CHAPTER X. HOW THE IRON CROSS CAME BACK.
IO' stayed at the landing awhile, nursing the thought left
him by his comrade. And he was still there, the plash
of the rowers of the receding canoe in his ear, when the
great gate of the palace gave exit to another person, this
time a girl. The guards on duty paid her no attention.
She was clad simply and poorly, and carried a basket.
Around the hill were scores of gardeners' daughters like
her.
From the avenue she turned into a path which, through
one of the fields below, led her to an inlet of the lake,
where the market-people were accustomed to moor their
canoes. The stars gave light, but too feebly to reclaim anything
from the darkness. Groping amongst the vessels, she
at length entered one, and, seating herself, pushed clear of
the land, and out in the lake toward the glow in the sky
beneath which reposed the city.
Like the night, the lake was calm; therefore, no fear for
the adventuress. The boat, under her hand, had not the
speed of the king's when driven by his twelve practised
rowers; yet she was its mistress, and it obeyed her kindly.
But why the journey? Why alone on the water at such a
time?
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Half an hour of steady work. The city was, of course,
much nearer. At the same time, the labor began to tell; the
reach of her paddle was not so great as at the beginning, nor
was the dip so deep; her breathing was less free, and sometimes
she stopped to draw a dripping hand across her forehead.
Surely, this is not a gardener's daughter.
Voyageurs now became frequent. Most of them passed by
with the salutation usual on the lake, — “The blessings of
the gods upon you!” Once she was in danger. A canoe full
of singers, and the singers full of pulque, came down at
speed upon her vessel. Happily, the blow was given obliquely;
the crash suspended the song; the wassailers
sprang to their feet; seeing only a girl, and no harm done,
they drew off, laughing. “Out with your lamp next time!”
shouted one of them. A law of the lake required some
such signal at night.
In the flurry of the collision, a tamane, leaning over the
bow of the strange canoe, swung a light almost in the girl's
face. With a cry, she shrank away; as she did so, from her
bosom fell a shining cross. To the dull slave the symbol told
no tale; but, good reader, we know that there is but one
maiden in all Anahuac who wears such a jewel, and we
know for whom she wears that one. By the light of that
cross, we also know the weary passenger is, not a gardener's
daughter, but Nenetzin, the princess.
And the wonder grows. What does the 'tzin Nene — so
they called her in the days they swung her to sleep in the
swinging cradle — out so far alone on the lake? And where
goes she in such guise, this night of all others, and now
when the kiss of her betrothed is scarcely cold on her lips?
Where are the slaves? Where the signs of royalty? As
prayed by the gentle voyageurs, the blessings of the gods may
be upon her, but much I doubt if she has her mother's,
almost as holy.
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Slowly now she wins her way. The paddle grows
heavier in her unaccustomed hands. On her brow gathers
a dew which is neither of the night nor the lake. She is
not within the radius of the temple lights, yet stops to rest,
and bathe her palms in the cooling waves. Later, when the
wall of the city, close by, stretches away on either side, far
reaching, a margin of darkness under the illuminated sky,
the canoe seems at last to conquer; it floats at will idly as a
log; and in that time the princess sits motionless as the
boat, lapsed in revery. Her purpose, if she has one, may
have chilled in the solitude or weakened under the labor.
Alas, if the purpose be good! If evil, help her, O sweet
Mary, Mother!
The sound of paddles behind her broke the spell. With
a hurried glance over her shoulder, she bent again to the
task, and there was no more hesitation. She gained the
wall, and passed in, taking the first canal. By the houses,
and through the press of canoes, and under the bridges, to
the heart of the city, she went. On the steps bordering a
basin close to the street which had been Cortes' line of
march the day of the entry, she landed, and, ascending to
the thoroughfare, set out briskly, basket in hand, her face to
the south. With never a look to the right or left, never a
response to the idlers on the pavement, she hurried down
the street. The watchers on the towers sung the hour;
she scarcely heard them. At last she reached the great
temple. A glance at the coatapantli, one at the shadowy
sanctuaries, to be sure of the locality; then her eyes fell upon
the palace of Axaya', and she stopped. The street to this
point had been thronged with people; here there were none;
the strangers were by themselves. The main gate of the
ancient house stood half open, and she saw the wheels
of gun-carriages, and now and then a Christian soldier
pacing his round, slowly and grimly; of the little host, he
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alone gave signs of life. Over the walls she heard the
stamp of horses' feet, and once a neigh, shrill and loud.
The awe of the Indian in presence of the white man seized
her, and she looked and listened, half frightened, half worshipful,
with but one clear sense, and that was of the nearness
of the Tonatiah.
A sound of approaching feet disturbed her, and she ran
across to the gate; at once the purpose which had held her
silent on the azoteas, which prompted her ready acquiescence
in the betrothal to Hualpa, which had sustained her in the
passage of the lake, was revealed. She was seeking her
lover to save him.
She would have passed through the gateway, but for a
number of lances dropped with their points almost against
her breast. What with fear of those behind and of those
before her, she almost died. On the pavement, outside
the entrance, she was lying when Alvarado came to the
rescue. The guard made way for him quickly; for in his
manner was the warning which nothing takes from words,
not even threats; verily, it had been as well to attempt to
hinder a leaping panther. He threw the lances up, and
knelt by her, saying tenderly, “Nenetzin, Nenetzin, poor
child! It is I, — come to save you!”
She half arose, and, smiling through her tears, clasped her
hands, and cried, “Tonatiah! Tonatiah!”
There are times when a look, a gesture, a tone of the voice,
do all a herald's part. What need of speech to tell the
Spaniard why the truant was there? The poor disguise, the
basket, told of flight; her presence at that hour said, “I
have come to thee”; the cross returned, the tears, the joy at
sight of him, certified her love; and so, when she put her
arm around his neck, and the arrow, not yet taken away,
rattled against his corselet, to his heart there shot a pain so
sharp and quick it seemed as if the very soul of him was
going out.
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He raised her gently, and carried her through the entrance.
The rough men looking on saw upon his cheek what, if the
cheek had been a woman's, they would have sworn was a tear.
“Ho, Marina!” he cried to the wondering interpreter.
“I bring thee a bird dropped too soon from the nest. The
hunter hath chased the poor thing, and here is a bolt in its
wing. Give place in thy cot, while I go for a doctor, and
room with thee, that malice hurt not a good name.”
And at the sight the Indian woman was touched; she ran
to the cot, smoothed the pillow of feathers, and said, “Here,
rest her here, and run quickly. I will care for her.”
He laid her down tenderly, but she clung to his hand, and
said to Marina, “He must not go. Let him first hear what
I have to say.”
“But you are hurt.”
“It is nothing, nothing. He must stay.”
So earnestly did she speak, that the captain changed his
mind. “Very well. What is spoken in pain should be
spoken quickly. I will stay.”
Nenetzin caught the assent, and went on rapidly. “Let
him know that to-morrow at noon the drum in the great temple
will be beaten, and the bridges taken up, and then there
will be war.”
“By the saints! she bringeth doughty news,” said Alvarado,
in his voice of soldier. “Ask her where she got it;
ask her, as you love us, Marina.”
“From my father, — from the king himself.”
“And this is child of Montezuma!” cried Marina.
“The princess Nenetzin,” said the cavalier. “But stay not
so. Ask her when and where she heard the news.”
“To-day, at Chapultepec.”
“What of the particulars? How is the war to be made?
What are the preparations?”
“The lord Cuitlahua is to take up the bridges. Maize and
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meat will be furnished to-morrow only. About the great temple
now there are ten thousand warriors for an attack, and
elsewhere in the city there are seventy thousand more.”
“Enough,” said Alvarado, kissing the little hand. “Look
now to the hurt, Marina. Bring the light; mayhap we can
take the bolt away ourselves.”
Marina knelt, and examined the wounded arm, and shortly
held up the arrow.
“Good!” the cavalier said. “Thou art a doctor, indeed,
Marina. In the schools at home they give students big-lettered
parchments. I will do better by thee; I will cover the
arm that did this surgery with bracelets of gold. Run now,
and bring cloth and water. The blood thou seest trickling
here is from her heart, which loveth me too dearly to suffer
such waste. Haste thee! haste thee!”
They bathed the wound, and applied the bandages, though
all too roughly to suit the cavalier, who, thereupon, turned
to go, saying, “Sit thou there, Marina, and leave her not,
except to do her will. Tell her I will return, and to be at
rest, for she is safe as in her father's house. If any do but
look at her wrongfully, they shall account to me. So, by my
mother's cross, I swear!”
And he hurried back to the audience-chamber, where the
council was yet in session. While he related what had been
told by Nenetzin, a deep silence pervaded the assemblage,
and the brave men, from looking at each other, turned, with
singular unanimity, to Cortes; who, thus appealed to, threw
off his affectation, and standing up, spoke, so as to be heard
by all, —
“Comrades, soldiers, gentlemen, let there be no words
more. The step you have urged upon me, in the name of
the army, I hesitated to take. I grant you, I hesitated;
but not from love of the soft-tongued, lying, pagan king.
Bethink ye. We left Cuba hastily, as ye all remember,
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because of a design to arrest us there as malefactors and
traitors. Now, when our enemies in that island hear from
our expedition, and have told them all its results, — the
wealth we have won, and the country, cities, peoples, and
empire discovered, — envy and jealousy will pursue us, and
false tongues go back to Spain, and fill the ears of our
royal master with reports intended to rob us of our glory
and despoil us of our hire. How could I know but the
seizure in question might be magnified into impolicy and
cruelty, and furnish cause for disgrace, imprisonment, and
forfeiture? For that I hesitated. This news, however, endeth
doubt and debate. The over-cunning king hath put
himself outside of mercy or compassion; we are compelled
to undo him. So far, well. Let me remind ye now, that
the news of which I speak hath in it a warning which it
were sinful not to heed. Yesterday the great infidel was at
our mercy; not more difficult his capture then than a visit
to his palace; but now, in all the histories of bold performances,
nothing bolder, — nothing of the Cid's, nothing of King
Arthur's. In the heart of his capital we are to make prisoner
him, the head of millions, the political ruler and religious
chief, not merely secure in the love and fear of his subjects,
but in the height of his careful preparation for war, in
the centre of his camp, within call, nay, under the eyes, of
his legions, numbering thousands where we number tens.
Take ye each, my brave brethren, the full measure of the
design, and then tell me, in simple words, how it may be
best done. And among ye, let him speak who can truly say,
I dare do what my tongue delivereth. I wait your answer.”
And in the chamber there again fell a hush so deep that
those present might well have been taken for ghosts. The
idea as first seen by them was commonplace; under his description,
it became heroic; and struggling, as he suggested,
to measure it each for himself, all were dumb.
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“Good gentlemen,” said Cortes, smiling, “why so laggard
now? Speak, Diaz del Castillo. Offer what thou canst.”
The good soldier, and afterward good chronicler, of the
conquest and its trials, this one among the rest, replied, “I
confess, Señor, the enterprise is difficult beyond my first
thought. I confess, also, to more reflection about its necessity
than its achievement. To answer truthfully, at this
time I see but one way to the end; and that is, to invite the
monarch here under some sufficient pretence, and then lay
hands on him.”
“Are ye all of the same minds, gentlemen?”
There was a murmur of assent, whereupon Cortes arose
from leaning upon his sword, and said, sharply, —
“To hear ye, gentlemen, one would think the summer all
before us in which to interchange courtesies with the royal
barbarian. What is the fact? At noon to-morrow our hours
of grace expire. A beat of drum, and then assault, and
after that,”— he paused, looking grimly round the circle,—
“and after that, sacrifices to the gods, I suppose.”
There was a general movement and outcry. Some griped
their arms, others crossed themselves. Cortes saw and pressed
his advantage.
“I shall not take your advice, Bernal Diaz; not I, by my
conscience! Heaven helping me, I expect to see old Spain
again; and more, I expect to take these comrades back with
me, rich in glory and gold.” Then, to the officers behind
him, he said, in his ordinary tone of command, “Ordas, do
thou bid the carpenters prepare quarters in this palace for
Montezuma and his court; and let them begin their work to-night,
for he will be our guest before noon to-morrow. And
thou, Leon, thou, Lugo, thou, Avila, and thou, Sandoval, get
ye ready to go with me to the —”
“And I?” asked Alvarado.
“Thou shalt go also.”
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“And the army, Señor?” Diaz suggested.
“The army shall remain in quarters.”
Never man's manner more calm, never man more absolutely
assured. The listeners warmed with admiration. As
unconscious of the effect he was working, he went on, —
“I have shown the difficulties of the enterprise; now I
say further, the crisis of the expedition is upon us: if I succeed,
all is won; if I fail, all is lost. In such strait, what
should we do between this and then? Let us not trust in
our cunning and strength: we are Christians; as such, put
we our faith in Christ and the Holy Mother. Olmedo,
father, go thou to the chapel, and get ready the altar. The
night to confession and prayer; and let the morning find us
on our knees shrieved and blessed. We are done, comrades.
Let the chamber be cleared. To the chapel all.”
And they did the bidding cheerfully. All night the good
father was engaged in holy work, confessing, shrieving, praying.
So the morning found them.
Wallace, Lew, 1827-1905 [1873], The fair god, or, The last of the 'Tzins: a tale of the conquest of Mexico (James R. Osgood and Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf733T].
