The wonders of the way from the coast to Iztapalapan had so beguiled the little host that they took but partial account of its dangers. When, this morning, they stepped upon the causeway, and began the march out into the lake, a sense of insecurity fell upon them, like the shadow of a cloud; back to the land they looked, as to a friend from whom they might be parting forever; and as they proceeded, and the water spread around them, wider, deeper, and up-bearing denser multitudes of people, the enterprise suddenly grew in proportions, and challenged their self-sufficiency; yet, as I have heard them confess, they did not wake to a perfect comprehension of their situation, and its dangers and difficulties, until they passed the gates of Xoloc: then Tenochtitlan shone upon them,—a city of enchantment! And then each one felt that to advance was like marching in the face of death, at the same time each one saw there was no hope except in advance. Every hand grasped closer the weapon with which it was armed, while the ranks were intuitively closed. What most impressed them, they said, was the silence of the people; a word, a shout, a curse, or a battle-cry would have been a relief from the fears and fancies that beset them; as it was, though in the midst of myriad life, they heard only their own tramp, or the clang and rattle of their own arms. As if aware of the influence, and fearful of its effect upon his weaker followers, Cortes spoke to the musicians, and trumpet and clarion burst into a strain which, with beat of drum and clash of cymbal, was heard in the city.

“Ola, Sandoval, Alvarado! Here, at my right and left!” cried Cortes.

They spurred forward at the call.

“Out of the way, dog!” shouted Sandoval, thrusting a naked tamene over the edge of the dike with the butt of his lance.

“By my conscience, Señores,” Cortes said, “I think true Christian in a land of unbelievers never beheld city like this. If it be wrong to the royal good knight, Richard, of England, or that valorous captain, the Flemish Duke Godfrey, may the saints pardon me; but I dare say the walled towns they took, and, for that matter, I care not if you number Antioch and the Holy City of the Sepulchre among them, were not to be put in comparison with this infidel stronghold.”

And as they ride, listening to his comments, let me bring them particularly to view.

They were in full armor, except that Alvarado’s squire carried his helmet for him. In preparation for the entry, their skilful furbishers had well renewed the original lustre of helm, gorget, breastplate, glaive, greave, and shield. The plumes in their crests, like the scarfs across their breasts, had been carefully preserved for such ceremonies. At the saddle-bows hung heavy hammers, better known as battle-axes. Rested upon the iron shoe, and balanced in the right hand, each carried a lance, to which, as the occasion was peaceful, a silken pennon was attached. The horses, opportunely rested in Iztapalapan, and glistening in mail, trod the causeway as if conscious of the terror they inspired.

Cortes, between his favorite captains, rode with lifted visor, smiling and confident. His complexion was bloodless and ashy, a singularity the more noticeable on account of his thin, black beard. The lower lip was seamed with a scar. He was of fine stature, broad-shouldered, and thin, but strong, active, and enduring. His skill in all manner of martial exercises was extraordinary. He conversed in Latin, composed poetry, wrote unexceptionable prose, and, except when in passion, spoke gravely and with well-turned periods.[41] In argument he was both dogmatic and convincing, and especially artful in addressing soldiers, of whom, by constitution, mind, will, and courage, he was a natural leader. Now, gay and assured, he managed his steed with as little concern and talked carelessly as a knight returning victorious from some joyous passage of arms.

Gonzalo de Sandoval, not twenty-three years of age, was better looking, having a larger frame and fuller face. His beard was auburn, and curled agreeably to the prevalent fashion. Next to his knightly honor, he loved his beautiful chestnut horse, Motilla.[42]

Handsomest man of the party, however, was Don Pedro de Alvarado. Generous as a brother to a Christian, he hated a heathen with the fervor of a crusader. And now, in scorn of Aztecan treachery, he was riding unhelmed, his locks, long and yellow, flowing freely over his shoulders. His face was fair as a gentlewoman’s, and neither sun nor weather could alter it. Except in battle, his countenance expressed the friendliest disposition. He cultivated his beard assiduously, training it to fall in ringlets upon his breast,—and there was reason for the weakness, if such it was; yellow as gold, with the help of his fair face and clear blue eyes, it gave him a peculiar expression of sunniness, from which the Aztecs called him Tonitiah, child of the Sun.[43]

And over what a following of cavaliers the leader looked when, turning in his saddle, he now and then glanced down the column,—Christobal de Oli, Juan Velasquez de Leon, Francisco de Montejo, Luis Marin, Andreas de Tapia, Alonzo de Avila, Francisco de Lugo, the Manjarezes, Andreas and Gregorio, Diego de Ordas, Francisco de Morla, Christobal de Olea, Gonzalo de Dominguez, Rodriques Magarino, Alonzo Hernandez Carrero,—most of them gentlemen of the class who knew the songs of Rodrigo, and the stories of Amadis and the Paladins!

And much shame would there be to me if I omitted mention of two others,—Bernal Diaz del Castillo, who, after the conquest, became its faithful historian, and Father Bartolomé de Olmedo,[44] sweet singer, good man, and devoted servant of God, the first to whisper the names of Christ and the Holy Mother in the ear of New Spain. In the column behind the cavaliers, with his assistant, Juan de las Varillas, he rode bareheaded, and clad simply in a black serge gown. The tinkle of the little silver bell, which the soldiers, in token of love, had tied to the neck of his mule, sounded, amid the harsher notes of war, like a gentle reminder of shepherds and grazing flocks in peaceful pastures near Old World homes.

After the holy men, in care of a chosen guard of honor, the flag of Spain was carried; and then came the artillery, drawn by slaves; next, in close order, followed the cross-bowmen and arquebusiers, the latter with their matches lighted. Rearward still, in savage pomp and pride, strode the two thousand Tlascalans, first of their race to bear shield and fly banner along the causeway into Tenochtitlan. And so the Christians, in order of battle, but scarcely four hundred strong, marched into a capital of full three hundred thousand inhabitants, swollen by the innumerable multitudes of the valley.

As they drew nigh the city, the cavaliers became silent and thoughtful. With astonishment, which none of them sought to conceal, they gazed at the white walls and crowded houses, and, with sharpened visions, traced against the sky the outlines of temples and temple-towers, more numerous than those of papal Rome. Well they knew that the story of what they saw so magnificently before them would be received with incredulity in all the courts of Christendom. Indeed, some of the humbler soldiers marched convinced that all they beheld was a magical delusion. Not so Cortes.

“Ride on, gentlemen, ride on!” he said. “There is a question I would ask of a good man behind us. I will rejoin you shortly.”

From the artillerists he singled a soldier.

“Martin Lopez! Martin Lopez!”

The man came to him.

“Martin, look out on this lake. Beareth it resemblance to the blue bays on the southern shore of old Spain? As thou art a crafty sailor, comrade mine, look carefully.”

Lopez raised his morion, and, leaning on his pike, glanced over the expanse.

“Señor, the water is fair enough, and, for that, looks like bayous I have seen without coming so far; but I doubt if a two-decker could float on it long enough for Father Olmedo to say mass for our souls in peril.”

“Peril! Plague take thee, man! Before the hour of vespers, by the Blessed Lady, whose image thou wearest, this lake, yon city, its master, and all thou seest here, not excepting the common spawn of idolatry at our feet, shall be the property of our sovereign lord. But, Martin Lopez, thou hast hauled sail and tacked ship in less room than this. What say’st thou to sailing a brigantine here?”

The sailor’s spirit rose; he looked over the lake again.

“It might be done, it might be done!”

“Then, by my conscience, it shall be! Confess thyself an Admiral to-night.”

And Cortes rode to the front. Conquest might not be, he saw, without vessels; and true to his promise, it came to pass that Lopez sailed, not one, but a fleet of brigantines on the gentle waters.

When the Christians were come to the first bridge outside the walls, their attention was suddenly drawn from the city. Down the street came Montezuma and his retinue. Curious as they were to see the arch-infidel, the soldiers kept their ranks; but Cortes, taking with him the cavaliers, advanced to meet the monarch. When the palanquin stopped, the Spaniards dismounted. About the same time an Indian woman, of comely features, came forward.

“Stay thou here, Marina,” said Cortes. “I will embrace the heathen, then call thee to speak to him.”

“Jésu!” cried Alvarado. “There is gold enough on his litter to furnish a cathedral.”

“Take thou the gold, Señor; I choose the jewels on his mantle,” said De Ordas.

“By my patron saint of excellent memory!” said Sandoval, lisping his words, “I think for noble cavaliers ye are easily content. Take the jewels and the gold; but give me that train of stalwart dogs, and a plantation worthy of my degree here by Tezcuco.”

So the captains talked.

Meantime, the cotton cloth was stretched along the dike. Then on land and sea a hush prevailed.

Montezuma came forward supported by the lords Cuitlahua and Cacama. Cortes met him half-way. When face to face, they paused, and looked at each other. Alas, for the Aztec then! In the mailed stranger he beheld a visitant from the Sun,—a god! The Spaniard saw, wrapped in the rich vestments, only a man,—a king, yet a heathen! He opened his arms: Montezuma stirred not. Cuitlahua uttered a cry to Huitzil’, and caught one of the extended arms. Long did Cortes keep in mind the cacique’s look at that moment; long did he remember the dark brown face, swollen with indignation and horror. Alvarado laid his hand on his sword.

“Peace, Don Pedro!” said Cortes. “The knave knows nothing of respectable customs. Instead of taking to thy sword, bless the Virgin that a Christian knight hath been saved the sin of embracing an unbeliever. Call Marina.”

The woman came, and stood by the Spaniard, and in a sweet voice interpreted the speeches. The monarch expressed delight at seeing his visitors, and welcomed them to Tenochtitlan; his manner and courteous words won even Alvarado. Cortes answered, acknowledging surprise at the beauty and extent of the city, and in token of his gratification at being at last before a king so rich and powerful begged him to accept a present. Into the royal hand he then placed a string of precious stones, variously colored, and strongly perfumed with musk. Thereupon the ceremony ended. Two of the princes were left to conduct the strangers to their quarters. Resuming his palanquin, Montezuma himself led the procession as far as his own palace.

And Cortes swung himself into the saddle. “Let the trumpets sound. Forward!”

Again the music,—again the advance; then the pageant passed from the causeway and lake into the expectant city.

Theretofore, the Christians had been silent from discipline, now they were silent from wonder. Even Cortes held his peace. They had seen the irregular towns of Tlascala, and the pretentious beauty of Cholula, and Iztapalapan, in whose streets the lake contended with the land for mastery, yet were they unprepared for Tenochtitlan. Here, it was plain, wealth and power and time and labor, under the presidency of genius, had wrought their perfect works, everywhere visible: under foot, a sounding bridge, or a broad paved way, dustless, and unworn by wheel or hoof; on the right and left, airy windows, figured portals, jutting balconies, embattled cornices, porticos with columns of sculptured marble, and here a palace, there a temple; overhead pyramidal heights crowned with towers and smoking braziers, or lower roofs, from which, as from hanging gardens, floated waftures sweet as the perfumed airs of the Indian isles; and everywhere, looking up from the canals, down from the porticos, houses, and pyramids, and out of the doors and windows, crowding the pavement, clinging to the walls,—everywhere the People! After ages of decay I know it has been otherwise; but I also know that conquerors have generally found the builders of a great state able and willing to defend it.

“St. James absolve me, Señor! but I like not the coldness of these dogs,” said Monjarez to Avila.

“Nor I,” was the reply. “Seest thou the women on yon balcony? I would give my helmet full of ducats, if they would but once cry, “Viva España!”

“Nay, that would I if they would but wave a scarf.”

The progress of the pageant was necessarily slow; but at last the spectators on the temple of Huitzil’ heard its music; at last the daughters of the king beheld it in the street below them.

“Gods of my fathers!” thought Tula, awed and trembling, “what manner of beings are these?”

And the cross-bowmen and arquebusiers, their weapons and glittering iron caps, the guns, and slaves that dragged them, even the flag of Spain,—objects of mighty interest to others,—drew from Nenetzin but a passing glance. Very beautiful to her, however, were the cavaliers, insomuch that she cared only for their gay pennons, their shields, their plumes nodding bravely above their helms, their armor of strange metal, on which the sun seemed to play with a fiery love, and their steeds, creatures tamed for the service of gods. Suddenly her eyes fixed, her heart stopped; pointing to where the good Captain Alvarado rode, scanning, with upturned face, the great pile, “O Tula, Tula!” she cried. “See! There goes the blue-eyed warrior of my dream!”

But it happened that Tula was, at the moment, too much occupied to listen or look. The handsome vendor of images, standing near the royal party, had attracted the attention of Yeteve, the priestess.

“The noble Tula is unhappy. She is thinking of—”

A glance checked the name.

Then Yeteve whispered, “Look at the image-maker.”

The prompting was not to be resisted. She looked, and recognized Guatamozin. Not that only; through his low disguise, in his attitude, his eyes bright with angry fire, she discerned his spirit, its pride and heroism. Not for her was it to dispute the justice of his banishment. Love scorned the argument. There he stood, the man for the time; strong-armed, stronger-hearted, prince by birth, king by nature, watching afar off a scene in which valor and genius entitled him to prominence. Then there were tears for him, and a love higher, if not purer, than ever.

Suddenly he leaned over the verge, and shouted, “Al-a-lala! Al-a-lala!” and with such energy that he was heard in the street below. Tula looked down, and saw the cause of the excitement,—the Tlascalans were marching by! Again his cry, the same with which he had so often led his countrymen to battle. No one took it up. The companies inside the sacred wall turned their faces, and stared at him in dull wonder. And he covered his eyes with his hands, while every thought was a fierce invective. Little he then knew how soon, and how splendidly, they were to purchase his forgiveness!

When the Tlascalans were gone, he dropped his hands, and found the—mallet! So it was the artisan, the image-maker, not the ’tzin, who had failed to wake the army to war! He turned quickly, and took his way through the crowd, and disappeared; and none but Tula and Yeteve ever knew that, from the teocallis, Guatamozin had witnessed the entry of the teules.

And so poor Nenetzin had been left to follow the warrior of her dream; the shock and the pleasure were hers alone.

The palace of Axaya’ faced the temple of Huitzil’ on the west. In one of the halls Montezuma received Cortes and the cavaliers; and all their lives they recollected his gentleness, courtesy, and unaffected royalty in that ceremony. Putting a golden collar around the neck of his chief guest, he said, “This palace belongs to you, Malinche, and to your brethren. Rest after your fatigues; you have much need to do so. In a little while I will come again.”

And when he was gone, straightway the guest so honored proceeded to change the palace into a fort. Along the massive walls that encircled it he stationed sentinels; at every gate planted cannon; and, like the enemy he was, he began, and from that time enforced, a discipline sterner than before.

The rest of the day the citizens, from the top of the temple, kept incessant watch upon the palace. When the shades of evening were collecting over the city, and the thousands, grouped along the streets, were whispering of the incidents they had seen, a thunderous report broke the solemn stillness; and they looked at each other, and trembled, and called the evening guns of Cortes “Voices of the Gods.”

BOOK FIVE.

CHAPTER I
PUBLIC OPINION

“In my exile without a cause,” he next said, “I have learned to distinguish between the king and country. I have even reflected upon conditions when the choosing between them may become a duty. Far be they hence! but when they come, Anahuac shall have her son. To accomplish their purpose, the lords in the city rely upon their united power, which is nothing; with the signet in his hand, Maxtla alone could disperse their forces. There is that, however, by which what they seek can be wrought rightfully,—something under the throne, not above it, where they are looking, and only the gods are,—a power known to every ruler as his servant when wisely cared for, and his master when disregarded; public opinion we call it, meaning the judgment and will of the many. In this garb of artisan, I have been with the people all day, and for a purpose higher than sight of what I abhorred. I talked with them. I know them. In the march from Xoloc there was not a shout. In the awful silence, what of welcome was there? Honor to the people! Before they are conquered the lake will wear a red not of the sun! Imagine them of one mind, and zealous for war: how long until the army catches the sentiment? Imagine the streets and temples resounding with a constant cry, ‘Death to the strangers!’ how long until the king yields to the clamor? O comrade, that would be the lawful triumph of public opinion; and so, I say, war shall be.”

After that the ’tzin remained sunk in thought until the canoe touched the landing at his garden. Leaving the boatmen there, he proceeded, with Hualpa, to the palace. In his study, he said, “You have seen the head of the stranger whom I slew at Nauhtlan. I have another trophy. Come with me.”

Providing himself with a lamp, he led the way to what seemed a kind of workshop. Upon the walls, mixed with strange banners, hung all kinds of Aztec armor; a bench stood by one of the windows, covered with tools; on the floor lay bows, arrows, and lances, of such fashion as to betray the experimentalist. The corners were decorated, if the term may be used, with effigies of warriors preserved by the process peculiar to the people. In the centre of the room, a superior attraction to Hualpa, stood a horse, which had been subjected to the same process, but was so lifelike now that he could hardly think it dead. The posture chosen for the animal was that of partial repose, its head erect, its ears thrown sharply forward, its nostrils distended, the forefeet firmly planted; so it had, in life, often stood watching the approach or disappearance of its comrades. The housings were upon it precisely as when taken from the field.

“I promised there should be war,” the ’tzin said, when he supposed Hualpa’s wonder spent, “and that the people should bring it about. Now I say, that the opinion I rely upon would ripen to-morrow, were there not a thick cloud about it. The faith that Malinche and his followers are teules has spread from the palace throughout the valley. Unless it be dispelled, Anahuac must remain the prey of the spoiler. Mualox, the keeper of the old Cû of Quetzal’, taught me long ago, that in the common mind mystery can only be assailed by mystery; and that, O comrade, is what I now propose. This nameless thing here belonged to the stranger whom I slew at Nauhtlan. Come closer, and lay your hand upon it; mount it, and you may know how its master felt the day he rode it to death. There is his lance, there his shield, here his helm and whole array; take them, and learn what little is required to make a god of a man.”

For a moment he busied himself getting the property of the unfortunate Christian together; then he stopped before the Tihuancan, saying, “Let others choose their parts, O comrade. All a warrior may do, that will I. If the Empire must die, it shall be like a fighting man,—a hero’s song for future minstrels. Help me now. We will take the trophy to the city, and set it up in the tianguez along with the shield, arms, and armor. The rotting head in the summer-house we will fix near by on the lance. To-morrow, when the traders open their stalls, and the thousands so shamelessly sold come back to their bartering and business, a mystery shall meet them which no man can look upon and afterwards believe Malinche a god. I see the scene,—the rush of the people, their surprise, their pointing fingers. I hear the eager questions, ‘What are they?’ ‘Whence came they?’ I hear the ready answer, ‘Death to the strangers!’ Then, O comrade, will begin the Opinion, by force of which, the gods willing, we shall yet hear the drum of Huitzil’. Lay hold now, and let us to the canoe with the trophies.”

“If it be heavy as it seems, good ’tzin,” said Hualpa, stooping to the wooden slab which served as the base of the effigy, “I fear we shall be overtasked.”

“It is not heavy; two children could carry it. A word more before we proceed. In what I propose there is a peril aside from the patrols in the tianguez. Malinche will hear of—”

Hualpa laughed. “Was ever a victim sacrificed before he was caught?”

“Hear further,” said the ’tzin, gravely. “I took the king to the summer-house, and showed him the head, which he will recognize. Your heart, as well as mine, may pay the forfeit. Consider.”

“Lay hold, O ’tzin! Did you not but now call me comrade? Lay hold!”

Thereupon they carried the once good steed out to the landing. Then the ’tzin went to the kiosk for the Spaniard’s head, while Hualpa returned to the palace for the arms and equipments. The head, wrapped in a cloth, was dropped in the bow of the boat, and the horse and trappings carried on board. Trusting in the gods, the voyageurs pushed off, and were landed, without interruption, near the great tianguez.

CHAPTER II
A MESSAGE FROM THE GODS

“Ah, son of my friend!—Hark! Some maudlin fellow hallooes. The fool would like to end his sleep, hard enough out there, in the temple. But you,—where have you been?”

“Here, good Xoli, on this lounge.”

“The night? Ah! the pulque was too much for you. For your father’s sake, boy, I give you advice: To be perfectly happy in Tenochtitlan, it is necessary to remember, first, how the judges punish drunkenness; next, that there is no pure liquor in the city except in the king’s jars, and—There, the shout again! two of them! a third!”

And the broker also looked out of the portico.

“Holy gods, what a smoke! There go some sober citizens, neighbors of mine,—and running. Something of interest! Come, Hualpa, let us go also. The times are wonderful. You know there are gods in Tenochtitlan besides those we worship. Come!”

“I am hungry.”

“I will feed you to bursting when we get back. Come on.”

As they left the portico, people were hastening to the centre of the square, where the outcry was now continuous and growing.

“Room for the Chalcan!” said a citizen, already on the ground. “Let him see what is here fallen from the clouds.”

Great was the astonishment of the broker when his eyes first rested on the stately figure of the horse, and the terrible head on the lance above it. Hualpa affected the same feeling, but, having a part to play, shouted, as in alarm,—

“It is one of the fighting beasts of Malinche! Beware, O citizens! Your lives may be in danger.”

The crowd, easily persuaded, fell back.

“Let us get arms!” shouted one.

“Arms! Get arms!” then rose, in full chorus.

Hualpa ventured nearer, and cried out, “The beast is dead!”

“Keep off, boy!” said Xoli, himself at a respectable distance. “Trust it not; such things do not die.”

Never speech more opportune for the Tihuancan.

“Be it of the earth or Sun, I tell you, friends, it is dead,” he replied, more loudly. “Who knows but that the holy Huitzil’ has set it up here to be seen of all of us, that we may know Malinche is not a god. Is there one among you who has a javelin?”

A weapon was passed to him over the heads of the fast increasing crowd.

“Stand aside! I will see.”

Without more ado, the adventurer thrust deep in the horse’s flank. Those directly about held their breath from fear; and when the brute stirred not, they looked at each other, not knowing what to say. That it was dead, was past doubt.

“Who will gainsay me now?” continued Hualpa. “It is dead, and so is he to whom yon head belonged. Gods fall not so low.”

It was one of those moments when simple minds are easily converted to any belief.

“Gods they are not,” said a voice in the throng; “but whence came they?”

“And who put them here?” asked another.

Hualpa answered swiftly,—

“Well said! The gods speak not directly to those whom they would admonish or favor. And if this be the handiwork of Huitzil’,—and what more likely?—should we not inquire if it have a meaning? It may be a message. Is there a reader of pictures among you, friends?”

“Here is one!”

“Let him come! Make way for him!”

A citizen, from his dress a merchant, was pushed forward.

“What experience have you?”

“I studied in the calmecac!”[45]

The man raised his eyes to the head on the lance, and they became transfixed with horror.

“Look, then, to what we have here, and, saying it is a message from the holy Huitzil’, read it for us. Speak out, that all may hear.”

The citizen was incapable of speech, and the people cried out, “He is a shame to the heroic god! Off with him, off with him!”

But Hualpa interfered. “No. He still believes Malinche a god. Let him alone! I can use him.” Then he spoke to the merchant. “Hear me, my friend, and I will read. If I err, stop me.”

“Read, read!” went up on all sides.

Hualpa turned to the group as if studying it. Around him fell the silence of keen expectancy.

“Thus writes Huitzil’, greatest of gods, to the children of Anahuac, greatest of peoples!”—so Hualpa began. “‘The strangers in Tenochtitlan are my enemies, and yours, O people. They come to overthrow my altars, and make you a nation of slaves. You have sacrificed and prayed to me, and now I say to you, Arise! Take arms before it is too late. Malinche and his followers are but men. Strike them, and they will die. To convince you that they are not gods, lo! here is one of them dead. So I say, slay them, and everything that owns them master, even the beasts they ride!’—Ho, friend, is not that correct?”

“So I would have read,” said the merchant.

“Praised be Huitzil’!” cried Hualpa, devoutly.

“Live the good god of our fathers! Death to the strangers!” answered the people.

And amid the stir and hum of many voices, the comrade of the ’tzin, listening, heard his words repeated, and passed from man to man; so that he knew his mission done, and that by noon the story of the effigy would be common throughout the city, and in flight over the valley, with his exposition of its meaning accepted and beyond counteraction.

After a while the Chalcan caught his arm, saying, “The smell is dreadful to a cultivated nose sharpened by an empty stomach. Snuff for one, breakfast for the other. Let us go.”

Hualpa followed him.

“Who is he? who is he?” asked the bystanders, eagerly.

“Him! Not know him! It is the brave lad who slew the tiger and saved the king’s life.”

And the answer was to the exposition like an illuminated seal to a royal writ.

Morning advanced, curtained with clouds; and, as the account of the spectacle flew, the multitude in the tianguez increased, until there was not room left for business. All who caught the news hurried to see the sight, and for themselves read the miraculous message of Huitzil’. The clamor of tongues the while was like the clamor of waves, and not singularly; for thus was fought the first great battle,—the battle of the mysteries,—and with this result: if a believer in the divinity of Cortes looked once at the rotting head on the lance, he went away of the ’tzin’s opinion, impatient for war.

About noon a party of Spaniards, footmen, armed and out inspecting the city, entered the square. The multitude daunted them not the least. Talking, sometimes laughing, they sauntered along, peering into the open booths and stalls, and watching with practised eyes for gold.

“Holy mass!” exclaimed one of them, stopping. “The heathen are at sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice, saidst thou? This is their market-place.”

“That as thou wilt. I tell thee they have been at worship. My eyes are not dim as my mother’s, who was past fifty the day we sailed from Cuba,—may the saints preserve her! If they were, yet could I swear that yonder hangs the head of a victim.”

Over the restless crowd they looked at the ghastly object, eager yet uncertain.

“Now I bethink me, the poor wretch who hath suffered the death may have been one of the half-assoilzied sons of Tlascala. If we are in a stronghold of enemies, as I have concluded from the wicked, Carib looks of these savages, Heaven and St. James defend us! We are a score with weapons; in the Mother’s name, let us to the bloody sign!”

The unarmed mass into which, without further consideration, they plunged, was probably awed by the effrontery of the movement, for the leader had not once occasion to shorten his advancing step. Halted before the spectacle, they looked first at the horse, then at the head. Remembrance was faithful: in one, they recognized the remains of a comrade; in the other, his property.

“Arguella, Arguella! Good captain! Santa Maria!” burst from them.

As they gazed, tears of pity and rage filled their eyes, and coursed down their bronzed cheeks.

“Peace!” said the sterner fellow at whose suggestion they had come. “Are ye soldiers, or whimpering women? Do as I bid! Save your tears for Father Bartolomé to mix with masses for the poor fellow’s soul. Look to the infidels! I will take down the head.”

He lowered the lance, and took off the loathsome object.

“We will carry it to the Señor Hernan. It shall have burial, and masses, and a cross. Hands to the horse now! Arguella loved it well; many a day I have seen him comb its mane kindly as if it had been the locks of his sweetheart. Nay, it is too unwieldy. Let it stand, but take the armor. Hug the good sword close. Heaven willing, it shall redden in the carcasses of some of these hounds of hell. Are we ready? To quarters, then! As we go, mark the unbelievers, and cleave the first that lifts a hand or bars the way.”

They reached the old palace in safety. Needless to depict the grief and rage of the Christians at sight of the countenance of the unfortunate Arguella.

CHAPTER III
HOW ILLS OF STATE BECOME ILLS OF SOCIETY

“Then why is she so provoking?”

“My brother, you know not what it is for a girl to find her lover. Nenetzin has found hers.”

“It is to talk about him I want to see her.”

“You know him! How? when?”

“Do I not see him every day? Is he not my comrade?”

“Your comrade!”

“The lord Hualpa! He came to you once with a message from the ’tzin.”

To a woman, the most interesting stories are those that have to do with the gentle passion. Seeing his mistake, she encouraged it.

“Yes, I remember him. He is both brave and handsome.”

Io’ left the vase, and came to her side. His curiosity was piqued.

“How came you to know he was her lover? He would hardly confess it to me.”

“Yet he did tell you?” she answered, evasively.

“Yes. One day, tired of practising with our slings, we lay down in the shade of a ceiba-tree. We talked about what I should do when I became a man. I should be a warrior, and command armies, and conquer Tlascala; he should be a warrior also, and in my command. That should not be, I told him, as he would always be the most skilful. He laughed, but not as merrily as I have heard him. Then he said, ‘There are many things you will have learned by that time; such as what rank is, and especially what it is to be of the king’s blood.’ I asked him why he spoke so. He said he would tell me some day, but not then. And I thought of the time we went to meet you at the chinampa, and of how he gave you a vase from the ’tzin, and one to Nenetzin from himself. Then I thought I understood him, but insisted on his telling. He put me off; at last he said he was a foolish fellow, and in his lonely haunts in Tihuanco had acquired a habit of dreaming, which was not broken as he would like. He had first seen Nenetzin at the Quetzal’ combat, and thought her handsomer than any one he had ever met. The day on the lake he ventured to speak to her; she smiled, and took his gift; and since that he had not been strong enough to quit thinking about her. It was great folly, he said. ‘Why so?’ I asked him. He hid his face in the grass, and answered, ‘I am the son of a merchant; she is of the king’s blood, and would mock me.’ ‘But,’ said I, ‘you are now noble, and owner of a palace.’ He raised his head, and looked at me; had she been there, she would not have mocked him. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘if I could only get her to cease thinking of me as the trader’s son!’ ‘Now you are foolish,’ I told him. ‘Did you not win your rank by fighting? Why not fight for’—Nenetzin, I was about to say, but he sprang up and ran off, and it was long before I could get him to speak of her again. The other day, however, he consented to let me try and find out what she thought of him. To-morrow I rejoin him; and if he asks me about her, what can I say?”

“So you wished to help your poor comrade. Tell me what you intended saying to her.”

“I intended to tell her how I was passing the time, and then to praise him for his courage and skill, his desire to be great, his gentleness—O, there are a thousand things to say!”

Tula smiled sorrowfully. “Did you imagine she would learn to love him from that?”

“Why not?” asked Io’, innocently.

“I cannot explain now; time will teach you. My brother, long will an Aztec woo before he wins our wayward sister!”

“Well,” he said, taking her hand, “what I wanted to say to her will come better from you. Ah, if you but knew him as I and the ’tzin do!”

“Does the ’tzin so love him?”

“Was he not a chosen messenger to you?”

She shook her head doubtfully. “I fear she is beyond our little arts. Fine speeches alone will not do. Though we painted him fair as Quetzal’, and set the picture before her every hour in the day, still it would not be enough. Does he come often to the city?”

“Never, except for the ’tzin.”

“We must get them together. Let me see,—ah, yes; the chinampa! We have not been there for a long time, and that will be an excuse for going to-morrow. You can bring the lord Hualpa, and I will take a minstrel, and have him sing, and tell stories of love and lovers.”

She stopped, and sighed, thinking, doubtless, how the ’tzin’s presence would add to the pleasure of the meeting. At that moment the curtain of the door was flung aside, and Nenetzin herself came in, looking vexed and pouting.

“Yesterday was too much for my sister,” said Tula, pleasantly. “I hope she is well again.”

“I slept poorly,” was the reply.

“If you are sick, we will send to the temples—”

“No, I hate the herb-dealers.”

“What ails you, Nenetzin?” asked Io’, irritated.

“Who would not be ailing, afflicted as I have been? One graceless fellow after another calling to see me, until I am out of patience!”

Io’ colored, and turned away.

“But what if they had news,” said Tula; “something from the strangers?”

Nenetzin’s face brightened. “What of them? Have they waited on our father?”

“Have they, Io’?” Tula asked.

He made no answer; he was angry.

“Well, well! what folly! You, Io’, I shall have to send back to the ’tzin; and, Nenetzin, fie! the young lords would be afraid to see you now.”

“The monkeys!”

Io’, without a word, left the room.

“You are too hard, Nenetzin. Our brother wants to be treated like a man. Many of the young lords are his friends. When you came in, he was telling me of the fine fellow who saved our father’s life.”

Nenetzin appeared uninterested.

“From Io’s account, he must be equal to the ’tzin. Have you forgotten him?”

“I have his vase somewhere.”

“Somewhere! I hope you have not lost it. I received one at the same time; there mine is,—that one filled with flowers.”

Nenetzin did not look.

“When he made you the gift, I think he meant more than a compliment. He is a lover to be proud of, and, sister, a smile might win him.”

“I do not care for lovers.”

“Not care to be loved?”

Nenetzin turned to her with tearful eyes. “Just now you said Io’ wanted to be treated as a man; for the same reason, O Tula, I want to be treated as a woman. I do want to be loved, but not as children are.”

Tula put her arm around her, lovingly. “Never mind. I will learn better afterwhile. I treat you as a child from habit, and because of the warm, sweet love of our childhood. O that the love would last always!”

They were silent then, each intent upon her separate thought, both unconscious that the path theretofore so peacefully travelled together was now divergent, and that the fates were leading them apart forever. Of all the evil angels of humanity, that one is the most cruel whose mission it is to sunder the loves of the household.

“Nenetzin, you have been crying,—over what? Lean on me, confide in me!”

“You will make light of what I say.”

“When was I a jester? You have had ills before, childish ills; if I did not mock them, am I likely to laugh at your woman’s troubles?”

“But this is something you cannot help.”

“The gods can.”

“A god is the trouble. I saw him, and love him better than any our father worships.”

Bold confirmation that of the elder sister’s fears. “You saw him?” she asked, musingly.

“And know him by name. Tonatiah, Tonatiah: is it not pretty?”

“Are you not afraid?”

“Of what? Him? Yes, but he is so handsome! You saw him also. Did you not notice his white forehead, and the brightness of his blue eyes, the sunshine of his face? As against him, ah, Tula! what are the lords you would have me love?”

“He is our father’s enemy.”

“His guest; he came by invitation.”

“All the gods of our race threaten him.”

“Yet I love him, and would quit everything to follow him.”

“Gods ask not the love we give each other.”

“You mean he would despise me. Never! I am the daughter of a king.”

“You are mad, Nenetzin.”

“Then love is madness, and I am very mad. O, I was so happy yesterday! Once I thought he saw me. It was when he was passing the coatapantli. The base artisan was shouting, and he heard him, or seemed to, for he raised his glance to the azoteas. My heart stood still; the air brightened around me; if I had been set down in the Sun itself, I could not have been happier.”

“Have you mentioned this to the queen Acatlan?”

“Why should I? I will choose my own love. No one, not even my mother, would object to the king Cacama: why should she when my choice is nobler, handsomer, mightier than he?”

“What do you know of the strangers?”

“Nothing. He is one of them; that is enough.”

“I meant of their customs; marriage, for instance.”

“The thought is new.”

“Tell me, Nenetzin: would you go with him, except as his wife?”

She turned away her glowing eyes, confused. “I know not what I would do. If I went with him except as his wife, our father would curse me, and my mother would die. I shudder; yet I remember how his look from a distance made me tremble with strange delight.”

“It was magic, like Mualox’s.”

“I do not know. I was about to say, if such was his power over me at a distance, what may it be near by? Could I refuse to follow him, if he should ask me face to face, as we now are?”

“Avoid him, then.”

“Stay here, as in a prison! Never look out of doors for fear of seeing him whom I confess I so love! And then, the music, marching, banquets: shall I lose them, and for such a cause?”

“Nenetzin, the strangers will not abide here in peace. War there will be. The gods have so declared, and in every temple preparation is now going on.”

“Who told you so?” the girl asked, tremulously.

“This morning I was in the garden, culling flowers. I met Mualox. He seemed sad. I saluted him, and gave him the sweetest of my collection, and said something about them as a cure for ills of the mind. ‘Thank you, daughter,’ he said, ‘the ills I mourn are your father’s. If you can get him to forego his thoughts of war against Malinche, do so at any price. If flowers influence him, come yourself, and bring your maidens, and gather them all for him. Leave not a bud in the garden.’ ‘Is he so bent on war?’ I asked. ‘That is he. In the temples every hand is making ready.’ ‘But my father counsels otherwise.’ The old man shook his head. ‘I know every purpose of his soul.’”

“And is that all?” asked Nenetzin.

“No. Have you not heard what took place in the tianguez this morning?”

And Tula told of the appearance of the horse and the stranger’s head; how nobody knew who placed them there; how they were thought to have come from Huitzil’, and with what design; and how the wish for war was spread, until the beggars in the street were clamoring. “War there will be, O my sister, right around us. Our father will lead the companies against Malinche. The ’tzin, Cuitlahua, Io’, and all we love best of our countrymen will take part. O Nenetzin, of the children of the Sun, will you alone side with the strangers? Tonatiah may slay our great father.”

“And yet I would go with him,” the girl said, slowly, and with sobs.

“Then you are not an Aztec,” cried Tula, pushing her away.

Nenetzin stepped back speechless, and throwing her scarf over her head, turned to go.

The elder sister sprang up, conscience-struck, and caught her. “Pardon, Nenetzin. I did not know what I was saying. Stay—”

“Not now. I cannot help loving the stranger.”

“The love shall not divide us; we are sisters!” And Tula clung to her passionately.

“Too late, too late!” sobbed Nenetzin.

And she passed out the door; the curtain dropped behind her; and Tula went to the couch, and wept as if her heart were breaking.

Not yet have all the modes in which ills of state become ills of society been written.

CHAPTER IV.
ENNUYÉ IN THE OLD PALACE.

“Out with it!”

“As thou.”

“Picaro! Only last night thou didst absolve me, and, by the Palmerins, I have just told my beads!”

“I think I have heard of the Palmerins,” said the priest, gravely; “indeed, I am certain of it; but I never heard of them as things to swear by before. Hast thou a license as coiner of oaths?”

“Cierto, father, thou dost remind me of my first purpose; which was to test thy knowledge of matters, both ancient and serious, outside of what thou callest the sermons of the schoolmen. And I will not take thee at disadvantage. O no! If I would play fairly with the vilest heathen, and slay him with none but an honest trick of the sword, surely I cannot less with thee.”

“Slay me!”

“That will I,—in a bout at dialectics. I will be fair, I say. I will begin by taking thee in a field which every knight hath traversed, if, perchance, he hath advanced so far in clerkliness as to read,—a field divided between heralds, troubadours, and poets, and not forbidden to monks; with which thou shouldst be well acquainted, seeing that, of late days at least, thou hast been more prone to knightly than saintly association!”

“Santa Maria!” said Olmedo, crossing himself. “It is our nature to be prone to things sinful.”

“I smell the cloister in thy words. Have at thee! Stay thy steps.”

The two had been pacing the roof of the palace during the foregoing passage. Both stopped now, and Alvarado said, “Firstly,—nay, I will none of that; numbering the heads of a discourse is a priestly trick. To begin, by my conscience!—ho, father, that oath offends thee not, for it is the Señor Hernan’s, and by him thou art thyself always ready to swear.”

“If thou wouldst not get lost in a confusion of ideas, to thy purpose quickly.”

“Thank thee. Who was Amadis de Gaul?”

“Hero of the oldest Spanish poem.”

“Right!” said the knight, stroking his beard. “And who was Oriana?”

“Heroine of the same story; more particularly, daughter of Lisuarte, King of England.”

“Thou didst reprove me for swearing by the Palmerins; who were they?”

“Famous knights, who founded chivalry by going about slaying dragons, working charities, and overthrowing armies of heathen, for the Mother’s sake.”

“Excellently answered, by my troth! I will have to lead thee into deeper water. Pass we the stories of Ruy Diaz, and Del Carpio, and Pelayo. I will even grant that thou hast heard of Hernan Gonzales; but canst thou tell in how many ballads his prowess hath been sung?”

Olmedo was silent.

“Already!” cried Alvarado, exultant. “Already! By the cross on my sword, I have heard of thirty. But to proceed. Omitting Roland, and Roncesvalles, and the brethren of the Round Table, canst thou tell me of the Seven Lords of Lares?”

“No. But there is a Lord of whom I can tell thee, and of whom it will be far more profitable for thee to inquire.”

“I knew a minstrel—a rare fellow—who had a wondrous voice and memory, and who sang fifteen songs all about the Lords of Lares; and he told me there were as many more. O, for the time of the true chivalry, when our Spanish people were song-lovers, and honor was of higher esteem than gold! In one respect, Olmedo, I am more Moslem than Christian.”

The padre crossed himself.

“Mahomet—so saith history—taught his warriors that Paradise lieth in the shade of crossing scimitars,—as unlike thy doctrine as a stone is unlike a plum. Picaro! It pleaseth me; it hardeneth the heart and grip; it is more inspiring than clarions and drums.”

Olmedo looked into the blue eyes of the knight, now unusually bright, and said, “Thou didst jest at my knowledge; now I ask thee, son, is it not better to have a mind full of saintly lore than one which nothing holds but swords and lances and high-bred steeds? What dost thou know but war?”

“The taste of good wine,” said Alvarado, seriously; “and by Sta. Agnes, holy father, I would I had my canteen full; the smoke from these dens is turning me into a Dutch sausage. Look to the towers of yon temple,—the great one just before us. How the clouds ascending from them poison the morning air! When my sword is at the throats of the fire-keepers, Heaven help me to slay them!”

Alvarado then took the tassels of the cord around the good man’s waist, and pulled him forward. “Come briskly, father! This roof is all the field left us for exercise; and much do I fear that we will dream many times of green meadows before we see them again.” Half dragging him, the knight lengthened his strides. “Step longer, father! Thou dost mince the pace, like a woman.”

“Hands off, irreverent!” cried the padre, holding back. “My feet are not iron-shod, like thine.”

“What! Didst thou not climb the mountains on the way hither barefooted? And dost now growl at these tiles? Last night Sandoval shod his mare, the gay Motilla, with silver, which he swore was cheaper, if not better, than iron. When next we take a morning trot, like this, cierto, I will borrow two of the precious shoes for thee.”

Olmedo’s gown, of coarse, black woollen serge, was not a garment a Greek, preparing for a race, would have chosen; the long skirts hampered his legs; he stumbled, and would have fallen, but for his tormentor.

“Stay thee, father! Hast been drinking? Not here shouldst thou kneel unless in prayer; and for that, bethink thee, house-tops are for none but Jews.” And the rough knight laughed heartily. “Nay, talking will tire thee,” he continued. “Take breath first. If my shield were at hand, I would fan thee. Or wouldst thou prefer to sit? or better still, to lie down? Do so, if thou wouldst truly oblige me; for, by my conscience, as Cortes sweareth, I have not done testing thy knowledge of worthy things outside the convent libraries. I will take thee into a new field, and ask of the Moorish lays; for, as thou shouldst know, if thou dost not, they have had their minstrels and heroes as fanciful and valiant as infidels ever were; in truth, but little inferior to the best of old Castile.”

Olmedo attempted to speak.

“Open not thy mouth, father, except to breathe. I will talk until thy tire is over. I was on the Moors. A fine race they were, bating always their religion. Of their songs, thou hast probably heard that mournful roundelay, the Loves of Gazul and Abindarraez; probably listened to Tales of the Arabian Nights, or to verses celebrating the tournaments in the Bivarrambla. Certainly, thou hast heard recitals of the rencontres, scimitar in hand, between the Zegris and Abencerrages. By Sta. Agnes! they have had warriors fit for the noblest songs. At least, father, thou knowest—” He stopped abruptly, while a lad mounted the roof and approached them, cap in hand.

“Excellent Señor, so it please thee, my master hath somewhat to say to thee in his chamber below. And”—crossing himself to Olmedo—“if the holy father will remember me in his next prayer, I will tell him that Bernal Diaz is looking for him.”

“Doth thy master want me also?”

“That is Diaz’s massage.”

“What can be in the wind now?” asked Alvarado, musingly.

“Hadst thou asked me that question—”

“Couldst thou have answered? Take the chance! What doth thy master intend?”

“Look, Don Pedro, and thou, good father,” replied the page; “look to the top of yon pile so ridiculously called a temple of—”

“Speak it, as thou lovest me,” cried Alvarado.

“Wilt thou pronounce it after me?”

“That will I; though, cierto, I will not promise my horse if I fail.”

“Huitzilpotchli,” said the boy, slowly.

“The saints defend us!” exclaimed the knight, crossing himself. “Where didst thou get so foul a name?”

“Of the Doña Marina. Well, the Señor Hernan, my master, designeth visiting those towers, and seeing what horrors they hold.”

Olmedo’s countenance became unusually grave. “Holy Mother, keep his temper in check, that nothing rash be done!”

Alvarado received the news differently. “Thou art a good boy, Orteguilla,” he said. “I owe thee a ducat. Remind me of the debt when next thou seest me with gold. Espiritu Santo! Now will I take the rust out of my knees, and the dull out of my head, and the spite from my stomach! Now will I give my sword, that hath hungered so long, to surfeit on the heart-eaters! Bien Quisto! What jargon didst thou use a moment ago when speaking of the temple?”

“Huitzilpotchli,” said the boy, laughing.

“Murrain take the idol, if only for his name’s sake! Come; we shall have a good time.”

The knight turned to descend. Orteguilla caught him by the mantle. “A word, Don Pedro.”

“Picaro! A thousand of them, quickly!”

“Thou didst promise me a ducat—”

“Truly, and thou shalt have it. Only wait till the division cometh, and thy master saith to me, ‘Take thy share.’”

“Thou hearest, father?”

“How! Dost doubt me?”

The boy stepped back. “No. Alvarado’s promise is good against the world. But dost thou not think the Señor Hernan will attack the temple?”

“Cierto, with horse, foot, guns, Tlascalans, and all.”

“He goeth merely on a visit, and by invitation of Montezuma, the king.”

Olmedo’s face relaxed, and he rubbed his hands; but the captain said, dismally, “By invitation! Picaro! Instead of the ducat, that for thy news!” And he struck open-handedly at the page, but with such good-will that the latter gave him wide margin the rest of the day.

CHAPTER V
ALVARADO FINDS THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD

Alvarado turned curtly, as if to say, “Explain thyself.”

“The gold in their ears and on their wrists, Señor,—there were thine eyes. And thou didst look as if summing up,—ear-rings, four; bracelets, six; sundries, three; total, thirteen ounces pure. Confess thee, confess thee!”

The laugh was loud and long.

I have already given the reader an idea of the tianguez, or market, whither Cortes, by request, was first conducted. It is sufficient to say now, that the exhibition of the jewellers attracted most attention; in front of their booths many of the footmen actually broke ranks, determined to satisfy themselves if all they there saw was indeed of the royal metal. Years after, they vaunted the sight as something surpassing all the cities of Europe could display.

Cortes occupied himself questioning the guides; for which purpose Marina was brought forward. Nothing of importance escaped him.

At one of the corners, while the interpreter was in the midst of a reply, Cortes’ horse suddenly stopped, startled by an obstacle in the way. Scarcely a lance-length off, pictures of terror, stood four slaves, richly liveried, and bearing a palanquin crowned by a green panache.

“By Our Lady, I will see what is here contained!”

So saying, Alvarado spurred impetuously forward. The guides threw themselves in his way; he nearly rode one of them down; and, laughing at the fright of the slaves, he drew aside the curtain of the carriage, and peered in.

“Jesu!” he cried, dropping the cloth, and reining his horse back.

“Hast thou the fiend there? Or only a woman?” asked Cortes.

“A paragon, an houri, your excellency! What a rude fellow I have been! She is frightened. Come hither, Marina. Say to the girl—”

“Not now, not now!” said Cortes, abruptly. “If she is pretty, thou wilt see her again.”

Alvarado frowned.

“What! angry?” continued the general. “Out on thee, captain! How can an untaught infidel, though paragon and houri, understand knightly phrases? What the merit of an apology in her eyes? Pass on!”

“Perhaps thou ’rt right. Stand aside! Out of the way there!” And as if to make amends, he cleared a passage for the slaves and their burden.

“To the devil all of ye!” he replied, to the laughter of his comrades. “Ye did not see her, nor know ye if she is old or young, harridan or angel.”

From the market, the column marched back to the great temple, with which, as it rose, broad and high, like a terraced hill, between the palace they occupied and the sun at rising, they were somewhat familiar. Yet, when fairly in view of the pile, Cortes called Olmedo to his side.