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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Bird, Robert Montgomery, 1806-1854 [1835], The infidel, or, The fall of Mexico, volume 1 (Carey, Lea, & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf015v1].
