BETWEEN Tula, the child of Tecalco, and Nenetzin,
daughter and child of Acatlan, there existed a sisterly
affection. The same sports had engaged them, and they had
been, and yet were, inseparable. Their mothers, themselves
friends, encouraged the intimacy; and so their past lives had
vanished, like two summer clouds borne away by a soft south
wind.

The evening after Iztlil's overture of marriage was deepening
over lake Tezcuco; the breeze became murmurous and
like a breath, and all the heavens filled with starlight. Cloudless
must be the morrow to such a night!

So thought the princess Tula. Won by the beauty of the
evening, she had flown from the city to her chinampa, which

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was lying anchored in a quarter of the lake east of the causeway
to Tepejaca, beyond the noise of the town, and where
no sound less agreeable than the plash of light waves could
disturb her dreams.

A retreat more delightful would be a task for fancy.
The artisan who knitted the timbers of the chinampa had
doubtless been a lover of the luxuriant, and built as only a
lover can build. The waves of the lake had not been overlooked
in his plan; he had measured their height, and the
depth and width of their troughs, when the weather was calm
and the water gentle. So he knew both what rocking they
would make, and what rocking would be pleasantest to a
delicate soul; for, as there were such souls, there were also
such artisans in Tenochtitlan.

Viewed from a distance, the chinampa looked like an island
of flowers. Except where the canopy of a white pavilion
rose from the midst of the green beauty, it was covered to
the water's edge with blooming shrubbery, which, this evening,
was luminous with the light of lamps. The radiance,
glinting through the foliage, tinted the atmosphere above it
with mellow rays, and seemed the visible presence of enchantment.

The humid night breeze blew softly under the raised walls
of the pavilion, within which, in a hammock that swung to
and fro regularly as the chinampa obeyed the waves, lay
Tula and Nenetzin.

They were both beautiful, but different in their beauty.
Tula's face was round and of a transparent olive complexion,
without being fair; her eyes were hazel, large, clear, and full
of melancholy earnestness; masses of black hair, evenly
parted, fell over her temples, and were gathered behind in a
simple knot; with a tall, full form, her presence and manner
were grave and very queenly. Whereas, Nenetzin's
eyes, though dark, were bright with the light of laughter;

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her voice was low and sweet, and her manner that of a
hoyden. One was the noble woman, the other a jocund
child.

“It is late, Tula; our father may want us. Let us return.”

“Be patient a little longer. The 'tzin will come for us;
he promised to, and you know he never forgets.”

“Patience, sister! Ah! you may say it, you who know;
but how am I to practise it, — I, who have only a hope?”

“What do you mean, Nenetzin?”

The girl leaned back, and struck a suspended hoop, in
which was perched a large parrot. The touch, though light,
interrupted the pendulous motion of the bird, and it pecked
at her hand, uttering a gruff scream of rage.

“You spoke of something I know, and you hope. What
do you mean, child?”

Nenetzin withdrew her hand from the perch, looked in
the questioner's face, then crept up to win her embrace.

“O Tula, I know you are learned and thoughtful. Often
after the banquet, when the hall was cleared, and the music
begun, have I seen you stand apart, silent, while all others
danced or laughed. See, your eyes are on me now, but more
in thought than love. O, indeed, you are wise! Tell me,
did you ever think of me as a woman?”

The smile deepened on the lips, and burned in the eyes of
the queenly auditor.

“No, never as a woman,” continued Nenetzin. “Listen
to me, Tula. The other night I was asleep in your arms, —
I felt them in love around me, — and I dreamed so strangely.”

“Of what?” asked Tula, seeing she hesitated.

“I dreamed there entered at the palace door a being with
a countenance white like snow, while its hair and beard were
yellow, like the silk of the maize; its eyes were blue, like
the deep water of the lake, but bright, so bright that they
terrified while they charmed me. Thinking of it now, O

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Tula, it was a man, though it looked like a god. He entered
at the palace door, and came into the great chamber where
our father sat with his chiefs; but he came not barefooted
and in nequen; he spoke as he were master, and our father
a slave. Looking and listening, a feeling thrilled me, —
thrilled warm and deep, and was a sense of joy, like a blessing
of Tlalac. Since then, though I have acted as a girl, I
have felt as a woman.”

“Very strange, indeed, Nenetzin!” said Tula, playfully.
“But you forget: I asked you what I know, and you only
hope?”

“I will explain directly; but as you are wise, first tell me
what that feeling was.”

“Nay, I can tell you whence the water flows, but I cannot
tell you what it is.”

“Well, since then I have had a hope —”

“Well?”

“A hope of seeing the white face and blue eyes.”

“I begin to understand you, Nenetzin. But go on: what
is it I know?”

“What I dreamed, — a great warrior, who loves you.
You will see him to-night, and then, O Tula, — then
you may tell of the feeling that thrilled me so in my
dream.”

And with a blush and a laugh, she laid her face in Tula's
bosom.

Both were silent awhile, Nenetzin with her face hidden,
and Tula looking wistfully up at the parrot swinging lazily
in the perch. The dream was singular, and made an impression
on the mind of the one as it had on the heart of
the other.

“Look up, O Nenetzin!” said Tula, after a while. “Look
up, and I will tell you something that has seemed as strange
to me as the dream to you.”

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The girl raised her head.

“Did you ever see Mualox, the old paba of Quetzal'?
No? Well, he is said to be a prophet; a look of his will
make a warrior tremble. He is the friend of Guatamozin,
who always goes to his shrine to worship the god. I went
there once to make an offering. I climbed the steps, went
in where the image is, laid my gift on the altar, and turned
to depart, when a man came and stood by the door, wearing
a surplice, and with long, flowing white beard. He looked
at me, then bowed, and kissed the pavement at my feet. I
shrank away. `Fear not, O Tula!' he said. `I bow to
you, not for what you are, but for what you shall be. You
shall be queen in your father's palace!' With that he arose,
and left me to descend.”

“Said he so? How did he know you were Tula, the
king's daughter?”

“That is part of the mystery. I never saw him before;
nor, until I told the story to the 'tzin, did I know the paba.
Now, O sister, can the believer of a dream refuse to believe
a priest and prophet?”

“A queen! You a queen! I will kiss you now, and
pray for you then.” And they threw their arms lovingly
around each other.

Then the bird above them awoke, and, with a fluttering
of its scarlet wings, cried, “Guatamo! Guatamo!” — taught
it by the patient love of Tula.

“O, what a time that will be!” Nenetzin went on, with
sparkling eyes. “What a garden we will make of Anahuac!
How happy we shall be! None but the brave and beautiful
shall come around us; for you will be queen, my
Tula.”

“Yes; and Nenetzin shall have a lord, he whom she
loves best, for she will be as peerless as I am powerful,”
answered Tula, humoring the mood. “Whom will she

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take? Let us decide now, — there are so many to choose
from. What says she to Cacama, lord of Tezcuco?”

The girl made no answer.

“There is the lord of Chinantla, once a king, who has
already asked our father for a wife.”

Still Nenetzin was silent.

“Neither of them! Then there are left but the lord of
Tlacopan, and Iztlil', the Tezcucan.”

At the mention of the last name, a strong expression of
disgust burst from Nenetzin.

“A tiger from the museum first! It could be taught to
love me. No, none of them for me; none, Tula, if you
let me have my way, but the white face and blue eyes I saw
in my dream.”

“You are mad, Nenetzin. That was a god, not a man.”

“All the better, Tula! The god will forgive me for loving
him.”

Before Tula spoke again, Guatamozin stepped within the
pavilion. Nenetzin was noisy in expressing her gladness,
while the elder sister betrayed no feeling by words; only
her smile and the glow of her eyes intensified.

The 'tzin sat down by the hammock, and with his strong
hand staying its oscillation, talked lightly. As yet Tula
knew nothing of the proposal of the Tezcucan, or of the favor
the king had given it; but the ken of love is as acute as an
angel's; sorrow of the cherished heart cannot be hidden
from it; so in his very jests she detected a trouble; but,
thinking it had relation to the condition of the Empire, she
asked nothing, while he, loath to disturb her happiness, counselled
darkly of his own soul.

After a while, as Nenetzin prayed to return to the city,
they left the pavilion; and, following a little path through
the teeming shrubbery, and under the boughs of orange-trees,
overarched like an arbor, they came to the 'tzin's

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canoe. The keeper of the chinampa was there with great
bundles of flowers. Tula and Nenetzin entered the vessel;
then was the time for the slave; so he threw in the bundles
until they were nearly buried under them, — his gifts of
love and allegiance. When the rowers pushed off, he knelt
with his face to the earth.

Gliding homeward through the dusk, Guatamozin told the
story of Yeteve; and Tula, moved by the girl's devotion,
consented to take her into service, — at least, until the temple
claimed its own.