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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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