
you when it is despatched, or I will not come,—
just as the imp urges me. So away with you, and
leave me to myself.”
“Under your favour, no,” said Villafana, apparently
too well acquainted with the man to be much
surprised at a tone and manner so unlike to those
which Camarga had used at the cypress-tree: “I
must e'en have your saintly cowl and leaden cross,
to swear the two infidels together: otherwise there
is no trusting them.—They have much superstitious
reverence for our priests and ceremonies.
Come, señor; I tell thee, the Mexican will make
our fortunes.”
“Thine, rogue, thine!” said the disguised Camarga,
impatiently: “Why talkest thou to me in
this stupid wise? I am an older villain than thou.—
I have a fancy for this lad of the Anakim, this thick-witted,
turtle-brained young Magog. Thou makest
a mystery of him, too. 'Slid! I will penetrate it;
for I have a use to make of him, as well as thou.”
“Demonios!” said Villafana; “are you seeking
Juan Lerma?”
“Ay, marry. I dogged thee hitherward, I saw
thee hide him in the bush, and by St. Dominic,
(who will fry my soul to cinders, for defiling his
garments—peccavi!) I will know what's i' the
wind betwixt you, ere I stir a step further in your
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counsels. Dost thou think I will be thine accomplice,
and have anything hidden from me? Thou
swearest, he is to be murdered to-morrow, too.
There is no time to be lost.”
“Thou art mad,” said Villafana: “he is engaged
on our business. I make no mystery; I will tell
you all. It is well I met thee. He has company,—a
good sword,—and would think no more of lunging
through thy holy lion's skin, if he caught thee eavesdropping—”
“Hark! dost thou not hear tuck and corselet?”
said Camarga, smiling grimly, and rattling the hilt
of a sword against his concealed armour. “I must
know his companion too. I tell thee, I will have
all thy secrets, or I drop thee, perhaps denounce
thee.”
“Thou shalt have them,” said Villafana, gradually
drawing him further from the pool. “His companion
is La Monjonaza.”
“Ha! sits the wind there? I must have a peep
at her: they say, she is lovely as a goddess.”
“Thou wilt incense her,” said Villafana, emphatically.
“By heaven, thou knowest not the temper
of this woman, which is deadly. Leave the two
cooing fools to themselves. Our fortunes,—nay,
faith, our lives, depend upon them. La Monjonaza
is deep in our secrets,—”
“Knave!” muttered the pretended friar, in a low
but furious voice, “hast thou trusted my life in the
keeping of a woman?”
“Pho, she is an older conspirator than thou; a
wiser, too, for she can keep her temper. Out of
her love for the young man, we draw our truest
safety and quickest success.”
“Her love! oh fu! and is she of this corrupt
fickleness, that she will have two lovers in one
hour? But it is the way with these creatures!”
“They are old lovers, very old lovers, señor,”
said Villafana, endeavouring, as he spoke, but in
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vain, to quicken the steps of Camarga. “You
shall hear the story.—Juan Lerma's father was
some low, poor, base fellow, killed in some tumult
at Isabela. The old hidalgo, Antonio del Milagro,
took the boy out of charity, first as a servant—”
“A servant? Dios mio!—Is he of no better beginning?”
“Not a jot; but the old fellow liked him, and, in
the end, treated him full as well as his own son,—
a knavish lad, called Hilario, some two or three
years older than Juan.”
'Slife!” said Camarga, “tell me no granddam's
tale, with all tedious particulars. How came the
youth into the hands of Cortes?”
“Even by setting out to seek his fortune, somewhat
early, and getting to Santiago, where Cortes
took him into keeping. You heard us say, that
Don Hernan, when he received his commission
from Velasquez, sent Juan back to his native island,
to recruit forces. It was natural he should visit
his old friends at Isabela. It was here he met with,
and quarrelled about, Magdalena—”
“Magdalena!” said Camarga, with surprise.
“You swore her name was Infeliz!”
“Ay; but the true one is Magdalena. When
she came from Spain—”
“From Spain!” cried Camarga, starting: “is she
not an islander?”
“Pho! didst thou ever see a creature of her
beauty, born out of Andalusia?”
“I have not seen her—but I will,—yes, by all
the saints of heaven, I will,—I must.—How came
she to the island?”
“Oh, a-horseback, I think,” said Villafana; “for
the ship was never seen at Isabela: never question
about that. The two young dogs, Hilario and
Juan, found her somewhere, brought her to old Milagro,
and, Juan being more favoured and better
beloved than Hilario, who, to say truth, was both
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ugly and vicious, they fought about her, and Hilario
was killed. Thus, Juan was left the master of
the beauty; but being tired of her, or afraid of old
Milagro's vengeance, or perhaps both, he fled again
to Cuba, and thence as you heard, came to Mexico
in a fusta. What brought Magdalena after him I
know not, unless 'twas mad, raging love; yes, faith,
that's the cause; for she cares not half so much for
Don Hernan. But they did say, at Isabela, she had
a better cause; for the ship, it was well known—”
“Fool of all fools!” said Camarga, with a strange
and unnatural laugh, “didst thou not say the ship
was never seen at Isabela?”
“Ay, truly; but it was seen on the rocks at the
Point of Alonso, not many leagues distant,” replied
Villafana; and then added, “I would thou couldst
be more choice of thine epithets of endearment.
These `knaves,' `rogues,' and `fools,' do well
enough among friends; but one may season discourse
too strongly with them, even for the roughest
appetite.—The ship was a wreck: there was
said to be foul work about it; but that's neither
here nor there. The girl was brought ashore by
the young men, Juan being good in the management
of a skiff,—indeed, a notoriously skilful and
fearless sailor. What was said of Magdalena, was
this,” continued the Alguazil, with a low, confidential
voice: “It was discovered, or at least conjectured,
that the ship was no other than the Santa
Anonciacion, a vessel sent from Seville with a bevy
of nuns,—faith, some worshippers of thine own
good St. Dominic,—who were to found a convent at
the Havana. It was whispered, that the fair Magdalena
was even one of the number, and therefore—
But the thing must be plain! To be a nun, and
to love young fellows par amours—this is a matter
for the Inquisition. But thanks be to God, we have
no good Brothers in Mexico!—I will tell thee more,
as we walk, and show thee, if thou hast not the wit
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to see it, how much it concerns us to have a friend
like La Monjonaza.”
“I have heard enough,” said Camarga, with tones
deep and hoarse; “enough, and more than enough.
And this woman was, then, the leman of Juan
Lerma, and, now, the creature of Cortes!”—Here
he muttered something to himself. Then, speaking
with an audible voice, he said,
“Get thee to thy den, and look to thyself: there
is danger afloat, and full enough to excuse me from
meddling with thee to-night. There is a force of
men concealed near to the prison, and commanded
by Guzman. Ask no questions—look to thyself:
thou art suspected.”
At these words, Villafana became greatly alarmed,
and exchanging but a few words more with Camarga,
hastily departed. He was no sooner gone,
than Camarga, yielding to an emotion he had long
suppressed, fell upon his knees and uttered wild
prayers, mingled with groans and maledictions, all
the while beating his breast and brows. Then
rising and whipping out his sword, as if to execute
some deadly purpose of vengeance, he strode towards
the pool.
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No sooner had the Alguazil departed from the
enclosure, than the figure which Juan had beheld
obscurely among the shadows, stepped slowly into
the moonshine, looking like a phantom, because so
closely shrouded from head to foot that nothing
was seen but the similitude of a human being,
wrapped, as it might be imagined, in a gray winding-sheet.
The thick hood and veil concealed her
countenance, and even her hands were hidden
among the folds.
It seemed, for a moment, as if she were about to
speak, for low murmurs came inarticulately from
the veil. As for Juan himself, he was kept silent
by the most painful agitation. At last, and when
it appeared as if the unhappy being was conscious
that no other mode of revealment was in her power,
she raised her hand to her head, and the next moment,
the hood falling back, the moonbeams fell
upon the exposed visage of La Monjonaza. It was
exceedingly, indeed deadly, pale; and the gleaming
of her dewy forehead indicated how feebly even
her powerful strength of mind contended with a
sense of humiliation. She made an effort to elevate
her head, to compose her features into womanly
dignity, but all in vain; her hands sought
each other, and were clasped together upon her
breast, her lips quivered, her head fell, and her eyes,
after one wild, brief, and supplicating glance, were
east upon the earth.
“Alas, Magdalena!” exclaimed Juan, with tones
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of the deepest feeling, “do I see you here, do I see
you thus?”
At these words she raised her head, with a sudden
and convulsive start, as if the imputation they
conveyed had stung her to the soul; and as she
bent her eyes upon Juan, though they were filled
with tears, yet they flashed with what seemed a
noble indignation. But this was soon changed to
a milder and sadder expression, and the flush which
had accompanied it, was quickly replaced by her
former paleness.
“Thou dost indeed see me here,” she replied,
summoning her resolution, and speaking firmly,
“and thou seest me thus,—degraded, not in thine
imagination only, but in the suspicions of all, down
to the level of scorn. Yes,” she continued, bitterly,
“and while thou pitiest me for a shame endured
only for thyself,—endured only that I may requite
thee with life for life,—thou art sorry thy hand ever
snatched me from the billows. Speak, Juan Lerma,
is it not so?”
“It had been better, Magdalena,” said the youth,
reproachfully, “for, besides that the act caused me
to be stained with blood, it afflicts me with a curse
still more heavy. I do not mourn the death of
Hilario, as I mourn the downfall of one whom I
once esteemed almost a seraph.”
“Villain that he was!” cried Magdalena, with
vindictive impetuosity, “mean and malignant in life
and in death! who, with a lie, living, destroyed the
peace and the fame of the friendless, and died with
a lie, that both might remain blighted for ever! O
wretch! O wretch! there is no punishment for
him among the fiends, for he was of their nature.
And thou mournest his death, too! Thou cursest
the hand that avenged the wrong of a feeble woman!”
“I lament that I slew the son of my benefactor,”
said Juan, with a deep sigh; and then added with
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one still deeper, “but, sinner that I am, I rejoice
while looking on thee, in the fierce thought, that I
killed the destroyer of innocence.”
“The destroyer of innocence indeed,” replied
Magdalena, with a voice broken and suffocating.
“Yes, innocence!” she exclaimed more wildly, “or
at least, the fame of innocence! for innocence herself
he could not harm. No, by heaven! oh, no!
for what I came from the sea, that I am now; yes,
now, I tell thee, now! and if thou darest give
tongue to aught else, if thou darest think—Oh heaven!
this is more than I can bear! Say, Juan
Lerma! say! dost thou, too, believe me the thing
I am called? the base, the fallen, the degraded?”
“Alas, Magdalena,” replied Juan, to the wild demand:
“with his dying lips, Hilario—”
“With his dying lips, he perjured his soul for
ever!” exclaimed Magdalena, “for ever, for ever!”
she went on, with inexpressible energy and fury;
“and may the curse of a broken-hearted woman,
destroyed by his defaming malice, cling to him as
long, scorching him with fresh torments, even when
fiends grow relentful and forbearing. Mountains
of fire requite the coals he has thrown upon my
bosom! May God never forgive him! no, never!
never!”
“This is horrid!” said Juan. “Revoke thy
malediction: it is impiety. Alas, alas!” he continued,
moved with compassion, as the singular
being, passing at once from a sibyl-like rage to the
deepest and most feminine abasement of grief,
wrung her hands, and sobbed aloud and bitterly;
“Would indeed that thou hadst perished with the
others!”
“Would that I had!” said Magdalena, more
calmly; “but thou hadst then been left to a malice
like that which has slain me.—No, not like that;
for it is content with thy life!—I would ask thee
more of myself,” she went on, more composedly,
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after a little pause, “but it needs not. If I can
show thee thou wrongest me concerning Hilario,
canst thou not believe I may be even here without
stain? Well, I care not; one day, thou wilt know
thou hast wronged me. But let the shame rest upon
me now; for it needs I should think, not of myself,
but of thee. Listen to me, Juan Lerma; for fallen
or not, yet am I thine only friend among a thousand
enemies. Give up thy service, thy hopes of fame
and fortune in this land, and leave it. Leave
Mexico, return to the islands. Thou hast marvellously
escaped a death, subtly and cruelly designed;
and now thou art destined to an end as
vengeful, and perhaps even more inevitable. Yet
there is one way of escape, and there is one moment
to take advantage of it. Leave Mexico:
Cortes is thy foe.—Leave Mexico.”
“These are but wild words, Magdalena,” said
Juan, with a troubled voice. “I would do much to
remove thee from a situation, the thought whereof
is bitterer to me than my own misfortunes.”
“Wouldst thou?” said Magdalena, eagerly.
“Go then, and I go likewise; go then, and know
that thy departure not only releases me from a
situation of disgrace, but enables me to make clear
a reputation which thou—yes, thou,—believest to
be sullied and lost. I am not what I seem—Saints
of heaven, that I should have to say it! But by the
grave of my mother, I swear, Juan Lerma, thou doest
me as deep a wrong as others. Leave this land, and
thou shalt see that the fame of an angel is not purer
than mine own scorned name,—no, by heaven, no
freer from a deserved shame. Thou shakest thy
head!—I could kill thee, Juan Lerma, I could kill
thee!”—she went on, with a strange mingling of
fierce resentment and beseeching grief; “I could
kill thee, for I have not deserved this of thee!”
Then, changing her tone, and clasping her hands
submissively, she said, “But think not of me, or
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rather continue to think me unworthy of aught but
pity: think not, above all, that what I do is with
any reference to myself. No, heaven is my witness,
I claim of thee neither affection nor respect; I am
content to be mistaken, to be despised. All this I
can endure, and will, uncomplaining,—so that I can
rescue thee from the danger in which thou art
placed. Leave this land: Don Hernan deceives
thee; he hates thee, and thirsts after thy blood.
He has confessed it!”
“God be my help!” said Juan, despairingly; “my
life is in his hands. If this be true—”
“If it be true!” repeated Magdalena: “It is
known to all but thyself.”
“It is not true!” exclaimed the young man, vehemently:
“I have done him no wrong, and he is
not the detestable being you would make him. If
he be, I owe him a life—let him have it; it is in
his hands.”
“Leave Mexico,” reiterated Magdalena. “If
thou goest to Tochtepec, thou art lost. I have it in
my power to aid,—nay, to secure thy escape. Say,
therefore, thou wilt consent, say thou wilt leave
Mexico!”
“It cannot be,” said Juan, with a sad and sullen
resolution: “I will await my fate in Mexico!”
“And wilt thou stand, like the fat ox, till the
noose is cast upon thy neck? till thou art butchered?”
“My life is nothing—I live not for myself: the
redemption of others depends upon my acts. I
have a duty that speaks more urgently than fear.
My lot is cast in Mexico; I cannot leave it.”
As he spoke, with a firm voice, he bent his looks
expressively on his companion. Her eyes flashed
fire, and they shone from her pale face like living
coals:
“Sayst thou this to me?” she exclaimed, her
voice trembling with fury, “sayst thou this to
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me?” Then advancing a step, and laying her
hand upon his arm, she continued, her accents
sinking almost into whispers, they were so subdued,
or so feeble, “Lay not upon thy soul a sin greater
than stains it already. Leave Mexico; resolve or
die: leave Mexico, or perish!—Oh, thou art guiltier
than thou thinkest! Thou hast cursed Hilario for
my fall: curse thyself,—not Hilario, but thyself;
for but for thee, but for thee, I had been happy!
yes, happy, happy!”
To these words, Juan, though greatly compassionating
the distress of the speaker, would have
replied with remonstrance; but she gave him no
opportunity. She continued to repeat over and
over again, with a kind of hysterical pertinacity,
the words `Leave Mexico! leave Mexico!' so that
Juan was not only prevented replying, but confounded.
He was relieved from embarrassment by
a sudden growl, coming from the bushes at his
side. La Monjonaza started at the sound, and in
the moment of silence that succeeded, both could
distinguish the steps of a man rapidly approaching
the pool. At the same instant, another growl was
heard, and Befo, issuing from the leafy covert, took
a stand by his master's side, as if to defend him
from an enemy. The veil of Magdalena fell over
her visage; she paused but to whisper, in tones of
such energy that they thrilled him to the soul,
`Leave Mexico, or die!' and then instantly vanished
among the boughs. It was too late for Juan to follow
her: he had scarce time to lay his hand upon
Befo's neck and moderate his ferocity, before his
eyes were struck with the strange spectacle of a
tall man, in the garb of a Dominican friar, his face
pale as death, his hand holding a naked sword, who
strode into the inclosure and upon that part of the
path which was illuminated by the moonbeams. No
sooner had he cast his eyes upon Juan than he exclaimed,
“Die, wretch!” and made a pass at him
with his weapon. Had the lunge been skilfully
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made, it must have proved fatal; for though Juan
still held the sheathless rapier he had brought from
his chamber, he was so much surprised at the suddenness
of the apparition, that his attempt to ward
it could not have succeeded against a good fencer.
A better protection was given by the faithful Befo,
who, darting from Juan's hand, against the assailant's
breast, attacked him with a shock so violent,
that, in an instant, the señor Camarga (for it was
he who played this insane part) lay rolling upon his
back, his grizzled locks streaming in the pool.
“In the name of heaven, what dost thou mean,
and who art thou, impostor and assassin!” cried
Juan, pulling off the dog, and helping Camarga to
his feet. “Thou art mad, I think!”
There was something in the man's countenance,
as well as in the murderous attempt, to confirm the
idea; for Camarga's agitation was singular and
extreme, and he seemed unable to answer a word.
“Who art thou?” continued Juan angrily, impressed
with the certainty that he had seen the face
of the assailant before, yet without knowing when
or where. “Confess thyself straight, or I will have
thee to the Alguazil, and see the friar's frock
scourged from thy base body!”
However eager and foreboding the young man's
curiosity, it was doomed to be disappointed by a
new interruption. While he yet spoke, he was
alarmed by a sudden discharge of firearms, followed
by shrieks and cries, at the bottom of the garden;
and presently the whole solitude was transformed
into a scene of tumult and uproar. Lights
were seen flashing among the trees, and men were
heard running confusedly to and fro, calling to one
another.
The last word had hardly parted from his lips,
before the boughs crashed on the opposite side of
the pool, and a new actor was suddenly added to
the scene.
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As the bushes parted, a tall figure sprang into
the path, and running round the pool, would instantly
have been at the side of the two Castilians,
who were yet unobserved, had it not been that
Befo, his ferocity greatly whetted by his former encounter,
darted forward as at first, with a sudden
roar, with equal violence, and with similar success.
As the stranger fell to the earth under an attack so
impetuous and unexpected, he uttered an exclamation
in which Juan recognized the language of
Mexico. He ran forwards, guided by the growls
of the beast and the stifled cries of the man, (for the
spot on which the two contended was covered with
impenetrable gloom,) and, by accident, caught the
stranger's arm, and felt that it wielded a heavy
macana, now uplifted against the animal. As his
other hand was stretched forward, again to remove
the victorious Befo from a fallen antagonist, it fell
upon the naked breast of a barbarian.—In a moment
more, he had torn the dog away, and dragged
the savage into the moonshine, where he had left
Camarga standing, but where Camarga stood no
longer. He had fled away in the confusion, unobserved,
and now almost forgotten.
Here Juan released the captive from his powerful
grasp, for his rapier was in his hand, and the
macana of the Mexican he had already cast into the
pool; and thus standing, confiding as much in the
aid of Befo as in the menacing attitude of his weapon,
he began to address his prisoner.
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“What art thou?” he demanded, in the tongue
which, as he had boasted, was almost as familiar to
him as the language of Spain: “What art thou?
and what dost thou here?”
Instead of answering, the Mexican, gazing over
his conqueror's shoulder, seemed to survey, with
looks of admiration and alarm, some spectacle behind
his back. Juan cast his eye in the direction
thus indicated, and beheld the visage of Magdalena,
recalled by the tumult, gleaming hard by. In an
instant more, she had vanished, and he turned again
to the captive, who, when the vision, to him so inexplicable,
had faded away, now directed his attention
to an object equally surprising and much more
formidable in his estimation than even the redoubt
able Juan. As he rolled his eyes, in mingled wonder,
trepidation, and anger, on the huge Befo, who
now stood regarding him, writhing his lips and
showing his tusks, in the manner with which he
was wont so expressively to intimate his readiness
to obey any signal of attack, Juan had full leisure
to observe that the Indian was a young man not
above twenty-three or twenty-four years old, of
good and manly stature, and limbs nobly proportioned.
His only garments were a tunic and mantle
of some dark-coloured stuff, but little ornamented,
the former extending from the waist to the
knees, the latter, knotted, as usual, about his throat,
but so disordered and torn by the teeth of the dog,
as to leave the upper part of his body nearly naked.
His only defensive armour was a little round buckler
of the skin of the danta or tapir, not exceeding
fourteen inches in diameter, strapped to his left
arm. The loss of the macana had left him without
any offensive weapon. As he raised his head at
the second salutation of his capturer, he flung back
the long masses of black hair from his forehead, and
displayed a visage, as well, at least, as it could be
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seen in the moonlight, not unworthy his manly
person.
“Olin, the tongue of the Teuctli, is a prisoner.”
As he pronounced these words, in his own language,
signifying that he was an orator of his
high class, and that he confessed himself a captive,
he touched the earth with his hand and kissed it,
in token of submission. The tones of his voice
caused Juan to start.
He dropped his sword-point, advanced nearer to
him, and perused his features with intense curiosity.
His gaze was returned with a look of equal
surprise, which betrayed a touch of fear; for the
Mexican at once exclaimed, withdrawing a step
backward,
“The Great Eagle fell among the archers of Matlatzinco!”
“The king is not wise—Guatimozin is in the
hands of Cortes!” said Juan, with deep earnestness.
“Olin is the orator—the king is wise,” replied the
Indian, hastily.
“It is in vain,” said Juan. “Thou art Guatimozin!
and a captive, too, ere a blow has been struck,
in the camp of thy foeman! Is this an end for the
king of Mexico?”
“Quauhtimozin can die: there are other kings
for the free warriors of Tenochtitlan,” replied the
young monarch, boldly and haughtily, avowing his
name,—which is here given in its original and
genuine harshness, that the reader may be made
acquainted with it; though it is not intended to substitute
it for its more agreeable and familiar corruption:
“Guatimozin is a prisoner,” he continued,
with a firm voice and lofty demeanour, “but the
king of Mexico is free.—When did the Great Eagle
become the foe of Guatimozin?”
“I am not thy foe,” replied Juan, “but thy friend;
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so far, at least, as it becomes a Christian and
Spaniard to be. I lament to see thee in this place—
I am not thy foe.”
“Raise then thy weapon,” said the prince, dropping
his haughty manner and ceremonious style,
and speaking, as he laid his hand on Juan's arm,
with fierce emotion; “strike me through the neck,
and cast my body into the pool.—It is not fit that
Guatimozin should wear the bonds of Montezuma!”
It must not be supposed that this conversation
took place in quiet. During the whole time, on the
contrary, the garden continued to resound with the
voices of men running from copse to copse, from
alley to alley, sometimes drawing nigh, and, at other
moments, appearing to be removed to the furthest
limits of the grounds. At the moment when the
Mexican made his abrupt and insane appeal to the
friendship of his capturer, a party of Spaniards
rushed by at so short a distance and with so much
clamour, that he had good reason to conceive himself
almost already in their hands. They passed
by, however, and with them fled a portion of Juan's
embarrassment. As soon as he perceived they
were beyond hearing, he replied:
“This were to be thy foe indeed. But, oh, unwise
and imprudent! what tempted thee to this
mad confidence?”
“The craft of Malintzin,” replied the Mexican,
making use of a name which his people had long
since attached to Cortes,—“the craft of Malintzin,
who ensnares his foe like the wild Ottomi, hidden
among the reeds;—he scatters the sweet berry on
the lake, and steals upon the feeding sheldrake; so
steals Malintzin. He sends words of peace to the
foe afar; when the foe is asleep, Malintzin is a
tiger!”
“And thou hast been deceived by these perfidious
and unworthy arts?” said Juan, the
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innuen-does of Villafana and the monitions of Magdalena,
recurring to his mind with painful force.
“Deceived and trapped!” replied the infidel, with
fierce indignation; “cajoled by lies, circumvented
by treachery, seduced and betrayed!—Is the Great
Eagle like Malintzin?” As he spoke thus, sinking
his voice, which was indeed all the time cautiously
subdued, he again laid his hand on the young
Christian's arm, and continued,
“Art thou such a man, and dost thou desire the
blood of thy friend? What shall be said to the little
Centzontli, the mocking-bird? The little Centzontli
sang the song to Guatimozin, `Let not the Great
Eagle die in the trap!' What sings she now? Does
the Great Eagle listen to the little Centzontli?”
“He does,” replied Juan, on whom these metaphors,
however mysterious they may seem to the
reader, produced a strong impression. “Thou art
my prisoner, not Don Hernan's; and it rests with
me to liberate or to bind, not with him. Answer
me, therefore, truly; for if thou hast been trained
by treachery into this present danger, coming with
thoughts of peace and composition, and not with
an army, to surprise and slay, thou shalt be made
free, even though the act cost me my life.”
“I come in peace: does the leader of an army
walk bareheaded and naked? My canoe lies hid
among the reeds: my warriors are asleep on the
island. The Christian sent for a lord of the city, to
give his hand to the angry men of Tlascala. Guatimozin
is not the king, but he brought them the
hand of the king.—It was the lie of Malintzin! I
am betrayed!”
“If I suffer thee to depart,” said Juan, anxiously,
“canst thou make good thy escape?”
“Is not Guatimozin a soldier?” replied the Mexican,
with a gleaming eye. “Give me a sword, and
hold fast the Christian tiger.”—
“Hark!—peace!” whispered Juan, drawing the
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prisoner suddenly among the boughs: “we are beset.
Hist, Befo, hist!”
With a degree of uneasiness, which approached
almost to fear, when he found that Befo, instead of
following him into his concealment, remained out
upon the illuminated path, where he attracted notice,
while expressing fidelity, by setting up an
audible growl, Juan heard a man crash through the
boughs on the further side of the pool, all the while
calling loudly and cheerily to his companions.
“Hither, knaves!” he cried; “the fox is in cover!
Hither! quick, hither!”
It was the voice of Guzman. He had caught the
growl of the dog, and responded with a shout of
triumph, as he ran forward, closely followed by
three or four soldiers armed with spears;
“The bloodhound for ever! he has the fox in his
mouth, I know by his growling!—Hah, Befo, fool?”
he continued, when he had reached the animal;
“art thou baying the moon then?—Pass on, pass
on: no Indian passes scotfree by Befo at midnight—
Pass on, pass on!”
In a moment more, the nook was left to its solitude,
and Juan reappeared, with the prince. The
sight and voice of Guzman had stirred up his wrath,
and he took his measures with a quicker and sterner
resolution.
“He protects and loves this man, who is a villain,”
he muttered through his teeth. “There is
nothing else left. Follow me prince: if we are seen,
thy fate is not more certain than mine—Follow me
in silence.”
The garden was still alive with men; they could
be seen running about in different directions, though
the greatest numbers seemed to be collected at the
bottom, near to the lake side. It was not from this
circumstance, however, so much as from his ignorance
of every portion of the grounds except that
by which he had approached the pool, that he bent
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his steps towards the wing of the palace he had so
lately left. He advanced cautiously, taking advantage
of every clump of trees, which could afford
concealment from any passing group; and once or
twice, to allay suspicion, adding his voice to those
of the others, as if engaged in the same duty; in
which latter stratagem he was ably seconded by
the unconscious Befo, whose bark, excited by the
shout of his master, was a sufficient warrant to all
within hearing, of the friendly character of the party.
Thus assisted by the undesigned help of the dog,
and by the imitative caution of the Mexican, he succeeded
in reaching the wing of the palace, and the
passage that led to his chamber, which was illumined
by torches of resinous wood. A door, leading
to the open square that surrounded the palace,
opened opposite to that by which he entered
from the garden. It was his intention, if possible,
to pass through this into the city, not doubting that
it would be easy to conceal the fugitive among the
thousand barbarians of his own colour and appearance,
who yet thronged the streets; after which, it
would not perhaps be impracticable to find some
way to discharge him from the gates. But, unfortunately,
as he pressed towards it, he found the outer
door beset by armed men, thronging tumultuously
in, as if to join their comrades in the garden. There
was nothing left him, then, but to seek his apartment,
as hastily as he could, and there conceal the
Mexican until the heat of pursuit was over. A motion
of his hand apprized the fugitive of his change
of purpose, and Guatimozin, darting quickly forward,
was already stealing into the chamber, when
a harsh voice suddenly bawled behind,
“Mutiny and miracles! here runs the rat with
the viper! Treason, treason!”
It was the hunchback Najara, whose quick eye
detected the vanishing hair, and who now ran
forward in pursuit, followed by a confused throng
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of soldiers, from among whom suddenly darted the
cavalier Don Francisco de Guzman.
Juan had reached the door. The cry of Najara
assured him that he was discovered; and conscious
that his act of generosity was, or of right ought to
be, considered little better than sheer treason, the
varied passions of hope, grief, indignation and
wrath, which had been, the whole evening, chasing
one another through his bosom, gave place at once
to the single feeling of despair. He felt that he was
now lost.
At this very moment, while his brain was confused,
and his heart dying within him, a laugh
sounded in his ear, and he heard, even above the
clamorous shouts of the soldiers, the voice of Guzman,
exclaiming,
“What think'st thou now, señor? Art thou conquered?—
Stand! I arrest thee.”
He turned; the cavalier was within reach of his
arm, and the malignant sneer was yet writhing over
his visage. The words of scorn, the look of exultation,
were intolerable; the rapier was already naked
in his hand, and almost before he was himself aware
of the act, it was aimed, with a deadly lunge, at
Don Francisco's throat.
“The deed has slain thee!” cried Guzman, leaping
backwards, so as to avoid a thrust too fiercely
sudden to be parried, and then again rushing forward,
before he could be supported by the soldiers,
who had also recoiled at this show of resistance;
“the act has slain thee; and so take the fate thou
art seeking!”
As he spoke, he advanced his weapon, which was
before unsheathed, against an adversary, whom the
recollection of a thousand wrongs had inflamed to
frenzy, but who could scarcely be supposed to have
retained, during a year of servitude and suffering,
the skill in arms, which once made him an equal
antagonist. Nevertheless, Guzman's pass was
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turned aside, and returned with such interest, that, had
the field been fair and unincumbered, it is questionable
how long he might have lived to repeat it.
As it was, the combat was cut short by the interposition
of the bloodhound, who, whining, at first,
as if unwilling to attack a cavalier so long and so
well known as Don Francisco, and yet unable to
remain neuter, at last added his fierce yell to the
clash of the weapons, and decided the battle by
springing against Guzman's breast. It was perhaps
fortunate for the cavalier that he did. He had
a breast-plate on; and, for this reason, Juan aimed
the few blows that were made, full at his throat,
with the fatal determination of one, who, hopeless
of life himself, had sworn a vow to his soul that his
enemy should die. It was but the third thrust he had
made, (they had scarce occupied so many seconds,)
and it was directed with such irresistible skill and
violence, that the point of the weapon was already
gliding through Guzman's beard and razing his
skin, when the weight of Befo's assault, for the third
time successful, hurled him from his feet, and thus
saved his life, at the expense of a severe gash made
through his right cheek and ear.
The whole of this encounter, from the first attack
to the fall of Guzman, had not occupied the space
of twenty seconds; and Don Francisco was at the
mercy of his rival, before even the rapid Najara
could advance a spear to protect him. It was not
improbable that Juan would have taken a deadly
advantage of the mishap, for, as he had declared,
in a cooler moment, he hated Don Francisco, and
his blood was now boiling. If such, however, was
his purpose, he was prevented putting it into execution
by another one of those opposing accidents,
which seemed this night, to pursue him with such
unrelenting rigour.
Before he could advance a single step, a cavalier,
bareheaded and unarmed, save that he flourished
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a naked sword, sprang from the throng of soldiers,
followed by the señor Camarga, now without his
masking habit, the latter of whom cried with fierce
emphasis, all the time, “Kill him! cut him down!
kill him!” until the soldiers caught up the cry, and
the whole passage echoed with their furious exclamations.
These served but the end of still further
exasperating the choler of the young man,
thus beset as it seemed by the tyranny of numbers;
and seeing the bareheaded cavalier advancing
against him, and already betwixt him and his fallen
rival, he turned upon him with fresh fury.
“Hah!” cried the new antagonist, when Juan's
weapon clashed against his own; “traitor! dost
thou provoke thy fate?”
The words were not out of his lips, before Juan
perceived that he had raised his rapier against the
bosom of Cortes. He beheld, in the countenance
which he had once loved, the scowl of an evil spirit,
and the fire flashing from the general's eyes, was
no longer to be mistaken for aught but the revelation
of the deadliest hatred. He flung down his
sword, resisting no longer, and the next instant
would have been run through the body, but that
Befo, fearing to attack, and yet unable to resist the
impulse of fidelity, sprang up, with a howl, and
seized the weapon with his teeth. Before Cortes
could disengage it, and again turn it upon the unfortunate
youth, the Mexican fugitive glided from
the apartment, threw himself before the latter, and
taking the point of the weapon in his hand, placed
it against his own naked breast. Then bowing his
head submissively, he stood in tranquillity, expecting
his death.
At his sudden appearance, the soldiers set up a
shout, and Cortes was sufficiently diverted from his
bloody purpose, to smooth his frowning brow into
an air of official sternness.
“Olin is the prisoner of the Teuctli,” murmured
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the captive, in words scarce understood by any one
present, except Juan.
“Where bide mine Alguazils?” demanded the
Captain-General, without condescending to notice
the Mexican any further than merely by removing
the rapier from his grasp. “Hah, Guzman! thou
art hurt, art thou? By heaven,”—But he checked
the oath, when he observed that Guzman, already
on his feet, notwithstanding the frightful appearance
that was given him by the blood running
down his cheek and neck, and drippling slowly
from his beard, replied to the exclamation with a
smile of peculiar coolness: “Get thee to a surgeon.
Where bide the Alguazils? Is there no officer to
rid me of a traitor?”
“Señor General,” said Juan, sullenly, “I am no
traitor—”
He was interrupted by the appearance of two
men, carrying batons, who bustled from among the
crowd, and laid hands upon him. The readiest
and the most officious was Villafana, who concealed
a vast deal of agitation under an air of extravagant
zeal.
“Ha, Villafana! art thou found at last?” cried
Don Hernan, with apparent anger. “Hast thou
no better care of thy ward on the water-side, but
that spies may come stealing into my garden?”
“May it please your excellency,” said Villafana,
recovering his wit, “I was neither gambling nor
asleep; but—'Slid, this is a pretty piece of villany!
Oho, señor mutineer, this is hanging-work?—Speak
not a word, as you love life.”—This was spoken
apart into Juan's ear.—“What is your excellency's
will, touching the prisoner?”
“Have him to prison, and see that he escape
not.”
These words were pronounced with a coolness
and gravity that amazed all who had witnessed
the rage, which, but a moment before, had shaken
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the frame of the Captain-General. “And you, ye
idle fellows,” he continued, addressing the soldiers,
“get you to your quarters, to your watch, or to
your beds. Begone.—Why loiter ye, Villafana?
Conduct away the prisoner.”
Juan raised his eyes once more to the general,
and seemed as if he would have spoken; but, confused
and bewildered by the extraordinary termination
of the drama of the day, chilled by frowns,
oppressed by a consciousness of having provoked
his fate, his head sunk in a deep dejection on his
breast, and he suffered himself to be led silently
away.
A gleam of light, such as flares up at night from
a decaying brand, just lost in ashes, sprang up in
the leader's eyes, as they followed the steps of the
unhappy youth, until, passing from that door, which
he had so vainly sought to gain with the Mexican, he
vanished from sight. Its lustre was hidden from
all but the captive, who, maintaining throughout
the whole scene, the self-possession, characteristic of
all the American race, from the pygmies of the
Frozen Sea to the giants of Patagonia, did not lose
the opportunity thus afforded, of diving into the
thoughts of the Invader.
As soon as Juan Lerma had departed, with the
mass of the soldiers, Cortes turned to the Mexican,
and with a mild countenance, and a gentle voice,
which were designed to convey the proper interpretation
of his Castilian speech, said,
“Let my young friend, the Tlatoani, be at
peace, and fear not; no harm is designed him.”
Then, making a signal to those who remained,
to lead the captive after him, he passed into the
garden, and thence, by a private entrance, into the
hall of audience.
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CHAPTER XIII.
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It has been already mentioned, that the person
of Guatimozin was familiar to few, or none, of the
Spaniards. Intensely and consistently hostile to
the invaders, from the first moment of their appearance
in the Valley, he had ever kept aloof from
them, and was one of the few princes of Mexico,
whom neither force nor stratagem could reduce to
thraldom. His youth, indeed,—his want of authority,
(for though of the loftiest birth and the highest military
fame, he enjoyed, at first, no independent command
or government,) and, hence, his apparent
insignificance,—had made the possession of his person
of no great consequence; and it was not until
he was seen leading the incensed citizens up against
the guns of the garrison, and directing the assault
which terminated in the life of Montezuma, that he
began to be considered an enemy worthy to be
feared. Even then, however, he was but one
among the warlike followers of Cuitlahuatzin,—the
successor of Montezuma,—and on the famous battle-field
of Otumba, he fought only as a second in
command. But from that time until the present
moment, his name was constantly before the Spaniards,
first as the king of Iztapalapan, then as a
leader among those royal warriors, sent forth by
Cuitlahuatzin, now to annoy the Spaniards, even
among their fortresses on the borders of Tlascala,
and now to chastise those rebellious tribes
which were daily acknowledging allegiance to the
Spaniard, and preparing to march with him against
Tenochtitlan.
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The death of Cuitlahuatzin had suddenly exposed
him to view as the probable successor to the
imperial dignity; and the act of the royal electors,
(the kings of Mexico were chosen by the crowned
vassals of the empire,) in bestowing the mantle and
sceptre, had left nothing to be done to confirm his
authority, save a solemn inauguration on the day of
an august religious and national festival.
He had thus assumed the attitude which Montezuma
had once preserved in the eyes of the Conquistador;
and it was as much the policy of Cortes
to attempt the acts of delusion with him, as it had
been with his predecessor. The craftier and
haughtier Guatimozin had, however, rejected his
overtures with disdain; and, justly appreciating the
character and designs of his enemy, he prepared for
war as the only alternative of slavery. He had
already concentrated in his city, and in the neighbouring
towns, the whole martial force of the tribes
yet valiant and faithful; he had laboured, with an
address that was not always ineffectual, to regain
the false and rebellious; and, rising above the
weakness of national resentments, he had even
striven to unite his hereditary foes in a league of
resistance against the stranger, who, whether
frowning or smiling, whether courting with friendship,
or subduing with arms, was yet, and equally,
the enemy of all.
Enough has been said to explain the purpose for
which he so rashly threw himself into the power of
the Conqueror. The certain assurance of disaffection
in the invader's camp, not only among the
allies, but among the Spaniards themselves, was
enough to fire his heart with the desire of employing
against Don Hernan a weapon which his foe
had used so fatally against him; and, besides, the
opportunity of detaching the Tlascalans from the
Spanish interest, was too captivating to be rejected.
These were advantages to be investigated and
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promoted by himself, rather than by agents; and, confiding
in his enemies' ignorance of his person, in
his cunning, and in the interested fidelity of traitors,
who had already grasped at bribes, and were
eager to be better acquainted with his bounty, he
did not scruple to direct his midnight skiff among
the reeds on the lakeside, and, in the guise of a
mere noble, trust himself alone in their power.
If the reader desire to know what could induce
any of the followers of Cortes to treat thus perfidiously
with the infidel enemy whose wealth was
promised as the certain guerdon of war, he may
be answered almost in a word. The dangers of the
war were manifold and obvious to all, and the horrors
of the five days' battles in the streets of Mexico,
and more than all, the calamities of the midnight
retreat, had given such a foretaste of what might
be expected from a prosecution of the campaign,
that full half the army looked forward to it with
equal terror and repugnance. A majority of those
who survived the Noche Triste, were followers of
the unfortunate Narvaez, and some of them yet
friendly to the deceived Velasquez. They remained
with Cortes upon compulsion, and they hated
him not only for their inability to return to their
peaceable farms among the islands, for past calamities,
and coming misfortunes, but for the superior
favours showered so liberally, and indeed so naturally,
upon those who had been his original, and
were yet his faithful, adherents. In a word, they
regarded the reduction of the Mexican empire as
hopeless, and their own fate, if they remained, as
already written in characters of blood. The bolder
scowled and complained, the feeble and the crafty
dissembled, but evil thoughts and fierce resolutions
were common to all. They burned to be released
from what was to them intolerable bondage, and
the means were not to be questioned, even though
they might involve connivance and collusion with
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the foe. But such collusion was by no means
known, nor even suspected, by any save the few
desperadoes who had risen to the bad eminence of
leaders. Even Villafana was ignorant of the true
character of his guest, and esteemed him to be
only what he represented himself,—Olin, the young
noble, an orator, counsellor, and confidential agent
of Guatimozin. It was not possible for the Captain-General
to regard him in any other light.
Whatever may have been the young monarch's
thoughts, his secret misgivings and self-reproaches,
as he strode, closely environed by cavaliers, into the
great hall, now dimly lighted by tapers of vegetable
wax and torches of fragrant wood, they were exposed
by no agitation of countenance or hesitation
of step; and when Cortes ascended the platform to
his seat, and turned his penetrating eye upon him,
he preserved an air of the most fearless tranquillity.
For the space of several moments, the general regarded
him in silence; then commanding all to
leave the apartment, excepting Sandoval, Alvarado,
and another cavalier who officiated as interpreter,
he said to Alvarado, with a mild voice, very
strangely contrasted with the rudeness of his
words,
“Look into the face of this heathen dog, and tell
me if thou knowest him.”
Alvarado had been, as the historical reader is
aware, left in Mexico, the jailer of Montezuma and
the warden of the city, during the absence of
Cortes, when he marched against Narvaez. It was
supposed, therefore, that Don Pedro was better acquainted
with the persons of the principal nobles
than any other cavalier. He examined the captive
curiously, and at last said, shaking his head,
“Methinks his visage is not unknown; and yet
I wot not to whom it belongs. The knave is
but a boy. If he be a noble, never trust me but he
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is one of Guatimozin's making, and therefore not
yet of consequence.”
At the sound of his own name, the only word
distinguishable by the prisoner, Alvarado observed
that his brow contracted a little. But this awoke
no suspicion.
“Demand of him,” said Cortes to the interpreter,
“his name, and the purpose of his coming to Tezcuco?”
When this was explained to the Mexican, his
brow contracted still further, but rather with inquisitiveness
than embarrassment:
“I am Olin-pilli,” (that is, Olin the Lord, or Lord
Olin,) he replied, “the speaker of wise things to the
king, and the mouth of nobles.”
He then paused, as if to examine with what degree
of belief he was listened to; and being satisfied,
from the countenance of Don Hernan, that he
was really unknown, he continued, with a more
confident tone,
“And I come to the Lord of the East, the Son of
the God of Air, to hear the words of his children.
Did not the Teuctli send for me?”
“Not I,” replied the Captain-General, sternly.
“Speaker of wise things, I look into thy heart, and
I see thy falsehood. Thou art a spy,—a quimichin,—
sent by Guatimozin the king, to speak dark
things to the men of Tlascala.”
The captive, though somewhat disconcerted,
maintained a fearless countenance:
“The Teuctli is the son of the gods, and knows
everything,” he answered.
“And charged also,” continued Cortes, “to whisper
in the ears of fools, who send good words to the
king, that the king may enrich them with gold. Is
not this true, Sir Quimichin?”
“Is not Malintzin the Son of Quetzalcoatl, the
White God with a beard, who proclaimed from the
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Hill of Shouting[9] and from the Speaking Mountain,†
the coming of his offspring? and shall Olin know
more things than Malintzin? Guatimozin thinks,
that the Spaniard should not slay his people.”
“Wherefore, then, sent he not thee to me?” demanded
the Captain-General. “I will listen to his
words. It was not wise to send his ambassador to
the soldier, when the general sat by, in his tent.—
Hearken to me, friend Olin,” he continued, with
gravity: “Hadst thou brought his discourse to me,
thou hadst then been listened to with honour, and
dismissed in peace. Art thou a soldier?”
“Olin is a counsellor,” replied the Mexican,
proudly; “but he has bled in battle.”
“And is not Guatimozin a warrior?”
“He is the king of the House of Darts, and he
has struck his foe.”
“When the lurking Ottomi is found skulking in
his camp; when the angry Tlascalan creeps up to
his fort; what does Guatimozin then with the prisoner?
what says he to the Ottomi? what wills he
with the Tlascalan?”
“He binds them to the stone, and they die like
the dogs of the altar!” replied the barbarian, with
a fierce utterance.
“Thou hast spoken thine own doom,” replied
Cortes, sternly; “only that, instead of perishing
according to thy damnable customs, a sacrifice to
spirits accurst, thou shalt have such death as we
give to the dogs of Castile. Thou hast crept into
my camp, like the spying Ottomi; thou comest with
sword and shield, like the bravo of Tlascala; and
thou hast addressed thyself to traitors and conspirators,
to make them mine enemies. Why then
should I not hang thee upon a tree? or why,” he
continued, with an elevated voice, descending from
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the platform, and, with a single motion, unsheathing
his rapier and aiming it against the captive's
breast—“why should I not kill thee, thou cur!
upon the spot?”
“I am a Mexican!” replied the young king, rather
opposing his body to the expected thrust than
seeking to avoid it; “I look upon my death, and I
spit upon thee, Spaniard!”
“Hah!” cried Cortes, whose desire was to intimidate,
not to slay, and who could not but admire
the fearless air of defiance, so boldly assumed by
the captive, “thou hast either a true heart, or a penetrating
eye.—Fear not; thy life is in my hands, but
I design thee no wrong: death were but a just
punishment for thy villany, yet I mean not to enforce
it. What wilt thou do, if I discharge thee
unharmed?”
“I will know,” said the barbarian, with a look of
surprise, as soon as this was interpreted, “that
Malintzin is not always hungry for blood; or rather,
I will ask of my thoughts, what mischief to Mexico
is meditated in the act of mercy.”
“A shrewd knave, i'faith, a shrewd knave!”
cried Cortes, admiringly: “by my conscience, this
fellow hath somewhat the wit of a Christian politician.—
Infidel,” he continued, “hearken to what I
say. I desire to speak the words of peace with my
young brother Guatimozin. Wherefore will he not
listen to me?”
“Because his ears are open to the groans of his
children,” replied the Mexican, promptly. “When
Malintzin smiles, the brand hisses on the flesh of
the prisoner; when he talks of peace, the great
war-horse paws the breast of the dead. Let this
thing be not, let his insurgent subjects be sent to
their villages, and Guatimozin will listen to the
Teuctli.”
“He has slain my ambassadors,” said Cortes.
“Shall the slave say to his master, `I am the
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bondman of another,' and laugh in the king's face?
Let Malintzin send a Christian to Guatimozin. I
will row him in my skiff, and he shall return unharmed.”
“What thinkest thou of this? I will send him
such an envoy, and thou shalt remain a hostage in
his place. What will be said to him by the king of
Mexico?”
“This,” replied the captive, without a moment's
hesitation: “The Christian is in Mexico, and Olin-pilli
in the prisons of Malintzin: let the Christian
therefore die.”
“Ay, by my conscience, he speaks well,” said
Cortes. “But were friendship offered, and twenty
thousand hostages left behind, I should like to know
what Spaniard of us all would perform the pilgrimage?
There is but one.—But that is naught. By
heaven and St. John, we will think of other
things! we will think of other things!—Is it not
death by the decree?”
“Señor!” cried Alvarado in surprise. Cortes
started.—In the moment of entranced thought, he
had stridden away from the group to some distance,
and, he now perceived, they were gazing at him
with wonder.
“We will entrust this thing to him, then, as I
said,” he cried, hurriedly, “and he shall return with
the misbeliever's answer. We have no other
choice. What think ye of it, my masters?”
“Of what?” said Alvarado, bluntly: “You have
said nothing. By'r lady, and with reverence to
your excellency, you are dreaming!”
“Pho!” cried the Captain-General, “did I not
speak it? Our thoughts sometimes sound in our
ears, like words. This is the philosophy of the
marvel: Hast thou never, when thine eyes were
shut, yet beheld in them the objects of which thou
wert thinking? If thou couldst think music, never
believe me but thou wouldst also hear it.—This,
then, is the thought which I forgot to utter: I will
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give this dog his freedom, and, for lack of a better,
make him my envoy to Guatimozin. If he return, it
will be well; if not, we are left where we were;
and we can hang him hereafter.”
“Let us first know,” said Sandoval, coolly, “by
what sort of charm he prevailed on this mad young
man, Juan Lerma, to peril limb and life for him,
and, what is more, honour too.”
“Ay, by my conscience!” said Cortes, hurriedly;
“this thing I had forgotten.—He shall die the
death! Connive with a spy? conceal him from the
pursuers? draw sword upon a cavalier? strike at
an officer's life? Were he mine own brother, he
should abide his doom. Who will say I wrong
him now?—Hah! what says the dog? How came
this thing to pass?”
While Cortes was yet pursuing the subject
nearest to his heart, half soliloquizing, the question
was asked and answered; and the reply, to Guatimozin's
great relief, was received with unexpected
belief.
“He was caught by the blood-hound; (An excellent
dog, that Befo!)” said Alvarado; “and making
his moan to Lerma, (whom heaven take to its
rest! for I know not how he can be so brave, and
yet an ass,) the young fool fell to his old tricks.
When did an Indian ever ask him for pity in vain?—
This is his story; it is too natural to be false; yet,
Indians are great liars.—But you said something of
making this cur your envoy?”
“Ay,” replied Cortes: “What sayst thou, Olin,
speaker of wise things! wilt thou bear my thoughts
to thy master Guatimozin?”
“The lord of Tenochtitlan shall hear them,” said
Guatimozin, his eyes gleaming with expectation.
“And thou wilt return to me with his answer?
Swear this upon the cross of my sword; ay, and
swear it by thy diabolical gods also.”
“Guatimozin shall send back to Malintzin a
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noble Mexican; or, otherwise, Olin will return. How
shall the Mexican noble know that the Teuctli will
not take his life?”
“Does that deter you?” said Cortes: “I swear
by the cross which I worship, that, come thou or
another, or come Guatimozin himself, provided he
come to me in peace, and with the king's message,
he shall depart in safety, with good-will and with
favours such as this.”
As he spoke, he took from his own neck, and
flung round the Mexican's, a chain of beads, which
were neither of diamond, sapphire, nor ruby, but
sufficiently resembling each and all, to gratify the
vanity of a barbarian. The young king smiled—
but it was at the thought of freedom.
“Thou shalt have more such, and richer,” said
Cortes, misconceiving his joy. “Why is not Olin
the friend of Malintzin?”
“Malintzin is a great prince,” said the prisoner,
softly.
“Is Olin content to be the slave of Guatimozin?”
pursued the Captain-General, insidiously. “Will
Olin do Malintzin's bidding, and be the king of
Chalco?”
“Shall Olin slay Guatimozin?” cried the prisoner,
with a gleam of subtle intelligence, and so abruptly,
that Cortes was startled.
“Hah! by my conscience!” he cried, “I understand
thee: thou art even more knave than I
thought thee.—Kill the king indeed? By no means;
harm not a hair of his head: we will have no assassination.
It is better this young boy should be
king than another.—This is a very proper knave.
Gentlemen, by your leave, I will bid you goodnight:
I will see the dog to the water-side. Antonio,
do thou walk with us, and explain between us.—
A very excellent shrewd villain.”
So saying, the Captain-General turned to the
door by which he had lately entered, and taking
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the prisoner's arm, in the most familiar and friendly
manner, he stepped forthwith into the garden. The
Mexican's flesh crept, when it came in contact with
that of the Spaniard; but this, the Spaniard doubted
not, was the tribute of awe to his greatness. His
voice became yet blander, as, walking onwards
towards the lake, he poured into Guatimozin's
ear his wishes and instructions.
As they passed by the little pool and its dark
enclosure of schinus-trees, the infidel looked towards
it anxiously and lingeringly, as if hoping to
behold once more the pale and beautiful countenance
which had shone upon it.—It lay in deep
silence and solitude.
A few moments after, the Mexican had passed
through the broken wall, and by the centries who
guarded it, receiving the last instructions of the
invader. The next instant he was alone, stalking
towards a little green point, where a fringe of reeds
and water-lilies shook in the diminutive surges. He
cast his eye backward to the two cavaliers, and
beheld them pass into the garden. Then, taking
the chain of beads from his neck, and rending it
with foot and hand, he cast the broken jewels into
the lake. A moment after, his light skiff shot from
its concealment, and the sound of his paddle startled
the droning wild-fowl from their slumbers.
eaf015v1.n9[9] Tzatzitepec, a mountain near Tula.
eaf015v1.dag2† Catcitepetl, a
volcano.
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CHAPTER XIV.
When Ovid describes the memorable encounter
between Perseus and the geat sea-monster of Ethiopia,
he is at the pains to narrate with what fury
the creature snapped at the shadow of the flying
hero,—a circumstance of trivial importance in itself,
though both striking and characteristic; nay, he
even relates how the warrior, at the first sight of
the fair Andromeda, chained to the rock, and waiting
to be devoured, was so moved with admiration
that he forgot, for an instant, to flap his wings,—
another detail of more fitness than moment. Thus
stooping to the consideration of trifles, the poet
does not scruple entirely to pass by matters of the
most palpable consequence. He disdains, for
example, to tell us even whether the monster died
or not in the encounter, leaving that to be inferred;
and, in like manner, he scorns even to answer the
question that might have been anticipated, namely,
why Perseus, like a sensible soldier, did not whip
out his gorgon's head, instead of his `crooked
sword,' and, by turning the beast into stone, save
himself the trouble of despatching him with his
steel.
The writer of historical works, like the present,
must claim the privilege of the poet, and be allowed,
while expatiating on events of interest so inferior
that they have been almost rejected by his predecessors,
to leave many others of manifest importance
to be supplied, not indeed by the imagination,
but by the learning of the reader. Our only desire
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is to follow the adventures of two individuals, so
obscure and so unfortunate, that the worthy and
somewhat over-conscientious Bernal Diaz del
Castillo has despatched the whole history of the
first in the few vague fragments which we have
prefixed to the story; while he has scrupulously
abstained from saying a single word of the second.
If the reader will turn to the pages of this conscientious
historian, of De Solis, or of Clavigero, he
will be made acquainted with the stirring exploits
of the eight or nine weeks that followed after the
arrest of Juan Lerma. In this time, the Captain-General,
at the head of all the Spaniards, save those
who were left in garrison at Tezcuco, and the few
sailors and shipwrights who remained in the dock-yards,
to preside over Indian artificers, compelled
to work at the brigantines—in this time, we say,
and at the head of this force, assisted by many thousand
Tlascalans, Cortes commenced and completed
the circuit of the whole valley, storming and burning
cities and towns without number, resisted
valiantly in all that were not disaffected, and sometimes,
as at the city of Tacuba, repulsed with great
loss and no little dishonour. The whole campaign
abounds with singular and exciting incidents, of
which, however, it does not suit our purpose to
mention any but one, and that almost in a word.
At the city of Xochimilco, or the Garden of Flowers,
(for this is the signification of the word,) where the
resistance was sanguinary and noble, though, in
the end, ineffectual, Cortes was wounded, surrounded,
struck down from his horse, which was killed,
and he himself, for a moment, a prisoner; and he
owed his life and liberty only to the extraordinary
valour of Gaspar Olea of the Red Beard, who, with
the help of a few resolute Tlascalans, succeeded in
bringing him off. The aid thus rendered by Olea
was the more remarkable, since, from the moment
of Juan's arrest, he had become sullen, morose, and
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was sometimes even charged to be mutinous. In this
last imputation, however, as far as it implied any
treasonable thoughts or practices, the rude Gaspar
was wronged. His dissatisfaction was caused
solely by the fall and anticipated fate of his young
captain. The heinousness of Juan's crime—the
drawing his sword upon an officer in the execution
of his duty, as Guzman had been, and, worse yet,
the aiming of that at the breast of the General—
had left it, apparently, impossible to be forgiven. It
was universally expected that Juan would expiate
the crime with his life; and the only wonder was,
that he had not been immediately tried, condemned,
and executed. His destiny was therefore anticipated
with more curiosity than doubt, and apparently
with less pity than either. Gaspar did not
attempt to deny Juan's guilt; but when he remembered
the sufferings and perils they had shared together,
his heart burned with fury, to think how
soon the brave and well-beloved youth should die
the death of a caitiff. His dissatisfaction expended
itself in anger towards the Captain-General; and
hence the surprise of his comrades at his act of
daring and generosity. But Gaspar had his own
ends in view, when he saved the life of Cortes.
It was now many weeks since his arrest, and
Juan yet lay in imprisonment, ignorant not so much
of his fate, as of the causes which delayed it. On
the fourth day of his captivity, he was apprized, by
the sound of trumpets and artillery, the cries of men,
and the neighing of horses, and, in general, by the
prodigious bustle which accompanies the setting-out
of an army from a populous city, that some enterprise
was meditated and begun; but of its character
he was kept wholly ignorant. The custody
of his person seemed to be committed to Villafana
and the hunchback Najara, conjointly; but it was
observable, that, although Najara frequently entered
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his den alone, Villafana never made his appearance
without being accompanied by the Corcobado.
From Najara he gained not a word of intelligence,
the hunchback ever replying to his questions with
scowls, or with pithy sarcasms in allusion to the
crimes of treason and mutiny. From Villafana,
attended, and, as it seemed to Juan, watched, by
the jealous Najara, he obtained nothing but unmeaning
nods of the head, and sometimes looks,
too significant to be doubted, and yet too oraculous
to be understood.
After the first fortnight, Villafana failed to visit
him altogether, and he saw not the face of a human
being, except once each morning, when Najara was
accustomed to make his appearance, followed by
an Indian slave, bearing food and a jar of water.
With this latter being, a decrepit old man, on
whose naked shoulder was imprinted the horrible
letter G, (for guerra, indicating that he was a prisoner
of war,—in other words, a branded bondman,)
he endeavoured to speak, using all the native dialects
with which he was acquainted; but, though
Najara made no offer to prevent such conversation,
the barbarian replied only by touching his ear and
then his breast, signifying thereby that, though he
heard the words, he did not understand them.
Though Najara permitted these little attempts at
speech, with contemptuous indifference, Juan perceived
that he ever kept his eyes fastened upon the
Indian, as if to prevent any effort at communication
of another sort. Thus, if any benevolent friend
had endeavoured to convey a message by letter or
otherwise, it was apparent that Najara took the best
steps to insure its miscarriage.
Foiled thus in every attempt to exchange thoughts
with a fellow-being, and reduced to commune only
with his own, the unhappy prisoner ceased, at last,
to make any effort; and, yielding gradually to a
despair that was not the less consuming for being
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entirely without complaint, he began, in the end, to
be indifferent even to the coming and presence of
his jailer, neither rising to meet him, nor even lifting
his eyes from the floor, on which they were
fixed with a lethargic dejection.
He became also indifferent to his food; and
once, when Najara entered, he perceived that the water-jar,
the dish of tortillas, or maize-cakes, the savoury
wild-fowl, and the fragrant chocolatl, (for in
regard to food, he was liberally supplied,) stood
upon the little table, where they had been placed
the day before, untasted and even untouched. He
cast his eyes upon the youth, and, for the first time,
began to feel a sentiment of pity for his condition.
Indeed, the noble figure of the young man was beginning
to waste away; his cheeks were hollow, his
neglected beard was springing uncouthly over his
lips, and his sunken eyes drooped upon the earth,
as if never more to gleam with the light of hope
and pleasure. The hunchback hesitated for a moment,
and then growled out a few words,—the first
he had uttered for a week. But these, though commiseration
prompted them, he succeeded in making
expressive only of scorn or anger.
“Hark you, señor Juan Lerma,” he said, “do
you mean to starve?”
At the sound of his voice, so unusual and so unexpected,
the young man raised his eyes, but with a
vague, wo-begone look, and answered nothing.
“I say, señor,” continued Najara, somewhat more
blandly, “is it your will to die by starvation rather
than in any other way?”
“Ah, Najara! is it thou?” said Juan, rising feebly,
or indolently, to his feet. “Heaven give you a
good-morrow.”
“Pshaw!” returned the jailer, gruffly; “pray me
no such prayers: keep them for yourself. I ask
you, if it be your purpose to starve yourself to
death, out of a mere unsoldierly fear of hanging?”
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“Thou hast not said so much to me, I know not
when,” replied the youth, not with any intention of
shuffling off the question, but speaking of what was
uppermost in his mind. His voice was very mild,
and Najara, by no means without his weaker
points, felt it as a reproach.
“I care not,” he replied, “if I answer you any two
or three questions, that may be nearest to your heart.
But first give me to know, wherefore you have
eaten nothing? Are you sick?”
“Surely I am, at heart; but, bodily, I am well.”
“And you are not resolute to die of hunger, before
the judgment-day?—Pho, if you have that spirit,
perhaps it were better. But it is a death of
great torment.—Yet, why should one be afraid of
the shame? 'Tis nothing, when we are dead.”
“Is this thy fear then?” said Juan, patiently. “It
is not permitted us to commit suicide in any form.
I will eat, to satisfy thee; but food is bitter in prison.”
“What a pity,” muttered Najara, as Juan ate a
morsel of food, “that heaven should give thee such
a goodly and godlike body, and such a brave soul,
(for, o' my life, I believe thou art entirely without
fear,) and yet make thee a madman and traitor!”
“A traitor!” said Juan, without taking any offence,
for, indeed, he seemed to have been robbed
of all the fire of his spirit. “It is not possible anybody
can believe me a traitor.”
“Pho! did I not, with mine own eyes, see thee
lunge at Cortes? It is base of thee to deny it.”
“I do not deny it,” said Juan; adding, vehemently,
“but I call heaven to witness, I saw not his
face, and knew him not. He may persecute me to
death, as I believe he is doing: Yet could I do him
no wrong; no, I think, I could not.—But it is bitter,
to feel we are trampled on!”
“Well, señor, it is better you should be in a passion
than a trance. But be not utterly without
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hope. If you can truly make it appear you knew
not the general, it is thought by one or two, you
may be pardoned. I have talked with Guzman;
and I think he may be brought to forgive and even
intercede for you.”
“I will neither receive his forgiveness nor his intercession,”
said Juan, frowning. “And I wonder
you mention to me his detested name.”
“Oh, señor!” said Najara, sharply, “you may
choose your own friends, and hunt them again
among heathen Indians.—That you should sell your
life for this dog of a noble!—Fare you well, señor,
fare you well.”
“Stay, Najara,” said Juan, following him towards
the door: “you said you would answer me such
questions as were nearest my heart. Give not over
the kindly thought. There are many things, which if
I knew, my lot would not be so hard, my dungeon
not so killing to my spirit. The army is gone—is
Mexico invested?”
“Not so,” replied the hunchback; “it has a
month or two's grace yet.—The troops have
marched against the shore-towns.—But for this
mad fit, thou mightst have been with them, or making
thyself famous at Tochtepec!”
Juan sighed heavily.
“And the Indian, of whom you spoke,—the
young noble,—Olin the orator,” he demanded, at
first, not without hesitation.
“Oh, the cur,” replied Najara; “I think Cortes
was even as mad as thyself, touching the knave.
But wit is like a river, sometimes too full, washing
away its own banks—it may be said to drown itself.—
He made the dog his ambassador, swore him
to return faithfully from Guatimozin, and waited
three days for him in vain. Such rogues are like
arrows,—good weapons, when you have the cast
of them, but not to be expected in hand again, unless
shot back by a foeman.”
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It was fortunate, perhaps, that Najara had relaxed
so far from his austerity as to resume the vein of
metaphor common to his softer moments. Had he
been as observant as usual, he must have been
struck with suspicion at the sudden gleam of satisfaction,
with which Juan heard the good fortune of
the Mexican. But he marked it not.
“Tell me now,” said Juan, “how thou comest to
be my jailer; and why it is that Villafana seems to
have given up his trust to thee?”
At this question, Najara's good-humour immediately
vanished, and he replied, sourly,
“Oh, content you, you shall be in good keeping.”
“I doubt it not,” said Juan, calmly. “But Villafana
is, or methinks he is, more friendly to me than
you. I did but desire to know what changes had
taken place in the government of the city, from the
watchman up to the commandant, since my imprisonment.”
“Ay, indeed!” replied Najara, grimly: “such
changes, that hadst thou fifty friends waiting to
aid thee, thou shouldst be caught, before getting
twenty steps from the door. Know then, that I
am made Alguazil, as well as Villafana; and what
is more, I am captain of the prison. The Alcalde
is Antonio de Quinones, master of the armory;
and the Corregidor of the city is thy good friend
Guzman,—an honour thou gavest him, by hacking
his face so freely, and so leaving him in the hospital.”
“You speak to me in sarcasm,” said Juan,
mildly: “I have not deserved it. And methinks
you should be more generous of temper, than to
oppress with words of insult, a fallen and helpless
man.—Well, heed it not—I forgive you. I have but
one more question to ask you.—The lady,—this
lady, La Monjonaza—”
“Ay!” cried Najara, with singular bitterness,
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“I have heard of that too. You were seen talking
with her in the garden. You will play chamberer
with Cortes! ay, and rival too! Pho, canst thou
not be at peace? Meddle with the general's fancy.
Why that were enough to hang thee. I had some
soft thoughts of thee; but everything shows thou
art unworthy. Farewell; think of these things no
more; but repent and make your peace with heaven.”
So saying, the hunchback flung out of the room,
and securing the thick door of plank, Juan was
again left to his meditations.
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CHAPTER XV.
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Then followed another period of silence and dejection,
in which the prisoner wasted away as
much in body as in spirit, becoming so listlessly
indifferent to everything, that he no longer betrayed
any desire to draw Najara into conversation,
nor even to meet the advances which his jailer now
often made. The thought of escaping from confinement,
perhaps, never entered his mind; for,
had he been even less resigned to his fate, the strict
watch kept over him, and the condition of his prison,
added to his apparent friendlessness, must
have been enough to banish all such thoughts. His
chamber was neither dark nor damp, but made
strong by its bulky door, barred on the outside,
and by windows, high above the floor, so very
narrow that no human being could hope to pass
through them.
Narrow as they were, however, it was the
jailer's custom to examine them very closely each
morning; a degree of vigilance that Juan had, in
the earlier days of captivity, remarked with some
surprise. He became acquainted with Najara's
object at last. One morning, he was roused out
of his stupefaction by a harsh exclamation from
his jailer, and looking up, he beheld him take from
the floor, immediately under one of the loopholes,
what seemed a slip of paper, tied to a little stick,
which appeared, some time during the night, to have
been thus thrust into the prison. What were its
contents he never could divine; for Najara had no
sooner cast his eyes over it, than mingling a laugh
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of satisfaction at its miscarriage with some natural
compassion for the profound wretchedness which
had sealed the ears and eyes of the prisoner, he
immediately departed with the prize.
From this time, Juan became more vigilant and
wary; but the following night, he was admonished,
by the clank of armour and the occasional sound
of voices without, that sentinels were now stationed
under the windows, thus precluding all hope of
friendly communication from that quarter.
Before he had again entirely relapsed into his
listless gloom, he began to have a vague consciousness
that the Indian slave, who accompanied
Najara, was becoming more officious than of old,
in setting his meals before him, and particularly in
placing the jar of water at his side, instead of depositing
it on his table, as he had done before. His
suspicion was confirmed, when, one morning, as
Najara was making his wonted survey of the windows,
the slave gave him a quick, impatient look,
and shaking the jar as he set it down, made him
sensible, by a rattling sound within it, that there
was something besides the innocent element concealed
at the bottom. As soon as Najara had departed,
he made an examination of the mystery,
and drew forth, with some astonishment, a plate of
transparent obsidian, on which had been scratched
by some hard instrument or precious stone, a few
words which he was soon able to decypher. “If
thou wilt leave Mexico, and live, take the stone
from the pitcher.”
He strode about the apartment for a moment in
disorder; then, crushing the glassy temptation under
his heel, and returning the fragments to the jar, he
sat down again to brood over his despair.—The
next morning the pitcher contained nothing but
water.
Thus, then, the time passed away, in the ordinary
listlessness of confinement,—the dull and
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sleepy torture of solitude; until Najara, waxing
more compassionate as his prisoner grew more
obviously indifferent to light, to food, and to speech,
bethought him of a mode of indulgence from which
no danger could be apprehended, and accordingly
introduced the dog Befo into the apartment.
The loud yells of joy with which Befo beheld his
young master, recalled Juan from his lethargy; and
Najara was touched still further with compunction
at the sight of the animal's transports.
“He has been whining every day at the prison
gate,” he muttered; “and doubtless he would have
whined full as much, though he were to be let in
only to be beaten. Such a fond fool is this young
Juan himself: he returns to his master, though he
knows the scourge is ready. It were better he
had taken my advice, and passed to the sea by
Otumba: He should have known Cortes would
never forgive him.”
The presence of this faithful animal, if it did not
recall Juan's spirits, at least preserved him from
sinking further into stupefaction; and nothing gave
him more evident delight, than when, each morning,
having prevailed upon Najara to lead his dumb
companion into the air for exercise, he could hear
Befo, in the joy of a liberty which he did not share,
dashing frantically through the garden, now
coursing by the water-side, now prancing by the
palace, and, all the time, yelping and barking with
the most clamorous delight. From these daily
sorties the dog was used to return, with fresh
spirits and increased attachment, to share, for the
remainder of the day, the confinement of his master,
upon whom, at his entrance, he jumped and
fawned almost as boisterously as when enjoying
his sports in the garden.
One day, however, he returned with a much
graver aspect than usual, and stalking up to where
Juan sat, he stood, wagging his tail, and gazing up
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with a look exceedingly knowing and significant.
Somewhat surprised at this, and finding that Befo
refused, even when invited, to begin his usual
rough expressions of friendship, he took him by
the leathern collar, by which the servants of Cortes
had been wont to secure him at night, and pulled
him towards him. The motion of the collar released
a little packet, that had been carefully secured
beneath it, and which now fell upon Juan's
knee. As soon as the sagacious animal perceived
that he had accomplished a task, not often committed
to such a messenger, he returned to his usual
demonstrations of satisfaction; and, for a moment,
Juan was unable to examine the singular missive.
When Befo became composed, he opened it, and
read, with no little agitation, the following words:
“Not for me, but for thyself.—There is but a day
more to choose. Leave Mexico, and shed not thine
own blood: make not thy friends curse thee.—Return
but a fragment of the paper, or tie but a hair
round the collar,—and thou shalt be saved.—Not
for me, but for thyself.”
The morning came, and Juan, taking the paper
from his bosom, tore it to pieces. When Najara
offered as usual to liberate the dog, he perceived
that Juan held him fast by the collar.
“How now, señor, shall the dog play?”
“It is cruel to rob him of his hour's liberty,” said
Juan, with a subdued voice; “but, this day, suffer
him to remain with me.”
“Well, señor, as you will,” said Najara; “but I
would you had some better friend,—at least, some
one who could counsel you. There are runners
arrived from the northern towns; and, at midday,
Cortes will march into the city.”
“The better reason, then, that I should have this
friend, who have no other,” said Juan, calmly.
“Harkee, señor,” said Najara, with a sort of
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petulant sympathy, “if you would but curse yourself
and your foes, or bemoan your fate a little, I should
like it better than this stupid, womanish resignation.—
Hark ye,—I care not if I tell you: I thought
you had come athwart the fancies of Don Hernan,
in the matter of the Doña, not that Don Hernan
had wronged your own: I knew not that there was
any old love between you.”
“What art thou speaking of, Najara?” said Juan,
with a hasty and troubled voice.
“This does, in some sense, weaken the sin of
drawing sword upon him,” continued the hunchback,
“for no man loves to be robbed of his mistress.—
Well,—the señora is sorry for you.—She
thought to bribe me to let her speak with you.—
Bribe me!—And yet I pitied her, for she was sorely
distressed.”
“For God's sake,” exclaimed Juan, in extreme
suffering, “speak me not a word of her; let me not
hear her name.”
“Well, be not cast down; she has much power
with the general, and, doubtless, she will plead for
you. Well, fare you well.—I did think to let Cortes
know of her acts: but that might harden him
against you still more.—Why should I waste
thought upon him,” muttered the deformed as he
passed from the prison. “It is hard, or it seems
hard, that heaven should give up a frame so beauteous
and majestical, to be marred by the hangman's
axe or rope, and leave a deformed lump like
me, to scare little Indian girls and boys, and to be
jibed at by all the craven loons of the army. But
this is naught: if I am crooked, I am neither fool,
traitor, nor coward, as most others are, in one degree
or other, and sometimes in all.”
As Najara had foretold, the army returned to
Tezcuco about noon, as was made evident to Juan,
by the sound of trumpets and cannon, and other
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warlike noises of rejoicing; which, continuing to
fill the city for many hours, came to his ears like
the tumult of a distant storm, and began to die
away, only when the last twinkle of sunset, shooting
through his narrow windows, had faded from
the opposite wall.
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CHAPTER XVI.
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
It was now midnight. Audience after audience,
and council after council, in the great hall of the
palace, had shown how rapidly were approaching
to a climax the involved events and schemes, which
had for their object the overthrow of the Indian
empire, as well as some that looked to an end
equally dark, though of less public import. The
Captain-General had despatched several audiences
entirely of a private nature, and hoped to be relieved
of his toil, while discharging from his presence
an individual already known to the reader as Gaspar
of the Red Beard. Whatever might have been
the subject of the conference, its conclusion was
unsatisfactory to both parties; for Olea departed
with a visage both sullen and vindictive, while
Cortes strode to and fro, evidently affected by vexation
and anger.
As Olea, who had long since got rid of the `infidel
gait,' which had drawn a remark from Cortes,
and which, doubtless assumed to assist his disguise,
only adhered to him through habit,—as he vanished
through the great door, another character made his
appearance, entering by one of those doors which
opened from the garden. It was the señor Camarga;
who, from the friar's habit, again flung
over his armour, seemed to have been engaged, a
second time, in his maskings.
“What news, señor? what news hast thou?”
demanded Cortes, in a low voice, making a sign to
the visitor to imitate his cautiousness. “Hast
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thou gathered aught of my dog Villafana? By my
conscience, we are at a fault; the fox is scared
into virtue: Najara hath seen no ill in him, Guzman
avers he hath detected no sign of guilt, and
not a spy is there of all, who does not swear that
his fright in the matter of Olin, (that knave, too,
cajoled me!) has reduced him into submission and
honesty. Hast thou found nothing?”
“Nothing to be thought of, perhaps,” replied
Camarga. “Villafana is either returned to his allegiance,
as your excellency hints, or he is too deep
in distrust, to confer with me any further. He
swears, if one could believe him, that he has thought
better of his schemes, and is now resolved that they
were foolish and unjust,—and therefore that he has
ended them.”
“He lies, the rogue!” said Cortes; “you have
pursued him too closely.—It was an ill thought to
league Najara with him.—These things have made
him suspicious, not penitent. I have taken the hunchback
away, restored Villafana to his prisonward,
and, in short, taken all means to seduce him into
security. You will see the cloven foot again, and
that right shortly.”
“Perhaps what I have to say will make your excellency
believe it is displayed already. He has
admitted one to speak with the prisoner—”
“Hah!” cried Cortes,—“a file of spearsmen!—
But no; it matters not. There is no fear of escape;
and this were too aimless an explosion. Know
you the person he has admitted?”
“I do not,” said Camarga; “but from the glance
of the garment, methought 'twas some such godly
brother as myself. And yet 'twas a taller man
than Olmedo.”
“By my conscience,” said Cortes, quickly, “methinks
I can divine the mystery: but of that anon.
Hark thee, friend Camarga, dost thou still burn for
this wretched man's life? I tell thee, there is much
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intercession made for him. It was but a moment
since that the Barba-Roxa,—a good soldier, i'faith,—
made certain fierce moans for him, mingled with
divers mutinous reproaches. I vow to heaven, I
could have struck the knave dead, but that he saved
my life at Xochimilco.”
“I have heard that Juan Lerma did the same
thing, on the plains of Tlascala,” replied Camarga,
dryly.
“Thou art deceived!” exclaimed Don Hernan,
with a sudden shudder. “The attempt, I grant
you, the attempt he made; but I needed no help.
Yet do I remember the act; and, by heaven, I
would I might forgive him,—I would I might! I
would I might! for the thought of judging him to
death, is like a wolf in my bosom. Once I loved
him as my son,—yes, as my very son,” he repeated,
with extraordinary agitation; “and when he
played with my little children, I swear, I looked
upon him but as their elder brother. What will
men say of the act, since they cannot know the
cause?”
Apparently Camarga looked upon this burst of
relenting feeling, (for such it really was,) with too
much dissatisfaction and alarm, to notice the allusion
to a cause differing from any with which he
was acquainted. He exclaimed, hastily, and with
a darkening visage,
“If open mutiny and resistance be not excuse
enough, have I not spoken an argument that should
steel thy heart for ever! Shall I utter it again? I
swear to thee then, that this miserable creature,
Magdalena,—this wretch that even thou wouldst
have made the slave of thy pleasures, and thereby
added upon thy soul a sin never to be forgiven,—
no, never!—is a true NUN,—forsworn, lost, condemned!
Wilt thou refuse to punish the author of
a horrible impiety? Would that I had strangled her,
when an infant, though with mine own hand!—
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Thou talkest of a wolf in thy bosom; couldst thou
feel one fang of the agony, that this act of horror
has planted in mine, thou wouldst deem thyself
happy. Let the wretch die: ask not for further
cause; think not of any.”
“The cause is, indeed, enough,” said Cortes,
crossing himself with dread, “to ensure not death
only, but a death at the stake of fire; and I am not
one to think the punishment should be made easy.
I could tell thee a story of the end of broken vows,
and the vengeance of God upon the robber of convents;
but it needs not.—Sleep in thy grave, poor
wretch! and be forgotten.” He muttered a few
words to himself, and then banishing, with an effort,
what seemed a mournful recollection, he resumed,—
“Tell me but one thing, Camarga, and I
am satisfied. The cause is enough, (though this is
a crime to be judged by ecclesiastics,) to ensure the
young man's fate; but it is not enough to explain
the rancour of thy hatred. Speak me the truth—
Is this unhappy creature child of thine?”
“Think so, if thou wilt,” said Camarga, with a
lip ashy and quivering, “but ask not, ask not now.
Give the young man to the block, and commit the
girl into my hands, with the means of leaving this
land; then, if thou hast the courage to listen, thou
shalt hear a story that will freeze thy blood.—Is he
not guilty of this thing?”
“Is he not guilty of more?” muttered the Captain-General.
“It is enough; thou hast steeled my
heart. I leave him in the hands of the Alcaldes
and De Olid, who have no such faintness of heart
as confounds mine. Fare thee well, señor: I know
thee better, and I like thee well. Turn not thine
eye from Villafana.”
Thus, mingling the suggestions of a native policy
with passions not the less constitutional, Cortes dismissed
his disguised visitant. The curtain of the
great door had scarce concealed the retreating
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Camarga, before he heard a footstep behind; and
looking round, he beheld the figure of La Monjonaza
steal in from the garden, and cross the apartment.
“What sayst thou now, Magdalena?” he cried,
striding up to her, and viewing with interest a
countenance sternly composed, yet bearing the
traces of recent and deep passions. “Thou shouldst
have told me of this.—Yet what sayst thou now?”
“Nothing,” replied the maiden, calmly, but with
tones deeper than usual,—“Nothing.—Do thy
work.”
With these brief and mystic expressions, she
passed among the secret chambers; and the Captain-General,
stalking into the garden, until the chill
breezes from the lake had cooled his feverish temples,
betook himself, at last, to his couch, to subdue,
in slumber, imaginary empires, and contend with
visionary foes.
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CHAPTER XVII.
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The day after the Feast of the Holy Ghost, or
Whitsunday, early in May, 1521, opened upon the
valley of Mexico with clouds and vapours, which,
sweeping over the broad lake, collected and lingered,
with boding fury, around the island city, discharging
thunder and lightning, while the sunbeams
shone clear and uninterrupted over Tezcuco, and
the rich savannas which surrounded it. It was the
morning of a novel and impressive ceremony. A
rivulet, deepened by the labours of many thousand
Indians, into a navigable canal, and bordered for
the space of half a league on either side, by narrow
meadows, separated the city from another scarce
inferior in magnitude, but which yet seemed only
a suburb. The whole space thus extending between
the two cities, from the lake, as far as the
eye could see, was blackened by the bodies of
Indian warriors, armed and decorated as if for battle,
while the housetops in the cities were equally
thronged with multitudes of aged men and women
and children. A narrow space was left vacant on
each bank of the canal, from which the feathered
barbarians, two hundred thousand in number, were
separated by the Spanish army, drawn up in extended
lines on either bank, the companies of footmen
alternating with little squadrons of mounted
cavaliers, from whose spears waved bright pennons.
As they stood thus, in gallant array, a flourish of
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trumpets drew their eyes up the stream, and they
could behold over the housetops, winding with the
sinuosities of the canal, a line of masts and of sails
half let loose to the breeze, advancing slowly towards
the lake, drawn, as it presently appeared, by
double rows of natives, gayly apparelled, who occupied
the space on the banks left vacant by the
military.
As they approached nigh and more nigh, it was
seen that each vessel bore no little resemblance to
some of those light and open brigantines which
have been, from time immemorial, the chosen delights
of Mediterranean pirates, and the scourge of
the sea from Barbary to the Greek Islands. Each
carried twenty-five men, twelve of whom were
rowers, the others musketeers, crossbowmen,
cannoniers, (for a falconet frowned over the prow
of each,) and sailors. Besides a multitude of little
pennons with which they were covered, two great
banners waved over each, the one bearing the royal
arms of Spain, the other being the private standard
which had been assigned, along with an appropriate
name and a solemn benediction, by a priest, at the
dock-yard, after the celebration of the mass of the
Holy Ghost; for with such ceremonies of religion
and pomp, the fatal galleys were committed, that
morning, to their proper element.
One by one they passed into the lake, and
ranged in a line before the mouth of the little
river, fourteen in number. At this point, the mummeries
of celebration were concluded by another
and final benediction, pronounced from the shore;
which was succeeded by a combined uproar of
artillery, trumpets, and human voices, more loud
and tumultuous than any which had yet shaken
the borders of Tezcuco.
When the smoke of the cannon had cleared
away, the brigantines were seen parting and
flitting along in different courses, like a flock of
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wild-fowl, frightened and separated by the explosion.
Their evolutions should be rather likened to
the gambols of vultures, escaped from some dreary
confinement, and now fluttering their wings in
the joy of liberation, and the expectation of prey.
Castilian navigators were at last lanched upon the
sea of Anahuac, and they seemed resolved at once
to confirm their dominion, by ploughing through
each rolling surge, and penetrating to every bay
and creek. As they divided thus, some standing
out into the lake, and others darting along the
shores, the admiring and shouting spectators began
to observe and point out to one another certain
pillars of smoke, rising one after the other, from
the hills and headlands; by which was conveyed
from town to town the intelligence of an event
long since expected by the watchful infidels.
Another spectacle, however, soon withdrew the
eyes of the lookers on from these signal fires. From
the bank of vapours which still concealed the towers
of Tenochtitlan, they behold an Indian piragua, or
gondola, of some magnitude, and no little splendour,
come paddling into view, followed by three canoes
of much lighter and plainer structure. An awning
of brilliant cloths, running from stem to stern over
the piragua, overshadowed and almost hid the
rowers.
It was no sooner perceived from the fleet, than
three or four brigantines gave chace, as after an undoubted
enemy and legal prize. Still, its voyagers
advanced on their course, fearlessly, and to all appearance
disregardful of the commands of the captains
to heave-to, even although one call was accompanied
by a musket shot, discharged across
their bows. Its director undoubtedly confided in
his pacific character, indicated, according to the
customs of Anahuac, by a little net of gold,
mingled with white feathers, tied to the head of a
spear, and displayed high above the awning.
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“Well done for the dog, Techeechee!” muttered
Cortes into the ear of an hidalgo, of stern
appearance, mounted like himself and at his side;
“Well done for Techeechee, the Silent Dog! he is
worth twenty such hounds as Olin-pilli. He has
brought me an embassy. By my conscience, it
comes over late though, and I know not what good
can spring of it, at this hour.—These fools of the
brigantines are over-officious!—'Tis a confident
knave; see, he steers for the palace garden! I
must ride thither.—Hark thee, De Olid,” he continued,
still addressing the grim cavalier, but aloud,
as if willing that all should hear: “let this thing be
despatched: Thou wilt make, at the worst, a just
judge. In this trial, it becomes neither my feelings,
nor perhaps my honour, that I should myself sit in
judgment. The chief Alcaldes will give thee their
aid. Judge not in anger, but with justice; bring
it not against the young man that he turned his
sword upon me—And yet I see not how thou canst
avoid it: nevertheless, if thou canst do so, let it be
done. There is enough else to condemn him. His
life is in thine hands: be just; and yet be not too
rigid. If thou canst, by any justifiable leniency,
admit him to mercy, do so. Yes, be merciful, if
thou canst,—be merciful.”
With these instructions, which were pronounced
not without discomposure, Cortes put spurs to his
steed, and rode into the city and to the palace, followed
by some half dozen cavaliers.
He had scarcely assumed the state with which
he thought fit to overawe the envoys of the different
barbaric tribes, whom the fame of his power
and greatness was daily bringing to his court, before
an officer entered the audience-chamber from
the garden, and acquainted him that ambassadors
from Tenochtitlan humbly craved to be admitted to
his presence.
“Let them be taken round to the front, that the
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dogs may look upon the artillery,” said the Captain-General;
and perhaps added in his thoughts,
“that they may creep up to my footstool, taking in
my greatness from afar, until their humility dwindles
into submissiveness.”
Presently the curtain of the great door was
pushed aside, and the Mexicans entered, preceded
and followed by armed men; the old Ottomi being
in advance of all. They were twelve in number,
the chief or principal being a man of lofty stature
and manly years, wholly differing from the orator
Olin, for whom Cortes looked in vain among the
others. To indicate the high rank of the ambassador,
two attendants sustained over his head, on
little rods, a gay canopy or penthouse of feathers.
His green mantle (for that was the colour worn by
an ambassador,) was of the richest material, the
border being wrought into scroll-work with little
studs of solid gold. His buskins, for such they
might be called, were of crimson leather, and a
crimson fillet was wound round his hair, which
was, otherwise, almost covered with little tufts or
tassels of cotton-down of the same hue. Each of
these singular decorations was the evidence and
distinguishing badge of some valiant exploit in battle;
and it was therefore manifest to all in the
slightest degree acquainted with the customs of Anahuac,
even at the first sight, that the barbarian was
a man of renown among the Mexicans. A cluster
of rattling grains of gold, suspended to his nostrils,
indicated that he belonged to the order of Teuctli,—
a race of nobles inferior only to the Tlamantli,
or vassal-kings; and the red fillets showed that he
was a Prince of the House of Darts, the highest of
the several chivalric branches into which this order
was divided, the two next appertaining to the House
of Eagles and the House of Tigers.—In introducing
these barbaric terms, we have no desire to inflict
upon the reader a dissertation on Aztec chivalry,
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but simply to make him aware, that these singular
infidels were, in their way, nearly as well provided
with the vanities of knighthood and nobility as
some of the European nations in the Middle Ages.
The general appearance of the ambassador was
commanding; his features were bold and harsh,
yet manly,—his forehead expanded, though inclined,
and furrowed as with the frowns of battle,—and
his eye had a touch of wildness and ferocity, at
variance with his modest bearing while advancing
towards the Captain-General, and still more
strongly contrasted with that melancholy sweetness
of mouth, which seems to be a characteristic of all
the children of America.—Perhaps it is fitly characteristic,
since the proclivity of their fate is
equally mournful, throughout all the continent. He
bore in his hand the gold net and white plume,
hanging to a headless spear, which had been displayed
and distinguished afar in the piragua,—
as well as a golden arrow,—both being the
emblems of a Mexican envoy. He was entirely
without arms, as were all the rest.
Behind the canopy-bearers came three old men,
with tablets of dressed skin, or maguey paper, in
their hands, known, at once, to be writers,—secretaries
or annalists,—who accompanied ambassadors,
and other high officers, in expeditions of importance,
to record their actions and preserve the
proofs of treaties.
After these followed six Tlamémé, or common
carriers, bearing presents, which, with Mexicans
of that day, as with Orientals of this, made no
small share of the matériel of diplomacy.
As this train was led forward up to the chair of
state, Cortes fixed his eye with a smile of approbation
on the Ottomi, but did not think fit to honour
him with any further evidence of thankfulness.
He had other matters to fill his thoughts; for, at
the first glance, he recognized in the ambassador
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a noble, famous even in the days of Montezuma,
for skill, audacity, and unconquerable aversion to
the strangers, and who, under the ominous title of
Masquaza-teuctli,[10] or the Lord of Death, was
known to have commanded bodies of reinforcement,
sent to several different shore-towns, to oppose the
arms of Cortes in the late campaign. In especial, he
was known to have devised the plan of cutting the
dikes of Iztapalapan, after decoying the Spaniards
into that city, where they escaped drowning almost
by a miracle; it was equally certain that he had
commanded the multitudes of warriors, who, scarce
ten days since, had repulsed the Spaniards from
Tacuba with considerable loss; and he was even
supposed to have been present in the sack of Xochimilco,
where Cortes had been in such imminent peril.
The appearance of this man was doubly disagreeable,
as being heartily detested himself, and as
showing the temper of Guatimozin's mind, who
chose to send an envoy so little inclined to composition.
A murmur of dissatisfaction arose among
the Spaniards present, as soon as they were made
aware of the ambassador's character; and if looks
could have destroyed, it is certain the Lord of
Death would have passed to the world of shades,
before speaking a word of his embassy.
Without, however, seeming to regard these
boding glances any more than he had done the
hostile opposition of the brigantines, he began without
delay the usual native forms of salutation.
But before he could pass to those rhetorical and
reverential flourishes of compliment, which constituted
the exordium of an ambassador's speech, he
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was interrupted by Cortes, whose words were interpreted
by the same cavalier who had officiated
before, in the interview with Olin.
“Masquaza-teuctli, Lord of Death!” said the
Captain-General, sternly, “what dost thou here in
Tezcuco?”
The infidel looked up with surprise, and having
eyed the Spaniard a moment, replied with another
question, which was only remarkable as indicating
the composure of the speaker, and as giving utterance
to tones exceedingly soft and pleasant:
“Was Olin deceived, and did Techeechee lie?”
he said. “I bring the words of Guatimozin to Malintzin,
son of Quetzalcoatl, and Lord of the Big
Canoes with legs of crocodiles and wings of pelicans.”
“Art thou not stained with the blood of Castilians?”
rejoined Cortes, but little pleased with the
frank and unawed bearing of the envoy. “This
thing is ill of Guatimozin: why does he send me
an enemy from Tenochtitlan?”
The Lord of Death replied with what seemed a
lurking smile, if such could be traced in a peculiar
and slight motion of lips, always sedate, if not always
melancholy;
“Has the Teuctli a friend in Tenochtitlan?—Let
Malintzin speak his name: I will return.—My little
children are yet awkward with the bow and arrow.”
“Hark to the hound!” exclaimed the Captain-General,
struck more by the hint conveyed by the
last words than by the sarcasm so gently expressed
in the first: “He would have me believe the very
boys of Mexico are training to resist us! and that
he thinks it better honour to encourage the young
cubs to malice, than to speak to me for terms of
peace.—Hearken, infidel: you spoke of the young
man Olin. Why returned not he to Tezcuco?”
“Malintzin was in a hurry for the blood of Izta
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palapan: the king saw the glitter of spears on the
lakeside, and said to his servant, `Go not to Tezcuco
with gold and sweet words, but to Iztapalapan
with axes and spears.'—”
“Ay, marry; but Olin, what of Olin-pilli?—I
warrant me, the knavish king discovered the craft
of the knavish noble, and so killed him?—I was a
fool to give him the beads.—What sayst thou, infidel!
what has become of the Speaker of Wise
Things? I sent him to Guatimozin for an envoy;
and, lo you, this old savage, the Silent Dog, has
brought me what Olin could not, or did not. Is
Olin living?”
“How shall I answer? Ipalnemoani[11] is the maker
of life; it is the king who takes it. Olin-pilli is
forgotten.”
“Ay then, let him sleep; and to thy work, infidel,
to thy work. Will Guatimozin have peace?
He is somewhat late of decision; but the great
monarch of Spain, who sends me to speak with
him, and to enforce the vassalage acknowledged by
Montezuma, is merciful. Speak, then, and quickly.
My ships are on the lake, my soldiers are thicker
than the reeds on its banks, and fiercer than its
waters, when the torrents rush down from the
mountains. Will he have the blood of his people
flow through the streets, as the waters of an inundation,
when the dikes are broken? Speak then,
Lord of Death; will Guatimozin acknowledge himself
the king's vassal, pay tribute, and govern his
empire in peace?”
“Hear the words of Guatimozin,” said the ambassador,
beckoning to the Tlamémé to open their
packs: “The king sends you the history of his
land,”—taking up, from among many books, which
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made the contents of the first bundle, a volume of
hieroglyphics, and displaying its pictured pages:
“He has searched for the time when the king of
Castile was the lord of his people; but it is not
written. How then shall he kiss the earth before
the Teuctli? He has sought to find to what race,
besides the race of heaven, the men of Mexico have
paid tribute: It is not written,—except this,—that
once, when his fathers were poor and few, the men
of Cojohuacan called on them for tribute, and they
paid it in the skulls of their foes. The men of Castile
call for tribute: Guatimozin sends them such
tribute as his fathers paid; here it is—twelve
skulls of the dogs of Chalco, taken in the act of rebellion.”
And as he spoke, the grinning orbs rolled
under his foot against the platform.
“Hah!” cried Cortes, starting up, with as much
admiration as wrath, for he was keenly alive to
every burst of audacious and heroic daring, “is not
this a merlin of a royal stock, that will try buffets
with an eagle? But, pho! the young man is besotted.”
“Hear, further, the words of Guatimozin,” continued
the envoy, taking from the third bundle two
more books, and displaying them, as he had done
the first: “the king remembers that the wild Ottomies
came down from their hills, saying that they
were foolish and pitiful, because Ipalnemoani had
kept them in darkness, so that they robbed one
another, and were blasphemers against heaven.
The king gave them religion and laws; and, behold,
those that live upon the skirts of the valley, are become
wise and happy. The king says, `Have not
the Spaniards come like the Ottomies? and are
they not very ignorant and miserable?' These are
the king's words to Malintzin: `Take this book,
and learn how to worship the gods: religion is a
good thing, and will make you happy. Take this
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book also, and understand the laws of men: justice
is a good thing, and will make you happy.”
It would be difficult to express the varied feelings
of wonder, anger, scorn, and merriment, with
which the Spaniards hearkened to this extraordinary
exhortation. Some stared, some frowned,
some smiled, and a few laughed outright; but all
immediately betook themselves to looks of sympathetic
anger, when Cortes, again rising, stamped
upon the platform, crying with a fierceness that
was in part unassumed,
“Knave of a heathen and savage, dost thou pass
this scorn upon the religion of Christ? this slight
upon the laws of Castile? this slur upon religious
and civilized men? Look upon this cross, and say
to Guatimozin, that not a Spaniard shall leave his
valley, till every slave that acknowledges his sway,
has knelt before it, and, abjuring the fiendish idolatry
of Mexitli, has sworn with a kiss, to worship
naught else. Look, too, upon this sword, and say
to thine insolent prince, that it shall not cease to
strike and slay, until his whole people have acknowledged
it to be the abrogator of the old, and
the teacher of a new law, such as his brutish
sages never dreamed of. In one word, give him
to know, that my purpose in his land, is to bestow
upon it the cross of heaven and the laws of Spain;
and these I will bestow,—both,—so help me the
sword which I grasp, and the cross that I worship!”
A murmur of satisfaction and responsive resolution
passed through the assemblage, which had
been considerably increased by the appearance of
such officers, returning from the lake-side, as were
privileged to enter the presence on such an occasion.
But the stern voice of the Captain-General
produced no effect on the Mexicans, except, indeed,
that one of the three writers who had been all the
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time busily engaged, as they squatted upon the floor,
recording the speeches, in their inexplicable manner,
raised his eyes, when the Christian's voice was at
the highest, and eyed him askant for a minute or
two. The Lord of Death kept his glance firmly
fixed on the aspect of the general, while listening to
the interpretation of his angry vows. Then, when
Cortes had concluded, he turned to the fourth pack,
and resumed his discourse, as if it were no part of
his duty to reply to anything not immediately touching
his instructions.
“Hear, further, the words of Guatimozin,” he
said, pointing to an ear of maize, a bundle of cacaoberries,
a cluster of bananas, and divers other
fruits, as well as nuts and esculent roots, which
appeared in the pack: “Thus says the king of
Mexico:—Is Castile a naked rock, where the food
of man grows not? Malintzin said to Montezuma,
`The land is like other lands, with earth over the
flint-stone, and with rivers to make it fertile; soil
comes down from the mountains, and heaven sends
frequent rains.' Look at Mexico: the sun parches
it, till it becomes like sand, half the year; the other
half, the sky turns to water, and drowns the gardens
and corn-fields. But is man a dog, that he
should howl when he is hungry, and run abroad
for food? God gave these good things to the king;
the king gives them to the Spaniard. Let him
throw them upon the earth, and sit hard by in patience,
while the rain drops upon them; and, by and
by, he will have food for himself and his children:
he will not be hungry, and run forth, like a dog, to
strange lands, seeking for food.—Hear, further, the
words of the king,” continued the grave barbarian,
observing the impatience of Cortes, and turning his
anger into admiration, by suddenly displaying the
contents of the fifth pack, which consisted of divers
ornaments and jewels of gold, with a huge
plate of extraordinary value, representing the sun:
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“Is there no yellow dirt in Castile, to make playthings
for the women and children? Thus says the
king: `Let Malintzin take these things to his women
and children; and, lest they should, by and
by, cry for more, let him send a ship to Guatimozin,
at the end of the Tlalpilli,[12] and more shall be
given him. Thus it shall be while Guatimozin
lives; and thus it shall be hereafter, if the king
wills,—for what is Guatimozin, that he should
make a law for his successors?”
The admiration with which the Captain-General
surveyed the gorgeous present, greatly moderated
his disgust at the mode of making it. He stepped
down from the platform, and taking the massive
disk into his hands, gloated over its almost insupportable
weight and dazzling splendour, with the
relish of one who seemed never to have felt any
passion less sordid than that of avarice. While
thus engaged, ruddy at once with delight and with
the effort of sustaining such a precious burthen, a
paper was put into his hand, or rather held out
for him to receive, while a voice murmured in his
ear,
“The award of the judges, sent to your excellency
for confirmation.”
The golden luminary fell, with a heavy clang,
upon the floor, the flush fled from his cheeks,
and the look with which he turned to the untimely
and ill-omened messenger, Villafana, was even
more ghastly with affright than that which distinguished
the aspect of the Alguazil.
“If your excellency thinks of mercy,” continued
the Alguazil, in the same low and hurried voice,—
“it is not yet too late. They have him on the
square, and are confessing him.—He has but a dog's
life, and a gnat's death, who puts them in the
hands of De Olid.”—
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Cortes cast his eye upon the paper, and beheld,
besides the date, a preamble of two lines, and the
signatures of the judges, the following brief and
pithy sentences:
“Concealing a spy and fugitive from justice—
Guilty.
“Drawing sword upon a Christian—Guilty.
“Resisting with arms an officer in the execution
of his duty—Guilty.
“Sentence—To be beheaded, his right hand
struck off and nailed to the prison-door.—To take
effect in half an hour.
“In the name of God and the king.
“De Olid,
“Marin,
“De Ircio.”
“Butchers!” cried Cortes, with accents of unspeakable
horror. “What ho, a pen! a pen,
knave! a pen!”
The agitation and violence of his voice surprised
even the stoical Mexicans; and the writers looking
up, he became suddenly aware that the implements
with which they practised their rude art, would
answer all his purpose. Darting forward, he
snatched from the hand of the nearest, one of the
many reeds which he held. The barbarian, although
apparently the oldest and most infirm of the
three, mistaking the purpose of the assault, started
to his feet with a vivacity of effort, which, at any
other moment, would have drawn a sharp look of
suspicion from the Captain-General. But his thoughts
were too much excited to be diverted by any such
seeming inconsistency.
It happened, by a natural accident, (for each reed
was appropriated to its peculiar colour,) that that
which Cortes had seized contained a dark crimson
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ink. Still, natural as the circumstance was, it had
no sooner touched the paper than he shuddered,
and muttering `Blood! blood!' seemed as if he
would have cast it away. But recovering himself
in an instant, with a faint and forced laugh, he
subscribed the few words,
“Confirmed.—Respite for twenty-four hours.
“Cortes.”
and putting the paper into Villafana's hands, he
dismissed him with the hurried charge,
“Away—see to it.”
He then flung the reed back to the writer who
had already resumed his squatting attitude, and
reascended the platform.
On those who surmised the cause of this sudden
interruption, the agitation of Don Hernan had the
good effect of banishing from their minds any lingering
suspicions of his entertaining personal ill-will
towards the unfortunate Lerma. All went to
show that he was shocked at the young man's fate,
and the necessity of ministering to it, even in the
simple act of confirming a judgment, awarded by
others; but, unhappily, the same feeling that exonerated
the judge, still further increased the odium
attached to the criminal. How great, they thought,
must be the guilt of him whom it causes Cortes so
much suffering to condemn.—But the Captain-General,
recovering himself, gave them little time for
such speculations.
“Well, infidel, thou speakest well,” he cried, his
voice becoming firmer with each syllable; “What
hidest thou in the sixth bundle?—or rather, what
if I should accept thy master's niggardly offer, and
depart with these baubles for women and children,
as thou hast rightly called them?”
“Hear the words of Guatimozin,” replied the
ambassador, with a careless emphasis, as if
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properly understanding the futility of the proposal,
and, indeed, with a look of scorn, as if learning to
despise one capable of Don Hernan's late weakness:
“If Malintzin depart with the fifth pack, cast the
sixth into the lake, and tell him, that, in its place,
he shall have sent after him to the seaside, a thousand
sacks of robes and four thousand sacks of
corn, to clothe and feed his people as they sail
over the endless sea. Say to him besides—”
“Pho,” interrupted Cortes, “have done with
this mummery, and get thee to the sixth sack, which
I am impatient to examine. What hast thou
there?”
“The riches which are more precious to Mexico
than the trinkets of her children,” replied the stately
barbarian; and, as he spoke, he rolled upon the
floor, arrowheads and spearpoints of bright copper,
sharp blades of itzli and heavy maces of flint, which
made up the contents of the last bundle: “Hear
the words of Guatimozin,” he continued, with a
dignity of bearing that might have become a Spartan
envoy in the camp of the Persian; “thus says
the king: `What is the Lord of Castile, that Guatimozin
should call him master? what is Malintzin,
that Guatimozin should make him his friend? The
Teuctli burns my cities, murders my children, and
spits in the face of my gods. His religion is murder,
his law robbery: he is strong, yet very unjust;
he is wise, yet he makes men mad. Guatimozin
has called together the chiefs and the planters of
corn, the wise men and the foolish, the strong and
the feeble, the old men, the women and the children.
He has spoken to them, and they have replied:
`Is not the sword better than the whip? is
not the arrow softer than the brand? is not the
fagot of fire pleasanter than the chain of captivity?
is not death sweeter than slavery?' Thus says the
old man,—`I am old; wherefore, then, should I be
a slave for a day?' Thus says the little infant,—
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`I am a little child; why should I be a slave for
many years?' This, then, is the word of the whole
people; it is Guatimozin who speaks it: `If the
gods desert me, what have I to yield but life? if
they help me, as they have helped my fathers,
what have I to do, but to drive away my foe? Let
Malintzin look at my weapons, and put two plates
of the black-copper of Castile on his bosom, for I am
very strong in my sorrow, and I will strike very
hard. Let Malintzin fear: the rebels of Tezeuco
and Cholula, the traitors of Chalco and Otumba,
are but straws to help him: can they look in the
face of a Mexican? Let Malintzin fear: is he
stronger than when he fled from Tenochtitlan, in
the month of Mourning?[13] has not Mexico more
fighting men than when the horn of the gods sounded
at midnight, and the Teuctli sat on the stone
and wept?—on the stone of Tacuba, by the water-side,
when the morning came, and his people slept
in the ditches? If Malintzin will fight, so will Guatimozin.
' These are the words of the king; these
are the words of the people: they are said. The
gods behold us.”
So spake the bold savage; and as if to show that
even the basest and feeblest shared his courage,
and sanctioned his defiance, the very Tlamémé
looked around them with a show of spirit, and the
three old men expressed their satisfaction with audible
murmurs.
The Spaniards were surprised at the fearless
tones of the Lord of Death, and not a few were
impressed with alarm as well as anger, when he
referred so unceremoniously to the events of the
fatal Noche Triste. As for Cortes himself, though
the frown with which he listened to the whole
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oration, had become darker and darker as the warriornoble
proceeded, yet, apparently, he had become
sensible, both from the tenor of the discourse and
the resolute bearing of the speaker, that it should
be answered with gravity rather than anger. Hence,
when he came to reply, it was in terms briefly impressive
and solemn:
“My young brother Guatimozin is unwise, and
he is digging the grave of his whole people. He
has evil counsellors about him. I have somewhat
to say to him; and, to-morrow, you shall be sent
back with an answer, which will perhaps dispel his
foolish dream of resistance.”—He observed that the
Lord of Death looked displeased and even alarmed,
when the interpreter made him sensible that he was
to be detained until the morrow. “Be not alarmed,”
he continued, sternly: “when didst thou ever
hear of a Christian aping the treachery of thy native
princes, and doing wrong to an ambassador?
I tell thee, fellow, infidel though thou be, I will do
thee honour, in respect of thy young master. To-morrow
thou shalt eat at my board, for it is a day
of banqueting; and to-morrow, also, shalt thou be
made acquainted with my answer to the king's
message, which it is not possible I should speak to-day.
Rest you then content.—Hark thee, Villafana,”
(for the Alguazil had returned,) “have thou
charge of this bitter-tongued knave and his dumb
companions. Entreat them well, but see that they
neither escape nor communicate with any one in this
army, Christian or misbeliever. And look well to thy
prison too.—This knave, Techeechee,—bring him
to me when thou changest guards at the prison.”
Then, breaking up the audience, he remained for
a time in conference with a few of the chief officers,
debating subjects of great importance, but which
would be of no interest to the readers of this history.
eaf015v1.n10[10] The name is corrupted, as are all those handed down
by the early historians. The suffixes, pilli and teuctli, indicate
the title, and are therefore not a part of the name.
We translate both lord; though it would be more germain
to the matter, however ludicrous it might seem, to say at
once Duke Death and Earl Olin.
eaf015v1.n11[11] One of the titles of the Supreme God, (Teotl,) who
was not worshipped directly, but through the medium of
his agents, the inferior divinities.
eaf015v1.n12[12] Tlalpilli—the quarter-cycle, or epoch of 13 years.
eaf015v1.n13[13] Embracing a portion respectively of June and July,
and devoted to austere and penitential preparation for a
coming festival.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
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Some two hours after nightfall, as the unhappy
Lerma lay in darkness and solitude, (for Befo was
no longer permitted to be his companion,) the door
of the prison opened, and the Alguazil, Villafana,
entered, bearing a lantern, which emitted just sufficient
light to allow his features to be distinguished,
together with what seemed a flask of wine—a luxury
now to be occasionally obtained, since vessels
arrived not unfrequently from the islands.
“How now, what cheer, señor?” he exclaimed,
setting down the flask upon the table, and turning
the light full upon Juan's face; “are you saying
your prayers? Here's that shall give you better
comfort,—something from the vineyards of Xeres
de la Frontera,—stout Sherry, that shall make your
heart bounce, were it broken twice over.—Come,
faith, it will make you merry.”
“I shall never be merry more,” said Juan; “and
why should I? It is better I should not. I thank
you for your good-will, Villafana; but I would that,
instead of this wine, if it be not contrary to your
duty, you would fetch me the good father Olmedo,
to finish the confession, begun upon the block, and
so abruptly interrupted, this morning.”
“Pho, be not in such a hurry: you have time
enough. The priest is busy, and knowing he must
shrive you to-morrow, he will be ill inclined to
trouble himself superfluously to-night. Come, sit
up, drink, laugh, and curse thy foes. Come, now,
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—a merry God's blessing! may you live a thousand
years!—Dzoog! bah! dzoog!—Now could I fight
seven tigers!”
“It is better thou shouldst drink it than I,” said
Juan, observing the strong and somewhat fantastic
gestures with which the Alguazil expressed his approbation,
after having taken a hearty draught of
the liquor; “yet bethink thee, Villafana,—”
“'Slid!” interrupted the jailer, “bethink thyself!
and bethink thee that this will make thee a good
fellow of a warhorse mettle, whereas, now, thou art
but a sick lambkin. What makes a beggar a king,
hah? a tailor's 'prentice a Cid Ruy Diaz of Castile,—
a doughty Campeador? Pho, there is more of
this, and to-morrow it will flow: Dost thou not
know, Don Demonios, our king, has invited us to a
banquet to-morrow? Thou shalt hear this banquet
spoken of for a thousand years. Ah, the good ship!
the good ship! there is a better thing she brings us
than wine.—But that is neither here nor there.
Why dost thou not drink?”
“Am I not condemned to death for the infraction
of a decree?” said Juan, somewhat sternly, for he
thought he perceived in Villafana's levity a symptom
of undue excitement; “and dost thou not remember
that there is a decree also against drunkenness?
Thou hast suffered somewhat from this
already.”
“Dost thou suppose there is a hell?” said Villafana,
with some such look as that which had appalled
Juan, when he walked with him over the
meadows beyond the city: “For, if thou dost,
know then, that I make my promise to the infernal
fiend, to broil with him seven times seven thousand
years, if I do not, with a stab for every lash, make
up my reckoning with the man who degraded me!
Ojala and Amen!—So now, there's enough to keep
thee quiet.—Hast thou any gall any where but in
thy liver?”
“Thou art besotted, or insane, I think,” said
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Juan, angrily. “I am a dying man: begone, and
suffer me to make my peace with heaven.”
“Come, you think I am drunk,” said Villafana,
somewhat more rationally. “I grant you; but it is
with a stuff stronger than strong drink;—ay, faith,
for, to-morrow, I see my way to heaven!—Answer
me, truly: have you no thirst for vengeance on
those who have brought you to this pass?—You
see I am sober, hah? One would not die like a
sheep.—You may play the wolf yet. What if you
had an opportunity—”
“Tempt me not, knave,” said Juan, turning
away his face—“Avoid thee, Satan!”
“What if I should knock open thy doors, and put
a sword into thy hand?” said Villafana, bending
over, so as to whisper into his ear; “what wouldst
thou do with it?”
“Break it,” replied the prisoner, wrapping his
mantle about his head, as if to shut out all further
temptation.
“Thou art a fool,” said the Alguazil, with a
growl, and left the apartment.
Juan heard his retreating steps, followed by the
clanking of the chain, which, with a strong padlock,
on the outside, secured the door of the prison; yet
he neither raised his head, nor removed the mantle
from his face, but endeavoured to drive from his
heart the thoughts of passion, excited by the words
of the tempter. From this gloomy task he was
roused by a soft voice, murmuring, as it seemed to
him from the air, for he was not aware of the
presence of any human being in the apartment,—
“Does the Great Eagle fear the face of his
friend?”
He started to his feet, and beheld in the light of
the lantern, which Villafana had left on the table,
the figure of an ancient Indian, standing hard
by.
“Techeechee!” he exclaimed—“But no; thy
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speech is pure, thy tongue is another's. Who art
thou, gray-head of Mexico?”
“To-day, Cojotl, the cunning fox of scribes,—
yesterday, Olin, the tongue of nobles,—but before,
and hereafter, Guatimozin, the friend of the Great
Eagle,” replied the Indian, and as he spoke, he
exchanged the decrepit stoop of age for the lofty
demeanour of youth, and parted the gray locks
which had hitherto almost concealed his countenance.
“Rash prince,” said Juan, “will you yet wear
the chains of Montezuma? Why dost thou again
entrust thyself among Spaniards?”
“How came the Great Eagle into the place of
Guatimozin?” demanded the young Mexican, expressively:
“Shall he die for Guatimozin, and
Guatimozin stand afar off?”
“Alas, prince,” said Juan, “thy friendship is
noble, but can do me no good. Leave this place,
where thou art in great danger, and think of me
no more. I am beyond the reach of help. Think
of thyself,—of thy people, (for, surely, it is thy
duty to protect them,) and depart while thou
canst.”
“And what am I, that I should do this thing?”
said Guatimozin. “Listen to me, son of the dayspring:
the children of Spain are wolves and reptiles;
the iztli is sharp for them, and it must not
spare. But thou, the young Eagle, shalt remain
the friend of Guatimozin. Has not Malintzin eaten
of thy blood? is he not like the big tiger that takes
by the throat? and who shall draw him away?
Canst thou remain, and smile on another sunset?
I bring thee liberty.”
“How!” said Juan; “is Villafana this traitor,
that he will permit me to escape?”
“He is a rat with two faces,” said the prince,
significantly; “he fears the wrath of Malintzin; he
loves gold, but he says thou shalt not go till
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to-morrow, and to-morrow thou wilt be in Mictlan,
the world of caves. But Guatimozin can do what
the traitor Christian will not. The Eagle is very
brave: he shall kill his foe.”
As Guatimozin spoke, he drew from his cloak a
Spanish dagger, long, sharp and exceedingly bright,—
a relic of the spoils won from the invaders in the
Night of Sorrow,—and offered it to the prisoner,
adding,
“When I depart, a soldier will fasten the door.
If thou art strong-hearted, thou canst rush by,
dealing him a blow. At the water's edge, by the
broken wall, thou wilt find a friend with a canoe;
it is Techeechee. Is not Tenochtitlan hard by?
Guatimozin, the king of Mexico, will make his friend
welcome.”
“Prince,” said Juan, sadly, “this thing cannot
be. Why should I strike down the poor sentinel?
He has done me no wrong. What would become
of thee? Thou couldst not escape. What would
become of Villafana, who, knave though he be, has
yet done much to serve me? And what, to conclude,
would become of me, escaping from Christians,
to take refuge among thy unbelieving people?
I can die, prince, but I can be neither renegade nor
apostate.”
“Is there nothing in Tenochtitlan, that dwells
in the thoughts of the captive? I will be very
good to thee; and thou shalt drink the blood of
thy foe.”
“Prince,” said Juan, firmly, “thine eye cannot
search the soul of a Christian. Malintzin has
done me a great wrong, yet would I not harm a
hair of his head; no, heaven is my witness! I can
forgive him even my death, however unjust and
cruel.”
“It is a dove of Cholula that speaks in the voice
of my friend,” said the infidel, struck with as much
disdain as surprise at the want of spirit, which his
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barbarous code of honour discovered in a lack of
vindictiveness: “Is a man a worm that he should
be trampled on?”
“No,” said Juan, bitterly,—for he could not resist
his feelings of indignation, when he suffered
himself to consider his degradation in this light.
“Had I resisted him in his first anger, had I resented
his first injustice, had I provoked him by
any complaint, then might I think of his course with
submission. But I have not; I have been, indeed,
as thou sayest, a worm, at all times helpless, at all
times unresisting. Others have complained, some
have defied him, but they passed unpunished. I, who
have yielded, like a woman, escape not: I creep
from the path of his anger, but his foot follows me,—
turn which way I will, it crushes me. Even
Befo will show his teeth sometimes—I have seen
him growl when Cortes struck him—and by mine
nonour, I think he struck him, because he was
once mine!”
How far, by indulging such thoughts, he might
have wrought himself into the very spirit which
Guatimozin was surprised to find absent, we will
not venture to say. He was interrupted by the
sudden re-entrance of Villafana, who immediately
exclaimed,
“Will you have my brother Najara diving in
upon you? Pho, you talk too loud: 'tis well you
were gabbling in Mexican. Hark ye, Olin, you
knave, get you gone! to your den, sirrah!—Pray,
señor Juan, tell this rascal, in his own gibberish,
that he cannot remain a moment longer from his
lock-up, without being discovered.—Come, fellow,
come: you shall have more talk to-morrow.”
So saying, the Alguazil conducted the Mexican
away. A few moments after, he returned alone.
Juan, still disordered and brooding over his wrongs,
paced to and fro over the narrow limits of his cell.
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His agitation increased with each step, and, at last,
finding that Villafana did not speak, he exclaimed,
“Come, Villafana,—I know what thou wilt say,—
am I not used dog-like? He disdained even to
sit upon the trial, to ask me what I had to urge in
excuse of my folly; but left this to judges, who
were content to ask `Didst thou this?' and `Didst
thou that?' without permitting me a word of defence.
Surely, I had much provocation in the matter
of Guzman; and as for the decree, it should
have been remembered, that I was come into the
camp too short a time to have made it as fast in my
mind as others, who had heard it daily proclaimed
for months. I must die for this!—die like a hunted
assassin!—my hand stuck against the prison-door,
my body given, perhaps, to fatten the lean hogs
that will fatten my judges! Oh, by heaven, this is
intolerable to think on!”
“Thou wilt believe, now, that thou wert sent to
the South Sea for no good?”
“Ay, I will believe anything,” said Juan, in increasing
excitement. “And this too! scarce an hour
returned from my sufferings, endured for him,—
endured to regain his good-will! Ay, and before I
had done speaking, he would have sent me to
Mexico, to be sacrificed there!—before I had eaten
and drunk! before I had rested my wearied body,
before I had recruited my exhausted strength!—
Tell me, Villafana! was it not by his design I was
entrapped into giving shelter to—But, no! that
could not be; in that, at least, he must be innocent.
But, in the rest, it is oppression, grinding, intolerable
oppression!”
“Well, I marvel he did not let thee off with a
scourging,” said Villafana, swallowing another
draught from the neglected flask. “Come, drink,
and we will discourse together.”
“A scourging!” said Juan, seizing the Alguazil's
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arm with a grasp which showed that imprisonment
and sorrow had not altogether robbed him of
strength; “dare you talk to me of scourging?”
“Ay, marry,” said Villafana, whose object seemed
to be to excite the slumbering fury of the young
man, and who now, in the effect of a word used for
another purpose, discovered a point on which his
equanimity was not impregnable; “ay, faith; for
the whole army cries out upon his barbarity, saying
that he is murdering you; so that he already talks
of letting you off with a scourging.—He was as
good with me.”
“By the saints of heaven!” cried Juan, snatching
up the dagger which Guatimozin had left, and striking
it into the table with a fury which split the
plank in twain, “were it his own, I would drive this
steel into the breast of the man that designed me
such dishonour. Scourge me! Thanks be to heaven,
that sends this weapon!”
“Oho, señor!” said Villafana, with counterfeited
indignation, “you will resist, will you! Hah! and
you have a dagger, too! Come, señor, give it up.”
“Fool,” said the prisoner, “thy bitter words have
unchained me at last, and driven me to desperation.
I will not yield this weapon but with my life. Wo
betide him that comes to me with a scourge, were
it Don Hernan himself!”
“You will resist him then?—Why now you are
a man again! Sit down; fear not: you shall
have a better weapon. Come, let us drink a
little: 'tis a raw night, and rainy. Here's success
to our vengeance—a quart of blood apiece! Methinks,
you are more wronged than myself—Therefore,
you shall strike the first blow. I give you
this privilege, out of friendship. The second is
mine.”
While Villafana held forth in these extraordinary
terms, Juan, shocked into composure, became
aware that the wine, which the Alguazil plied with
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characteristic infatuation, had already made serious
inroads upon his brain. He ogled and smiled, with
a stupid contortion of countenance, which was
meant to be significant; his articulation was impeded,
and his expressions coarser than usual; and
without being positively drunk, he was reduced to
that condition in which the natural propensities get
the better of all artificial qualities. Hence, he became
fierce and bloody-minded, without displaying
any of the subtle cautiousness and cunning inquisitiveness,
that were common to him in his sober
hours. It was for this reason that he proceeded to
unfold the secrets of his breast, without being in
any degree abashed by the looks of horror, with
which Juan heard him.
“Know then, brother Juan,” said he, “that thou
shalt lap the blood of Don Demonios to-morrow
morning, at the banquet-table; and afterwards
hang up Guzman with thine own hands. Thou art
too white-livered, or thou shouldst have known of
the matter earlier. Also, thou shalt have thy fair
nun again, as before:—that is, upon condition she
likes thee better than me; which may be, or may
not, for who can tell whether the star will shoot
into the marsh, or fall upon the mountain?—Bah!
it is a pity I brought thee not another flagon. Busta!
I will drink no more; for this is no time to be
thick-witted.—Know then, Juanito querido, we have
brought our conspiracy to a head; and out of the
nine hundred Christians in this town there are two
hundred and forty sworn on dirk, buckler, and crucifix,
to our whole game,—three hundred, who will
wink and stand by, till the play is over,—three hundred
who will swear faith to the devil himself, when
Don Demonios lies hid in his pocket,—and as for
the rest, why we must e'en have some hanging and
stabbing.”
“In heaven's name,” said Juan, “what dost thou
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mean? Art thou really mad? Bethink thee what
thou art saying!”
“Hah!” cried Villafana, “wilt thou skulk backwards,
after all? Dost thou pretend to oppose us?
We had some thoughts of making thee one of the
three chief captains. This Olea stands to; for he
swears thou art the best leader in the camp.”
“Is Gaspar sworn among you?” said Juan, with
a faint voice, his detestation of the bloody scheme
arousing him to the necessity of sifting it to the
bottom—for he forgot his captivity, and thought
only of arresting the progress of a treason so fearful.
“Ay,” returned the Alguazil; “and better men
than he. Come, clap thy name to the paper, and
I swear thou shalt have a command among us,
though I should kill thy rival-candidate Gil Gonzales,
with my own hand. Dost thou not know these
fellows? We have hidalgos among us.”
As he spoke, he pulled from his bosom a paper,
on which Juan read with affright the names of several
men of rank, mingled with those of common
soldiers, with many of which he was familiar. His
first thought was to secure this dreadful list, and
calling to the guards about the prison, arrest the
Alguazil upon the spot. A moment's consideration
determined him to take further advantage of the
communicativeness of the traitor, until made acquainted
with all the details of the conspiracy.
He bridled his anger, therefore, and concealing his
horror under an appearance of doubt and hesitation,
to which his trembling agitation gave no little
force, he said,
“How is this? Are these names good and
true?”—
“See you not Barba Roxa's sign-manual, near
the bottom of the list? He subscribed it last night.
He draws the figure of a knife well, as one who
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knows how to use it. But as for thee, niño mio,
thou art able to write thy signature in full.”
“Stay,” cried Juan. “What are you to do?
You spoke of a banquet, and the morning. Assassination,
hah?”
“Did I not tell thee before? Look,” said the
Alguazil, with a harsh laugh, displaying a letter,
well seeured with wax and fillet, on which was
written the name of the Captain-General. “Know,
that this letter, written carefully on the outside, by
mine own hand, (for there is nothing within,) comes
from the señor's sire, old Don Martin, whom the
devil take to his rest, for fathering so ill-tempered
a son. This letter, thou must know,” he went on
with a chuckle of self-approving craft, “came in
the ship of Seville that brought this good wine,
and was, by an evil accident, detained on the way.
Know, sirrah, and this is my device: The general
hath forgotten to invite me to his feast to-morrow,
in honour of his saint-day, or some other thing—
Quien sabe? It is very rude. But he has invited
all my caballeros on this paper, and some four
score soldiers, who are down likewise. The rest
will take their ease in the vestibule, and on the
square, to be ready. What do I then? Marry, this:
I break in upon the revel with the letter in my hand,
and a dagger in my sleeve; the others crowd
round with congratulations, and I strike him under
the ribs—Pho! I forgot; thou canst not have the
first blow, as I promised thee; but thou shalt follow,
cloaked up to the eyes, and be free to take the
second.—What dost thou think of my plot, hah,
dear devil? Hah!—”
“That it is the most damnable and dastardly
ever devised by villain, and shall bring thee to a
villain's death. Rogue! didst thou think thou
couldst tell this to me, and live? I have thy treason
in my hand, and will use it as it becomes an
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honourable man and Christian. What ho, guards!
treason, treason!”
Greatly astounded as Villafana was by this unexpected
defection, the shock served rather to sober
than affright him. He gave the prisoner a look of
unspeakable malice, and whipping out his sword
and calling for help as clamorously as Juan, he
assaulted him with the utmost fury. At the same
time, five or six of the guardsmen rushed in, and
to Juan's utter dismay, instead of aiding him to
secure the Alguazil, rushed upon him, some with
their spears, to transfix him against the wall, while
others, springing behind him, secured him in their
arms, and hurled him upon the floor. In an instant,
he had lost both the fatal list and the dagger of
Guatimozin, and was at the mercy of Villafana,
who knelt upon his breast, and shortened his
sword, to despatch him with a thrust. But at the
very moment when he had given up all hope, and
was commending his soul to his Maker, the savage
and exulting laugh with which the Alguazil aimed
at his throat, was changed to an exclamation of
alarm and pain. Up started the assassin, and Juan,
springing also to his feet, he beheld, with surprise,
the figure of La Monjonaza standing betwixt him
and the assailants. The gray mantle had fallen
from her head and shoulders, revealing a form of
the finest symmetry, and a countenance convulsed
into beauty, such as might have become a warring
Bellona; to whom she might have been well
compared, only that in place of the whip and torch
which a moralizing mythology has put into the
hands of the goddess, she held an emblem equally
expressive, in a short dagger, gleaming with blood
from the shoulder of Villafana.
“Villain!” she cried, after looking as if she
would have repeated the blow, “art thou not yet
requited? Begone!”
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And the discomfited traitor, scowling and pointing
at the blood trickling from his arm, and yet
obviously quailing before her stern frown, left the
prison, followed by the guards, who seemed even
more terrified than himself.
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CHAPTER XIX.
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Juan stood, for a moment, confounded in the presence
of his preserver; and Magdalena, gradually
exchanging her fierce expression for one more becoming
her sex, appeared at last, as he had seen
her before, pale, saddened, and subdued. As she
sank into this softened temper, her eye fell upon
the crimsoned blade; and it was curious to see
with what feminine horror, disgust, and shame, she
cast it from her, and to contrast this display of undissembled
feelings with her late Amazonian bearing
and act.
“Magdalena,” said Juan, a thousand emotions
at once contending in his bosom, “you have saved
my life. Haste now and protect that of Cortes: for,
be it dear to thee or not, yet it is not fitting he
should be left to the knife of an assassin. Acquaint
him from me—Nay, bear it not from me; for I will
not seem as if I sought to purchase my life with the
confession—Acquaint him that a dreadful conspiracy,
headed by the knave Villafana, is about to burst
upon his head. If he seize not the traitor to-night,
let him beware who approaches the banquet to-morrow.
Above all, let him be on his guard
against any one who affects to bring letters from
his father. Haste, maiden, haste! for perhaps Villafana,
wrought upon by his fears, may discharge
his train of horrors this very night.”
“Dost thou thus seek to preserve him who has
so basely compassed thine own life?” said Magdalena,
less with surprise than sorrowing
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admiration. “Think not of Cortes, but of thyself: thou
hast not many hours for thought.”
“Alas, Magdalena,” said Juan, impatiently, “you
do not believe me. I swear to you, that what I say
is true: Villafana is a traitor, and is now on the
point of assassinating the Captain-General.”
“If he were about assassinating thee, and the
Captain-General knew it, what aid wouldst thou
expect from the Captain-General?” rejoined La
Monjonaza.
“Maiden!” said Juan, frowning severely, “in
this coldness of purpose, now that thou art acquainted
with the act, thou art conniving at murder!”
Apparently this reproof touched Magdalena to
the quick. She started, snuddered, and turned as
if to leave the prison; but changing her purpose,
stepping up to the light, and assuming a boldness
which she did not feel, she falteringly asked,
“Is there no case, in which such connivance
might be excusable? But a moment since,” (and
here she bent her head upon her bosom,) “I was
about to commit murder—Had I slain Villafana,
wouldst thou then have thought the act criminal?”
“Surely not, surely not,” said Juan; “for, in
this case, thou wert arresting the blow of a cut-throat,
to kill whom in the act, were but sheer justice,
and according to law. And yet I would that
the blow had been struck by another. It is not
seemly for a woman to carry a dagger, and still
more improper that she should use it.”
“What if she be attacked by a villain, and no
helper nigh?” demanded the forlorn girl. “Heaven
has given me no protector—My father, my brother,
and my friend—they all lie in this little steel;” and
as she picked up the weapon from the floor, as if
no longer ashamed to bear it, a ghastly smile
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beamed from her visage, like the flash of a Medusa
amid the foam of a midnight billow.”
“Speak no more of Cortes,” she continued, observing
that Juan was about to resume the subject
of the conspiracy; “he is far better able to protect
himself than thou. Were there twenty poniards in
Villafana's hand, and were his arm as extended as
his malice, yet could he not reach even to the heel
of Don Hernan. His fate is written,—yes, more
inevitably than thine; for thou hast yet one hope
of deliverance, and Villafana has none.—Listen to
me, Juan Lerma; it is perhaps the last time on
earth that I shall speak to thee. If thou reject mine
offer this night, I call heaven to witness that I will
leave thee to thy fate.”
“Magdalena,” said Juan, firmly, “we have spoken
of this before. God protect thee, for there is
a wall of adamant between us.”
“Be it so,” said the lady; “and let it be higher
than thy wishes, deeper than thy scorn, so thou wilt
leave this land, and return to it no more.”
“On the morrow, Magdalena, I die,” said Lerma,
with unabated resolution. “Hear then the counsel
of a dying man, who can yet call himself your
friend. Do what you have recommended to me:
leave this land, and, in the gloom of a cloister, expiate—”
“Yet again?” exclaimed the maiden, with an
eye of fire. “This is to distract me! Oh, if thou
knew how unjustly thou hast planted daggers in
my bosom—daggers to which this thing of steel is
but as the thorn of a rosebud—thou wouldst kill
thyself, rather than speak them again! But it matters
not: whether thou livest or diest, still must
thou know that I am wronged.—Listen to me—I
will speak of Hilario.—”
“Let it not be so,” said Juan; and then solemnly
added, “Learn that, yesternight, the wretched
Villafana, who, by some magical science, seems
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acquainted with the secrets of all in this camp, gave
me to know what I did not before dream. Magdalena,
when I plucked thee from the wreck, I dreamed,
for a moment, that I loved thee—” The maiden
trembled from head to foot, and Juan was himself
greatly agitated; “I beheld one, in whom, from
the act of giving her a life, I might fancy a tie, such
as did not exist between me and any other human
being, from the time of the death of my poor father
up to that happy hour. But had that affection
ripened even into such as Hilario avowed,”—(Here
Magdalena waved her hand impatiently;) “nay, had
I plighted with thee faith and troth, and did we
stand this moment before the altar, my passion
would be at once changed to awe and horror, to
know that I was wedding the spouse of Heaven.
Magdalena, a life of penitence can scarcely remove
the sin of broken vows!”
“Say not this,” exclaimed the unhappy Magdalena,
vehemently: “What knew I of earth or heaven,
when, imprisoned in a cell from childoood upwards,
I gave up the one for the other? Heaven
broke the oath which oppressors exacted; else,
wherefore was I saved of all the sisters, and thrown
upon a land where cloisters were unknown? For
these vows could I have procured a dispensation.
Hast thou never heard of such being dissolved?”
“Surely I have,” said Juan, mildly, desiring to
allay the agitation of his visitor: “It was told to
me, by Villafana, that the señor Camarga (an insane
man, who made an attempt on my life,) was
once a monk of St. Dominic and an Inquisitor, and
permitted to revoke his vows for some worldly
purpose, I know not what; and I have heard it
also said, that the sister of Don Hernan was allowed
to leave a nunnery, to wed some great
nobleman of Andalusia.”
“It is enough,” said Magdalena, calmly, “the
vow was suspended, not broken; it will be resumed,
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when the purpose for which I now live, is accomplished,
and would have been before, but for the
accident which brought me to this land.—Juan
Lerma, I will not ask thee why thou refusest life
at my hands: but it is offered thee by one wronged
and defamed, not degraded. If thou live, it is well
thou shouldst know the truth, and remember me
without contempt; if thou die, the grave shall not
cover thee in ignorance. Hilario—Start not, frown
not, tremble not, for the truth must be spoken—
Hilario abused thy belief, that he might break my
heart, and perhaps, also, thine; for he hated me,
because I repelled his love with contempt, and
thee, because he knew—because he suspected,—
that thou wert the cause. You fought; he fell,—
and, with what seemed his dying lips, (for, even in
death, his spite was not diminished,) repeated the
demoniacal falsehood; boasting of the degradation
of one whose only shame was that she did not requite
his presumption with a dagger!”
Again the figure of the unhappy girl was elevated
by passion into the port of a destroying deity. But
she perceived that Juan was shocked by a display
of fire so unwomanly and, indeed, so fearful; and
this instantly transformed her into another being:
“This too, this too,” she cried, shedding tears ofhumiliation,
“this, too, is a consequence of his malice,
for it has converted me into the thing I am not,—into
what seems a fury or a demon. Dost thou believe I
am—dost thou believe I was a creature formed of
passions, that should belong only to men? No! oh
heaven, oh no! it is the madness that comes from
the viper's tooth. Stung, vilified, robbed of respect
and happiness, how even can a woman sit down in
peace, unless she can die? unless she can die? She
will have her vengeance, believe it; and well is it
for her, when it is won by the hands of a brother or
sire.—Yet, believe this, if thou wilt, for I am not
what I was; believe aught,—anything, save the
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lies of Hilario. With his dying lips he defamed
me—with his dying hand he revoked the slander,
and avowed himself a villain. Behold the refutation
of calumny.”
As she spoke, she drew from her bosom, with a
trembling grasp, and put into Juan's, a scrap of
paper, on which he read, with extreme surprise, the
following words, traced with a hand feeble and
agitated, yet well known to him,—
“What I have said of Magdalena del Naufragio,”
(or Magdalena of the Wreek, for by this name she
was known at Isabela,) “is false. In malice and
folly I have laid perjury on my soul; and, as I now
speak the truth, I pray heaven to forgive me.—
Amen.
“Antonio del Milagro.”
CHAPTER XIX.
“Good heaven!” said Juan, “is it possible Antonio
could commit this dastardly crime? Alas,
Magdalena, I have done you a grievous wrong, and
I beseech you, pardon me.—This thing was not
only wicked, but marvellous. The paper is stained
with blood—The saints acquit me of his death, for
it was I who shed it! I am glad he died penitent—
What brought him to this justice? I held my
dagger to his throat, yet he cried, with a devilish
malice and courage, `Strike, for—' But I will not
repeat his sinful and exulting falsehoods.—Alas,
that his blood should be upon my soul! the blood
of his father's son!”
Magdalena surveyed the self-accusing looks of
the prisoner, with much emotion; and twice or
thrice she opened her lips, to give him comfort, or
to continue her dark and singular story, and yet
failed, as many times, to speak. At last, she clasped
her hands upon her bosom, as if, by an effort of
physical strength, to give support and resolution to
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her heart, and said, with low and interrupted accents,
“Lament no more for a sin thou hast not committed.
Thou wert deceived—Hilario died not by
thy hands.”
“Hah!” exclaimed Juan, “dost thou tell me the
truth? Is Hilario yet living? God be thanked!
God be thanked! for I am not a murderer!”
He fell upon his knees, and looking up to heaven
with joy, beheld not the grief and trepidation with
which his companion surveyed his raptures.
“I told thee, not that he lived, but that thou didst
not slay him,” said the nun, with an effort.—“Had
my father come to my side, and looked upon this
paper, after hearing the story of Hilario's baseness,
what think you he should have done?”
“Killed him, I must allow,” said Juan, rising to
his feet; “for even his deep penitence could
scarcely be permitted to stand as the sole penalty
of such an offence.—Alas, Magdalena, my mind is
beset with sore misgivings. How was that paper
obtained? How did Hilario die? Thou growest
pale! Heaven shield me! didst thou, didst thou—?”
He paused with terror. The maiden replied
instantly, and almost with firmness:
“Hear the truth, even to the last syllable; for
even thy good opinion I will not purchase by subterfuge.
To Villafana,—a wretch, whose manifold
villanies thou couldst not dream, (for know, that,
being a sailor in the ship that bore the unlucky
sisters, he devised and accomplished its destruction,
that he might impiously obtain the holy vessels of
silver and gold—Ay, it was Villafana, and not the
tempest, that drove us upon the rocks of Alonso—)
to Villafana, from whom I learned, the cause of the
duel and of thy flight, I committed the charge of
obtaining this recantation.—Was this wrong?”
she exclaimed, giving way to affright, for Juan's
looks of horror could not be mistaken: “they were
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two fiends together,—the villain struck the villain,—
the—”
“Murderess! murderess!” cried Juan aloud, recoiling
from her.
A ghastly smile passed over her countenance,
and it grew into a faint laugh, which, to Juan's
mistaken eye, (for he thought it the merriment of
satisfaction or indifference,) seemed unnatural and
dreadful, while she replied, her voice hysterically
belying her feelings, as much as did her countenance,
“Thou dost not think I employed him to do murder?
I appeal to heaven, I did not dream he would
do aught but compel the recantation from the
wounded man.—What! bid him kill one so defenceless!
Had he been strong and well armed,
then perhaps, indeed,—then perhaps, I might have
thought it. I sought but for the paper; the rest
was the deed of Villafana.”
“Oh heaven! oh holy heaven!” cried Juan;
“speak not another word: rather let me die than
hear more. Away! avaunt! thou art not a woman,
but a fiend! and all is now as it was, and
worse.--What, blood-stained! blood-stained!”—
Magdalena strode towards him, striving to speak,
but could only utter the words, `Injustice! injustice!
' mingled with the charge, `Leave Mexico,'
that still made a part of her perturbed thoughts.
Had not Juan been entirely overwhelmed by his
horror, he must have observed, that her mind was,
at this moment, convulsed beyond the degree of
any former agitation; that she was, in fact, in a
condition both alarming and pitiable. Her countenance
was most deathlike, her accents wholly unnatural,
and there was something of delirium or
idiotcy in the manner with which, while still muttering
the broken reproof, `Injustice,' and the charge,
`Leave Mexico,' she, all the while, extended the
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blood-stained paper, as if entreating him again to
receive and peruse it.
As it was, he gave utterance to his horror in
the words,—
“Miserable woman! the denial forced from the
lips of the murdered man, is of a piece with the
spirit that compelled it—False, false, all!”
At these words, the paper dropped from her
hands, another vacant smile distorted her visage,
and she turned to depart; but before she had taken
two steps, she tottered, and fell to the floor, with a
dreadful scream, that instantly brought the guards
into the prison.
The absorbind nature of their conversation had,
for the last two or three moments, rendered both
incapable of observing that some scene of altercation
had suddenly arisen at the dungeon door.
High voices might be heard, as of one alternately
entreating and demanding admittance, which was
gruffly denied by others. The shriek of Magdalena,
ringing in their ears like a cry of death, brought
the contention to an end; and all rushing in together,
they beheld Juan endeavouring to raise the
figure of his unhappy and lifeless guest from the
floor.
“Dios mio! y peccavi! I will kill him where he
stands,” exclaimed one, rushing forward.
“Not so fast, señor Camarga,” cried the hunchback,
who was at the head of all, snatching the
weapon from the hands of this individual, who
seemed peculiarly to thirst for the blood of the
young islander. “Here's work for the bastinado!
Where's Villafana, ye treacherous dogs, that let
women into the prison? He shall pay for it.—
Harkee, señor Camarga; if you have any interest
in this fair lady, you may help bear her to the palace.
Poor fool! these women love as arquebuses
shoot: if you make them any obstruction, they
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burst in your hands--and this is truer still of a
musket, if you thrust it into the earth. In mine
own opinion, the young hound has scorned her.”
While Najara gave vent to these growling observations,
Magdalena was carried out of the prison.
The hunchback had reached the door, before Juan,
in the confusion of the moment, thought of calling
him back to impart to him the secret of the treachery.
But Najara replied only with a malediction,
and departed with the lantern; so that Juan was
again left to night and solitude.
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CHAPTER XX.
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Meanwhile, a scene of still more tragical character
was on the point of being represented within
the walls of the palace.
It was a tempestuous night. The clouds, which
had all day enveloped the pagan metropolis, were,
at last, gathered over Tezcuco. The wind blew in
gusts, with frequent rain; and as the distant thunderbolts
rolled with a rumbling cadence over Mexico,
vast sheets of lightning shot up in the west, illuminating
sky, lake, and mountain, with a cadaverous
glare.
Some five or six of the principal cavaliers were
assembled with Cortes, in the great Hall of Audience,
engaged in earnest and anxious debate. It
happened, by accident, that the huge curtain, which,
at night, was usually drawn over the window of
alabaster, had been, this evening, neglected by the
attendants; so that it remained, drooping in gigantic
festoons from the great beam, carved into a serpent's
head, which held it at the top, down to the
lesser ornaments that supported it on the sides, of the
casement. The strong cords, by which it could be
dragged into its place, hung over the central beam,
flapping occasionally against the alabaster wall,
as the gust, puffing in through the great door,
whirled the smoke and flame of the lamps and
torches, from the walls and pillars, to which they
were attached.
Thus, though the alabaster slabs were too thick
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to transmit any ordinary ray, the brighter flashes
of lightning made their way through, and added,
at times, a ghastly glare to the light of the lamps;
in which the countenances of the cavaliers, perturbed
as they were, assumed such an unnatural
hue as might have beseemed the ghosts of dead
heroes, rising to earth, to meddle again in the sport
of slaughter.
The visage of the Captain-General betrayed
greater anxiety, mingled with sterner wrath, than
appeared on any other; and when he spoke, it was
in accents brief and low, and exceedingly emphatic.
“I tell you, cavaliers,” he cried, “the mystery
that shrouds this treason is more frightful than the
treason itself. We are at fault, señores, we are at
fault. We behold enough to show us that the devils
are at work about us, but not to discover in
what mode they are toiling. It is clear enough that
Villafana is a dog, and one day he shall hang; but
I know not, in what manner, nor at what time, he
will bite. This is certain: he has suffered one of
the Mexicans to leave his cell, and communicate
with Xicotencal: it is certain, also, that this
cur of Tlascala will leave the camp before daydawn;
and how many of his warriors will follow
after him, that I leave you to conjecture. This
I have from a true mouth. He is incensed, first,
on account of Juan Lerma; and, secondly, I doubt
not, the Mexican has made the most of his growling
temper and present discontent. What sayst
thou, Sandoval? What hinders thee to lie in wait,
and, following at his heels, so do with him, that his
Tlascalans who desert afterwards, may be frightened
on the path, and so return to us? There are
good trees on the wayside!”
“Ay,” replied Don Gonzalo, grimly, “when there
is any executioner's work towards, I am sure to
play jack-ketch. I am loath to deal with a man
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that hath been so valiant; but if he be a traitor, it
is right he should die. What if I give him the bastinado,
Turk-wise? Methinks that would bring him
into a sounder temper.”
It would but inflame the choler of his proud
people,” said the shrewder general; “whereas his
sudden death, dealt upon him in the act of desertion,
will strike them with fear. Take thou a rope
with thee, my son, and fear not to use it.”
The young cavalier nodded assent; and the general
went on:
“Concerning the ambassadors, thus secretly
treating with a traitor, methinks they have forfeited
all claim to protection?”
“Ay,” said Alvarado; “and the bastinado, of
which Sandoval spake, may serve the good purpose
of opening their lips, and thereby revealing,
not only the depth of the Tlascalan defection, but
the length to which Villafana and his curs have
gone with them. Let us send for them, and try the
experiment. Or stay--here are cords enough on
the curtain. One of these, twisted round the brow
with a sword-hilt, I have known to bring out a
man's tongue as far as his eyes.”
The cavaliers turned to the window; and the
bitter smile of the Captain-General was made deathlike,
by a flash, brighter than usual, shooting
through the wall.
“A good thought,” he said; “but we will not
be precipitate. We have them secured; and however
Villafana may permit them to speak with
others, he is somewhat too wise to set them free.
We will have this thing considered in the morning.”
At this moment, Don Francisco de Guzman
made his appearance in the chamber, his visage
disfigured by a black patch, and somewhat pale.
But this, as it was soon discovered, was caused
rather by care than sickness.
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“Señor,” he exclaimed, “I have been to seek the
ambassadors—They have escaped!”
“Escaped!” echoed Cortes. “Thou art beside
thyself! And the villain Alguazil, has he fled with
them? I will tear his flesh with pincers! What! release
the infidels, under my eye?”
“So please you,” said Guzman, “this, I think,
was no resolved treachery, but an effect of infatuation.
The wine that came to us to-day, was too
strong for the watchmen: where they got it, I
know not; but I found them sound asleep at the
open door.”
“They shall be scourged, till they drop more
blood than they have drunk wine,” said Don Hernan,
furiously. “And the prison-guards also? Hah?
The prisoner has escaped?”
“Not so,” said the cavalier: “all's well there,
save--”
“And Villafana? Speak me the word—Has he
fled?”
“Señor mio, no: he is in the prison, carousing
with Juan Lerma, as the guards say. I heard his
voice through the door.”
“Carousing? does Juan Lerma take his death so
merrily? By'r lady, devil as he is, it is a sin to slay
him!”
“As to the prisoner,” said Guzman, “I know not
whether he be merry or not; but I myself (for I
had mine ear to the door,) heard Villafana smack
his lips, and vow he `would drink no more, this
being no time to be thick-witted.' But every one
knows Villafana: his bibbing once brought him to
the strappado.”
“Ay; and it shall bring him to the gallows.--It
is the fate of the can-clinker—all spoken in three
words—drunk, whipped, and gibbeted!--Didst
thou worm naught from the guards? They were of
his own appointing.”
“Not a syllable,” replied Guzman: “I do believe
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they have been too much frightened, and are now
penitent men.”
“It may be,” said Cortes, “it may be; but I
would I could look into the dreams of Villafana. If
I punish him for the flight of the ambassadors, it
may be that I disperse an imposthume before it
comes to a head; or it may prove, that I drive the
matter into the more vital organs of this body politic,
till all be corrupted and consumed. What say
ye to a little torture inflicted on Villafana himself?
Yet he is a bold dog, and may not speak. They
say he winced not under the lash. I swear to you,
my friends, I am in a strait.”
While Cortes thus admitted the difficulty in
which he felt himself pressed, and the cavaliers
were divided in their counsels, they perceived a
common soldier intrude himself into the chamber,
and boldly approach them.
“Hah!” cried Alvarado, ever hot of temper,
“who art thou, Sir Gallows-bird, that bringest thy
knave's pate among cavaliers in council?”
“Hold! touch him not; 'tis the Barba-Roxa!”
exclaimed Don Hernan. “What impertinence is
this, sirrah? Who bade thee hitherward?”
“God and my good saint,” said Gaspar, flinging
himself on his knees, and adding, with the greatest
impetuosity, “Pardon, señor! pardon for two unhappy
men! Or if that cannot be, why pardon then
for one; and I care not how soon you hang up the
others.”
“What means the fool? Art thou distracted?”
“Señor!” cried the soldier, wringing his hands,
“I am a knave and traitor. Grant me the life of
Juan Lerma, who meant you no wrong, and I will
give you, for the rope and sword, two hundred and
forty such traitors as the world never saw, and
myself among them; for I have signed my name
with knife and arrow, and sworn myself to
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brotherhood, under the pains of hell, which I care not how
soon may came upon me.”
“Let some one of you look to the door,” said
Cortes, quickly: “and see that the sentinels keep
their eyes open.—How now, Gaspar! what is this
thou sayst? Art thou indeed a villain? I should
have struck on the mouth any soldier that had said
it of thee.”
“I am what I said,” replied Gaspar; “your
excellency refused to listen to me, when I pleaded
for Juan Lerma; and I was incensed. I said to myself,
señor, `I have saved your life, and yet you
deny me the life of my friend, who, in ignorance,
broke a decree, yet knew no malice.' Besides, se
ñor, you called me a dog,—`an officious, presuming
dog;' whereas I was not a dog then, but now.
Well, señor, while I was in a passion, the devil
came to me, and tempted me, and I signed my
name to my perdition.”
“What!” said Alvarado, recoiling with devout
horror, “hast thou really signed over thy soul to
Satan? We will burn thee thou devil's penitent, in
a hot fire!”
“Speak on,” said Cortes. “What meanest thou
by this mummery? What devil is this? for, though
Satan be walking now among us, yet, I think, it
could not be he.”
“It was Villafana,” replied Gaspar; “and heaven
pardon me, for I think it must be Apollyon in his
likeness!”
At this communication, the cavaliers all stared at
one another, and Cortes exclaimed,
“Two hundred and forty men! What! are there
so many knaves of his party?”
“Ay, and many more, who will help, but will not
put down their names upon paper,” replied Gaspar.
“But your excellency says nothing of Juan Lerma.
If you will pardon him, your excellency shall hear
all.”
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“How, sirrah!” cried Cortes, sternly, “Do you
avow yourself a sworn traitor, and yet dictate to
me terms of mercy? Speak, or you shall have that
to your brows, which will bring out words with
screams.”
Gaspar sprang to his feet,—boldly, fearlessly,
and even insolently, returning the look of the Captain-General:
“Your excellency has no heart, and I have,”
he cried. “Do your will upon us both; and reckon
my death to your conscience, as you do that of
Juan Lerma. You shall not have a word more.
Here are my arms.—What cavalier will demean
himself to tie them? I will meet your excellency at
the judgment-seat.”
“Thou art but a fool,” said Cortes, moderating
his anger,—or, at least, mollifying the severity of
his accents; for his countenance yet gleamed with
wrath. “Thou knowest, that, having saved my
life at Xochimilco, I can, in no case, take thine.”
“But I leave that to the laws, without asking any
mercy,” said the Red Beard, obstinately: “I ask
the life of Juan Lerma, condemned without law.”
“Dost thou impugn my justice, fellow?” cried
the ferocious De Olid. “I swear to thee, when
thou art brought to be judged, I will give thee a
double quantity for this very reason.”
While the cavalier gave utterance to so excellent
a proof of his equity, Alvarado, with whom Gaspar
had been a favourite, whispered in his ear,
“Speak out, and fear not. It stands not with
the captain's honour to barter men's lives for
knave's confessions; yet he shall pardon the young
man, thy friend, as I am thy guarantee.”
“What say ye, cavaliers?” cried Cortes: “does
it become me, to remit a sentence of death, at such
mutinous intercession?”
Before any of the officers could reply, Gaspar,
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confiding in the promise of Alvarado, threw himself
again at the general's feet, crying,
“Señor, I am not a mutineer, but a penitent. I
am mad to think that one,—so good a friend, so
valiant a soldier, so true a follower, (for there is no
falsehood in Juan Lerma,) should die for a small
matter,—saving Don Francisco's presence,—when
there are so many rogues about us, that go unpunished.
But I leave him to your excellency's mercy,
trusting that your excellency will reconsider the
judgment, and release him. Therefore I will speak,
in this trust; and I pray heaven to remember the
act, be it merciful or be it cruel.—This is what I
have to say: In my passion, I betook me to Villafana;
who, promising to save Lerma's life, I signed
with him; though the first act of guilt was to take
your excellency's life. Holy mother of heaven!
pardon me; but I was very much incensed. Well,
señor, I found on the paper the names of two hundred
and forty men, and I will tell you such as I
remember; but if you will send to the prison, and
suddenly seize the Alguazil, you will find the list
in his bosom.—”
“Quinones, see thou to this,” said Cortes, turning
to the master of the armory, who made one
of the council. “Take with thee none but hidalgos,
and be sudden, making no noise and shedding
no blood—Yet stay: this will not do, neither.
Hark thee, Gaspar, man, when shall this precious
earthquake rumble into the upper air?”
“To-morrow,” replied the soldier; and then, to
the horror and astonishment of all present, he
divulged the whole scheme of assassination, as
Villafana had himself spoken it in the prison.
“With a letter from my father, too!” cried
Cortes, apparently more struck with the heartless
barbarity of the stratagem, than with anything
else in Gaspar's communication: “This is indeed
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the Judas-kiss, the—Faugh! these were the words
of Magdalena!”
While he muttered these words to himself, he
was roused by a sudden voice at the great door,
and heard distinctly the unexpected voice of Villafana,
saying, as he wrangled with the guards,
“Oh, 'slid, you take upon you too much. I come
at the order of the general.”
“Admit Villafana,” said Cortes, in tones that penetrated
loudly to the farthest limits of the room, for
the cavaliers were stricken into a boding silence
at the accents of the Alguazil: “Admit my trusty
Villafana.” And Villafana entered.
He was evidently flushed with wine, and it was
for that reason, doubtless, that he did not seem to
observe the presence of his forsworn associate, nor
the suspicious act of two cavaliers, who stole from
the group, and took possession of the door by which
he had entered. He approached with a reckless
and confident, though somewhat stupid, air, exclaiming,
after divers humble scrapes and salaams,
“I come at your excellency's bidding, according
to appointment. This was the hour, please your
excellency—But 'tis a scurvy night, with much
thunder and lightning.”
“Ay, truly,” said Cortes, with a mild voice, while
all the rest stood in the silence of death; “but,
being so observant, Villafana, how comes it you
have not remarked that you are here without the
Indian Techeechee, whom I commanded you to
bring hither at this hour?”
“Señor,” said the Alguazil, a little confused,
“that old Ottomi is a sly dog, and, I doubt me, not
over-honest.”
“I doubt me so, too,” said Cortes, in the same
encouraging tones; “yet, honest or false, sly or
simple, methinks thou shouldst not have suffered
him to escape.”
“Escape! what, Techeechee escape!” cried
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Villafana with unaffected surprise: “Ho, no! I did
but give the gray infidel a sop of wine, and straightway
he hid himself in a corner, to sleep off his
drunkenness. And,—and,—” continued he, with
instinctive though clumsy cunning,—“and I thought
it would be unbeseemly to bring him to your excellency,
in that condition. I beg your excellency's
pardon for making him acquainted with such Christian
liquor; but it was out of pity, together with
some little hope of converting him to the faith; and,
besides, I knew not his head was so weak. I will
fetch him to your excellency in the morning.”
“Why, this is well,” said the Captain-General,
with such insinuating gentleness as characterizes
the snake, when closing softly on his prey; “and
I doubt not thou canst give me as good an account
of the ambassadors. It is said to me, that they also
have escaped.”
“Good God!” cried Villafana, startled not only
out of his confidence, but, in great measure, out of,
his intoxication, by such an announcement; “the
ambassadors escaped? It cannot be!”
“Pho, they have hurt thee more than I thought,—
even to the point of destroying thy memory,”
rejoined the Captain-General, with the blandishment
of a smile. “There is blood upon thy shoulder: I
doubt not, thou wert severely hurt, while attempting
to prevent their flight. No one ever questioned
the courage of Villafana.”
“Yes, señor, yes—no—yes; that is,—I mean to
say—Saints of heaven!”—And here the Alguazil
paused, completely sobered,—that is, restored to
his senses, but not to his wits; for he perceived
himself in a difficulty, and his invention pointed out
no means of escape. He rolled his eyes, haggard
at once with debauch and alarm, over the cavaliers,
and, though the lofty figure of Alvarado concealed
Gaspar from his view, he beheld enough in the extraordinary
sedateness of all present, to fill him
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with the most racking suspicions. He turned again
to Cortes, and commanding his fears as much as
he could, went on, with an appearance of boldness,
“Alas, noble señor, if the ambassadors be escaped,
I am a lost man,—for I trusted too much to
the vigilance of others, and I should not have done
so. Alas, señor,” he continued with more energy,
as his mind began to work more clearly, “I have
committed a great offence in this negligence; but I
vow to heaven, it was owing to my fears of Juan
Lerma, who made many efforts to escape, and had
strong friends to help him. Your excellency may
see the necessity I was under, to give all my
thoughts to him; for, some one having furnished
him with a dagger, he foully attacked me, not on
my guard, giving me this wound; and had it not
been for the sudden rushing in of the guard, I should
certainly have been killed.”
Thus spoke the Alguazil, with returning craft,
mingling together fiction and fact with an address
which astonished even himself:
“Yes, señor,” he continued, satisfied with the
strength of his argument, and now elated with a
prospect of providing against the effects of his imprudent
disclosures in the prison; “yes, señor,
and the young man, besides thus wounding me,
swore he would have me hanged for a conspiracy;
stating roundly, as the guards will witness, (I am
certain that Esteban, the Left-Handed, heard him,)
that, being a notorious grumbler, any such fiction
would be believed of me. As if this would make
me a conspirator! whereas, your excellency knows,
according to the proverb, Barking dogs are no
biters.” And the audacious ruffian, relapsing into
security, attested his innocence by a gentle laugh
and the sweetest of his smiles.
“Again I say, thou speakest well,” said Cortes,
carelessly descending from the platform, on which
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he had mounted at the approach of Villafana.
“Thine arguments have even satisfied me of the
folly of certain charges, brought against thee by
this mad fellow, here, at thy elbow.”
As he spoke, Alvarado, taking his instructions
rather from a consentaneous feeling of propriety
than from any hint of Don Hernan's, moved aside,
and Villafana's eyes fell upon the figure of Gaspar.
“Think of it, good fellow,” said Cortes, laying
his hand upon Villafana's shoulder, as if to support
himself a little; “the things he said of thee are innumerable,
and excessively preposterous. He
averred, for instance, that thou wert peevishly offended,
because I had not invited thy presence to
the festivities of the morning banquet, and wert resolved
to come, whether I would or not, and that
with a letter from my father in one hand, and a
dagger in the other. Eh! is not this outrageous?
He said, besides,—But, o' my life, thou hast bled
too much from this wound! Juan Lerma strikes
deep, when the fit is on him. I hope thou art not
faint, man?”
To these benevolent expressions, the Alguazil
replied by turning upon the general a countenance
so bloodless, and an eye filled with such ecstacy
of despair, (for if the poniards of all had been at his
throat, he could not have been more perfectly apprized
of his coming fate,) that Cortes must have
been struck with some feeling of commiseration,
had not his nature been somewhat akin to that of
a eat, which delights less to kill than to sport with
the agonies of a dying victim. As it was, he continued
to torment the abandoned wretch, by adding,
pleasantly,
“And what thinkest thou of this, too, my Villafana?
Two hundred and forty conspirators, to rush
in when the blow was struck!—doubtless to carve
their dinners from the ribs of my cavaliers!—Ah,
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Villafana, Villafana! thou shouldst have a care of
thy friends. Our enemies are harmless, but our
friends are always dangerous.—What dost thou
say to all this, Villafana?—Knave! hadst thou
twenty daggers in thy jerkin, thou wert still but
an unfanged reptile!”
While he spoke, in this jestful mood, he was sensible
that Villafana, (doubtless with an instinctive
motion, of which he was himself unconscious, being
apparently turned to stone,) was stealing his
hand up towards his bosom, as if to grasp a weapon.
The moment the member had reached the
opening of his garment, Cortes caught him by the
throat, and giving utterance to his last words with
a voice of thunder, and employing a strength irresistible
by such a man as Villafana, he hurled him
to the floor, at the same instant placing his foot on
his throat. Then stooping down, and thrusting his
hand into the traitor's bosom, he plucked out, at a
single grasp, a poniard, a letter, and the fatal list
of conspirators. He pushed the first aside, read
the superscription of the second with a laugh, and
casting his eye upon the third, devoured its contents
with an avidity that left him unconscious of
the murmurs of the fierce cavaliers, and the groans
of the wretched Alguazil, strangling under his
foot.
“What, señor! will you rob the gallows of its
prey?” cried Alvarado, pointing his sword at the
prostrate traitor, as, indeed, did all the rest, (having
drawn them at the moment when Cortes seized
him by the throat:) “His crime is manifest to all:
what need of trial? Every man his steel through
the dog!”
“Hold!” cried the Captain-General; “this were
a death for an hidalgo. Up, cur! up, and meet thy
fate! Up!” And he spurned the wretch with his
foot.
The Alguazil rose up, his face black with blood,
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which, not perfectly dispersing even at release from
strangulation, remained in leopard-like blotches
over his visage, ghastfully contrasted with the ashy
hues that gathered between them. As he rose, his
arms were seized by two or three cavaliers; and
Sandoval, as quick in action as he was sluggish
in speech, snatching the rich sword-sash of samite
from his own shoulders, instantly secured them behind
his back.
“For the love of God, señores!” cried Villafana,
finding speech at last, “what do you mean? what
do you design? You will not kill an innocent man?
Will you judge me at the charge of a liar? Gaspar
is my sworn foe. I will make all clear.—Señor, I
have been drinking, and my mind is confused:
take me not at this disadvantage. Oh, for God's
sake, what do you mean?—The list? what, the list?
'Tis for a merry-making--a rejoicing for my birthday.
I will explain all to your excellencies.—I am
an innocent man.—Gaspar is a forsworn caitiff—a
caitiff, señores, a caitiff!—I claim trial by the civil
judges.”--
“Gag him,” cried one.
“Strike him on the mouth,” said another. And
Villafana, gasping for breath, uttered, for a moment,
nothing but inarticulate murmurs.
“De Olid, Marin, De Ircio,” cried Cortes, rapidly,
and with inexpressible decision, “ye are judges
of life and death; Sandoval and Alvarado, by right
of office, ye can sit in judgment; Quinones, Guzman,
and the rest, I make you, in the king's name,
special associates of the others.—Why, here is a
court, not martial, but civil; and the dog shall have
judgment to his content! He stands charged of
treason.—Guilty, señores? or not guilty?”
“Guilty!” cried all with one voice: and De Olid
added, “Let us take him into the garden, and hang
him to the cedar-tree.”
“To the window,” said Cortes, pointing with his
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sword to the stout cords, hanging so invitingly
from the serpent's-head; and in an instant the victim
was dragged upon the platform.
Up to this moment, his fears had been uttered
rather in vehement complaints than in outcries;
but now, when he perceived that he was condemned
by a mockery of trial, doomed without the respite
of a minute's space to pray, the rope dangling
before his eyes, and already in the hands of a cavalier,
who was bending it into a noose, he uttered a
piercing scream, and endeavoured to throw himself
on his knees.
“Mercy!” he cried, “mercy! mercy! I will
confess—I can save all your lives—Mercy!
mercy!”
Of all the sights of horror and disgust, villany,
transformed at the death-hour, into its natural character
and original of cowardice, is among the most
appalling. Villafana was as brave as a ruffian could
be; but when imagination is linked in the same
spirit with vice, courage expires almost at the same
moment with hope. With a weapon in his hand,
and that at liberty, Villafana, perhaps, would have
manifested all the valour in which despair perceives
the only hope, and died like a man. As it was,
bound and grasped in the arms of strong men,
entirely helpless and equally without hope, his death
staring him in the face, he gave himself up at once
to unmanly fears, and wept, screamed, and prayed,
until the guards, at watch in the vestibule, sank
upon their knees and conned over their beads, to
divert their senses from cries so agonized and so
horrible.
As he strove to prostrate himself before his inexorable
judges, he was pulled up by the cavaliers,
and among others by Don Francisco de Guzman,
whose countenance he recognized.
“Save me, Guzman! save me!” he cried; “for
thou wert once of the party—Save me!”
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“Peace, wolf—”
“Mercy! mercy! noble señor!” he continued,
turning to Cortes: “I am but one of many. Guzman
is as false as I; I charge him with treason:
he has abused your excellency's ear!—Listen,
señores, and spare me my life: give me a day—
give me but to-night, to pray and confess, and you
shall have all. There are cavaliers among us—
Mercy, for the love of heaven!—Camarga, the Do
minican,—Don Palmerino de Castro,—Muertazo of
Toledo, Carabo of Seville,—Artiaga, Santa-Rosa,
Bravo, Aljaraz, and an hundred more—”
“Peace, lying villain!” cried the Captain-General—
“What ho, the rope! quick, the rope!”
“A moment to repent! a moment to repent!”
shrieked the victim, struggling so violently to bring
his hands before him, as if to clasp them in prayer,
that the silken band crackled behind him, and his
hands turned black with congested blood; “a moment
to repent! for I am a sinner. What! would
you condemn my soul, too? Saints, hear me!
angels, plead for me! A priest, for the love of
heaven! I killed Artiaga of Cadiz; I scuttled the
ship at Alonso, drowned the nuns, and stole the
church-plate—Call Magdalena—Where's Magdalena?—
You are murdering me! Mercy! mercy!
I killed Hilario, too—I poniarded him in the old
wounds, inflicted by Juan Lerma—I have much to
repent—A priest, for the love of God! A priest,
oh, a priest!”
Thus raved the villain, stained with a thousand
crimes; and if aught had been wanting to steel the
hearts of his executioners, enough was divulged in
the unavailing abandonment with which he accused
himself of misdeeds, so many and so atrocious.
While his neck was yet free from the rope, he
struggled violently, but without any attempt to do
a mischief to his unrelenting murderers; his resistance
was, indeed, like that of a cur, under the
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chastisement of a cruel and brutal master, which
howls and contends, and yet fears to employ its
fangs against the tyrant. But when he found, at
last, that the cavaliers were actually putting the
hasty halter about his neck, his struggles were not
greater to escape than to inflict injury. He shook
and tossed his head in distraction, and Don Francisco
de Guzman, endeavouring to seize him by
the beard, he caught the hand of the cavalier betwixt
his teeth, and held it with the gripe of a
tiger.
“Hell confound thee, wolf!” cried Guzman,
groaning with pain, and striking him over the face
with the hilt of his sword, but in vain: “Help me,
cavaliers, or he will have my hand off!—Villain,
unlock thy teeth.—”
“Stand aside—This will unloose thee,” said
one, thrusting his rapier into the thigh of the vindictive
wretch; who no sooner felt the cold steel
penetrate his flesh, than he opened his mouth to
utter a yell. “Whip him up now.—So much for
traitors!”
It was the last scream of the assassin. His lips
uttered one more cry to heaven; the name of
Magdalena was cut short, as the noose closed upon
his throat, and ended in a hoarse, rattling, gulphing
whine, that did not itself prevail beyond the space
of a second. As he shot up to the top of the window,
an intense glare of lightning flashed through
the alabaster, and his figure, traced upon that lustrous
and ghastly medium, was seen dangling and
writhing in the death-agony. The next moment,
the huge curtain was drawn over the dreadful
spectacle: but those who paused a moment, to look
back, could behold the convulsions of the dying
miscreant giving motion, and sometimes protrusion,
to the dark folds of the drapery.—When all was
silent, in the darkness of the night, the watchmen
in the vestibule could yet hear the pattering of
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blood-drops falling from his mangled limb, upon the
sonorous wood of the platform.
But there were other scenes now occurring,
which, for a time, drove from their thoughts the
memory of Villafana.
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CHAPTER XXI.
[figure description] Page 248.[end figure description]
The scene of death in which they were engaged,
had so employed the thoughts of the cavaliers, that
they were, for a time, insensible to many tumultuous
noises in the city, which, beginning at the moment
when the struggles and outcries of Villafana
were fiercest and loudest, increased every instant,
until all was uproar.
At first, as they rushed in disorder to the doors,
they thought the din was caused by a renewal of
the storm, or rather the sudden outbursting of a
tornado; which, overwhelming the houses of some
of the poorer citizens, and burying them among the
ruins, might account for the screams and yells, that
were mingled with other noises. But they soon
exchanged this fear for one more stirring, when, as
they rushed into the air, they heard an alarum ringing
from the chapel-bell on the top of the pyramid,
drums beating to arms, arquebuses firing in several
different quarters, and were made sensible that a
conflict was raging in the town.
“Dios!” cried one; “the conspirators are upon
us! Let us back to the hall and defend ourselves!”
“My life upon it,” said Gaspar, “the conspirators
will not stir till Villafana opens his lips to them.—
Heaven rest his soul!—Hark! these are the yells
of Indians.”
“On, friends!” exclaimed Cortes, perceiving the
garden full of soldiers, rushing from various parts
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of the palace, as if to seek the fray. “This is Tlascalan
work—a knavery of Xicotencal. Hah! hark!
see! 'tis an assault upon the prison! Ho, Castilians!
ho, Christians! cavaliers and soldiers, to arms!
haste, to arms!”
While the soldiers, collecting together at the
well-known voice of the Captain-General, began to
rush with him towards the prison, over which, besides
hearing the shouting of the watchmen at the
doors, they beheld three blazing arrows shot up
into the air, their alarm was directed to another
quarter, by a violent cannonade from the squadron,
moored yet at the entrance of the little river; and
looking that way, they perceived to their astonishment
and fear, no less than four of the brigantines
suddenly enveloped in flames.
“Guzman and Quinones!” cried Cortes, with instant
determination, “to the prison, with what force
ye can pick up on the way. Shoot all fugitives, as
well as all assailants. The rest follow me to the
river; for I would mine arms should be burned,
rather than my vessels.”
By this time, all the Spaniards who were capable
of bearing arms, were in the open air, and following
not less the shouts of Cortes than the crash of
the falconets, ran hastily towards the fleet, which,
it was now evident, was furiously beset by multitudes
of Indians in canoes. The flash of the explosions
and the flames bursting ruddily out from sails
and cordage, revealed them clustering with impetuosity
around the devoted vessels, whose crews, it
was equally apparent, were making a gallant resistance.
In this light, the houses bordering upon
the water were seen covered with citizens, looking
on with a tranquillity, which showed that their
share in the unexpected hostilities, if indeed they
had any, was entirely passive. A more agreeable
sight was disclosed to Cortes, as he ran onwards,
in the appearance of many thousand Tlascalans,
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rushing down the narrow meadows which bordered
the canal, with such alacrity of speed and such furious
cries of `Tlascala!' and `Castilla!' as convinced
him of their fidelity and affection.
“It is a Mexican device, after all,” he muttered;
“a plan of the ambassadors. Well done for
thee, Villafana!—Bold varlets, these! What! down
with your demi-culverins and sakers, Orozca!
Where is my good cannonier, Juan Catalan? We
will aid the vessels from the shore.”
The mariners, however hotly engaged, replied to
the cries of their friends with shouts of courage;
and redoubling their exertions, they succeeded not
only in repelling the assailants, whose obvious aim
was to fire the whole fleet, from those ships not
yet ignited, but even in extinguishing the flames in
the less fortunate four. In this, they were doubtless
materially assisted by the condition of the
planks and timbers, which being of green wood,
the flames would perhaps have confined their
ravages to the more combustible sails and cordage,
and soon expired for want of fuel. They weighed
anchor also, and taking advantage of the gusts
which still blew over the lake, six of the largest
and strongest set sail, and boldly plunged among
the canoes, overturning and sinking many, while
the others, receiving assistance from the shore, betook
themselves to the little harbour, dragging
with them their disabled consorts.
In this manner, it soon became evident that the
danger in this quarter was over; and Cortes, directing
that the position of the brigantines should
be strengthened by a temporary battery at the
mouth of the river, returned to inspect the condition
of the city in the neighbourhood of the palace.
The sounds of contention were over; and one
passing through the garden, and listening to the
moaning of the winds through the trees, could
searce have believed that half an hour before it had
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been a scene of such warlike bustle. The bell rang
no longer, the drums, trumpets, and arquebuses
were silent, and the sentinels paced to and fro at their
stations, as if nothing unusual had happened. The
only sounds indeed that now vexed the calm of the
night, were the occasional explosion of a falconet
from some brigantine, afar among the shadows of
the lake, still pursuing the retreating canoes. The
attack was perhaps unpremeditated; or, perhaps,
its only object was to taunt and defy. At all events,
it was now over; and in less than an hour from
the time of the first alarm, the cry of all's-well could
be heard through the different quarters of the
city.
Before this satisfactory conclusion of an evening
so eventful, the Captain-General was doomed to
have his equanimity put to the proof by a new
trial. A double line of guards surrounded the
prison, and Guzman, Quinones, and Gaspar Olea
were among them, the last wringing his hands, and
bewailing; but the prison-door was open, a thin
smoke issued from it, and he could see, at a glance,
that the only persons in the apartment were a few
soldiers, dashing water over its partly consumed
floor. Under the very threshold lay the bodies of
two soldiers, fearfully mangled; another was
writhing, gasping, and dying in the arms of his
comrades; and a fourth, severely wounded, was
marrating to Quinones the particulars of an assault,
made, as he averred, by ten thousand devils, or
Mexicans, who sprang suddenly out of the earth,
killed or dispersed the whole guard, carried off the
prisoner, or burned him, he knew not which, (for
he lay upon the ground, counterfeiting death,) and
then, setting fire to the building, vanished quite as
suddenly as they came.
“Were these men Mexicans or Tlascalans?”
demanded Cortes, without betraying any sign of
feeling.
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The soldier started at the sound of his leader's
voice, and hastily replied,
“In good faith, señor, I know not, for I was
somewhat overcome with fear.”
“And with wine, sirrah!” exclaimed the General.
“But it matters not—thou art too stupid to answer
now. Have this fellow into the den, Quinones, and
let him be brought to me to-morrow.—Señor Don
Francisco, we will walk to the palace.
He put his arm into Guzman's, and dragging
him to a little distance, where no beam of torch
or cresset illuminated his visage, exclaimed, eagerly,
“Tell me the truth, Francisco:—has he perished
by fire in the prison, or has he escaped me?”
“Señor,” replied Guzman, “his star, or his devil,
has helped him.”
“Why then the fiends seize thee, and all false
friends, who plague me!” cried Cortes, giving way
to passion. “Is it thus I am to be cheated?”
“Señor,” said Guzman, moderately, but without
fear; “I have mine own cause of distress, for my
hand is horribly mangled, and I have heard that
the bite of a dying man causes mortification. So,
with this pain of body and mind, I may not speak
good counsel or good defence.—When I reached
the prison, it was empty and on fire. Had not
your excellency interfered with the execution this
day—”
“Ay, there again!” muttered the Captain-General;
“mine own hand is made to befool me; it
pulls out of the pit faster than my foot tramples
in. Hark thee, Guzman, dost thou not think
this young man is protected by some special
providence?”
“I, señor?”
“Why, look you, what could have carried him
through the tribes of the West, to the South Sea,
and back again?—(a device of thy scheming, too!)
And, didst thou not see, I was about to run him
-- 253 --
[figure description] Page 253.[end figure description]
through, in the very act of mutinous resistance,
when a brute and insensate dog seized my swordblade
in his mouth? And now, for the third time,
what but his angel could have brought to his prison-door
yonder infidels of Mexico—his only friends,
I think?”
“Let your excellency question if this circumstance
will not, without removing him from punishment,
give a still stronger excuse for it? The scribe
visited him in the dungeon; a paction with the
enemy, sealed by the act of flight with them to their
stronghold, has confirmed him thrice over a
traitor.”
“Ay, by heaven! it is true!” said Cortes, smiting
his hands together; “and, by and by, I will take
him out of his hiding-place, and crown the day of
victory with a double triumph!”
“And who can affirm,” quoth Don Francisco,
“that the misbelievers have not taken him for a
sacrifice? It is said, the coronation of Guatimozin
is deferred only until he can provide a Castilian
victim to do honour to the ceremony. By my faith,
señor, there is a pleasant twitch in my cheek,—ay,
in the scar of the rapier-wound—at the very thought
of this retribution!”
“Now, by heaven,” said Cortes, with an altered
voice, “villain as he is, I cannot rejoice that such
a dismal fate should befall him. Death, indeed, but
not a death of horror! Dost thou think this, then,
can be his doom? Alas, poor youth! had he but
some one to lament him or to avenge, I were better
satisfied with what I have done. I swear to thee,
Francisco, we are e'en as base knaves as himself;
for we have employed our strength—our cunning
and our strength—against a creature that is utterly
friendless. Alas, I say; for I remember me of the
days of old; and surely I loved him once as my
own soul.”
This outbreaking of feeling did not at all surprise
-- 254 --
[figure description] Page 254.[end figure description]
Guzman, who had been familiar from the beginning
with the ebbings and flowings of Don Hernan's
hate, and who had several times seen him, when
the destiny of Juan seemed already closed, affected
so much that he shed tears, as he did at the present
moment. But Guzman was acquainted with a
spell which never failed to banish all compunction
from the General's breast; and he did not scruple
to employ it now.
“It is enough!” muttered Cortes, through his
clenched teeth. “Heaven and my conscience acquit
me, and I will think of it no more.”
With these words, he seemed to discharge from
his mind all thoughts of the youth so deeply detested,
and addressing himself to the task of inspecting
in person the condition of all assailable points in
the city, betook himself at last, and at the day-dawn,
to his repose.
END OF VOL. I.
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Saxe Weimar's, Dake of, Travels in the
United States. 8vo.
Sketches of Turkey, by Dr. Dekay. 8vo.
Slade's, A., Travels in Turkey. 2v. 12mo.
Stuart's, J., Three Years in North America.
8vo.
Schoolcraft, H. R., Expedition through the
Upper Mississippi, in 1832 8vo.
Subaltern's Furlough, by Lieutenant Coke.
2 vols.
Stewart's, C. S., Visit to the South Seas
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Stewart's, C. S., Great Britain and Ireland.
2 vols. 12mo.
Sketches of Naval Life, with notices of
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Temple's Travels in Peru. 2 vols. 12mo.
Trollope's, Mrs., Belgium and Western
Germany. 8vo.
Two Years and a Half in the Navy, by E
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Travels of a German Prince (Puckler
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Tyerman and Bennett's Journal in the
South Sea Islands, China, India, &c. 3 vols.
Vancouver's Voyages. 6 vols. 8vo.
View of the Valley of the Mississippi, or
the Emigrant's and Traveller's Guide. 12mo
Vigne's, G. T., Six Months in America
18mo.
-- 028 --
[figure description] Advertisement 028.[end figure description]
Walsh's, Dr., Travels in Constantinople,
&c. 12mo.
Walsh's, Dr., Notices of Brazil, in 1828
and 1829. 2 vols. 12mo.
Woodruff's, Samuel, Tour to Malta,
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West Coast of Africa, The. 12mo.
Wheaton's, H. S., Journal of a Residence
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Life of Lord Byron, by Leigh Hunt. 8vo.
Life of Lord Byron, by T. Moore. 2 vols.
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Life of Alexander the Great, by Williams.
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Life of Mohammed, by Bush. 18mo.
Life of George IV., by Croly. 18mo.
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Life of Mary Queen of Scots, by Bell. 2
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Life of the Empress Josephine, by Memes.
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Life of Frederic the Great, by Lord Dover.
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Life of Wickliffe, by Le Bas. 18mo.
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-- 029 --
[figure description] Advertisement 029.[end figure description]
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Arnot's Elements of Physics. 2 vols. 8vo.
Allan's, T., Science of Mechanics, as applied
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Bakewell's Geology, by Silliman, 2d edition.
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Brewster's, Sir D., Treatise on Optics,
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12mo.
Borden's Elements of Algebra. 8vo.
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Cuvier's, Baron, Discourses on the Revolution
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Cambridge's Mathematics, by Professor
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Davies', C., Descriptive Geometry. 8vo.
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Enfield's Philosophy. 4to.
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Euler's Algebra, by Professor Farar. 8vo.
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Grund's, F., Treatise on Geometry. 12mo.
GREGORY'S, O., MATHEMATICS FOR
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Comstock's Outlines of Geology. 12mo.
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Guy's Elements of Astronomy, and an
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1 vol. 8vo. and atlas.
Herschel's, Sir J. F. W., Treatise on Astronomy.
12mo.
-- 030 --
[figure description] Advertisement 030.[end figure description]
Herschel's, Sir J. F. W., Preliminary Discourse
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Hazzler's Logarithmic and Trigonometric
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Kater and Lardner's Treatise on Mechanics.
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Lacroix's Algebra, by Professor Farar.
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Lacroix's and Euler's Algebra, by Professor
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Laplace's Mechanique Celeste, by Dr.
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Legendre's Geometry, by Farar. 8vo.
Lamarck's Genera of Shells, translated
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Lindley's, John, Introduction to the System
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Lincoln's. Mrs., Familiar Lectures on Botany.
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Lincoln's, Mrs., Dictionary of Chemistry,
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Lessons on Shells. 18mo.
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Morse's, E. Manual of Mineralogy and
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Nuttal's Botany, 12mo.
Nicholson's Operative Mechanic. 2 vols.
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Optics, Treatise on, by Professor Farar.
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Prout, Wm., on Chemistry, Meteorology,
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Reports on Locomotive and Fixed Engines,
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Reid on Clock and Watch Making. 8vo.
Renwick, Professor, Treatise on Mecha
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Renwick, Professor, Treatise on Steam.
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Robinson's Catalogue of Minerals. 8vo.
Strickland's, W., Report on Rail Roads
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Sganzin's Engineering translated. 8vo
Spurzheim's, G., Outline of Phrenology
12mo.
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12mo.
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Spurzheim's, G., Natural Laws of Man.
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Shephard's, C. M., Treatise on Mineralogy.
12mo.
Shaw's, Edward, Civil Architecture, or a
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Tingrey's Painter and Colourman's Guide.
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Wood's, N., Treatise on Rail Roads. 8vo.
Williams' Astronomy. 12mo.
Whewell's Astronomy and General Physics,
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Walsh's, I. R., Familiar Lessons in Mineralogy
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Young's, J. R., Elements of Mechanics.
8vo.
Young's, J. R., Trigonometry. 8vo.
Young's, J. R., Differential Calculus. 8vo.
Young's J. R., Algebra. 8vo.
Young's, J. R., Integral Calculus.
Young's, J. R., Analytical Geometry.
Young's, J. R., Elements of Geometry.
Atlantic Club Book. 2 vols.
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-- 031 --
[figure description] Advertisement 031.[end figure description]
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-- 032 --
[figure description] Advertisement 032.[end figure description]
Pilgrims of the Rhine, by Bulwer. 2 vols.
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Angell on Tide Waters. 8vo.
Angell on Adverse Enjoyment. 8vo.
Angell on Limitations. 8vo.
Angell and Ames on Corporations. 8vo.
Anthon's Blackstone.
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Azuni's Maritime Law.
Archbold's Civil Pleading.
Archbold's Criminal Pleading.
Archbold's Forms and Entries.
Archbold's Practice.
Atkyn's Report, by Saunders. 3 vols.
American Digest, by Anthon, Day, and
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Burlemaqui Law. 2 vols. 8vo.
Bayle on Bills, by Philips and Sewall. 8vo.
Bigelow's Digest of Massachusetts Reports.
8vo.
-- 033 --
[figure description] Advertisement 033.[end figure description]
Bayard, J., on the Constitution. 12mo.
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Clancy on Married Women.
Coke upon Lyttleton, by Thomas.
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Bird, Robert Montgomery, 1806-1854 [1835], The infidel, or, The fall of Mexico, volume 1 (Carey, Lea, & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf015v1].
