THE visit was unexpected to Guatamozin, and its object
a mystery; but he thought only of paying the guest
meet honor and respect, for he was still the great king. And
so, bareheaded and unarmed, he went forth, and meeting
him in the garden, knelt, and saluted him after the manner
of the court.

“I am glad to say the word of welcome to my father's
brother. Know, O king, that my house, my garden, and all
you behold are yours.”

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Hualpa left them; then Montezuma replied, the sadness
of his voice softening the austerity of his manner, —

“I have loved you well, Guatamozin. Very good it was
to mark you come up from boyhood, and day by day grow
in strength and thought. I never knew one so rich in
promise. Ours is a proud race, and you seemed to have all its
genius. From the beginning you were thoughtful and provident;
in the field there was always a victory for you, and in
council your words were the soul of policy. O, ill was the
day evil came between us, and suspicion shattered the love
I bore you! Arise! I have not crossed the lake for explanations;
there is that to speak of more important to us
both.”

The 'tzin arose, and looked into the monarch's face, his
own suffused with grief.

“Is not a king punished for the wrong he does?”

Montezuma's brows lowered, chilling the fixed look which
was his only answer; and the 'tzin spoke on.

“I cannot accuse you directly; but this I will say, O
king: a just man, and a brave, never condemns another upon
suspicion.”

The monarch's eyes blazed with sudden fire, and from his
maxtlatl he drew a knife. The 'tzin moved not; the armed
hand stopped; an instant each met the other's gaze, then the
weapon was flung away.

“I am a child,” said the king, vexed and ashamed.
“When I came here I did not think of the past, I thought
only of the Empire; but trouble has devoured my strength
of purpose, until my power mocks me, and, most miserable
of men, I yearn to fly from myself, without knowing where
to find relief. A vague impulse — whence derived, except
from intolerable suffering of mind, I know not — brought
me to you. O 'tzin, silent be the differences that separate
us. Yours I know to be a tongue of undefiled truth; and

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if not for me now, for our country, and the renown of our
fathers, I believe you will speak.”

The shame, the grief, and the self-accusation moved the
'tzin more than the deadly menace.

“Set my feet, O king! set my feet in the way to serve or
save my country, and I will tread it, though every step be
sown with the terrors of Mictlan.”

“I did not misjudge you, my son,” the king said, when
he had again perfectly mastered his feelings.

And Guatamozin, yet more softened, would have given
him all the old love, but that Tula, contracted to the Tezcucan,
rose to memory. Checking the impulse, he regarded
the unhappy monarch sorrowfully.

And the latter, glancing up at the sun, said, —

“It is getting late. I left the train going to the hunting-grounds.
By noon they will return, and I wish to be at the
city before them. My canoe lies at the landing; walk there
with me, and on the way I will speak of the purpose of my
visit.”

Their steps as they went were slow, and their faces downcast
and solemn. The king was first to speak.

“As the time requires, I have held many councils, and
taken the voice of priest, warrior, and merchant; and they
agree in nothing but their confusion and fear.”

“The king forgets, — I have been barred his councils, and
know not what they considered.”

“True, true; yet there is but one topic in all Anahuac, —
in the Empire. Of that, the tamanes talk gravely as their
masters; only one class asks, `Who are the white men making
all this trouble?' while the other argues, `They are here;
they are gods. What are we to do?'”

“And what say the councils, O king?”

“It could not be that all would speak as one man. Of
different castes, they are differently moved. The pabas

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believe the Sun has sent us some godly warriors, whom
nothing earthly can subdue. They advise patience, friendship,
and peace. `The eye of Huitzil' is on them, numbering
their marches. In the shade of the great temple
he awaits, and there he will consume them with a breath,'—
so say the pabas. The warriors are dumb, or else borrow
and reassert the opinions of the holy men. `Give
them gold, if they will depart; if not that, give them
peace, and leave the issue to the gods,' — so they say.
Cuitlahua says war; so does Cacama. The merchants
and the people have no opinion, — nothing but fear. For
myself, yesterday I was for war, to-day I am for peace. So
far I have chosen to act upon the advice of the pabas. I
have sent the strangers many presents and friendly messages,
and kept ambassadors in their camp; but while preserving
such relations, I have continually forbade their coming to
Tenochtitlan. They seem bolder than men. Who but
they would have undertaken the march from Cempoalla?
What tribes or people could have conquered Tlascala, as they
have? You have heard of their battles. Did they not in a
day what we have failed to do in a hundred years? With
Tlascala for ally, they have set my word at naught, and,
whether they be of the sun or the earth, they are now
marching upon Cholula, most sacred city of the gods. And
from Cholula there is but one more march. Already from
the mountains they have looked wistfully down on our valley
of gardens, upon Tenochtitlan. O 'tzin, 'tzin, can we forget
the prophecy?”

“Shall I say what I think? Will the king hear me?”
asked Guatamozin.

“For that I came. Speak!”

“I obey gladly. The opportunity is dearer to me than
any honor. And, speaking, I will remember of what race
I am.”

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“Speak as if you were king.”

“Then — I condemn your policy.”

The monarch's face remained placid. If the bluff words
wounded him, he dissembled consummately.

“It was not well to go so often to the temple,” Guatamozin
continued. “Huitzil' is not there; the pabas have
only his name, his image and altar; your breast is his true
temple; there ought you to find him. Yesterday, you
say, you were for war; the god was with you then: to-day
you are for peace; the god has abandoned you. I know
not in what words the lords Cuitlahua and Cacama urged
their counsel, nor on what grounds By the Sun! theirs is
the only policy that comports with the fame of a ruler of
Aztecs. Why speak of any other? For me, I would seek
the strangers in battle and die, sooner than a minstrel should
sing, or tradition tell, how Guatamozin, overcome by fear,
dwelt in their camp praying peace as the beggar prays for
bread.”

Literally, Guatamozin was speaking like a king.

“I have heard your pearl-divers say,” he continued, “that
they never venture into a strange sea without dread. Like the
new sea to them, this subject has been to your people; but however
the declaration may strike your ears, O king, I have sounded
all its depths. While your priests were asking questions of
speechless hearts; while your lords were nursing their love
of ease in the shade and perfume of your palace; while your
warriors, forgetful of their glory, indulged the fancy that the
new enemy were gods; while Montezuma was watching stars,
and studying omens, and listening to oracles which the gods
know not, hoping for wisdom to be found nowhere as certainly
as in his own royal instincts, — face to face with the
strangers, in their very camp, I studied them, their customs,
language, and nature. Take heart, O king! Gods,
indeed! Why, like men, I have seen them hunger and thirst;

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like men, heard them complain; on the other hand, like
men, I have seen them feed and drink to surfeit, and heard
them sing from gladness. What means their love of gold?
If they come from the Sun, where the dwellings of the gods,
and the hills they are built on, are all of gold, why should
they be seeking it here? Nor is that all. I listened to
the interpreter, through whom their leader explained his
religion, and they are worshippers, like us, only they adore a
woman, instead of a great, heroic god —”

“A woman!” exclaimed the king.

“Nay, the argument is that they worship at all. Gods do
not adore each other!”

They had now walked some distance, and so absorbed had
Montezuma been that he had not observed the direction
they were pursuing. Emerging suddenly from a cypressgrove,
he was surprised to find the path terminate in a small
lake, which, at any other time, would have excited his admiration.
Tall trees, draped to their topmost boughs in luxuriant
vines, encircled the little expanse of water, and in its
midst there was an island, crowned with a kiosk or summer-house,
and covered with orange shrubs and tapering
palms.

“Bear with me, O king,” said Guatamozin, observing his
wonder. “I brought you here that you may be absolutely
convinced of the nature of our enemies. On that
island I have an argument stronger than the vagaries of
pabas or the fancies of warriors, — a visible argument.”

He stepped into a canoe lying at the foot of the path, and,
with a sweep of the paddle, drove across to the island.
Remaining there, he pushed the vessel back.

“Come over, O king, come over, and see.”

Montezuma followed boldly, and was led to the kiosk.
The retreat was not one of frequent resort. Several times
they were stopped by vines grown across the path.

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Inside the house, the visitor had no leisure for observation;
he was at once arrested by an object that filled him with
horror. On a table was a human head. Squarely severed
from the body, it stood upright on the base of the neck,
looking, with its ghastly, white face, directly toward the entrance.
The features were swollen and ferocious; the black
brows locked in a frown, with which, as was plainly to
be seen, nature had as much to do as death; the hair was
short, and on the crown almost worn away; heavy, matted
beard covered the cheeks and chin; finally, other means of
identification being wanted, the coarse, upturned mustache
would have betrayed the Spaniard. Montezuma surveyed
the head for some time; at length, mastering his deep loathing,
he advanced to the table.

“A teule!” he said, in a low voice.

“A man, — only a man!” exclaimed Guatamozin, so
sternly that the monarch shrank as if the blue lips of the
dead had spoken to him. “Ask yourself, O king, Do the
gods die?”

Montezuma smiled, either at his own alarm or at the
ghastly argument.

“Whence came the trophy?” he asked.

“Have you not heard of the battle of Nauhtlan?”

“Surely; but tell it again.”

“When the strangers marched to Tlascala,” the 'tzin began,
“their chief left a garrison behind him in the town he
founded. I was then on the coast. To convince the people,
and particularly the army, that they were men, I determined
to attack them. An opportunity soon occurred. Your taxgatherers
happening to visit Nauhtlan, the township revolted,
and claimed protection of the garrison, who marched
to their relief. At my instance, the caciques drew their
bands together, and we set upon the enemy. The Totonaques
fled at our first war-cry; but the strangers welcomed us

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with a new kind of war. They were few in number, but
the thunder seemed theirs, and they hailed great stones
upon us, and after a while came against us upon their fierce
animals. When my warriors saw them come leaping on,
they fled. All was lost. I had but one thought more, — a
captive taken might save the Empire. I ran where the
strangers clove their bloody way. This” — and he pointed
to the head — “was the chief, and I met him in the rout,
raging like a tiger in a herd of deer. He was bold and
strong, and, shouting his battle-cry, he rushed upon me.
His spear went through my shield. I wrenched it from him,
and slew the beast; then I dragged him away, intending to
bring him alive to Tenochtitlan; but he slew himself. So
look again! What likeness is there in that to a god? O
king, I ask you, did ever its sightless eyes see the glories of
the Sun, or its rotting lips sing a song in heaven? Is
Huitzil' or Tezea' made of such stuff?”

The monarch, turning away, laid his hand familiarly on
the 'tzin's arm, and said, —

“Come, I am content. Let us go.”

And they started for the landing.

“The strangers, as I have said, my son, are marching to
Cholula. And Malinche — so their chief is called — now
says he is coming to Tenochtitlan.”

“To Tenochtitlan! In its honored name, in the name of
its kings and gods, I protest against his coming!”

“Too late, too late!” replied Montezuma, his face working
as though a pang were at his heart. “I have invited
him to come.”

“Alas, alas!” cried Guatamozin, solemnly. “The day he
enters the capital will be the commencement of the woe, if
it has not already commenced. The many victories will
have been in vain. The provinces will drop away, like
threaded pearls when the string is broken. O king, better

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had you buried your crown, — better for your people, better
for your own glory!”

“Your words are bitter,” said the monarch, gloomily.

“I speak from the fulness of a heart darkened by a vision
of Anahuac blasted, and her glory gone,” returned the 'tzin.
Then in a lament, vivid with poetic coloring, he set forth a
picture of the national ruin, — the armies overthrown, the
city wasted, the old religion supplanted by a new. At the
shore where the canoe was waiting, Montezuma stopped, and
said, —

“You have spoken boldly, and I have listened patiently.
One thing more: What does Guatamozin say the king should
do?”

“It is not enough for the servant to know his own place;
he should know his master's also. I say not what the
king should do, but I will say what I would do if I were
king.”

Rising from the obeisance with which he accompanied the
words, he said, boldly, —

“Cholula should be the grave of the invaders. The whole
population should strike them in the narrow streets where
they can be best assailed. Shut up in some square or temple,
hunger will fight them for us, and win. But I would not
trust the citizens alone. In sight of the temples, so close that
a conch could summon them to the attack, I would encamp
a hundred thousand warriors. Better the desolation of
Cholula than Tenochtitlan. If all things else failed, I would
take to the last resort; I would call in the waters of Tezcuco
and drown the city to the highest azoteas. So would I, O
king, if the crown and signet were mine.”

Montezuma looked from the speaker to the lake.

“The project is bold,” he said, musingly; “but if it
failed, my son?”

“The failure should be but the beginning of the war.”

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“What would the nations say?”

“They would say, `Montezuma is still the great king.' If
they do not that —”

“What then?”

“Call on the teotuctli. The gods can be made speak whatever
your policy demands.”

“Does my son blaspheme?” said Montezuma, angrily.

“Nay, I but spoke of what has happened. Long rule the
good god of our fathers!”

Yet the monarch was not satisfied. Never before had discourse
been addressed to him in strain so bold.

“They see all things, even our hearts,” he said, turning
coldly away. “Farewell. A courier will come for you when
your presence is wanted in the city.”

And so they separated, conscious that no healing had been
brought to their broken friendship. As the canoe moved off,
the 'tzin knelt, but the king looked not that way again.