And still another day like the other; and at its close the faded hands of the sufferer dropped upon his breast. Many times did Tecetl come to the couch, and speak to him, and call him father, and offer him food and drink, and go away unnoticed. “He is with Quetzal’,” she would say to herself and the birds. “How the dear god loves him!”

Yet another, the fourth day; still the sleep, now become a likeness of death. And Tecetl,—she missed his voice, and the love-look of his great eyes, and his fondnesses of touch and smile; she missed his presence, also. True, he was there, but not with her; he was with Quetzal’. Strange that they should forget her so long! She hovered around the couch, a little jealous of the god, and disquieted, though she knew not by what. She was very, very lonesome.

And in that time what suspense would one familiar with perils have suffered in her situation! If the paba dies, what will become of her? We know somewhat of the difficulties of the passages in the Cû. Can she find the way out alone? The slave will, doubtless, continue to bring food to the door, so that she may not starve; and at the fountain she will get drink. Suppose, therefore, the supplies come for years, and she live so long; how will the solitude affect her? We know its results upon prisoners accustomed to society; but that is not her case: she never knew society, its sweets or sorrows. With her the human life of the great outside world is not a thing of conjecture, or of dreams, hopes, and fears, as the future life with a Christian; she does not even know there is such a state of being. Changes will take place in the chamber; the birds and plants, all of life there besides herself, will die; the body of the good man, through sickening stages of decay, will return to the dust, leaving a ghastly skeleton on the couch. Consequently, hers will come to be a solitude without relief, without amusement or occupation or society, and with but few memories, and nothing to rest a hope upon. Can a mind support itself, any more than a body? In other words, if Mualox dies, how long until she becomes what it were charity to kill? Ah, never mortal more dependent or more terribly threatened! Yet she saw neither the cloud nor its shadow, but followed her pastimes as usual, and sang her little songs, and slept when tired,—a simple-hearted child.

I am not an abstractionist; and the reader, whom I charitably take to be what I am in that respect, has reason to be thankful; for the thought of this girl, so strangely educated,—if the word may be so applied,—this pretty plaything of a fortune so eccentric, opens the gates of many a misty field of metaphysics. But I pass them by, and, following the lead of my story, proceed to say that, in the evening of the fourth day of the paba’s sickness, the bell, as usual, announced the last meal at the door of the chamber. Tecetl went to the couch, and, putting her arms around the sleeper’s neck, tried to wake him; but he lay still, his eyes closed, his lips apart,—in appearance, he was dying.

“Father, father, why do you stay away so long?” she said. “Come back,—speak to me,—say one word,—call me once more!”

The dull ear heard not; the hand used to caressing was still.

Tenderly she smoothed the white beard upon his breast.

“Is Quetzal’ angry with me? I love him. Tell him how lonely I am, and that the birds are not enough to keep me happy when you stay so long; tell him how dear you are to me. Ask him to let you come back now.”

Yet no answer.

“O Quetzal’, fair, beautiful god! hear me,” she continued. “Your finger is on his lips, or he would speak. Your veil is over his eyes, or he would see me. I am his child, and love him so much; and he is hungry, and here are bread and meat. Let him come for a little while, and I will love you more than ever.”

And so she prayed and promised, but in vain. Quetzal’ was obdurate. With tears fast flowing, she arose, and stood by the couch, and gazed upon the face now sadly changed by the long abstinence. And as she looked, there came upon her own face a new expression, that which the very young always have when at the side of the dying,—half dread, half curiosity,—wonder at the manifestation, awe of the power that invokes it,—the look we can imagine on the countenance of a simple soul in the presence of Death interpreting himself.

At last she turned away, and went to the door. Twice she hesitated, and looked back. Wherefore? Was she pondering the mystery of the deep sleep, or expecting the sleeper to awake, or listening to the whisper of a premonition fainter in her ears than the voice of the faintest breeze? She went on, nevertheless; she reached the door, and drew the curtain; and there, in the full light, was Orteguilla.

That we may judge the impression, let us recall what kind of youth the page was. I never saw him myself, but those who knew him well have told me he was a handsome fellow; tall, graceful, and in manner and feature essentially Spanish. He wore at the time the bonnet and jaunty feather, and the purple mantle, of which I have spoken, and under that a close black jerkin, with hose to correspond; half-boots, usual to the period, and a crimson sash about the waist, its fringed ends hanging down the left side, completed his attire. Altogether, a goodly young man; not as gay, probably, as some then loitering amongst the alamedas of Seville; for rough service long continued had tarnished his finery and abused his complexion, to say nothing of the imprints of present suffering; yet he was enough so to excite admiration in eyes older than Tecetl’s, and more familiar with the race.

The two gazed at each other, wonder-struck.

“Holy Mother!” exclaimed Orteguilla, the bread in his hand. “Into what world have I been brought? Is this a spirit thou hast sent me?”

In his eyes, she was an angel; in hers, he was more. She went to him, and knelt, and said, “Quetzal’, dear Quetzal’,—beautiful god! You are come to bring my father back to me. He is asleep by the fountain.”

In her eyes, the page was a god.

The paba’s descriptions of Quetzal’ had given her the ideal of a youth like Orteguilla. Of late, moreover, he had been constantly expected from Tlapallan, his isle of the blest; indeed, he had come,—so the father said. And the house was his. Whither would he go, if not there? So, from tradition oft repeated, from descriptions colored by passionate love, she knew the god; and as to the man,—between the image and his maker there is a likeness; so saith a book holier than the teoamoxtli.

The page, as we have seen, was witty and shrewd, and acquainted well with the world; his first impression went quickly; her voice assured him that he was not come to any spirit land. The pangs of hunger, for the moment forgotten, returned, and I am sorry to say that he at once yielded to their urgency, and began to eat as heroes in romances never do. When the edge of his appetite was dulled, and he could think of something else, an impulse of courtesy moved him, and he said,—

“I crave thy pardon, fair mistress. I have been so much an animal as to forget that this food is thine, and required to subsist thee, and, perhaps, some other inhabiting here. I admit, moreover, that ordinarily the invitation should proceed from the owner of the feast; but claim thy own, and partake with me; else it may befall that in my great hunger thy share will be wanting. Fall to, I pray thee.”

Still kneeling, she stared at him, and, folding her hands upon her breast, replied, “Quetzal’ knows that I am his servant. Let him speak so that I may understand.”

“Por cierto!—it is true! What knoweth she of my mother tongue?”

And thereupon, in the Aztecan, he asked her to help herself.

“No,” said she. “The house and all belong to you. I am glad you have come.”

“Mine? Whom do you take me for?”

“The good god of my father, to whom I say all my prayers,—Quetzal’!”

“Quetzal’, Quetzal’!” he repeated, looking steadily in her face; then, as if assured that he understood her, he took one of the goblets of chocolate, and tried to drink, but failed; the liquid had been beaten into foam.

“In the world I come from, good girl,” he said, replacing the cup, “people find need of water, which, just now, would be sweeter to my tongue than all the honey in the valley. Canst thou give me a drink?”

She arose, and answered eagerly, “Yes, at the fountain. Let us go. By this time my father is awake.”

“So, so!” he said to himself. “Her father, indeed! I have eaten his supper or dinner, according to the time of day outside, and he may not be as civil as his daughter. I will first know something about him.” And he asked, “Your father is old, is he not?”

“His beard and hair are very white. They have always been so.”

Again he looked at her doubtingly. “Always, said you?”

“Always.”

“Is he a priest?”

She smiled, and asked, “Does not Quetzal’ know his own servant?”

“Has he company?”

“The birds may be with him.”

He quit eating, and, much puzzled by the answer, reflected.

“Birds, birds! Am I so near daylight and freedom? Grant it, O Blessed Mother!” And he crossed himself devoutly.

Then Tecetl said, earnestly, “Now that you have eaten, good Quetzal’, come and let us go to my father.”

Orteguilla made up his mind speedily: he could not do worse than go back the way he came; and the light here was so beautiful, and the darkness there so terrible: and here was company. Just then, also, as a further inducement, he heard the whistle of a bird, and fancied he distinguished the smell of flowers.

“A garden,” he said, in his soul,—“a garden, and birds, and liberty!” The welcome thought thrilled him inexpressibly. “Yes, I will go”; and, aloud, “I am ready.”

Thereupon she took his hand, and put the curtains aside, and led him into the paba’s World, never but once before seen by a stranger.

This time forethought had not gone in advance to prepare for the visitor. The master’s eye was dim, and his careful hand still, in the sleep by the fountain. The neglect that darkened the fire on the turret was gloaming the lamps in the chamber; one by one they had gone out, as all would have gone but for Tecetl, to whom the darkness and the shadows were hated enemies. Nevertheless, the light, falling suddenly upon eyes so long filled with blackness as his had been, was blinding bright, insomuch that he clapped his hand over his face. Yet she led him on eagerly, saying,—

“Here, here, good Quetzal’. Here by the fountain he lies.”

All her concern was for the paba.

And through the many pillars of stone, and along a walk bounded by shrubs and all manner of dwarfed tropical trees, half blinded by the light, but with the scent of flowers and living vegetation in his nostrils, and the carol of birds in his ears, and full of wonder unspeakable, he was taken, without pause, to the fountain. At sight of the sparkling jet, his fever of thirst raged more intensely than ever.

“Here he is. Speak to him,—call him back to me! As you love him, call him back, O Quetzal’?”

He scarcely heard her.

“Water, water! Blessed Mother, I see it again! A cup,—quick,—a cup!”

He seized one on the table, and drank, and drank again crying between each breath, “To the Mother the praise!” Not until he was fully satisfied did he give ear to the girl’s entreaty.

Looking to the couch, whither she had gone, he saw the figure of the paba stretched out like a corpse. He approached, and, searching the face, and laying his hand upon the breast over the heart, asked, in a low voice, “How long has your father been asleep?”

“A long time,” she replied.

“Jesu Christo! He is dead, and she does not know it!” he thought, amazed at her simplicity.

Again he regarded her closely, and for the first time was struck by her beauty of face and form, by the brightness of her eyes, by the hair, wavy on the head and curling over the shoulders, by the simple, childish dress, and sweet voice; above all, by the innocence and ineffable purity of her look and manner, all then discernible in the full glare of the lamps. And with what feeling he made discovery of her loveliness may be judged passably well by the softened tone in which he said, “Poor girl! your father will never, never wake.”

Her eyes opened wide.

“Never, never wake! Why?”

“He is dead.”

She looked at him wistfully, and he, seeing that she did not understand, added, “He is in heaven; or, as he himself would have said, in the Sun.”

“Yes, but you will let him come back.”

He took note of the trustful, beseeching look with which she accompanied the words, and shook his head, and, returning to the fountain, took a seat upon a bench, reflecting.

“What kind of girl is this? Not know death when he showeth so plainly! Where hath she been living? And I am possessed of St. Peter’s keys. I open Heaven’s gate to let the heathen out! By the bones of the saints! let him get there first! The Devil hath him!”

He picked up a withered flower lying by the bowl of the fountain, and went back to Tecetl.

“You remember how beautiful this was when taken from the vine?”

“Yes.”

“What ails it now?”

“It is dead.”

“Well, did you ever know one of these, after dying, to come back to life?”

“No.”

“No more can thy father regain his life. He, too, is dead. From what you see, he will go to dust; therefore, leave him now, and let us sit by the fountain, and talk of escape; for surely you know the way out of this.”

From the flower, she looked to the dead, and, comprehending the illustration, sat by the body, and cried. And so it happened that knowledge of death was her first lesson in life.

And he respected her grief, and went and took a bench by the basin, and thought.

“Quetzal’, Quetzal’,—who is he? A god, no doubt; yes, the one of whom the king so liveth in dread. I have heard his name. And I am Quetzal’! And this is his house—that is, my house! A scurvy trick, by St. James! Lost in my own house,—a god lost in his own temple!”

And as he could then well afford, being full-fed, he laughed at the absurd idea; and in such mood, fell into a revery, and grew drowsy, and finally composed himself on the bench, and sunk to sleep.

CHAPTER IX
LIFE IN THE PABA’S WORLD

Now, Orteguilla was very sensible of her loveliness; he was no less sensible, also, that she was a mystery out of the common way of life; and had he been in a place of safety, in the palace of Axaya’, he would have stayed a long time pretending sleep, in order to study her unobserved. But his situation presently rose to mind; the yellow glow of the lamps suggested the day outside; the birds, liberty; the fountain and shrubbery, the world he had lost; and the girl, life,—his life, and all its innumerable strong attachments. And so, in his mind, he ran over his adventures in the house. He surveyed all of the chamber that was visible from the bench. The light, the fountain, the vegetation, the decorated walls,—everything in view dependent upon the care of man. Where so much was to be done constantly, was there not something to be done at once,—something to save life? There were the lamps: how were they supplied? They might go out. And, Jesu Christo! the corpse of the paba! He sat up, as if touched by a spear: there it was, in all the repulsiveness of death.

The movement attracted the girl’s attention; she arose, and waited for him to speak.

“Good morning,—if morning it be,” he said.

She made no reply.

“Come here,” he continued. “I have some questions to ask.”

She drew a few steps nearer. A bird with breast of purple and wings of snow flew around her for a while, then settled upon her hand, and was drawn close to her bosom. He remembered, from Father Bartolomé’s reading, how the love of God once before took a bird’s form; and forthwith his piety and superstition hedged her about with sanctity. What with the white wings upon her breast, and the whiter innocency within, she was safe as if bound by walls of brass.

“Have no fear, I pray you,” he said, misinterpreting her respectful sentiment. “You and I are two people in a difficult strait, and, if I mistake not, much dependent upon each other. A God, of whom you never heard, but whom I will tell you all about, took your father away, and sent me in his stead. The road thither, I confess, has been toilsome and dreadful. Ah me, I shudder at the thought!”

He emphasized his feelings by a true Spanish shrug of the shoulders.

“This is a strange place,” he next said. “How long have you been here?”

“I cannot say.”

“Can you remember coming, and who brought you?”

“No.”

“You must have been a baby.” He looked at her with pity. “Have you never been elsewhere?”

“No, never.”

“Ah, by the Mother that keeps me! Always here! And the sky, and sun, and stars, and all God’s glory of nature, seen in the valleys, mountains, and rivers, and seas,—have they been denied you, poor girl?”

“I have seen them all,” she answered.

“Where?”

“On the ceiling and walls.”

He looked up at the former, and noticed its excellence of representation.

“Very good,—beautiful!” he said, in the way of criticism. “Who did the work?”

“Quetzal’.”

“And who is Quetzal’?”

“Who should know better than the god himself?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

Again he shrugged his shoulders.

“My name, then, is Quetzal’. Now, what is yours?”

“Tecetl.”

“Well, then, Tecetl, let me undeceive you. In the first place, I am not Quetzal’, or any god. I am a man, as your father there was. My name is Orteguilla; and for the time I am page to the great king Montezuma. And before long, if I live, and get out of this place, as I most devoutly pray, I will be a soldier. In the next place you are a girl, and soon will be a woman. You have been cheated of life. By God’s help, I will take you out of this. Do you understand me?”

“No; unless men and gods are the same.”

“Heaven forbid!” He crossed himself fervently. “Do you not know what men are?”

“All my knowledge of things is from the pictures on the walls, and what else you see here.”

“Jesu Christo!” he cried, in open astonishment. “And did the good man never tell you of the world outside,—of its creation, and its millions upon millions of people?”

“No.”

“Of the world in which you may find the originals of all that is painted on the walls, more beautiful than colors can make them?”

He received the same reply, but, still incredulous, went on.

“Who takes care of these plants?”

“My father.”

“A servant brings your food to the door—may he do so again! Have you not seen him?”

“No.”

“Where does the oil that feeds the lamps come from?”

“From Quetzal’.”

Just then a lamp went out. He arose hastily, and saw that the contents of the cup were entirely consumed. “Tecetl, is there plenty of oil? Where do you keep it? Tell me.”

“In a jar, there by the door. While you were asleep, I refilled the cups, and now the jar is empty.”

He turned pale. Who better than he knew the value of the liquid that saved them from the darkness so horribly peopled by hunger and thirst? If exhausted, where could they get more? Without further question, he went through the chamber, and collected the lamps, and put them all out except one. Then he brought the jar from the door, and poured the oil back, losing not a drop.

Tecetl remonstrated, and cried when she saw the darkness invade the chamber, blotting out the walls, and driving the birds to their perches, or to the fountain yet faintly illuminated. But he was firm.

“Fie, fie!” he said. “You should laugh, not cry. Did I not tell you about the world above this, so great, and so full of people, like ourselves? And did I not promise to take you there? I am come in your father’s stead. Everything must contribute to our escape. We must think of nothing else. Do you understand? This chamber is but one of many, in a house big as a mountain, and full of passages in which, if we get lost, we might wander days and days, and then not get out, unless we had a light to show us the way. So we must save the oil. When this supply gives out, as it soon will if we are not careful, the darkness that so frightens you will come and swallow us, and we shall die, as did your father there.”

The last suggestion sufficed; she dried her tears, and drew closer to him, as if to say, “I confide in you; save me.”

Nature teaches fear of death; so that separation from the breathless thing upon the couch was not like parting from Mualox. Whether she touched his hand or looked in his face now, “Go hence, go hence!” was what she seemed to hear. The stony repulsion that substituted his living love reconciled her to the idea of leaving home, for such the chamber had been to her.

Here I may as well confess the page began to do a great deal of talking,—a consequence, probably, of having a good listener; or he may have thought it a duty to teach all that was necessary to prepare his disciple for life in the new world. In the midst of a lecture, the tinkle of a bell brought him to a hasty pause.

“Now, O Blessed Mother, now I am happy! Thou hast not forsaken me! I shall see the sun again, and brave old Spain. Live my heart!” he cried, as the last tinkle trembled, and died in the silence.

Seeing that she regarded him with surprise, he said, in her tongue, “I was thanking the Mother, Tecetl. She will save us both. Go now, and bring the breakfast,—I say breakfast, not knowing better,—and while we eat I will tell you why I am so glad. When you have heard me, you will be glad as I am.”

She went at once, and, coming back, found him bathing his face and head in the water of the basin,—a healthful act, but not one to strengthen the idea of his godship. She placed the tray upon the table, and helped him to napkin and comb; then they took places opposite each other, with the lamp between them; whereupon she had other proof of his kind of being; for it is difficult to think of a deity at table, eating. The Greeks felt the incongruity, and dined their gods on nectar and ambrosia, leaving us to imagine them partaken in some other than the ordinary, vulgar way. Verily, Tecetl was becoming accustomed to the stranger!

And while they ate, he explained his plans, and talked of the upper world, and described its wonders and people, until, her curiosity aroused, she plied him with questions; and as point after point was given, we may suppose nature asserted itself, and taught her, by what power there is in handsome youth, with its bright eyes, smooth face, and tongue more winsome than wise, that life in the said world was a desirable exchange for the monotonous drifting to which she had been so long subjected. We may also suppose that she was not slow to observe the difference between Mualox and the page; which was that between age and youth, or, more philosophically, that between a creature to be revered and a creature to be admired.

CHAPTER X
THE ANGEL BECOMES A BEADSWOMAN

“Yes, if you say so.”

“Good again! The Mother is with us. Courage! You shall see the sun and sky, or I am not a Spaniard. Listen, now, and I will explain.”

They took seats upon the bench, this time together; for the strangeness was wellnigh gone, and they had come to have an interest in a common purpose.

“You must know, then, that I have two reliances: first, the man who brings the tray to the door; next, the Blessed Mother.”

“I will begin with the first,” he said, after a pause. “The man is a slave, and, therefore, easy to impose upon. If he is like his class, from habit, he asks no questions of his superiors. Your father—I speak from what you have told me—was thoughtful and dreamy, and spoke but little to anybody, and seldom, if ever, to his servants. You are not well versed in human nature; one day, no doubt, you will be; then you will be able to decide whether I am right in believing that the traits of master and slave, which I have mentioned, are likely to help us. I carried your father’s body over to the corner yonder,—you were asleep at the time,—and laid it upon the floor, as we Christians serve our dead. I made two crosses, and put one upon his lips, the other on his breast; he will sleep all the better for them. As you would have done, had you been present, I also covered him with flowers. One other thing I did.”

He took a lamp, and was gone a moment.

“Here are your father’s gown and hood,” he said, coming back. “I doubt whether they would sell readily in the market. He will never need them again. I took them to help save your life,—a purpose for which he would certainly have given them, had he been alive. I will put them on.”

He laid his bonnet on the bench; then took off his boots, and put on the gown,—a garment of coarse black manta, loose in body and sleeves, and hanging nearly to the feet. Tying the cord about his waist, and drawing the hood over his head, he walked away a few steps, saying,—

“Look at me, Tecetl. Your father was very old. Did he stoop much? as much as this?”

He struck the good man’s habitual posture, and, in a moment after, his slow, careful gait. At the sight, she could not repress her tears.

“What, crying again!” he said. “I shall be ashamed of you soon. If we fail, then you may cry, and—I do not know but that I will join you. People who weep much cannot hear as they ought, and I want you to hear every word. To go on, then: In this guise I mean to wait for the old slave. When he lets the tray down, I will be there to climb the ladder. He will see the hood and gown, and think me his old master. He will not speak, nor will I. He will let me get to his side, and then—”

After reflection, he continued,—

“Ah, Tecetl! you know not what troubles women sometimes are. Here am I now. How easy for me, in this guise, to follow the slave out of the temple! The most I would have to do would be to hold my tongue. But you,—I cannot go and leave you; the Señor Hernan would not forgive me, and I could not forgive myself. Nevertheless, you are a trouble. For instance, when the slave sees you with me, will he not be afraid, and run? or, to prevent that, shall I not have to make him a prisoner? That involves a struggle. I may have to fight him, to wound him. I may get hurt myself, and then—alas! what would become of us?”

Again, he stopped, but at length proceeded,—

“So much for that. Now for my other reliance,—the Blessed Lady. If the slave escapes me, you see, Tecetl, I must trust to what the infidels call Fortune,—a wicked spirit, sometimes good, sometimes bad. I mean we shall then have to hunt the way out ourselves; and, having already tried that, I know what will happen. Hence these preparations. With the paint, I will mark the corners we pass, that I may know them again; the lamp will enable me to see the marks and keep the direction; if we get hungry, here are bread and meat, saved, as you know, from our meals; if we get thirsty, the calabash will be at hand. That is what I call trusting to ourselves; yet the Blessed Mother enabled me to anticipate all these wants, and provide for them, as we have done; therefore I call her my reliance. Now you have my plans. I said you were my trouble; you cannot work, or think, or fight; yet there is something you can do. Tecetl, you can be my pretty beadswoman. I see you do not know what that is. I will explain. Take these beads.”

While speaking, he took a string of them from his neck.

“Take these beads, and begin now to say, ‘O Blessed Mother, beautiful Mother, save us for Christ’s sake.’ Repeat! Good!” he said, his eyes sparkling. “I think the prayer never sounded as sweetly before; nor was there ever cavalier with such a beadswoman. Again.”

And again she said the prayer.

“Now,” he said, “take the string in your own hand,—thus; drop one bead,—thus; and keep on praying, and for every prayer drop one bead. Only think, Tecetl, how I shall be comforted, as I go along the gloomy passages, to know that right behind me comes one, so lately a heathen but now a Christian, at every step calling on the Mother. Who knows but we shall be out and in the beautiful day before the beads are twice counted? If so, then shall we know that she cared for us; and when we reach the palace we will go to the chapel, with good Father Bartolomé, and say the prayer together once for every bead on the string. So I vow, and do you the same.”

“So I vow,” she said, with a pretty submission.

Then, by ropes fixed for the purpose, he raised the calabash, and mat, and bundle of provisions, and swung them lightly over his shoulders. Under his arm he took an earthen vase filled with oil.

“Let us to the door now. The slave should be there. Before we start, look around: you are leaving this place forever.”

The thought went to her heart.

“O my birds! What will become of them?”

“Leave them to God,” he replied, laconically.

There were tears and sobs, in the midst of which he started off, lamp in hand. She gave a look to the fountain, within the circle of whose voice nearly all her years had been passed. In her absence, it would play and sing, would go on as of old; but in her absence who would be there to see and hear? In the silence and darkness it would live, but nevermore for her.

And she looked to the corner of the chamber where Orteguilla had carried the body of the paba. Her tears attested her undiminished affection for him. The recollection of his love outlived the influence of his Will. His World was being abandoned, having first become a tomb, capacious and magnificent,—his tomb. But Quetzal’ had not come. Broken are thy dreams, O Mualox, wasted thy wealth of devotion! Yet, at this parting, thou hast tears,—first and last gift of Love, the sweetest of human principles, and the strongest,—stronger than the Will; for if the latter cannot make God of a man, the former can take him to God.

And while she looked, came again the bird of the breast of purple and wings of snow, which she placed in her bosom; then she followed the page, saying, trustfully, “O Blessed Mother, beautiful Mother, save us for Christ’s sake!”

Outside the curtain door he deposited his load, and carefully explained to Tecetl the use of the ladder. Then he placed a stool for her.

“Sit now; you can do nothing more. Everything depends on the slave: if he behaves well, we shall have no need of these preparations, and they may be left here. But whether he behave well or ill, remember this, Tecetl,—cease not to pray; forget not the beads.”

And so saying, he tossed a stout cord up through the trap; then, leaving the lamp below, he clomb to the floor above. His anxiety may be imagined. Fortunately, the waiting was not long. Through the gallery distantly he saw a light, which—praise to the Mother!—came his way. He descended the ladder.

“He comes, and is alone. Be of cheer, Tecetl; be of cheer, and pray. O if the Mother but stay with us now!”

Faster fell the beads.

When the sound of footsteps overhead announced the arrival of the slave, Orteguilla put his dagger between his teeth, drew the hood over his head, and began to ascend. He dared not look up; he trusted in the prayers of the little beadswoman, and clomb on.

His head reached the level of the floor, and with the trap gaping wide around, he knew himself under the man’s eyes. Another moment, and his hand was upon the floor; slowly he raised himself clear of the rope; he stood up, then turned to the slave, and saw him to be old, and feeble, and almost naked; the lamp was on his forehead, the tray at his feet; his face was downcast, his posture humble. The Spaniard’s blood leaped exultantly; nevertheless, carefully and deliberately, as became his assumed character, he moved to one side of the passage, to clear the way to the trap. The servant accepted the movement, and without a word took the lamp from his head, crossed the great stone, fixed the ropes, and stooped to lower the tray.

Orteguilla had anticipated everything, even this action, which gave him his supreme advantage; so he picked up the cord lying near, and stepped to the old man’s side. When the tray was landed below, the latter raised himself upon his knees; in an instant the cord was around his body; before he understood the assault, escape was impossible.

Orteguilla, his head yet covered by the hood, said calmly, “Be quiet, and you are safe.”

The man looked up, and replied, “I am the paba’s servant now, even as I was when a youth. I have done no wrong, and am not afraid.”

“I want you to live. Only move not.”

Then the page called, “Tecetl! Tecetl!”

“Here,” she answered.

“Try, now, to come up. Be careful lest you fall. If you need help, tell me.”

“What shall I do with the bread and meat, and—”

“Leave them. The Mother has been with us. Come up.”

The climbing was really a sailor’s feat, and difficult for her; finally, she raised her head through the trap. At the sight, the slave shrank back, as if to run. Orteguilla spoke to him.

“Be not afraid of the child. I have raised her to help me take care of the temple. We are going to the chapel now.”

The man turned to him curiously; possibly he detected a strange accent under the hood. When, on her part, Tecetl saw him, she stopped, full of wonder as of fear. Old and ugly as he was, he yet confirmed the page’s story, and brought the new world directly to her. So a child stops, and regards the first person met at the door of a strange house,—attracted, curious, afraid.

“Come on,” said Orteguilla.

She raised her hand overhead, and held up the bird with the white wings.

“Take it,” she said.

Used as he was to wonderful things in connection with his old master, the servant held back. A girl and a bird from the cells,—a mystery, indeed!

“Take it,” said Orteguilla.

He did so; whereupon the page assisted her to the floor.

“We are almost there,—almost,” he said, cheerfully. “Have you kept count of the prayers? Let me see the beads.”

She held out the rosary.

“Ten beads more,—ten prayers yet. The Mother is with us. Courage!”

Then of the slave he asked,—

“How is the day without?”

“There is not a cloud in the sky.”

“Is it morning or evening?”

“About midday.”

“Is the city quiet?”

“I cannot say.”

“Very well. Give the girl her bird, and lead to the court-yard.”

And they started, the slave ahead, held in check by the cord in the Spaniard’s hand. The light was faint and unsteady. Once they ascended a flight of steps, and twice changed direction. When the page saw the many cells on either side, and the number of intersecting passages, all equal in height and width, and bounded by the same walls of rough red stone, he understood how he became lost; and with a shuddering recollection of his wanderings through the great house, he could not sufficiently thank the Providence that was now befriending him.

They clomb yet another stairway, and again changed direction; after that, a little farther walk, and Orteguilla caught sight of a doorway penetrated by a pure white light, which he recognized as day. Words cannot express his emotion; his spirit could hardly be controlled; he would have shouted, sung, danced,—anything to relieve himself of this oppression of happiness. But he thought, if he were out of the temple, he would not yet be out of danger; that he had to make way, by the great street from which he had been driven, to the quarters of his friends, before he could promise himself rest and safety; the disguise was the secret of his present good-fortune, and must help him further. So he restrained himself, saying to Tecetl,—

“For the time, cease your prayers, little one. The world I promised to bring you to is close by. I see the daylight.”

There was indeed a door into the patio, or court-yard, of the temple. Under the lintel the page lingered a moment,—the court was clear. Then he gave the cord into the servant’s hand, with the usual parting salutation, and stepped once more into the air, fresh with the moisture of the lake and the fragrance of the valley. He looked to the sky, blue as ever; and through its serenity, up sped his grateful Ave Maria. In the exulting sense of rescue, he forgot all else, and was well across the court to the steps leading to the azoteas, when he thought of Tecetl. He looked back, and did not see her; he ran to the door; she was there. The bird had fallen to the floor, and was fluttering blindly about; her hands were pressed hard over her face.

“What ails you?” he asked, petulantly. “This is not a time to halt and cry. Come on.”

“I cannot—”

“Cannot! Give me your hand.”

He led her through the door, under the colonnade, out into the court.

“Look up, Tecetl, look up! See the sky, drink the air. You are free!”

She uncovered her eyes; they filled as with fiery arrows. She screamed, staggered as if struck, and cried, “Where are you? I am lost, I am blind!”

“O Madre de Dios!” said Orteguilla, comprehending the calamity, and all its inconveniences to her and himself. “Help me, most miserable of wretches,—help me to a little wisdom!”

To save her from falling, he had put his arm around her; and as they stood thus,—she the picture of suffering, and he overwhelmed by perplexity,—help from any quarter would have been welcome; had the slave been near, he might have abandoned her; but aid there was not. So he led her tenderly to the steps, and seated her.

“How stupid,” he said in Spanish,—“how stupid not to think of this! If, the moment I was born, they had carried me out to take a look at the sun, shining as he is here, I would have been blinder than any beggar on the Prado, blinder than the Bernardo of whom I have heard Don Pedro tell. My nurse was a sensible woman.”

Debating what to do, he looked at Tecetl; and for the first time since she had come out of the door, he noticed her dress,—simply a cotton chemise, a skirt of the same reaching below the knees, a blue sash around the waist,—very simple, but very clean. He noticed, also, the exceeding delicacy of her person, the transparency of her complexion, the profusion of her hair, which was brown in the sun. Finally, he observed the rosary.

“She is not clad according to the laws which govern high-born ladies over the water; yet she is beautiful, and—by the Mother! she is a Christian. Enough. By God’s love, I, who taught her to pray, will save her, though I die. Help me, all the saints!”

He adjusted the hood once more, and, stooping, said, in his kindliest tone, “Pshaw, Tecetl, you are not blind. The light of the sun is so much stronger than that of your lamps that your eyes could not bear it. Cheer up, cheer up! And now put your arm around my neck. I will carry you to the top of these steps. We cannot stay here.”

She stretched out her arms.

“Hark!” he cried. “What is that?”

He stood up and listened. The air above the temple seemed full of confused sounds; now resembling the distant roar of the sea, now the hum of insects, now the yells of men.

“Jesu! I know that sound. There,—there!”

He listened again. Through the soaring, muffled din, came another report, as of thunder below the horizon.

“It is the artillery! By the mother that bore me, the guns of Mesa!”

The words of Io’, spoken in Xoli’s portico, came back to him.

“Battle! As I live, they are fighting on the street!”

And he, too, sat down, listening, thinking. How was he to get to his countrymen?

The sounds overhead continued, at intervals intensified by the bellowing guns. Battle has a fascination which draws men as birds are said to be drawn by serpents. They listen; then wish to see; lingering upon the edge, they catch its spirit, and finally thrill with fierce delight to find themselves within the heat and fury of its deadly circle. The page knew the feeling then. To see the fight was an overmastering desire.

“Tecetl, poor child, you are better now?”

“I dare not open my eyes.”

“Well, I will see for you. Put your arms around my neck.”

And with that, he carried her up the steps. All the time, he gave ear to the battle.

“Listen, Tecetl; hear that noise! A battle is going on out in the street, and seems to be coming this way. I will lead you into the chapel here,—a holy place, so your father would have said. In the shade, perhaps, you can find relief.”

“How pleasant the air is!” she said, as they entered.

“Yes, and there is Quetzal’,”—he pointed to the idol,—“and here the step before the altar upon which, I venture, your father spent half his life in worship. Sit, and rest until I return.”

“Do not leave me,” she said.

“A little while only. I must see the fight. Some good may come of it,—who knows? Be patient; I will not leave you.”

He went to the door. The sounds were much louder and nearer. All the air above the city apparently was filled with them. Amongst the medley, he distinguished the yells of men and peals of horns. Shots were frequent, and now and then came the heavy, pounding report of cannon. He had been at Tabasco, at Tzimpantzinco, and in the three pitched battles in Tlascala, and was familiar with what he heard.

“How they fight!” he said to himself. “Don Pedro is a good sword and brave gentlemen, but—ah! if the Señor Hernan were there, I should feel better: he is a good sword, brave gentleman, and wise general, also. Heaven fights for him. Ill betide Narvaez! Why could he not have put off his coming until the city was reduced? Jesu! The sounds come this way now. Victory! The guns have quit, the infidels fly, on their heels ride the cavaliers. Victory!”

And so, intent upon the conflict, insensibly he approached the front of the temple, before described as one great stairway. On the topmost step he paused. A man looking at him from the street below would have said, “It is only a paba”; and considering, further, that he was a paba serving the forsaken shrine, he would have passed by without a second look.

What he looked down upon was a broad street, crowded with men,—not citizens, but warriors, and warriors in such splendor of costume that he was fairly dazzled. Their movement suggested a retreat, whereat pride dashed his eyes with the spray of tears; he dared not shout.

More and more eagerly he listened to the coming tumult. At last, finding the attraction irresistible, he descended the steps.

The enemy were not in rout. They moved rapidly, but in ranks extending the width of the street, and perfectly ordered. The right of their column swept by the Spaniard almost within arm’s reach. He heard the breathing of the men, saw their arms,—their shields of quilted cotton, embossed with brass; their armor, likewise of quilted cotton, but fire-red with the blood of the cochineal; he saw their musicians, drummers, and conch-blowers, the latter making a roar ragged and harsh, and so loud that a groan or death-shriek could not be heard; he saw, too, their chiefs, with helms richly plumed or grotesquely adorned with heads of wild animals, with escaupiles of plumage, gorgeous as hues of sunset, with lances and maquahuitls, and shields of bison-hide or burnished silver, mottoed and deviced, like those of Christians; amongst them, also, he saw pabas, bareheaded, without arms, frocked like himself, singing wild hymns, or chanting wilder epics, or shouting names of heroic gods, or blessing the brave and cursing the craven,—the Sun for the one, Mictlan for the other. The seeing all these things, it must be remembered, was very different from their enumeration; but a glance was required.

The actual struggle, as he knew, was at the rear of the passing column. In fancy he could see horsemen plunging through the ranks, plying sword, lance, and battle-axe. And nearer they came. He could tell by the signs, as well as the sounds; by the files beginning to crowd each other; by the chiefs laboring to keep their men from falling into confused masses. At length the bolt of a cross-bow, striking a man, fell almost at his feet. Only the hand of a Spaniard could have launched the missile.

“They come,—they are almost here!” he thought, and then, “O Madre de Dios! If they drive the infidels past this temple, I am saved. And they will. Don Pedro’s blood is up, and in pursuit he thinks of nothing but to slay, slay. They will come; they are coming! There—Jesu Christo! That was a Christian shout!”

The cross-bow bolts now came in numbers. The warriors protected themselves by holding their shields over the shoulder behind; yet some dropped, and were trampled under foot. Orteguilla was himself in danger, but his suspense was so great that he thought only of escape; each bolt was a welcome messenger, with tidings from friends.

The column, meantime, seemed to become more disordered; finally, its formation disappeared utterly; chiefs and warriors were inextricably mixed together; the conch-blowers blew hideously, but could not altogether drown the yells of the fighting men.

Directly the page saw a rush, a parting in the crowd as of waters before a ship; scores of dark faces, each a picture of dismay, turned suddenly to look back; he also looked, and over the heads and upraised shields, half obscured by a shower of stones and arrows, he saw a figure which might well have been taken for the fiend of slaughter,—a horse and rider, in whose action there were a correspondence and unity that made them for the time one fighting animal. A frontleted head, tossed up for a forward plunge, was what he saw of the horse; a steel-clad form, swinging a battle-axe with the regularity of a machine, now to the right, now to the left of the horse’s neck, was all he saw of the rider. He fell upon his knees, muttering what he dared not shout, “Don Pedro, brave gentleman! I am saved! I am saved!” Instantly he sprang to his feet. “O my God! Tecetl,—I had almost forgotten her!”

He climbed the steps again fast as the gown would permit.

“My poor girl, come; the Mother offers us rescue. Can you not see a little?”

She smiled faintly, and replied, “I cannot say. I have tried to look at Quetzal’ here. He was said to be very beautiful; my father always so described him; but this thing is ugly. I fear I cannot see.”

“It is a devil’s image, Tecetl, a devil’s image,—Satan himself,” said the page, vehemently. “Let him not lose us a moment; for each one is of more worth to us than the gold on his shield there. If you cannot see, give me your hand. Come!”

He led her to the steps. The infidels below seemed to have held their ground awhile, fighting desperately. Eight or ten horsemen were driving them, though slowly; if one was struck down, another took his place. The street was dusty as with the sweeping of a whirlwind. Under the yellow cloud lay the dead and wounded. The air was alive with missiles, of which some flew above the temple, others dashed against the steps. It looked like madness to go down into such a vortex; but there was no other chance. What moment Don Pedro might tire of killing no one could tell; whenever he did, the recall would be sounded.

“What do I hear? What dreadful sounds!” said Tecetl, shrinking from the tumult.

“Battle,” he answered; “and what that is I have not time to tell; we must go down and see.”

He waited until the fighting was well past the front of the old Cû, leaving a space behind the cavaliers clear of all save those who might never fight again; then he threw back the hood, loosed the cord from his waist, and flung the disguise from him.

“Now, my pretty beadswoman, now is the time! Begin the prayer again: ‘O Mother, beautiful Mother, save us for Christ’s sake!’ Keep the count with one hand; put the other about my neck. Life or death,—now we go!”

He carried her down the steps. Over a number of wounded wretches who had dragged themselves, half dead, out of the blood and trample, he crossed the pavement. A horseman caught sight of him, and rode to his side, and lifted the battle-axe.

“Hold, Señor! I am Orteguilla. Viva España!”

The axe dropped harmless; up went the visor.

“In time, boy,—in time! An instant more, and thy soul had been in Paradise,” cried Alvarado, laughing heartily. “What hast thou there? Something from the temple? But stay not to answer. To the rear, fast as thy legs can carry thee! Faster! Put the baggage down. We are tired of the slaughter; but for thy sake, we will push the dogs a little farther. Begone! Or stay! Arrows are thicker here than curses in hell, and thou hast no armor. Take my shield, which I have not used to-day. Now be off!”

Orteguilla set the girl upon her feet, took the shield, and proceeded to buckle it upon his arm, while Alvarado rode into the fight again. A moment more, and he would have protected her with the good steel wall. Before he could complete the preparation, he heard a cry, quick, shrill, and sharp, that seemed to pierce his ear like a knife,—the cry by which one in battle announces himself death-struck,—the cry once heard, never forgotten. He raised the shield,—too late; she reeled and fell, dragging him half down.

“What ails thee now?” he cried, in Spanish, forgetting himself. “What ails thee? Hast thou looked at the sun again?”

He lifted her head upon his knee.

“Mother of Christ, she is slain!” he cried, in horror.

An arrow descending had gone through her neck to the heart. The blood gushed from her mouth. He took her in his arms, and carried her to the steps of the temple. As he laid her down, she tried to speak, but failed; then she opened her eyes wide: the light poured into them as into the windows of an empty house; the soul was gone; she was dead.

In so short a space habitant of three worlds,—when was there the like?

From the peace of the old chamber to the din of battle, from the din of battle to the calm of paradise,—brief time, short way!

From the sinless life to the sinful she had come; from the sinful life sinless she had gone; and in the going what fulness of the mercy of God!

I cannot say the Spaniard loved her; most likely his feeling was the simple affection we all have for things gentle and helpless,—a bird, a lamb, a child; now, however, he knelt over her with tears; and as he did so, he saw the rosary, and that all the beads but one were wet with her blood. He took the string from the slender neck and laid her head upon the stone, and thought the unstained bead was for a prayer uncounted,—a prayer begun on earth and finished in heaven.

CHAPTER XI.
THE PUBLIC OPINION PROCLAIMS ITSELF.—BATTLE.

The infidels, faced about, were coming back. The page gave them one glance, then caught the hand reached out to him, and placing his foot on the captain’s swung himself behind. At a word, up the street, over the bridges, by the palaces and temples, the horsemen galloped. The detachment, at the head of which they had sallied from the palace,—gunners, arquebusiers, and cross-bowmen,—had been started in return some time before; upon overtaking them, Alvarado rode to a broad-shouldered fellow, whose grizzly beard overflowed the chin-piece of his morion:—

“Ho, Mesa! the hounds we followed so merrily were only feigning; they have turned upon us. Do thou take the rear, with thy guns. We will to the front, and cut a path to the gate. Follow closely.”

“Doubt not, captain. I know the trick. I caught it in Italy.”

“Cierto! What thou knowest not about a gun is not worth the knowing,” Alvarado said; then to the page, “Dismount, lad, and take place with these. What we have ahead may require free man and free horse. Picaro! If anybody is killed, thou hast permission to use his arms. What say ye, compañeros mios?” he cried, facing the detachment. “What say ye? Here I bring one whom we thought roasted and eaten by the cannibals in the temples. Either he hath escaped by miracle, or they are not judges of bones good to mess upon. He is without arms. Will ye take care of him? I leave him my shield. Will ye take care of that also?”

And Najerra, the hunchback, replied, “The shield we will take, Señor; but—”

“But what?”

“Señor, may a Christian lawfully take what the infidels have refused?”

And they looked at Orteguilla, and laughed roundly,—the bold, confident adventurers; in the midst of the jollity, however, down the street came a sound deeper than that of the guns,—a sound of abysmal depth, like thunder, but without its continuity,—a divided, throbbing sound, such as has been heard in the throat of a volcano. Alvarado threw up his visor.

“What now?” asked Serrano, first to speak.

“One, two, three,—I have it!” the captain replied. “Count ye the strokes,—one, two, three. By the bones of the saints, the drum in the great temple! Forward, comrades! Our friends are in peril! If they are lost, so are we. Forward, in Christ’s name!”

Afterwards they became familiar with the sound; but now, heard the first time in battle, every man of them was affected. They moved off rapidly, and there was no jesting,—none of the grim wit with which old soldiers sometimes cover the nervousness preceding the primary plunge into a doubtful fight.

“Close the files. Be ready!” shouted Serrano.

And ready they were,—matches lighted, steel-cords full drawn. Every drum-beat welded them a firmer unit.

The roar of the combat in progress around the palace had been all the time audible to the returning party; now they beheld the teocallis covered with infidels, and the street blockaded with them, while a cloud of smoke, slowly rising and slowly fading, bespoke the toils and braveries of the defence enacting under its dun shade. Suddenly, Alvarado stood in his stirrups,—

“Ola! what have we here?”

A body of Aztecs, in excellent order, armed with spears of unusual length, and with a front that swept the street from wall to wall, was marching swiftly to meet him.

“There is wood enough in those spears to build a ship,” said a horseman.

A few steps on another spoke,—

“If I may be allowed, Señor, I suggest that Mesa be called up to play upon them awhile.”

But Alvarado’s spirit rose.

“No; there is an enemy fast coming behind us; turn thy ear in that direction, and thou mayest hear them already. We cannot wait. Battle-axe and horse first; if they fail, then the guns. Look to girth and buckle!”

Rode they then without halt or speech until the space between them and the coming line was not more than forty yards.

“Are ye ready?” asked Alvarado, closing his visor.

“Ready, Señor.”

“Axes, then! Follow me. Forward! Christo y Santiago!”

At the last word, the riders loosed reins, and standing in their stirrups bent forward over the saddle-bow, as well to guard the horse as to discover points of attack; each poised his shield to protect his breast and left side,—the axe and right arm would take care of the right side; each took up the cry, Christo y Santiago; then, like pillars of iron on steeds of iron, they charged. From the infidels one answering yell, and down they sank, each upon his knee; and thereupon, the spears, planted on the ground, presented a front so bristling that leader less reckless than Alvarado would have stopped in mid-career. Forward, foremost in the charge, he drove, right upon the brazen points, a score or more of which rattled against his mail or that of his steed, and glanced harmlessly, or were dashed aside by the axe whirled from right to left with wonderful strength and skill. Something similar happened to each of his followers. A moment of confusion,—man and beast in furious action, clang of blows, splintering of wood, and battle-cries,—then two results: the Christians were repulsed, and that before the second infidel rank had been reached; and while they were in amongst the long spears, fencing and striking, clear above the medley of the mêlée they heard a shout, Al-a-lala! Al-a-lala! Alvarado looked that way; looked through the yellow shafts and brazen points. Brief time had he; yet he beheld and recognized the opposing leader. Behind the kneeling ranks he stood, without trappings, without a shield even; a maquahuitl, edged with flint, sharp as glass, hard as steel, was his only weapon; behind him appeared an irregular mass of probably half a thousand men, unarmed and almost naked. Even as the good captain looked, the horde sprang forward, and by pressing between the files of spearmen, or leaping panther-like over their shoulders, gained the front. There they rushed upon the horsemen, entangled amidst the spears,—to capture, not slay them; for, by the Aztec code of honor, the measure of a warrior’s greatness was the number of prisoners he brought out of battle, a present to the gods, not the number of foemen he slew. The rush was like that of wolves upon a herd of deer. First to encounter a Christian was the chief. The exchange of blows was incredibly quick. The horse reared, plunged blindly, then rolled upon the ground; the flinty maquahuitl, surer than the axe, had broken its leg. A cry, sharpened by mortal terror,—a Spanish cry for help, in the Mother’s name. Christians and infidels looked that way, and from the latter burst a jubilant yell,—

“The ’tzin! The ’tzin!”

The successful leader stooped, and wrenched the shield from the fallen man; then he swung the maquahuitl twice, and brought it down on the mailed head of the horse: the weapon broke in pieces; the steed lay still forever.

Now, Alvarado was not the man to let the cry of a comrade go unheeded.

“Turn, gentlemen! One of us is down; hear ye not the name of Christ and the Mother? To the rescue! Charge! Christo y Santiago!”

Forward the brave men spurred; the spears closed around them as before, while the unarmed foe, encouraged by the ’tzin’s achievement, redoubled their efforts to drag them from their saddles. In disregard of blows, given fast as skilled hands could rise and fall, some flung themselves upon the legs and necks of the horses, where they seemed to cling after the axe had spattered their brains or the hoofs crushed their bones; some caught the bridle-reins, and hung to them full weight; others struggled with the riders directly, hauling at them, leaping behind them, catching sword-arm and shield; and so did the peril finally grow that the Christians were forced to give up the rescue, the better to take care of themselves.

“God’s curses upon the dogs!” shouted Alvarado, in fury at sight of the Spaniard dragged away. “Back, some of ye, who can, to Serrano! Bid him advance. Quick, or we, too, are lost!”

No need; Serrano was coming. To the very spears he advanced, and opened with cross-bow and arquebus; yet the infidels remained firm. Then the dullest of the Christians discerned the ’tzin’s strategy, and knew well, if the line in front of them were not broken before the companies coming up the street closed upon their rear, they were indeed lost. So at the word, Mesa came, his guns charged to the muzzles. To avoid his own people, he sent one piece to the right of the centre of combat, and the other to the left, and trained both to obtain the deepest lines of cross-fire. The effect was indescribable; yet the lanes cloven through the kneeling ranks were instantly refilled.

The ’tzin became anxious.

“Look, Hualpa!” he said. “The companies should be up by this time. Can you see them?”

“The smoke is too great; I cannot see.”

Some of his people attacking the horsemen began to retreat behind the spearmen. He caught up the axe of the Spaniard, and ran where the smoke was most blinding. In a moment he was at the front; clear, inspiring, joyous even, rose his cry. He rushed upon a bowman, caught him in his arms, and bore him off with all his armor on. A hundred ready hands seized the unfortunate. Again the cry,—

“The ’tzin! The ’tzin!”

“Another victim for the gods!” he answered. “Hold fast, O my countrymen! Behind the strangers come the companies. Do what I say, and Anahuac shall live.”

At his word, they arose; at his word again, they advanced, with levelled spears. Faster the missiles smote them; the horsemen raged; each Spaniard felt, unless that line were broken his doom was come. Alvarado fought, never thinking of defence. The bowmen and arquebusiers recoiled. Twice Mesa drew back his guns. Finally, Don Pedro outdid himself, and broke the fence of spears; his troop followed him; right and left they plunged, killing at every step. At places, the onset of the infidels slackened, halted; then the ranks began to break into small groups; at last, they dropped their arms, and fairly fled, bearing the ’tzin away in the mighty press for life. At their backs rode the vengeful horsemen, and behind the horsemen, over the dead and shrieking wretches, moved Serrano and Mesa.

And to the very gates of the palace the fight continued. A ship in its passage displaces a body of water; behind, however, follows an equal reflux: so with the Christians, except that the masses who closed in upon their rear outnumbered those they put to rout in front. Their rapid movement had the appearance of flight; on the other hand, that of the infidels had the appearance of pursuit. The sortie was not again repeated.

Seven days the assault went on,—a week of fighting, intermitted only at night, under cover of which the Aztecs carried off their dead and wounded,—the former to the lake, the latter to the hospitals. Among the Christians some there were who had seen grand wars; some had even served under the Great Captain: but, as they freely averred, never had they seen such courage, devotion, and endurance, such indifference to wounds and death, as here. At times, the struggle was hand to hand; then, standing upon their point of honor, the infidels perished by scores in vain attempts to take alive whom they might easily have slain; and this it was,—this fatal point of honor,—more than superiority in any respect, that made great battles so bloodless to the Spaniards. Still, nearly all of the latter were wounded, a few disabled, and seven killed outright. Upon the Tlascalans the losses chiefly fell; hundreds of them were killed; hundreds more lay wounded in the chambers of the palace.