“I thank thee, Father Bartolomé. That thou art near, I feel better. A good surcoat and shield, as thou knowest, give a soldier confidence in battle; and so, as I come nigh yon abomination, full of bloody mysteries, called worship, and carven stones, called gods,—may they be accursed from the earth!—I am pleased to make use of thee and thy holiness. Doubtless the air of the place is thick with sorceries and evil charms; if so, thy crucifix hath more of safeguard than my sword. Ride nearer, father, and hearken, that thou mayst answer what more I have to say. Would not this pile look the better of a cross upon every tower?”

“Thy zeal, my son, I commend, and thy question strictly hath but one answer,” Olmedo replied. “The impulse, moreover, is to do at once what thou hast suggested. Roll away a stone, and in its bed plant a rose, and the blooming will be never so sweet; and so, never looketh the cross so beautiful as when it taketh the place of an idol. And for the conversion of heathen, the Holy Mother careth not if the worship be under Christian dome or in pagan chamber.”

“Say’st thou so!” said Cortes, checking his horse. “By my conscience, I will order a cross!”

“Be not so fast, I pray you. What armed hand now putteth up, armed hand must keep; and that is war. May not the good end be reached without such resort? In my judgment we should first consult the heathen king. How knowest thou that he is not already inclined to Christian ways? Let us ask him.”

Cortes relaxed the rein, and rode on convinced.

Through the gate of the coatapantli, amid much din and clangor, the entire column entered the yard of the temple. On a pavement, glassy-smooth, and spotless as a good housewife’s floor, the horsemen dismounted, and the footmen stood at rest. Then Cortes, with his captains and Marina, approached the steps, where he was received by some pabas, who offered to carry him to the azoteas,—a courtesy he declined with many protestations of thanks.

At the top, under a green canopy, and surrounded by courtiers and attendants, Montezuma stood, in the robes of a priest, and with only his sceptre to indicate his royalty.

“You have my welcome, Malinche. The ascent is wearisome. Where are the pabas whom I sent to assist you?”

The monarch’s simple dignity affected his visitors, Cortes as much as the others.

“I accept thy welcome, good king,” he replied, after the interpretation. “Assure thyself that it is given to a friend. The priests proffered their service as you directed; they said your custom was to be carried up the steps, which I grant accords with a sovereign, but not with a warrior, who should be superior to fatigue.”

To favor a view of the city, which was after a while suggested, the king conducted Cortes to the southern side of the azoteas, where were also presented a great part of the lake, bordered with white towns, and the valley stretching away to the purple sierras. The train followed them with mats and stools, and erected the canopy to intercept the sun; and thus at ease, the host explained, and the guest listened. Often, during the descriptions, the monarch’s eyes rested wistfully on his auditor’s face; what he sought, we can imagine; but well I ween there was more revelation in a cloudy sky than in that bloodless countenance. The demeanor of the Spaniard was courtierly; he failed not to follow every gesture of the royal hand; and if the meaning of what he heard was lost because of the strange language, the voice was not. In the low, sad intonations, unmarked by positive emphasis, he divined more than the speaker read in his face,—a soul goodly in all but its irresolution. If now and then the grave attention relaxed, or the eye wandered from the point indicated, it was because the city and lake, and the valley to the mountains, were, in the visitor’s mind, more a military problem than a picture of power or beauty.

The interview was at length interrupted. Two great towers crowned the broad azoteas of the temple, one dedicated to Tezca’, the other to Huitzil’. Out of the door of the latter issued a procession of pabas, preceded by boys swinging censers, the smoke of which was sickening sweet. Tlalac, the teotuctli, came last, walking slowly, bareheaded, barefooted, his gown trailing behind him, its sleeves and front, like his hands and face, red with the blood of recent sacrifice. While the gloomy train gathered about the astonished Christians, the heathen pontiff, as if unconscious of their presence, addressed himself to the king. His words were afterwards translated by Marina.

“To your application, O king, there is no answer. What you do will be of your own inspiration. The victims are removed; the servants of the god, save whom you see, are in their cells. If such be thy will, the chamber is ready for the strangers.”

Montezuma sat a moment hesitant, his color coming and going; then, feeling the gaze of his guest upon him, he arose, and said kindly, but with dignity, “It is well. I thank you.” Turning to Cortes, he continued, “If you will go with me, Malinche, I will show you our god, and the place in which we celebrate his worship. I will explain our religion, and you may explain yours. Only give me respect for respect.”

Bowing low, Cortes replied, “I will go with thee, and thou shalt suffer no wrong from the confidence. The hand or tongue that doeth grievance to anything pertaining to thy god or his worship shall repeat it never.” The last sentence was spoken with a raised voice, and a glance to the captains around; then, observing the frowns with which some of them received the notice, he added, almost without a pause, to Olmedo, “What saith the Church of Christ?”

“That thou hast spoken well, for this time,” answered the priest, kissing the crucifix chained to his girdle. “Go on. I will go with thee.”

Then they followed the king into the sanctuary, leaving the teotuctli and his train on the azoteas.

I turn gladly from that horrible chamber. With quite as much satisfaction, I turn from the conversation of the king and Cortes. Not even the sweet voice of Marina could make the Aztec theogony clear, or the Catholic commentary of the Spaniard interesting.

Alvarado approached the turret door with loathing. Staggered by the stench that smote him from within, he stopped a moment. Orteguilla, the page, pulled his mantle, and said, “I have news for thee. Wilt thou hear?”

“Picaro! To-morrow, if the Mother doth spare me so long, I will give thee a lash for every breath of this sin-laden air thou makest me draw with open mouth. As thou lovest life, speak, and have done!”

“What if I bring thee a message of love?”

“If thou couldst bring me such a message from a comely Christian maiden, I would kiss thee, lad.”

Orteguilla held out an exquisite ramillete. “Seest thou this? If thou carest and wilt follow me, I will show thee an infidel to swear by forever.”

“Give me the flowers, and lead me to the infidel. If thou speakest truly, thy fortune is made; if thou liest, I will fling thee from the temple.”

He turned from the door, and was conducted to the shade of the turret of Tezca’.

“I was loitering after the tall priest, the one with the bloody face and hands,—what a monster he is!” said the page, crossing himself,—“when a slave came in my way, offering some flowers, and making signs. I spoke to him. ‘What do you want?’ ‘Here is a message from the princess Nenetzin.’ ‘Who is she?’ ‘Daughter of the great king.’ ‘Well, what did she say?’ ‘She bade me’—and, señor capitan, these are almost his words,—‘she bade me give these flowers to one of the teules, that he might give them to Tonatiah, him with the red beard.’ I took the present, and asked, ‘What does the princess say to the Tonatiah?’ ‘Let him read the flowers,’ the fellow answered. I remembered then that it is a custom of this people to send messages in that form. I asked him where his mistress was; he told me, and I went to see her.”

“What of her? Is she handsome?”

“Here she is; judge thou.”

“Holy Mother! ’Tis the girl I so frightened on the street. She is the pearl of the valley, the light of the world!” exclaimed Alvarado. “Stay thou, sir page. Interpret for me. I will speak to her.”

“Simply, then. Thou knowest I am not so good an Aztec as Marina.”

Nenetzin was sitting in the shade of the turret. Apart several paces stood her carriage-bearers. Her garments of finest cotton, white as snow, were held close to her waist by a green sash. Her ornaments—necklace, bracelets, and anklets—were of gold, enriched by chalchuites. Softest sandals protected her feet; and the long scarf, heavy with embroidery, and half covering her face, fell from her head to the mat of scarlet feathers upon which she was sitting.

When the tall Spaniard, in full armor, except the helmet, stopped thus suddenly before her, the large eyes dilated, the blood left her cheeks, and she shrank almost to the roof. Was it not as if the dream, so strange in the coming, had vitalized its subject, and sent it to her, a Fate the more irresistible because of its peculiarities,—the blue eyes, the forehead womanly white, the hair long and waving, the beard dyed, apparently, in the extremest brightness of the sun,—all so unheard of among the brown and olive children of Anahuac? And what if the Fate had come demandingly? Refuse! Can the chrysalis, joyous in the beauty of wings just perfected, refuse the sun?

The cavalier could not mistake the look with which she regarded him. In pity for her fear, in admiration of her beauty, in the native gallantry of his soul, he knelt, and took her hand, and kissed it; then, giving it back, and looking into her face with an expression as unmistakable as her own, he said,—

“My beautiful princess must not be afraid. I would die sooner than harm her.”

While the page interpreted, as best he could, the captain smiled so winsomely that she sat up, and listened with a smile in return. She was won, and shall we say lost? The future comes rapidly now to answer for itself.

“Here is the message,” Alvarado continued, “which I could not read; but if it meant to tell me of love, what better can I than give it back to tell the same story for me?”

He kissed the flowers, and laid them before her. Picking them up, she said, with a laugh, “Tonatiah is a poet,—a god and a poet.”

He heard the interpretation, and spoke again, without relaxing his ardent gaze.

“Jesu Christo! That one so beautiful should be an infidel! She shall not be,—by the holy sepulchre, she shall not! Here, lad, take off the chain which is about my neck. It hath an iron crucifix, the very same my mother—rested be her soul!—gave me, with her blessing and prayer, what time I last bade her farewell.”

Orteguilla took off the chain and crucifix, and put them in the cavalier’s hand.

“Will my beautiful princess deign to receive these gifts from me, her slave forever? And in my presence will she put them on? And for my sake, will she always wear them? They have God’s blessing, which cannot be better bestowed.”

Instead of laying the presents down to be taken or not, this time he held them out to her directly; and she took them, and, childlike, hung them around her neck. In the act, the scarf fell, and left bare her head and face. He saw the glowing countenance, and was about to speak further, when Orteguilla stopped him.

“Moderate thyself, I pray thee, Don Pedro. Look at the hounds; they are closing us in. The way to the turret is already cut off. Have a care, I pray!”

The tone of alarm had instant effect.

“How! Cut off, say’st thou, lad?” And Alvarado sprang up, his hand upon his sword. He swept the circle with a falcon’s glance; then turning once more to the girl, he said, resuming the tenderness of voice and manner, “By what name may I know my love hereafter?”

“Nenetzin,—the princess Nenetzin.”

“Then farewell, Nenetzin. Ill betide the man or fortune that keepeth thee from me hereafter! May I forfeit life, and the Holy Mother’s love, if I see thee not again! Farewell.”

He kissed his mailed hand to her, and, facing the array of scowling pabas, strode to them, and through their circle, with a laugh of knightly scorn.

At the door of the turret of Huitzil’ he said to the page, “The love of yon girl, heathen no longer, but Christian, by the cross she weareth,—her love, and the brightness of her presence, for the foulness and sin of this devil’s den,—what an exchange! Valgame Dios! Thou shalt have the ducat. She is the glory of the world!”

CHAPTER VI
THE IRON CROSS

They were in the grove of Chapultepec at the time. About them were the famous trees, apparently old as the hill itself, with trunks so massive that they had likeness to things of cunning labor, products of some divine art. The sun touched them here and there with slanting yellow rays, by contrast deepening the shadows that purpled the air. From the gnarled limbs the gray moss drooped, like listless drapery. Nesting birds sang from the topmost boughs, and parrots, flitting to and fro, lit the gloaming with transient gleams of scarlet and gold: yet the effect of the place was mysterious; the hush of the solitude softened reflection into dreaming; the silence was a solemn presence in which speech sunk to a whisper, and laughter would have been profanation. In such primeval temples men walk with Time, as in paradise Adam walked with God.

“I am waiting for the lord Hualpa,” the king at last replied, turning his sad eyes to his brother’s face.

“Hualpa!” said Cuitlahua, marvelling, as well he might, to find the great king waiting for the merchant’s son, so lately a simple hunter.

“Yes. He serves me in an affair of importance. His appointment was for noon; he tarries, I fear, in the city. Next time I will choose an older messenger.”

The manner of the explanation was that of one who has in mind something of which he desires to speak, yet doubts the wisdom of speaking. So the cacique seemed to understand, for he relapsed into silence, while the monarch again looked upwards. Was the object he studied in the sky or in his heart?

Maxtla returned; saluting, he said, “The lake is thronged with canoes, O king, but none come this way.”

The sadness of the royal face deepened.

“Montezuma, my brother,” said Cuitlahua.

“Well.”

“Give me a moment’s audience.”

“Certainly. The laggard comes not; the rest of the day is yours.” And to Maxtla he said, “In the palace are the queens, and the princesses Tula and Nenetzin. Inform them that I am coming.”

When the chief was gone, the monarch turned to Cuitlahua, smiling: “Yes, the rest of the day is yours, and the night also; for I must wait for the merchant’s son; and our mother, were she here, would say it was good of you to share my waiting.”

The pleasantry and the tender allusion were hardly observed by the cacique. “I wished to call your attention to Iztlil’, the Tezcucan,” he said, gravely.

“Iztlil’? what of him now?”

“Trouble. What else can come of him? Last night at the house of Xoli, the Chalcan, he drank too much pulque, quarrelled with the good man’s guests, and abused everybody loyal,—abused you, my brother. I sent a servant to watch him. You must know—if not, you should—that all Tenochtitlan believes the Tezcucan to be in alliance with Malinche and his robbers.”

“Robbers!” said Montezuma, starting.

The cacique went on. “That he has corresponded with the Tlascalans is well understood. Only last night he spoke of a confederacy of tribes and cities to overturn the Empire.”

“Goes he so far?” exclaimed the king, now very attentive.

“He is a traitor!” replied Cuitlahua, emphatically. “So I sent a servant to follow him. From the Chalcan’s, he was seen go to the gates of the palace of Axaya’. Malinche received him. He is there now.”

The two were silent awhile, the cacique observing the king, the king gazing upon the ground.

“Well,” said the latter, at length, “is that all?”

“Is it not enough?”

“You are right. He must be arrested. Keep close watch on the gates of the palace, and upon his coming out, seize him, and put him safely away in the temple.”

“But if he comes not out?”

“To-morrow, at noon, if he be yet within, go to Malinche and demand him. Here is your authority.”

At that, the monarch took from a finger of his left hand a ring of gold, set with an oval green malachite, on which his likeness was exquisitely cut.

“But,” said the other, while the royal hand was outstretched, “if Malinche refuses your demand?”

“Then—then—” And the speaker paused so long that his indecision was apparent.

“Behind the refusal,—see you what lies there?” asked Cuitlahua, bluntly.

The king reflected.

“Is it not war?” the cacique persisted.

The hand fell down, and closed upon the signet.

“The demand is just, and will not be refused. Take the ring, my brother; we will at least test Malinche’s disposition. Say to him that the lord Iztlil’ is a traitor; that he is conspiring against me; and that I require his person for punishment. So say to him; but go not yet. The messenger I await may bring me something to make your mission unnecessary.”

The cacique smiled grimly. “If the Tezcucan is guilty, so is Malinche,” he said. “Is it well to tell him what you know?”

“Yes. He will then be careful; at least, he will not be deceived.”

“Be it so,” said Cuitlahua, taking the ring. “I will bring you his answer; then—”

“Well?”

“Bear with me, O king. The subject I now wish to speak of is a tender one, though I know not why. To win the good-will of the Tezcucan, was not Guatamozin, our nephew, banished the city?”

“Well?”

“Now that the Tezcucan is lost, why should not the ’tzin return? He is a happy man, O my brother, who discovers an enemy; happier is he who, at the same time, discovers a friend.”

Montezuma studied the cacique’s face, then, with his eyes upon the ground, walked on. Cuitlahua went with him. Past the great trees, under the gray moss, up the hill to the summit, and along the summit to the verge of the rocky bluff, they went. At the king’s side, when he stopped, was a porphyritic rock, bearing, in bas-relief, his own image, and that of his father. Below him, westwardly, spread the placid lake; above it, the setting sun; in its midst, a fair child on a fair mother’s breast, Tenochtitlan.

“See! a canoe goes swiftly round yon chinampa; now it outstrips its neighbors, and turns this way. How the slaves bend to the paddles! My laggards at last!”

The king, while speaking, rubbed his hands gleefully. For the time, Cuitlahua and his question were forgotten.

“The lord Hualpa has company,” observed the brother, quietly.

“Yes. Io’.”

Another spell of silence, during which both watched the canoe.

“Come, let us to the palace. Lingering here is useless.” And with another look to the city and lake, and a last one at the speeding vessel, yet too far off to be identified, the king finally turned away. And Guatamozin was still an exile.

Tecalco and Acatlan, the queens, and Tula, and their attendants, sitting on the azoteas of the ancient house, taking the air of the declining day, arose to salute the monarch and his brother. The latter took the hand of each, saying, “The gods of our fathers be good to you.” Tula’s forehead he touched with his lips. His countenance, like his figure and nature, Indian in type, softened somewhat under her glance. He knew her sorrow, and in sympathy thought of the ’tzin, and of the petition in his behalf, as yet unanswered.

“All are not here, one is absent,—Nenetzin. Where is she? I may not sleep well without hearing her laugh once more.”

Acatlan said, “You are very good, my lord, to remember my child. She chose to remain below.”

“She is not sick, I hope.”

“Not sick, yet not well.”

“Ah! the trouble is of the mind, perhaps. How old is she now.”

“Old enough to be in love, if that is your meaning.”

Cuitlahua smiled. “That is not a sickness, but a happiness; so, at least, the minstrels say.”

“What ails Nenetzin?” asked the king.

Acatlan cast down her eyes, and hesitated.

“Speak! What ails her?”

“I hardly know. She hardly knows herself,” the queen answered. “If I am to believe what she tells me, the lord Cuitlahua is right; she is in love.”

“With Tula, I suppose,” said the king, laughing.

“Would it were! She says her lover is called Tonatiah. Much I fear, however, that what she thinks love is really a delusion, wrought by magic. She is not herself. When did Malinche go to the temple?”

“Four days ago,” the king replied.

“Well, the teule met her there, and spoke to her, and gave her a present. Since that, like a child, she has done little else than play with the trinket.”

Montezuma became interested. He seated himself, and asked, “You said the spell proceeds from the present: why do you think so?”

“The giver said the gift was a symbol of his religion, and whoever wore it became of his faith, and belonged to his god.”

“Mictlan!” muttered Cuitlahua.

“Strange! what is the thing?” the king persisted.

“Something of unknown metal, white, like silver, about a hand in length, and attached to a chain.”

“Of unknown metal,—a symbol of religion! Where is the marvel now?”

“Around the child’s neck, where I believe it has been since she came from the temple. Once she allowed me to see if I could tell what the metal was, but only for a moment, and then her eyes never quit me. She sits hours by herself, with the bauble clasped in both hands, and sighs, and mopes, and has no interest in what used to please her most.”

The king mused awhile. The power of the strangers was very great; what if the gift was the secret of the power?

“Go, Acatlan,” he said, “and call Nenetzin. See that she brings the charm with her.”

Then he arose, and began moodily to walk. Cuitlahua talked with Tecalco and Tula. The hour was very pleasant. The sun, lingering above the horizon, poured a flood of brilliance upon the hill and palace, and over the flowers, trailing vines, and dwarfed palm and banana trees, with which the azoteas was provided.

Upon the return of the queen with Nenetzin, the king resumed his seat. The girl knelt before him, her face very pale, her eyes full of tears. So lately a child, scarce a woman, yet so weighted with womanly griefs, the father could not view her except with compassion; so he raised her, and, holding her hand, said, “What is this I hear, Nenetzin? Yesterday I was thinking of sending you to school. Nowadays lovers are very exacting; they require of their sweethearts knowledge as well as beauty; but you outrun my plans, you have a lover already. Is it so?”

Nenetzin looked down, blushing.

“And no common lover either,” continued the king. “Not a ’tzin, or a cacique, or a governor; not a lord or a prince,—a god! Brave child!”

Still Nenetzin was silent.

“You cannot call your lover by name, nor speak to him in his language; nor can he speak to you in yours. Talking by signs must be tedious for the uses of love, which I understand to be but another name for impatience; yet you are far advanced; you have seen your beloved, talked with him, and received—what?”

Nenetzin clasped the iron cross upon her breast firmly,—not as a good Catholic, seeking its protection; for she would have laid the same hands on Alvarado rather than Christ,—and for the first time she looked in the questioner’s face straight and fearlessly. A moment he regarded her; in the moment his smile faded away; and for her it came never again—never.

“Give me what you have there,” he said sternly, extending his hand.

“It is but a simple present,” she said, holding back.

“No, it has to do with religion, and that not of our fathers.”

“It is mine,” she persisted, and the queen mother turned pale at sight of her firmness.

“The child is bewitched,” interposed Cuitlahua.

“And for that I should have the symbol. Obey me, or—”

Awed by the look, now dark with anger, Nenetzin took the chain from her neck, and put the cross in his hand. “There! I pray you, return them to me.”

Now, the cross, as a religious symbol, was not new to the monarch; in Cozumel it was an object of worship; in Tabasco it had been reverenced for ages as emblematic of the God of Rain; in Palenque, the Palmyra of the New World, it is sculptured on the fadeless walls, and a child held up to adore it (in the same picture) proves its holy character; it was not new to the heathen king; but the cross of Christ was; and singularly enough, he received the latter for the first time with no thought of saving virtues, but as a problem in metallurgy.

“To-morrow I will send the trinkets to the jewellers,” he said, after close examination. “They shall try them in the fire. Strange, indeed, if, in all my dominions, they do not find whereof they are made.”

He was about to pass the symbol to Maxtla, when a messenger came up, and announced the lord Hualpa and the prince Io’. Instantly, the cross, and Nenetzin, and her tears and troubles, vanished out of his mind.

CHAPTER VII
THE CHRISTIANS IN THE TOILS

When the chief was gone, the monarch stepped to Cuitlahua, and, laying a hand upon his arm, said, “At last, O brother, at last! The time so long prayed for is come. The enemy is in the snare, and he is mine. So the god of our fathers has promised. The messengers bring me his permission to make war.”

“At last! Praised be Huitzil’!” exclaimed Cuitlahua, with upraised hands and eyes.

“Praised be Huitzil’!” cried Tula, with equal fervor.

“Malinche began his march to Tenochtitlan against my order, which, for a purpose, I afterwards changed to invitation. Since that, my people, my army, the lords, the pabas, the Empire, have upbraided me for weakness. I only bided my time, and the assent of Huitzil’. And the result? The palace of Axaya’ shall be the tomb of the insolent strangers.”

As he spoke, the monarch’s bosom swelled with the old warrior spirit.

“You would have had me go meet Malinche, and in the open field array my people to be trodden down by his beasts of war. Now, ours is the advantage. We will shut him in with walls of men as well as of houses. Over them he may ride, but the first bridge will be the end of his journey; it will be raised. Mictlan take our legions, if they cannot conquer him at last!”

He laughed scornfully.

“In the temples are seventy thousand fighting men, gathered unknown to all but Tlalac. They are tired of their prison, and cry for freedom and battle. Two other measures taken, and the war begins,—only two. Malinche has no stores; he is dependent upon me for to-morrow’s bread. What if I say, not a grain of corn, not a mouthful of meat shall pass his palace gate? As to the other step,—what if I bid you raise the bridges? What then? His beasts must starve; so must his people, unless they can fly. Let him use his engines of fire; the material he serves them with cannot last always, so that want will silence them also. The measures depend on my word, which, by the blessing of Huitzil’, I will speak, and”—

“When?” asked Cuitlahua, earnestly.

“To-morrow—”

“The day,—O my kingly brother!—the day will be memorable in Anahuac forever!”

The monarch’s eyes flashed with evil fire. “It shall be so. Part of the invaders will not content me; none shall escape,—not one! In the world shall not one be left!”

All present listened eagerly. Nenetzin alone gave no sign of feeling, though she heard every word.

The couriers now appeared. Over their uniforms was the inevitable nequen. Instead of helms, they wore broad bands, ornamented with plumes and brilliants. At their backs hung their shields. The prince, proud and happy, kissed his mother’s hand, and nodded to the sisters. Hualpa went to the king, and knelt in salute.

“I have been waiting since noon,” said Montezuma, coldly.

“We pray your pardon, O king, good master. The fault was not ours. Since yesterday at noon we have not ate or drank or slept; neither have we been out of the great temple, except to embark and come here, which was with all possible speed.”

“It is well. Arise! What says the god?”

Every ear was strained to hear.

“We followed your orders in all things, O king. In the temple we found the teotuctli, and the pabas of the city, with many from Tezcuco and Cholula.”

“Saw you Mualox, of the old Cû of Quetzal’?”

“Mualox was not there.”

The king waved his hand.

“We presented ourselves to the teotuctli, and gave him your message; in proof of our authority, we showed him the signet, which we now return.”

The seal was taken in silence.

“In presence, then, of all the pabas, the sacrifices were begun. I counted the victims,—nine hundred in all. The afternoon and night, and to-day, to the time of our departure, the service lasted. The sound of prayer from the holy men was unintermitted and loud. I looked once to the palace of Axaya’, and saw the azoteas crowded with the strangers and their Tlascalans.”

The king and the lord Cuitlahua exchanged glances of satisfaction.

“At last the labors of the teotuctli were rewarded. I saw him tear a heart from a victim’s breast, and study the signs; then, with a loud cry, he ran and flung the heart into the fire before the altar of Huitzil’; and all there joined in the cry, which was of rejoicing, and washed their hands in the blood. The holy man then came to me, and said, ‘Say to Montezuma, the wise king, that Huitzil’, the Supreme God, has answered, and bids him begin the war. Say to him, also, to be of cheer; for the land shall be delivered from the strangers, and the strangers shall be delivered to him, in trust for the god.’ Then he stood in the door of the sanctuary, and made proclamation of the divine will. And that was all, O king.”

“To Huitzil’ be the praise!” exclaimed the king, piously.

“And to Montezuma the glory!” said Cuitlahua.

And the queens and Tula kissed the monarch’s hand, and at his feet Io’ knelt, and laid his shield, saying,—

“A favor, O king, a favor!”

“Well.”

“Let not my years be counted, but give me a warrior’s part in the sacred war.”

And Cuitlahua went to the suppliant, and laid a hand upon his head, and said, his massive features glowing with honest pride, “It was well spoken, O my brother, well spoken. The blood and spirit of our race will survive us. I, the oldest, rejoice, and, with the youngest, pray; give us each to do a warrior’s part.”

Brighter grew the monarch’s eyes.

“Your will be done,” he said to Io’. “Arise!” Then looking toward the sun, he added, with majestic fervor, “The inspiration is from you, O holy gods! strengthen it, I pray, and help him in the way he would go.” A moment after, he turned to Cuitlahua, “My brother, have your wish also. I give you the command. You have my signet already. To-morrow the drum of Huitzil’ will be beaten. At the sound, let the bridges next the palace of Axaya’ on all the causeways be taken up. Close the market to-night. Supplies for one day more Malinche may have, and that is all. Around the teocallis, in hearing of a shell, are ten thousand warriors; take them, and, after the beating of the drum, see that the strangers come not out of the palace, and that nothing goes through its gates for them. But until the signal, let there be friendship and perfect peace. And”—he looked around slowly and solemnly—“what I have here spoken is between ourselves and the gods.”

And Cuitlahua knelt and kissed his hand, in token of loyalty.

While the scene was passing, as the only one present not of the royal family, Hualpa stood by, with downcast eyes; and as he listened to the brave words of the king, involving so much of weal or woe to the realm, he wondered at the fortune which had brought him such rich confidence, not as the slow result of years of service, but, as it were, in a day. Suddenly, the monarch turned to him.

“Thanks are not enough, lord Hualpa, for the report you bring. As a messenger between me and the mighty Huitzil’, you shall have reason to rejoice with us. Lands and rank you have, and a palace; now,”—a smile broke through his seriousness,—“now I will give you a wife. Here she is.” And to the amazement of all, he pointed to Nenetzin. “A wild bird, by the Sun! What say you, lord Hualpa? Is she not beautiful? Yet,” he became grave in an instant, “I warn you that she is self-willed, and spoiled, and now suffers from a distemper which she fancies to be love. I warn you, lest one of the enemy, of whom we were but now talking, lure her from you, as he seems to have lured her from us and our gods. To save her, and place her in good keeping, as well as to bestow a proper reward, I will give her to you for wife.”

Tecalco looked at Acatlan, who governed her feelings well; possibly she was satisfied, for the waywardness of the girl had, of late, caused her anxiety, while, if not a prince, like Cacama, Hualpa was young, brave, handsome, ennobled, and, as the proposal itself proved, on the high road to princely honors. Tula openly rejoiced; so did Io’. The lord Cuitlahua was indifferent; his new command, and the prospects of the morrow, so absorbed him that a betrothal or a wedding was a trifle. As for Hualpa, it was as if the flowery land of the Aztec heaven had opened around him. He was speechless; but in the step half taken, his flushed face, his quick breathing, Nenetzin read all he could have said, and more; and so he waited a sign from her,—a sign, though but a glance or a motion of the lip or hand. And she gave him a smile,—not like that the bold Spaniard received on the temple, nor warm, as if prompted by the loving soul,—a smile, witnessed by all present, and by all accepted as her expression of assent.

“I will give her to you for wife,” the monarch repeated, slowly and distinctly. “This is the betrothal; the wedding shall be when the war is over, when not a white-faced stranger is left in all my domain.”

While yet he spoke, Nenetzin ran to her mother, and hid her face in her bosom.

“Listen further, lord Hualpa,” said the king. “In the great business of to-morrow I give you a part. At daylight return to the temple, and remain there in the turret where hangs the drum of Huitzil’. Io’ will come to you about noon, with my command; then, if such be its effect, with your own hand give the signal for which the lord Cuitlahua will be waiting. Strike so as to be heard by the city, and by the cities on the shores of the lake. Afterwards, with Io’, go to the lord Cuitlahua. Here is the signet again. The teotuctli may want proof of your authority.”

Hualpa, kneeling to receive the seal, kissed the monarch’s hand.

“And now,” the latter said, addressing himself to Cuitlahua, “the interview is ended. You have much to do. Go. The gods keep you.”

Hualpa, at last released, went and paid homage to his betrothed, and was made still more happy by her words, and the congratulations of the queens.

Tula alone lingered at the king’s side, her large eyes fixed appealingly on his face.

“What now, Tula?” he asked, tenderly.

And she answered, “You have need, O king and good father, of faithful, loving warriors. I know of one. He should be here, but is not. Of to-morrow, its braveries and sacrifices, the minstrels will sing for ages to come; and the burden of their songs will be how nobly the people fought, and died, and conquered for you. Shall the opportunity be for all but him? Do not so wrong yourself, be not so cruel to—to me,” she said, clasping her hands.

His look of tenderness vanished, and he walked away, and from the parapet of the azoteas gazed long and fixedly, apparently observing the day dying in the west, or the royal gardens that stretched out of sight from the base of the castled hill.

She waited expectantly, but no answer came,—none ever came.

And when, directly, she joined the group about Nenetzin and Hualpa, and leaned confidingly upon Io’, she little thought that his was the shadow darkening her love; that the dreamy monarch, looking forward to the succession, saw, in the far future, a struggle for the crown between the prince and the ’tzin; that for the former hope there was not, except in what might now be done; and that yet there was not hope, if the opportunities of war were as open to the one as to the other. So the exile continued.

CHAPTER VIII
THE IRON CROSS COMES BACK TO ITS GIVER

The dull report of the evening gun had long since spent itself over the lake, and along the gardened shores. So, too, mass had been said in the chapel, newly improvised, and very limited for such high ceremony; yet, as Father Bartolomé observed, roomy enough for prayer and penitence. Nor had the usual precautions against surprise been omitted; on the contrary, extra devices in that way had been resorted to; the guards had been doubled; the horses stood caparisoned; by the guns at the gates low fires were burning, to light, in an instant, the matches of the gunners; and at intervals, under cover of the walls, lay or lounged detachments of both Christians and Tlascalans, apparently told off for battle. A yell without or a shot within, and the palace would bristle with defenders. A careful captain was Cortes.

In his room, once the audience-chamber of the kings, paced the stout conquistador. He was alone, and, as usual, in armor, except of the head and hands. On a table were his helm, iron gloves, and battle-axe, fair to view, as was the chamber, in the cheerful, ruddy light of a brazen lamp. As he walked, he used his sword for staff; and its clang, joined to the sharp concussion of the sollerets smiting the tessellated floor at each step, gave notice in the adjoining chamber, and out in the patio, that the general—or, as he was more familiarly called, the Señor Hernan—was awake and uncommonly restless. After a while the curtains of the doorway parted, and Father Bartolomé entered without challenge. The good man was clad in a cassock of black serge, much frayed, and girt to the waist by a leathern belt, to which hung an ivory cross, and a string of amber beads. At sight of him, Cortes halted, and, leaning on his sword, said, “Bring thy bones here, father; or, if such womanly habit suit thee better, rest them on the settle yonder. Anyhow, thou’rt welcome. I assure thee of the fact in advance of thy report.”

“Thank thee, Señor,” he replied. “The cross, as thou mayst have heard, is proverbially heavy; but its weight is to the spirit, not the body, like the iron with which thou keep’st thyself so constantly clothed. I will come and stand by thee, especially as my words must be few, and to our own ears.”

He went near, and continued in a low voice, and rapidly, “A deputation, appointed to confer with thee, is now coming. I sounded the men. I told them our condition; how we are enclosed in the city, dependent upon an inconstant king for bread, without hope of succor, without a road of retreat. Following thy direction, I drew the picture darkly. Very soon they began asking, ‘What think’st thou ought to be done?’ As agreed between us, I suggested the seizure of Montezuma. They adopted the idea instantly; and, that no consideration like personal affection for the king may influence thee to reject the proposal, the deputation cometh, with Diaz del Castillo at the head.”

A gleam of humor twinkled in Cortes’s eyes.

“Art sure they do not suspect me as the author of the scheme?”

“They will urge it earnestly as their own, and support it with arguments which”—the father paused a moment—“I am sure thou wilt find irresistible.”

Cortes raised himself from the sword, and indulged a laugh while he crossed the room and returned.

“I thank thee, father,” he said, resuming his habitual gravity. “So men are managed; nothing more simple, if we do but know how. The project hath been in my mind since we left Tlascala; but, as thou know’st, I feared it might be made of account against me with our imperial master. Now, it cometh back as business of urgency to the army, to which men think I cannot say nay. Let them come; I am ready.”

He began walking again, thumping the floor with his sword, while Olmedo took possession of a bench by the table. Presently, there was heard at the door the sound of many feet, which you may be sure were not those of slippered damsels; for, at the bidding of Cortes, twelve soldiers came in, followed by several officers, and after them yet other soldiers. The general went to the table and seated himself. They ranged themselves about him, standing.

And for a time the chamber went back to its primitive use; but what were the audiences of Axaya’ compared with this? Here was no painted cotton, or feather-work gaudy with the spoils of humming-birds and parrots: in their stead, the gleam and lustre blent with the brown of iron. One such Christian warrior was worth a hundred heathen chiefs. So thought Cortes, as he glanced at the faces before him, bearded, mustachioed, and shaded down to the eyes by well-worn morions.

“Good evening, gentlemen and soldiers,” he said, kindly, but without a bow. “This hath the appearance of business.”

Diaz advanced a step, and replied,—

“Señor, we are a deputation from the army, appointed to beg attention to a matter which to us looketh serious; enough so, at least, to justify this appearance. We have been, and are, thy faithful soldiers, in whom thou mayst trust to the death, as our conduct all the way from the coast doth certify. Nor do we come to complain; on that score be at rest. But we are men of experience; a long campaign hath given us eyes to see and ability to consider a situation; while we submit willingly to all thy orders, trusting in thy superior sense, we yet think thou wilt not take it badly, nor judge us wanting in discipline and respect, if we venture the opinion that, despite the courtesies and fair seeming of the unbelieving king, Montezuma, we are, in fact, cooped up in this strong city as in a cage.”

“I see the business already,” said Cortes; “and, by my conscience! ye are welcome to help me consider it. Speak out, Bernal Diaz.”

“Thank thee, Señor. The question in our minds is, What shall be done next? We know that but few things bearing anywise upon our expedition escape thy eyes, and that of what is observed by thee nothing is forgotten; therefore, what I wish, first, is to refer some points to thy memory. When we left Cuba, we put ourselves in the keeping of the Holy Virgin, without any certain purpose. We believed there was in this direction somewhere a land peopled and full of gold for the finding. Of that we were assured when we set out from the coast to come here. And now that we are come, safe from so many dangers, and hardships, and battles, we think it no shame to admit that we were not prepared for what we find, so far doth the fact exceed all our imaginings; neither can we be charged justly with weakness or fear, if we all desire to know whether the expedition is at an end, and whether the time hath arrived to collect our gains, and divide them, and set our faces homeward. There are in the army some who think that time come; but I, and my associates here, are not of that opinion. We believe with Father Olmedo, that God and the Holy Mother brought us to this land, and that we are their instruments; and that, in reward for our toils, and for setting up the cross in all these abominable temples, and bringing about the conversion of these heathen hordes, the country, and all that is in it, are ours.”

“They are ours!” cried Cortes, dashing his sword against the floor until the chamber rang. “They are ours, all ours; subject only to the will of our master, the Emperor.”

The latter words he said slowly, meaning that they should be remembered.

“We are glad, Señor, to hear thy approval so heartily given,” Diaz resumed. “If we are not mistaken in the opinion, and, following it up, decide to reduce the country to possession and the true belief,—something, I confess, not difficult to determine, since we have no ships in which to sail away,—then we think a plan of action should be adopted immediately. If the reduction can be best effected from the city, let us abide here, by all means; if not, the sooner we are beyond the dikes and bridges, and out of the valley, the better. Whether we shall remain, Señor, is for thee to say. The army hath simply chosen us to make a suggestion, which we hope thou wilt accept as its sense; and that is, to seize the person of Montezuma, and bring him to these quarters, after which there will be no difficulty in providing for our wants and safety, and controlling, as may be best, the people, the city, the provinces, and all things else yet undiscovered.”

“Jesu Christo!” exclaimed Cortes, like one surprised. “Whence got ye this idea? Much I fear the Devil is abroad again.” And he began to walk the floor, using long strides, and muttering to himself; retaking his seat, he said,—

“The proposition hath a bold look, soldiers and comrades, and for our lives’ sake requireth careful thought. That we can govern the Empire through Montezuma, I have always held, and with that idea I marched you here, as the cavaliers now present can testify; but the taking and holding him prisoner,—by my conscience! ye out-travel me, and I must have time to think about the business. But, gentlemen,”—turning to the Captains Leon, Ordas, Sandoval, and Alvarado, who, as part of the delegation, had stationed themselves behind him,—“ye have reflected upon the business, and are of made-up minds. Upon two points I would have your judgments: first, can we justify the seizure to his Majesty, the Emperor? secondly, how is the arrest to be accomplished? Speak thou, Sandoval.”

“As thou know’st, Señor Hernan, what I say must be said bluntly, and with little regard for qualifications,” Sandoval replied, lisping. “To me the seizure is a necessity, and as such justifiable to our royal master, himself so good a soldier. I have come to regard the heathen king as faithless, and therefore unworthy, except as an instrument in our hands. I cannot forget how we were cautioned against him in all the lower towns, and how, from all quarters, we were assured he meant to follow the pretended instructions of his god, allow us to enter the capital quietly, then fall upon us without notice and at disadvantage. And now that we are enclosed, he hath only to cut off our supplies of bread and water, and break down the bridges. So, Señor, I avouch that, in my opinion, there is but one question for consideration,—Shall we move against him, or wait until he is ready to move against us? I would rather surprise my enemy than be surprised by him.”

“And what sayest thou, Leon?”

“The good Captain Sandoval hath spoken for me, Señor. I would add, that some of us have to-day noticed that the king’s steward, besides being insolent, hath failed to supply our tables as formerly. And from Aguilar, the interpreter, who hath his news from the Tlascalans, I learn that the Mexicans certainly have some evil plot in progress.”

“And yet further, captain, say for me,” cried Alvarado, impetuously, “that the prince now with us, his name—The fiend take his name!”

“Thou would’st say, the Prince of Tezcuco; never mind his name,” Cortes said, gravely.

“Ay, never mind his name,” Olmedo repeated, with a scarce perceptible gleam of humor. “At the baptism to-morrow I will give him something more Christian.”

“As ye will, as ye will!” Alvarado rejoined, impatiently. “I was about to say, that the Tezcucan averreth most roundly that the yells we heard this afternoon from the temple over the way signified a grand utterance from the god of war; and of opinion that we will now be soon attacked, he refuseth to go into the city again.”

“And thou, Ordas.”

“Señor,” that captain replied, “I am in favor of the seizure. If, as all believe, Montezuma is bent to make war upon us, the best way to meet the danger is to arrest him in time. The question, simply stated, is, his liberty or our lives. Moreover, I want an end to the uncertainty that so vexeth us night and day; worse, by far, than any battle the heathen can offer.”

Cortes played with the knot of his sword, and reflected.

“Such, then, is the judgment of the army,” he finally said. “And such, gentlemen, is mine, also. But is that enough? What we do as matter of policy may be approved of man, even our imperial master, of whom I am always regardful; but, as matter of conscience, the approval of Heaven must be looked for. Stand out, Father Bartolomé! Upon thy brow is the finger of St. Peter, at thy girdle the cross of Christ. What saith the Church?”

The good man arose, and held out the cross, saying,—

“My children, upon the Church, by Christ himself, this solemn hest hath been placed, good for all places, to be parted from never: ‘Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature.’ The way hither hath been through strange seas and deadly climates. Hear me, that ye may know yourselves. Ye are the swords of the Church. In Cempoalla she preached; so in Tlascala; so in Cholula; and in all, she cast out false gods, and converted whole tribes. Only in this city hath the gospel not been proclaimed. And why? Because of a king who to-day, almost in our view, sacrificed men to his idols. Swords of the Church, which go before to make smooth her path, Christ and the Holy Mother must be taught in yon temple of sin. So saith the Church!”

There was much crossing of forehead and breast, and “Amen,” and the sweet name “Ave Maria” sounded through the chamber, not in the murmur of a cathedral response, but outspokenly as became the swords of Christ. The sensation was hardly done, when some one at the door called loudly for Alvarado.

“Who is he that so calleth?” the captain asked, angrily. “Let him choose another time.”

The name was repeated more loudly.

“Tell the mouther to seek me to-morrow.”

A third time the captain was called.

“May the Devil fly away with the fellow! I will not go.”

“Bid the man enter,” said Cortes. “The disturbance is strange.”

A soldier appeared, whom Alvarado, still angry, addressed, “How now? Dost thou take me for a kitchen girl, apprenticed to answer thee at all times? What hast thou? Be brief. This goodly company waiteth.”

“I crave thy pardon, captain. I crave pardon of the company,” the soldier answered, saluting Cortes. “I am on duty at the main gate. A little while ago, a woman—”

“Picaro!” cried Alvarado, contemptuously. “Only a woman!”

“Peace, captain! Let the man proceed,” said Cortes, whose habit it was to hear his common soldiers gravely.

“As I was about saying, Señor, a woman came running to the gate. She was challenged. I could not understand her, and she was much scared, for behind her on the street was a party that seemed to have been in pursuit. She cried, and pressed for admittance. My order is strict,—Admit no one after the evening gun. While I was trying to make her understand me, some arrows were shot by the party outside, and one passed through her arm. She then flung herself on the pavement, and gave me this cross, and said ‘Tonatiah, Tonatiah!’ As that is what the people call thee, Señor Alvarado, I judged she wanted it given to thee for some purpose. The shooting at her made me think that possibly the business might be of importance. If I am mistaken, I again pray pardon. Here is the cross. Shall I admit the woman?”

Alvarado took the cross, and looked at it once.

“By the saints! my mother’s gift to me, and mine to the princess Nenetzin.” Of the soldier he asked, in a suppressed voice, “Is the woman old or young?”

“A girl, little more than a child.”

“’Tis she! Mother of Christ, ’tis Nenetzin!”

And through the company, without apology, he rushed. The soldier saluted, and followed him.

“To the gate, Sandoval! See the rest of this affair, and report,” said Cortes, quietly. “We will stay the business until you return.”

CHAPTER IX.
TRULY WONDERFUL.—A FORTUNATE MAN HATH A MEMORY.

Out of the high gate, down the terraced descent, past the avenue of ghostly cypresses, until their sandals struck the white shells of the landing, they silently went.

“Is it not well with you, my brother?” asked the prince, stopping where the boats, in keeping of their crews, were lying.

“Thank you for that word,” Hualpa replied. “It is better even than comrade. Well with me? I look my fortune in the face, and am dumb. If I should belie expectation, if I should fall from such a height! O Mother of the World, save me from that! I would rather die!”

“But you will not fail,” said Io’, sympathetically.

“The gods keep the future; they only know. The thought came to me as I sat at the feet of Tula and Nenetzin,—came to me like a taste of bitter in a cup of sweets. Close after followed another even stronger,—how could I be so happy, and our comrade over the lake so miserable? We know how he has hoped and worked and lived for what the morrow is to bring: shall he not be notified even of its nearness? You have heard the sound of the war-drum: what is it like?”

“Like the roll of thunder.”

“Well, when the thunder crosses the lake, and strikes his ear, saying, ‘Up, the war is here!’ he will come to the door, and down to the water’s edge; there he must stop; and as he looks wistfully to the city, and strains his ear to catch the notes of the combat, will he not ask for us, and, accuse us of forgetfulness? Rather than that, O my brother, let my fortune all go back to its giver.”

“I understand you now,” said the prince, softly.

“Yes,” Hualpa continued, “I am to be at the temple by the break of day; but the night is mine, and I will go to the ’tzin, my first friend, of Anahuac the soul, as Nenetzin is the flower.”

“And I will go with you.”

“No, you cannot. You have not permission. So farewell.”

“Until to-morrow,” said Io’.

“In the temple,” answered Hualpa.

CHAPTER X
HOW THE IRON CROSS CAME BACK

Half an hour of steady work. The city was, of course, much nearer. At the same time, the labor began to tell; the reach of her paddle was not so great as at the beginning, nor was the dip so deep; her breathing was less free, and sometimes she stopped to draw a dripping hand across her forehead. Surely, this is not a gardener’s daughter.

Voyageurs now became frequent. Most of them passed by with the salutation usual on the lake,—“The blessings of the gods upon you!” Once she was in danger. A canoe full of singers, and the singers full of pulque, came down at speed upon her vessel. Happily, the blow was given obliquely; the crash suspended the song; the wassailers sprang to their feet; seeing only a girl, and no harm done, they drew off, laughing. “Out with your lamp next time!” shouted one of them. A law of the lake required some such signal at night.

In the flurry of the collision, a tamane, leaning over the bow of the strange canoe, swung a light almost in the girl’s face. With a cry, she shrank away; as she did so, from her bosom fell a shining cross. To the dull slave the symbol told no tale; but, good reader, we know that there is but one maiden in all Anahuac who wears such a jewel, and we know for whom she wears that one. By the light of that cross, we also know the weary passenger is, not a gardener’s daughter, but Nenetzin, the princess.

And the wonder grows. What does the ’tzin Nene—so they called her in the days they swung her to sleep in the swinging cradle—out so far alone on the lake? And where goes she in such guise, this night of all others, and now when the kiss of her betrothed is scarcely cold on her lips? Where are the slaves? Where the signs of royalty? As prayed by the gentle voyageurs, the blessings of the gods may be upon her, but much I doubt if she has her mother’s, almost as holy.

Slowly now she wins her way. The paddle grows heavier in her unaccustomed hands. On her brow gathers a dew which is neither of the night nor the lake. She is not within the radius of the temple lights, yet stops to rest, and bathe her palms in the cooling waves. Later, when the wall of the city, close by, stretches away on either side, far reaching, a margin of darkness under the illuminated sky, the canoe seems at last to conquer; it floats at will idly as a log; and in that time the princess sits motionless as the boat, lapsed in revery. Her purpose, if she has one, may have chilled in the solitude or weakened under the labor. Alas, if the purpose be good! If evil, help her, O sweet Mary, Mother!

The sound of paddles behind her broke the spell. With a hurried glance over her shoulder, she bent again to the task, and there was no more hesitation. She gained the wall, and passed in, taking the first canal. By the houses, and through the press of canoes, and under the bridges, to the heart of the city, she went. On the steps bordering a basin close to the street which had been Cortes’ line of march the day of the entry, she landed, and, ascending to the thoroughfare, set out briskly, basket in hand, her face to the south. With never a look to the right or left, never a response to the idlers on the pavement, she hurried down the street. The watchers on the towers sung the hour; she scarcely heard them. At last she reached the great temple. A glance at the coatapantli, one at the shadowy sanctuaries, to be sure of the locality; then her eyes fell upon the palace of Axaya’, and she stopped. The street to this point had been thronged with people; here there were none; the strangers were by themselves. The main gate of the ancient house stood half open, and she saw the wheels of gun-carriages, and now and then a Christian soldier pacing his round, slowly and grimly; of the little host, he alone gave signs of life. Over the walls she heard the stamp of horses’ feet, and once a neigh, shrill and loud. The awe of the Indian in presence of the white man seized her, and she looked and listened, half frightened, half worshipful, with but one clear sense, and that was of the nearness of the Tonatiah.

A sound of approaching feet disturbed her, and she ran across to the gate; at once the purpose which had held her silent on the azoteas, which prompted her ready acquiescence in the betrothal to Hualpa, which had sustained her in the passage of the lake, was revealed. She was seeking her lover to save him.

She would have passed through the gateway, but for a number of lances dropped with their points almost against her breast. What with fear of those behind and of those before her, she almost died. On the pavement, outside the entrance, she was lying when Alvarado came to the rescue. The guard made way for him quickly; for in his manner was the warning which nothing takes from words, not even threats; verily, it had been as well to attempt to hinder a leaping panther. He threw the lances up, and knelt by her, saying tenderly, “Nenetzin, Nenetzin, poor child! It is I,—come to save you!”

She half arose, and, smiling through her tears, clasped her hands, and cried, “Tonatiah! Tonatiah!”

There are times when a look, a gesture, a tone of the voice, do all a herald’s part. What need of speech to tell the Spaniard why the truant was there? The poor disguise, the basket, told of flight; her presence at that hour said, “I have come to thee”; the cross returned, the tears, the joy at sight of him, certified her love; and so, when she put her arm around his neck, and the arrow, not yet taken away, rattled against his corselet, to his heart there shot a pain so sharp and quick it seemed as if the very soul of him was going out.

He raised her gently, and carried her through the entrance. The rough men looking on saw upon his cheek what, if the cheek had been a woman’s, they would have sworn was a tear.

“Ho, Marina!” he cried to the wondering interpreter. “I bring thee a bird dropped too soon from the nest. The hunter hath chased the poor thing, and here is a bolt in its wing. Give place in thy cot, while I go for a doctor, and room with thee, that malice hurt not a good name.”

And at the sight the Indian woman was touched; she ran to the cot, smoothed the pillow of feathers, and said, “Here, rest her here, and run quickly. I will care for her.”

He laid her down tenderly, but she clung to his hand, and said to Marina, “He must not go. Let him first hear what I have to say.”

“But you are hurt.”

“It is nothing, nothing. He must stay.”

So earnestly did she speak, that the captain changed his mind. “Very well. What is spoken in pain should be spoken quickly. I will stay.”

Nenetzin caught the assent, and went on rapidly. “Let him know that to-morrow at noon the drum in the great temple will be beaten, and the bridges taken up, and then there will be war.”

“By the saints! she bringeth doughty news,” said Alvarado, in his voice of soldier. “Ask her where she got it; ask her, as you love us, Marina.”

“From my father,—from the king himself.”

“And this is child of Montezuma!” cried Marina.