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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

[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,

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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.”

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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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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

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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.

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