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THE champions for the god drew themselves up in the
west, while their challengers occupied the east of the
arena. This position of parties was the subject of much
speculation with the spectators, who saw it might prove a
point of great importance if the engagement assumed the
form of single combats.

Considering age and appearance, the Tlascalans were adjudged
most dangerous of the challengers, — a palm readily
awarded to the Tezcucan and the 'tzin on their side. The
common opinion held also, that the Cholulan, the youngest
and least experienced of the Aztecs, should have been the
antagonist of the elder Othmi, whose vigor was presumed
to be affected by his age; as it was, that combat belonged to
Tlahua, the Otompan, while the younger Othmi confronted
the Cholulan.

And now the theatre grew profoundly still with expectancy.

“The day grows old. Let the signal be given.” And so
saying, the king waved his hand, and sunk indolently back
upon his couch.

A moment after there was a burst of martial symphony,
and the combat began.

It was opened with arrows; and to determine, if possible,
the comparative skill of the combatants, the spectators
watched the commencement with closest attention. The
younger Othmi sent his missile straight into the shield of
the Cholulan, who, from precipitation probably, was not so
successful. The elder Othmi and his antagonist each planted

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his arrow fairly, as did Iztlil' and the Tlascalans. But a
great outcry of applause attended Guatamozin, when his
bolt, flying across the space, buried its barb in the crest of
his adversary. A score of feathers, shorn away, floated
slowly to the sand.

“It was well done; by Our Mother, it was well done!”
murmured Hualpa.

“Wait!” said the Chalcan patronizingly. “Wait till
they come to the maquahuitl!”

Quite a number of arrows were thus interchanged by the
parties without effect, as they were always dexterously intercepted.
The passage was but the preluding skirmish, participated
in by all but the 'tzin, who, after his first shot, stood
a little apart from his comrades, and, resting his long bow
on the ground, watched the trial with apparent indifference.
Like the Chalcan, he seemed to regard it as play; and the
populace after a while fell into the same opinion: there was
not enough danger to fully interest them. So there began to
arise murmurs and cries, which the Cholulan was the first to
observe and interpret. Under an impulse which had relation,
probably, to his first failure, he resolved to avail himself
of the growing feeling. Throwing down his bow, he
seized the maquahuitl at his back, and, without a word to his
friends, started impetuously across the arena. The peril was
great, for every foeman at once turned his arrow against him.

Then the 'tzin stirred himself. “The boy is mad, and will
die if we do not go with him,” he said; and already his
foot was advanced to follow, when the young Othmi sprang
forward from the other side to meet the Cholulan.

The eagerness lest an incident should be lost became
intense; even the king sat up to see the duel. The theatre
rang with cries of encouragement, — none, however, so cheery
as that of the elder Othmi, whose feelings of paternity were,
for the moment, lost in his passion of warrior.

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“On, boy! Remember the green hills, and the hammock
by the stream. Strike hard, strike hard!”

The combatants were apparently well matched, being
about equal in height and age; both brandished the maquahuitl,
the deadliest weapon known to their wars. Wielded
by both hands and swung high above the head, its blades
of glass generally clove their way to the life. About midway
the arena the foemen met. At the instant of contact
the Cholulan brought a downward blow, well aimed, at the
head of his antagonist; but the lithe Othmi, though at
full speed, swerved like a bird on the wing. A great
shout attested the appreciation of the audience. The Cholulan
wheeled, with his weapon uplifted for another blow;
the action called his left arm into play, and drew his shield
from its guard. The Othmi saw the advantage. One step
he took nearer, and then, with a sweep of his arm and an
upward stroke, he drove every blade deep into the side of
his enemy. The lifted weapon dropped in its half-finished
circle, the shield flew wildly up, and, with a groan, the victim
fell heavily to the sand, struggled once to rise, fell
back again, and his battles were ended forever. A cry of
anguish went out from under the royal canopy.

“Hark!” cried Xoli. “Did you hear the old Cholulan?
See! They are leading him from the platform!”

Except that cry, however, not a voice was heard; from
rising apprehension as to the result of the combat, or touched
by a passing sympathy for the early death, the multitude was
perfectly hushed.

“That was a brave blow, Xoli; but let him beware now!”
said Hualpa, excitedly.

And in expectation of instant vengeance, all eyes watched
the Othmi. Around the arena he glanced, then back to his
friends. Retreat would forfeit the honor gained: death
was preferable. So he knelt upon the breast of his enemy,

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and, setting his shield before him, waited sternly and in
silence the result. And Iztlil' and Tlahua launched their
arrows at him in quick succession, but Guatamozin was as
indifferent as ever.

“What ails the 'tzin?” said Maxtla to the king. “The
Othmi is at his mercy.”

The monarch deigned no reply.

The spirit of the old Othmi rose. On the sand behind
him, prepared for service, was a dart with three points of
copper, and a long cord by which to recover it when once
thrown. Catching the weapon up, and shouting, “I am coming,
I am coming!” he ran to avert or share the danger.
The space to be crossed was inconsiderable, yet such his
animation that, as he ran, he poised the dart, and exposed
his hand above the shield. The 'tzin raised his bow, and
let the arrow fly. It struck right amongst the supple joints
of the veteran's wrist. The unhappy man stopped bewildered;
over the theatre he looked, then at the wound; in
despair he tore the shaft out with his teeth, and rushed on
till he reached the boy.

The outburst of acclamation shook the theatre.

“To have seen such archery, Xoli, were worth all the years
of a hunter's life!” said Hualpa.

The Chalcan smiled like a connoisseur, and replied, “It is
nothing. Wait!”

And now the combat again presented a show of equality.
The advantage, if there was any, was thought to be with the
Aztecs, since the loss of the Cholulan was not to be weighed
against the disability of the Othmi. Thus the populace were
released from apprehension, without any abatement of interest;
indeed, the excitement increased, for there was a
promise of change in the character of the contest; from
quiet archery was growing bloody action.

The Tlascalans, alive to the necessity of supporting their

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friends, advanced to where the Cholulan lay, but more cautiously.
When they were come up, the Othmies both arose,
and calmly perfected the front. The astonishment at this
was very great.

“Brave fellow! He is worth ten live Cholulans!” said
Xoli. “But now look, boy! The challengers have advanced
half-way; the Aztecs must meet them.”

The conjecture was speedily verified. Iztlil' had, in fact,
ill brooked the superior skill, or better fortune, of the 'tzin;
the applause of the populace had been worse than wounds to
his jealous heart. Till this time, however, he had restrained
his passion; now the foe were ranged as if challenging attack:
he threw away his useless bow, and laid his hand on his
maquahuitl.

“It is not for an Aztec god that we are fighting, O comrade!”
he cried to Tlahua. “It is for ourselves. Come, let
us show yon king a better war!”

And without waiting, he set on. The Otompan followed,
leaving the 'tzin alone. The call had not been to him, and
as he was fighting for the god, and the Tezcucan for himself,
he merely placed another arrow on his bow, and observed the
attack.

Leaving the Otompan to engage the Othmies, the fierce
Tezcucan assaulted the Tlascalans, an encounter in which
there was no equality; but the eyes of Tenochtitlan were
upon him, and at his back was a hated rival. His antagonists
each sent an arrow to meet him; but, as he skilfully
caught them on his shield, they, too, betook themselves to
the maquahuitl. Right on the kept, until his shield struck
theirs; it was gallantly done, and won a furious outburst
from the people. Again Montezuma sat up, momentarily
animated.

“Ah, my lord Cacama!” he said, “if your brother's love
were but equal to his courage, I would give him an army.”

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“All the gods forfend!” replied the jealous prince. “The
viper would recover his fangs.”

The speed with which he went was all that saved Iztlil'
from the blades of the Tlascalans. Striking no blow himself,
he strove to make way between them, and get behind,
so that, facing about to repel his returning onset, their
backs would be to the 'tzin. But they were wary, and did
not yield. As they pushed against him, one, dropping his
more cumbrous weapon, struck him in the breast with a copper
knife. The blow was distinctly seen by the spectators.

Hualpa started from his seat. “He has it; they will
finish him now! No, he recovers. Our Mother, what a
blow!”

The Tezcucan disengaged himself, and, maddened by the
blood that began to flow down his quilted armor, assaulted
furiously. He was strong, quick of eye, and skilful;
the blades of his weapon gleamed in circles around
his head, and resounded against the shields. At length a
desperate blow beat down the guard of one of the Tlascalans;
ere it could be recovered, or Iztlil' avail himself of the advantage,
there came a sharp whirring through the air, and an
arrow from the 'tzin pierced to the warrior's heart. Up he
leaped, dead before he touched the sand. Again Iztlil' heard
the acclamation of his rival. Without a pause, he rushed
upon the surviving Tlascalan, as if to bear him down by
stormy dint.

Meantime, the combat of Tlahua, the Otompan, was not
without its difficulties, since it was not singly with the young
Othmi.

“Mictlan take the old man!” cried the lord Cuitlahua,
bending from his seat. “I thought him done for; but, see!
he defends, the other fights.”

And so it was. The Otompan struck hard, but was distracted
by the tactics of his foemen: if he aimed at the

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younger, both their shields warded the blow; if he assaulted
the elder, he was in turn attacked by the younger; and so,
without advantage to either, their strife continued until the
fall of the Tlascalan. Then, inspired by despairing valor,
the boy threw down his maquahuitl, and endeavored to push
aside the Otompan's shield. Once within its guard, the
knife would finish the contest. Tlahua retreated; but the
foe clung to him, — one wrenching at his shield, the other intercepting
his blows, and both carefully avoiding the deadly
archery of the 'tzin, who, seeing the extremity of the danger,
started to the rescue. All the people shouted, “The 'tzin,
the 'tzin!” Xoli burst into ecstasy, and clapped his hands.
“There he goes! Now look for something!”

The rescuer went as a swift wind; but the clamor had
been as a warning to the young Othmi. By a great effort he
tore away the Otompan's shield. In vain the latter struggled.
There was a flash, sharp, vivid, like the sparkle of the sun
upon restless waters. Then his head drooped forward,
and he staggered blindly. Once only the death-stroke was
repeated; and so still was the multitude that the dull sound
of the knife driving home was heard. The 'tzin was too
late.

The prospect for the Aztecs was now gloomy. The Cholulan
and Otompan were dead; the Tezcucan, wounded and
bleeding, was engaged in a doubtful struggle with the Tlascalan;
the 'tzin was the last hope of his party. Upon him
devolved the fight with the Othmies. In the interest thus
excited Iztlil's battle was forgotten.

Twice had the younger Othmi been victor, and still he was
scathless. Instead of the maquahuitl, he was now armed
with the javelin, which, while effective as a dart, was excellent
to repel assault.

From the crowded seats of the theatre not a sound was
heard. At no time had the excitement risen to such a pitch.

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Breathless and motionless, the spectators awaited the advance
of the 'tzin. He was, as I have said, a general favorite, beloved
by priest and citizen, and with the wild soldiery an
object of rude idolatry. And if, under the royal canopy
there were eyes that looked not lovingly upon him, there
were lips there murmuring soft words of prayer for his
success.

When within a few steps of the waiting Othmies, he
halted. They glared at him an instant in silence; then the
old chief said tauntingly, and loud enough to be heard above
the noise of the conflict at his side, —

“A woman may wield a bow, and from a distance slay a
warrior; but the maquahuitl is heavy in the hand of the
coward, looking in the face of his foeman.”

The Aztec made no answer; he was familiar with the
wile. Looking at the speaker as if against him he intended
his first attack, with right hand back he swung the heavy
weapon above his shoulder till it sung in quickening circles;
when its force was fully collected, he suddenly hurled it
from him. The old Othmi crouched low behind his shield:
but his was not the form in the 'tzin's eyes; for right in the
centre of the young victor's guard the flying danger struck.
Nor arm nor shield might bar its way. The boy was lifted
sheer above the body of the Otompan, and driven backward
as if shot from a catapult.

Guatamozin advanced no further. A thrust of his javelin
would have disposed of the old Othmi, now unarmed and helpless.
The acclamation of the audience, in which was blent
the shrill voices of women, failed to arouse his passion.

The sturdy chief arose from his crouching; he looked for the
boy to whom he had so lately spoken of home; he saw him
lying outstretched, his face in the sand, and his shield, so
often bound with wreaths and garlands, twain-broken beneath
him; and his will, that in the fight had been tougher than

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the gold of his bracelets, gave way; forgetful of all else,
he ran, and, with a great cry, threw himself upon the body.

The Chalcan was as exultant as if the achievement had
been his own. Even the prouder souls under the red canopy
yielded their tardy praise; only the king was silent.

As none now remained of the challengers but the Tlascalan
occupied with Iztlil', — none whom he might in honor engage,—
Guatamozin moved away from the Othmies; and as he
went, once he allowed his glance to wander to the royal platform,
but with thought of love, not wrong.

The attention of the people was again directed to the
combat of the Tezcucan. The death of his comrades nowise
daunted the Tlascalan; he rather struck the harder for
revenge; his shield was racked, the feathers in his crest
torn away, while the blades were red with his blood. Still
it fared but ill with Iztlil' fighting for himself. His wound
in the breast bled freely, and his equipments were in no better
plight than his antagonist's. The struggle was that of
the hewing and hacking which, whether giving or taking,
soon exhausts the strongest frame. At last, faint with loss
of blood, he went down. The Tlascalan attempted to strike
a final blow, but darkness rushed upon him; he staggered,
the blades sunk into the sand, and he rolled beside his
enemy.

With that the combat was done. The challengers might
not behold their “land of bread” again; nevermore for
them was hammock by the stream or echo of tambour
amongst the hills.

And all the multitude arose and gave way to their rejoicing;
they embraced each other, and shouted and sang; the
pabas waved their ensigns, and the soldiers saluted with
voice and pealing shells; and up to the sun ascended the
name of Quetzal' with form and circumstance to soften the
mood of the most demanding god; but all the time the

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audience saw only the fortunate hero, standing so calmly before
them, the dead at his feet, and the golden light about him.

And the king was happy as the rest, and talked gayly,
caring little for the living or the dead. The combat was
over, and Quetzal' not come. Mualox was a madman, not
a prophet; the Aztecs had won, and the god was propitiated:
so the questioner of the Morning flattered himself!

“If the Othmi cannot fight, he can serve for sacrifice.
Let him be removed. And the dead — But hold!” he cried,
and his cheeks blanched with mortal pallor. “Who comes
yonder? Look to the arena, — nay, to the people! By
my father's ashes, the paba shall perish! White hairs and
prophet's gifts shall not save him.”

While the king was speaking, Mualox, the keeper of the
temple, rushed within the wall of shields. His dress was
disordered, and he was bareheaded and unsandalled. Over
his shoulders and down his breast flowed his hair and beard,
tangled and unkempt, wavy as a billow and white as the
foam. Excitement flashed from every feature; and far as
his vision ranged, — in every quarter, on every platform, —
in the blood of others he kindled his own unwonted passion.