“The princess Nenetzin,” said the cavalier. “But stay not so. Ask her when and where she heard the news.”

“To-day, at Chapultepec.”

“What of the particulars? How is the war to be made? What are the preparations?”

“The lord Cuitlahua is to take up the bridges. Maize and meat will be furnished to-morrow only. About the great temple now there are ten thousand warriors for an attack, and elsewhere in the city there are seventy thousand more.”

“Enough,” said Alvarado, kissing the little hand. “Look now to the hurt, Marina. Bring the light; mayhap we can take the bolt away ourselves.”

Marina knelt, and examined the wounded arm, and shortly held up the arrow.

“Good!” the cavalier said. “Thou art a doctor, indeed, Marina. In the schools at home they give students big-lettered parchments. I will do better by thee; I will cover the arm that did this surgery with bracelets of gold. Run now, and bring cloth and water. The blood thou seest trickling here is from her heart, which loveth me too dearly to suffer such waste. Haste thee! haste thee!”

They bathed the wound, and applied the bandages, though all too roughly to suit the cavalier, who, thereupon, turned to go, saying, “Sit thou there, Marina, and leave her not, except to do her will. Tell her I will return, and to be at rest, for she is safe as in her father’s house. If any do but look at her wrongfully, they shall account to me. So, by my mother’s cross, I swear!”

And he hurried back to the audience-chamber, where the council was yet in session. While he related what had been told by Nenetzin, a deep silence pervaded the assemblage, and the brave men, from looking at each other, turned, with singular unanimity, to Cortes; who, thus appealed to, threw off his affectation, and standing up, spoke, so as to be heard by all,—

“Comrades, soldiers, gentlemen, let there be no words more. The step you have urged upon me, in the name of the army, I hesitated to take. I grant you, I hesitated; but not from love of the soft-tongued, lying, pagan king. Bethink ye. We left Cuba hastily, as ye all remember, because of a design to arrest us there as malefactors and traitors. Now, when our enemies in that island hear from our expedition, and have told them all its results,—the wealth we have won, and the country, cities, peoples, and empire discovered,—envy and jealousy will pursue us, and false tongues go back to Spain, and fill the ears of our royal master with reports intended to rob us of our glory and despoil us of our hire. How could I know but the seizure in question might be magnified into impolicy and cruelty, and furnish cause for disgrace, imprisonment, and forfeiture? For that I hesitated. This news, however, endeth doubt and debate. The over-cunning king hath put himself outside of mercy or compassion; we are compelled to undo him. So far, well. Let me remind ye now, that the news of which I speak hath in it a warning which it were sinful not to heed. Yesterday the great infidel was at our mercy; not more difficult his capture then than a visit to his palace; but now, in all the histories of bold performances, nothing bolder,—nothing of the Cid’s, nothing of King Arthur’s. In the heart of his capital we are to make prisoner him, the head of millions, the political ruler and religious chief, not merely secure in the love and fear of his subjects, but in the height of his careful preparation for war, in the centre of his camp, within call, nay, under the eyes, of his legions, numbering thousands where we number tens. Take ye each, my brave brethren, the full measure of the design, and then tell me, in simple words, how it may be best done. And among ye, let him speak who can truly say, I dare do what my tongue delivereth. I wait your answer.”

And in the chamber there again fell a hush so deep that those present might well have been taken for ghosts. The idea as first seen by them was commonplace; under his description, it became heroic; and struggling, as he suggested, to measure it each for himself, all were dumb.

“Good gentlemen,” said Cortes, smiling, “why so laggard now? Speak, Diaz del Castillo. Offer what thou canst.”

The good soldier, and afterward good chronicler, of the conquest and its trials, this one among the rest, replied, “I confess, Señor, the enterprise is difficult beyond my first thought. I confess, also, to more reflection about its necessity than its achievement. To answer truthfully, at this time I see but one way to the end; and that is, to invite the monarch here under some sufficient pretence, and then lay hands on him.”

“Are ye all of the same minds, gentlemen?”

There was a murmur of assent, whereupon Cortes arose from leaning upon his sword, and said, sharply,—

“To hear ye, gentlemen, one would think the summer all before us in which to interchange courtesies with the royal barbarian. What is the fact? At noon to-morrow our hours of grace expire. A beat of drum, and then assault, and after that,”—he paused, looking grimly round the circle,—“and after that, sacrifices to the gods, I suppose.”

There was a general movement and outcry. Some griped their arms, others crossed themselves. Cortes saw and pressed his advantage.

“I shall not take your advice, Bernal Diaz; not I, by my conscience! Heaven helping me, I expect to see old Spain again; and more, I expect to take these comrades back with me, rich in glory and gold.” Then, to the officers behind him, he said, in his ordinary tone of command, “Ordas, do thou bid the carpenters prepare quarters in this palace for Montezuma and his court; and let them begin their work to-night, for he will be our guest before noon to-morrow. And thou, Leon, thou, Lugo, thou, Avila, and thou, Sandoval, get ye ready to go with me to the—”

“And I?” asked Alvarado.

“Thou shalt go also.”

“And the army, Señor?” Diaz suggested.

“The army shall remain in quarters.”

Never man’s manner more calm, never man more absolutely assured. The listeners warmed with admiration. As unconscious of the effect he was working, he went on,—

“I have shown the difficulties of the enterprise; now I say further, the crisis of the expedition is upon us: if I succeed, all is won; if I fail, all is lost. In such strait, what should we do between this and then? Let us not trust in our cunning and strength: we are Christians; as such, put we our faith in Christ and the Holy Mother. Olmedo, father, go thou to the chapel, and get ready the altar. The night to confession and prayer; and let the morning find us on our knees shrieved and blessed. We are done, comrades. Let the chamber be cleared. To the chapel all.”

And they did the bidding cheerfully. All night the good father was engaged in holy work, confessing, shrieving, praying. So the morning found them.

CHAPTER XI
THE CHRISTIAN TAKES CARE OF HIS OWN

Hualpa returned to the city about the time the stars, which in that clime and season herald the morning, take their places in the sky. He had lightened his heart, and received the sympathy of a lover in return; he had told the great things done and promised by the king, and sorrowed that his friend could take no part in the events which, he imagined, were to make the day heroic forever; and now, his enthusiasm of youth sobered by the plaints to which he had listened while traversing the dusky walks of the beautiful garden, he clomb the stairs of the teocallis. Before the day was fairly dawned, he was at his post, waiting, dreaming of Nenetzin, and hearkening to the spirit-songs of ambition, always so charming to unpractised souls.

And the lord Cuitlahua perfected his measures. On all the dikes, and at the entrance of all the canals, guards were stationed. The bridges nearest the palace occupied by the strangers were held by chosen detachments. Except those thus detailed, the entire military in the city were pent in the temples. And to all, including the lord steward, the proper orders were confided. All awaited the signal.

And the king, early in the night, ignorant of the flight of Nenetzin, had come from Chapultepec to his palace in the capital. He retired as he was wont, and slept the sleep as restful to a mind long distracted by irresolution as to a body exhausted by labor; such slumber as comes to him who, in time of doubt, involving all dearest interests, at last discovers what his duty is, and, fully determined, simply awaits the hour of performance, trustful of the action taken, and of the good-will of the god or gods of his faith.

On the side of the Christians, the preparation, more simple, was also complete. From mass the little host went to breakfast, then to arms. The companies formed; even the Tlascalans behaved as if impressed with a sense that their fate had been challenged.

To the captains, again convoked in the audience-chamber, Cortes detailed his plan of operation. His salutation of each was grave and calm. Though very watchful, they heard him without question; and when they went out, they might have said, The hour of trial is come, and now will be seen which holds the conquering destiny,—the God of the Christian or that of the Aztec.

From the council, Alvarado went first to Marina; finding that Nenetzin slept, he joined his companions in the great court, where, gay and careless, he carolled a song, and twirled his sword, and, in thought of smiling fortune and a princely Indian love, walked complacently to and fro. And so wait, ready for action, the Christian lover and the heathen,—one in the palace, the other in the temple,—both, in fancy, lord of the same sweet mistress.

At the stated hour, as had been the custom, the three lords came, in splendid costume, and with stately ceremonial, bringing the king’s compliments, and asking Cortes will for the day. And they returned with compliments equally courteous and deceptive, taking with them Orteguilla, the page, instructed to inform the monarch that directly, if such were the royal pleasure, Malinche would be happy to visit him in his palace.

A little later there went out parties of soldiers, apparently to view the city; yet the point was noticeable that, besides being fully armed, each was in charge of a chosen subordinate. Later, the army was drawn up, massed in the garden; the matches of the gunners were lighted; the horsemen stood at their bridles; the Tlascalans were stationed to defend the outer walls. De Oli, Morla, Marin, and Monjarez passed through the lines in careful inspection.

“Heard’st thou when the drum was to be sounded?” asked De Oli, looking to the sun.

“At noon,” answered Marin.

“Three hours yet, as I judge. Short time, by Our Lady!”

The party was impatient. To their relief, Cortes at last came out, with his five chosen cavaliers, Sandoval, Alvarado, Leon, Avila, and Lugo. As he proceeded to the gate, all eyes turned to him, all hearts became confident,—so much of power over the weak is there in the look of one master spirit.

At the gate he waited for the Doña Marina.

“Are ye ready, gentlemen?”

“All ready,” they replied.

“With thee, De Oli, I leave the command. At sight or sound of attack or combat, come quickly. Charge straight to the palace, lances in the lead. Bring our horses. Farewell. Christ and the Mother for us!” And with that, Cortes stepped into the street.

For a time the party proceeded silently.

“Is not this what the pagans call the beautiful street?” Sandoval asked.

“Why the question?”

“I have gone through graveyards not more deserted.”

“Thou’rt right,” said Lugo. “By Our Lady! when last we went this way, I remember the pavements, doors, porticos, and roofs were crowded. Now, not a woman or a child.”

“In faith, Señor, we are a show suddenly become stale.”

“Be it so,” replied Leon, sneeringly. “We will give the public a new trick.”

“Mirad, Señores!” said Cortes. “Last night, all through this district, particularly along this street, there went patrols, removing the inhabitants, and making ready for what the drum is advertised to let loose upon us. Don Pedro, thy princess hath told the truth.” And looking back to the towers of the teocallis, he added, after a fit of laughter, “The fools, the swine! They have undone themselves; or, rather,”—his face became grave on the instant,—“the Holy Mother hath undone them for us. Give thanks, gentlemen, our emprise is already won! Yonder the infidel general hath his army in waiting for the word of the king. Keep we that unspoken or undelivered,—only that,—and the way of our return, prisoner in hand, will be as clear of armed men as the going is.”

The customary guard of nobles kept the portal of the palace; the antechamber, however, was crowded to its full capacity with unarmed courtiers, through whom the Christians passed with grave assurance. To acquaintances Cortes bowed courteously. Close by the door of the audience-chamber, he found Orteguilla conversing with Maxtla, who, at sight of him, knelt, and, touching the floor with his palm, offered to conduct the party to the royal presence; such were his orders. Cortes stopped an instant.

“Hath the king company?” he asked Orteguilla.

“None of account,—a boy and three or four old men.”

“He is ours. Let us on, gentlemen!”

And forthwith they passed under the curtains held aside for them by Maxtla.

On a dais covered with a carpet of plumaje, the monarch sat. Three venerable men stood behind him. At his feet, a little to the right, was the prince Io’, in uniform. A flood of light poured through a window on the northern side of the chamber, and fell full on the group, bringing out with intense clearness the rich habiliments of the monarch, and every feature of his face. The Christians numbered the attendance, and, trained to measure dangers and discover advantages by a glance, smiled at the confidence of the treacherous heathen. Upon the stillness, broken only by their ringing tread, sped the voice of Cortes.

“Alvarado, Lugo, all of ye, watch well whom we have here. On your lives, see that the boy escape not.”

Montezuma kept his seat.

“The gods keep you this pleasant morning,” he said. “I am glad to see you.”

They bowed to him, and Cortes replied,—

“We thank thee, good king. May the Holy Virgin, of our Christian faith, have thee in care. Thus pray we, than whom thou hast no truer servants.”

“If you prefer to sit, I will have seats brought.”

“We thank thee again. In the presence of our master, it is the custom to stand, and he would hold us discourteous if we did otherwise before a sovereign friend as dear to him as thou art, great king.”

The monarch waved his hand.

“Your master is no doubt a rare and excellent sovereign,” he said, then changed the subject. “The lords, whom I sent to you this morning, reported that all goes well with you in the palace. I hope so. If anything is wanted, you have only to speak. My provinces are at your service.”

“The lords reported truly.”

“I am very glad. Thinking of you, Malinche, and studying to make your contentment perfect, I have wondered if you have any amusements or games with which to pass the time.”

As there were not in all the New World, however it might be in the Old, more desperate gamblers than the cavaliers, they looked at each other when the translation was concluded, and smiled at the simplicity of the speaker. Nevertheless, Cortes replied with becoming gravity,—

“We have our pastimes, good king, as all must have; for without them, nature hath ordered that the body shall grow old and the mind incapable. Our pastimes, however, relate almost entirely to war.”

“That is labor, Malinche.”

“So is hunting,” said Cortes, smiling.

“My practice is not,” answered the monarch, taking the remark as an allusion to his own love of the sport, and laughing. “The lords drive the game to me, and my pleasure is in exercising the skill required to take it. Some day you must go with me to my preserves over the lake, and I will show you my modes; but I did not mean that kind of amusement. I will explain my meaning. Io’,” he said to the prince, who had arisen, “bid Maxtla bring hither the silver balls. I will teach Malinche to play totoloque.”

“Have a care, gentlemen!” said Cortes, divining the speech from the action of the speaker. “The lad must stay. And thou, Marina, tell him so.”

The comely, gentle-hearted Indian woman hastened tremulously to say, “Most mighty king, Malinche bids me tell thee that he has heard of the beautiful game, and will be glad to learn it, but not now. He wishes the prince to remain.”

One step Io’ had in the mean time taken,—but one; in front of him Leon stepped, hand on sword, and menace on his brow. The blood fled the monarch’s face.

“Go not,” he at length said to the boy; and to Cortes, “I do not understand you, Malinche.”

The time of demand was come. Cortes moved nearer the dais, and replied, his eyes fixed coldly and steadily on those of the victim,—

“I have business with thee, king; and until it is concluded, thou, the prince, and thy councillors must stay. Outcry, or attempt at escape, will be at peril of life.”

The monarch sat upright, pale and rigid; the ancients dropped upon their knees. Io’ alone was brave; he stepped upon the platform, as if to defend the royal person. Then in the same cold, inflexible manner, Cortes proceeded,—

“I have been thy guest, false king, long enough to learn thee well. The power which, on all occasions, thou hast been so careful to impress upon me, hath but made thy hypocrisy the more astonishing. Listen, while I expose thee to thyself. We started hither at thy invitation. In Cholula, nevertheless, we were set upon by the army. No thanks to thee that we are alive to-day. And, in the same connection, when thou wert upbraided for inviting us, the lords and princes were told that such was the instruction of one of thy bloody gods, who had promised here in the capital to deliver us prisoners for sacrifice.” Montezuma offered to speak.

“Deny it not, deny it not!” said Cortes, with the slightest show of passion. “In god or man, such perfidy cannot be excused. But that is not all. Say nothing about the command sent the troops near Tuzpan to attack my people; nor about the demand upon townships under protection of my royal master for women and children to feed to thy hungry idols; now—”

Here the king broke in upon the interpreter,—

“I do not understand what Malinche says about my troops attacking his people at Tuzpan.”

“Thy governor killed one of my captains.”

“Not by my order.”

“Then make good the denial, by sending for the officer who did the murder, that he may be punished according to the wickedness of his crime.”

The king took a signet from his wrist, and said to one of his councillors, “Let this be shown to the governor of that province. I require him to come here immediately, with all who were concerned with him at the time spoken of by Malinche.”

The smile with which the monarch then turned to the Spaniard was lost upon him, for he continued, pitilessly as before,—

“The punishment of the governor is not enough. I accuse thee further. Thou treacherous king! Go with me to the temple, and now,—this instant,—I will show thee thy brother, with an army at call, waiting thy signal to attack us in the palace where so lately we received thy royal welcome.”

The listener started from his seat. Upon his bewildered faculties flashed the remembrance of how carefully and with what solemn injunction he had locked his plans of war in the breasts of the members of his family, gathered about him on the azoteas at Chapultepec. His faith in them forbade suspicion. Whence then the exposure? And to the dealer in mysteries Mystery answered, “The gods!” If his former faith in the divinity of the stranger came not back, now, at least, he knew him sustained by powers with which contention were folly. He sunk down again; his head dropped upon his struggling breast;—HE WAS CONQUERED!

And the stern Spaniard, as if moved by the sight, said, in a softened voice,—

“I know not of thy religion; but there is a law of ours,—a mercy of the dear Christ who hath us in his almighty keeping,—by which every sin may be atoned by sacrifices, not of innocent victims, but of the sinner’s self. In the world I come from, so much is the law esteemed, that kings greater than thou have laid down their crowns, the better to avail themselves of its salvation. Thou art an unbeliever, and I may do wrong,—if so, I pray pardon of the Holy Ghost that heareth me,—I may do wrong, I say, but, infidel as thou art, if thou wilt obey the precept, thou shalt have the benefit of the privilege. I do not want war which would end in thy destruction and the ruin of thy city and people; therefore I make thee a proposal. Hear me!”

The unhappy king raised his head, and listened eagerly.

“Arise, and go with us to our quarters, and take up thy abode there. King shalt thou continue. Thy court can go with thee, and thou canst govern from one palace as well as another. To make an end of speech,”—and Cortes raised his hand tightly clenched,—“to make an end of speech, finally and plainly, choose now: go with us or die! I have not brought these officers without a purpose.”

All eyes centred on the pale face of the monarch, and the stillness of the waiting was painful and breathless. At last, from the depths of his tortured soul, up rose a sparkle of resentment.

“Who ever heard of a great prince, like myself, voluntarily leaving his own palace to become a prisoner in the hands of a stranger?”

“Prisoner! Not so. Hear me again. Court, household, and power, with full freedom for its exercise, and the treatment due a crowned prince,—all these shalt thou have. So, in my master’s name, I pledge thee.”

“No, Malinche, press me not so hardly. Were I to consent to such a degradation, my people would not. Take one of my sons rather. This one,”—and he laid his hand on Io’s shoulder,—“whom I love best, and have thought to make my successor. Take him as hostage; but spare me this infamy.”

The debate continued; an hour passed.

“Gentlemen, why waste words on this wretched barbarian?” exclaimed Leon, at last, half drawing his sword, while his face darkened with dreadful purpose. “We cannot recede now. In Christ’s name, let us seize him, or plunge our swords in his body!”

The captains advanced, baring their swords; Cortes retired a step, as if to make way for them. Brief time remained for decision. Trembling and confused, the monarch turned to Marina, and asked, “What did the teule say?”

As became a gentle woman, fearful lest death be done before her, she replied,—

“O king, I pray you make no further objection. If you yield, they will treat you kindly; if you refuse, they will kill you. Go with them, I pray you.”

Upon the advance of the captains, Io’ stepped in front of the king; as they hesitated, either waiting Cortes’ order or the answer to Marina’s prayer, he knelt, and clasped his father’s knees, and cried tearfully,—

“Do not go, O king! Rather than endure such shame, let us die!”

Stupefied, almost distraught, the monarch seemed not to hear the heroic entreaty. His gaze was on the face of Cortes, now as impenetrable and iron-like as the armor on his breast. “The gods have abandoned me!” he cried, despairingly. “I am lost! Malinche, I will go with you!” His head drooped, and his hands fell nerveless on the chair.

The boy arose, and turned to the conquerors, every feature convulsed with hate.

“Thanks, good king, thanks!” said Cortes, smiling. “Thou hast saved my soul a sin. I will be thy friend till death!”

Thereupon, he stepped forward, and kissed the royal hand, which fell from his lips as if palsied—I will not say profaned—by the touch. And, one after another, Leon, Lugo, Avila, Alvarado, and Sandoval approached, and knelt on the dais, and in like manner saluted the fallen prince.

“Are you done, Malinche?” the victim asked, when somewhat revived.

“What I wish now, above all things,” was the reply, spoken with rare pretence of feeling, “is to be assured, good king, that we are forgiven the pain we have caused thee, since, though of our doing, it was not of our will as much as of the ambition of some of thy own lords and chiefs. What I desire next is, that thy goodness may not be without immediate results. I and my officers, thy son and these councillors, are witnesses that thou didst consent to my proposal out of great love of peace and thy people. To secure the object,—noble beyond praise,—the lords here in the palace, and those of influence throughout the provinces, must be convinced that thou dost go with me of thine own free will; not as prisoner, but as trusted guest returning the favor of guest. How to do that best is in thy knowledge more than mine. Only, what thy judgment approveth, set about quickly. We wait thy orders.”

“Io’, uncles,” said Montezuma, his eyes dim with tears, “as you love me, be silent as to what has here taken place. I charge you that you tell it to no man, while I live. Bid Maxtla come.”

Summoning all his strength to meet the shrewd eyes of the chief, the monarch sat up with a show of cheerfulness.

“Bring my palanquin,” he said, after Maxtla’s salutation, “and direct some of the elder lords to be ready to accompany me without arms or ceremony. As advised by Huitzil’, and these good uncles, I have resolved to go, and for a time abide with Malinche in the old palace. Send an officer, with the workmen, to prepare quarters for my use and that of the court. Publish my intention. Go quickly.”

Afterwhile from the palace issued a procession which no man, uninformed, might look upon and say was not a funeral: in the palanquin, the dead; on its right and left, the guard of honor; behind, the friends, a long train, speechless and sorrowing. The movement was quiet and solemn; three squares and as many bridges were passed, when, from down the street, a man came running with all speed. He gained the rear of the cortege, and spoke a few hurried words there; a murmur arose, and spread, and grew into a furious outcry,—a moment more, and the cortege was dissolved in tumult. At the last corner on the way, the cavaliers had been joined by some of the armed parties, who, for the purpose, had preceded them into the city in the early morning; these closed firmly around, a welcome support.

“Mirad!” cried Cortes, loudly. “The varlets are without arms. Let no one strike until I say so.”

The demonstration increased. Closer drew the mob, some adjuring the monarch, some threatening the Christians. That an understanding of the situation was abroad was no longer doubtful; still Cortes held his men in check, for he knew, if blood were shed now, the common-sense of the people would refuse the story he so relied upon,—that the king’s coming was voluntary.

“Can our guest,” he asked of Sandoval, “be sleeping the while?”

“Treachery, Señor.”

“By God’s love, captain, if it so turn out, drive thy sword first of all things through him!”

While yet he spoke, the curtains of the carriage were drawn aside; the carriers halted instantly; and of the concourse, all the natives fell upon their knees, and became still, so that the voice of the monarch was distinctly heard.

“The noise disturbs me,” he said, in ordinary tone. “Let the street be cleared.”

The lords whom he addressed kept their faces to the ground.

“What is the cause of the clamor?”

No one answered. A frown was gathering upon his face, when an Aztec sprang up, and drew near him. He was dressed as a citizen of the lower class. At the side of the carriage he stopped, and touched the pavement with his palm.

“Guatamozin!” said the king, more in astonishment than anger.

“Even so. O king,—father,—to bear a soldier’s part to-day, I have dared your judgment.” Lifting his eyes to the monarch’s, he endured his gaze steadily, but, at the same time, with such an expression of sympathy that reproof was impossible. “I am prepared for any sentence; but first, let me know, let these lords and all the people know, is this going in truth of your own free will?”

Montezuma regarded him fixedly, but not in wrath.

“I conjure you, uncle, father, king,—I conjure you, by our royal blood, by our country, by all the gods,—are these strangers guests or guards? Speak,—I pray you, speak but one word.”

The poor, stricken monarch heard, and was penetrated by the tone of anguish; yet he replied,—

“My brother’s son insults me by his question. I am still the king,—free to go and come, to reward and punish.”

He would have spoken further, and kindly, but for the interruption of Cortes, who cried impatiently,—

“Ho, there! Why this delay? Forward!”

And thereupon Avila stepped rudely and insolently between the king and ’tzin. The latter’s broad breast swelled, and his eyes blazed; he seemed like a tiger about to leap.

“Beware!” said the king, and the warning was in time. “Beware! Not here, not now!”

The ’tzin turned to him with a quick, anxious look of inquiry; a revulsion of feeling ensued; he arose, and said, with bowed head, “I understand. O king, if we help not ourselves, we are lost. ‘Not here, not now.’ I catch the permission.” Pointing to Avila, he added, “This man’s life is in my hands, but I pass it by; thine, O uncle, is the most precious. We will punish these insolents, but not here; we will give you rescue, but not now. Be of cheer.”

He stepped aside, and the melancholy cortege passed on, leaving the lords and people and the empire, as represented by them, in the dust. Before the teocallis, under the eyes of Cuitlahua, within hailing distance of the ten thousand warriors, the doughty cavaliers bore their prize unchallenged.

And through the gates of the old palace, through the files of Spaniards in order of battle waiting, they also carried what they thought was the empire, won without a blow, to be parcelled at pleasure,—its lands, its treasure, its cities, and its people.

BOOK SIX.

CHAPTER I
THE LORD HUALPA FLEES HIS FORTUNE

The ’tzin resumed his seat, looking searchingly and curiously at his guest, and pained by his manner and appearance. His face was careworn; his frame bent and emaciated; his look constantly downward; the voice feeble and of uncertain tone; in short, his aspect was that of one come up from a battle in which shame and grief had striven with youth of body and soul, and, fierce as the struggle had been, the end was not yet. He was the counterpart of his former self.

“You have been sick,” said the ’tzin, afterwhile.

“Very sick, in spirit,” replied Hualpa, without raising his eyes.

The ’tzin went on. “After your desertion, I caused inquiry to be made for you everywhere,—at the Chalcan’s, and at your palace. No one could give me any tidings. I sent a messenger to Tihuanco, and your father was no better informed. Your truancy has been grievous to your friends, no less than to yourself. I have a right to call you to account.”

“So you have; only let us to the garden. The air outside is sweet, and there is a relief in freedom from walls.”

From habit, I suppose, they proceeded to the arena set apart for military exercise. No one was there. The ’tzin seated himself on a bench, making room for Hualpa, who still declined the courtesy, saying,—

“I will give an account of myself to you, brave ’tzin, not only because I should, but because I stand in need of your counsel. Look for nothing strange; mine is a simple story of shame and failure. You know its origin already. You remember the last night I spent with you here. I do, at least. That day the king made me happier than I shall ever be again. When I met you at the landing, the kiss of my betrothed was sweet upon my lips, and I had but one sorrow in the world,—that you were an exile, and could not take part, as you so wished and deserved, in the battle which my hand was to precipitate next noon. I left you, and by dawn was at my post in the temple. The hours were long. At last the time came. All was ready. The ten thousand warriors chosen for the assault were in their quarters. The lord Cuitlahua was in the tower of Huitzil’, with the teotuctli and his pabas, at prayer. We awaited only the king’s word. Finally, Io’ appeared. I saw him coming. I raised the stick, my blood was warm, another instant and the signal would have been given—” Hualpa’s voice trembled, and he stopped.

“Go on,” said the ’tzin. “What restrained you?”

“I remembered the words of the king,—‘Io’ will come to you at noon with my commands,’—those were the words. I waited. ‘Strike!’ said Io’. ‘The command,—quick!’ I cried. ‘As you love life, strike!’ he shouted. Something unusual had taken place; I hesitated. ‘Does the king so command?’ I asked. ‘Time never was as precious! Give me the stick!’ he replied. But the duty was mine. ‘With your own hand give the signal,’—such was the order. I resisted, and he gave over the effort, and, throwing himself at my feet, prayed me to strike. I refused the prayer, also. Suddenly he sprang up, and ran out to the verge of the temple overlooking the street. Lest he should cast himself off, I followed. He turned to me, as I approached, and cried, with upraised hands, ‘Too late, too late! We are undone. Look where they carry him off!’ ‘Whom?’ I asked. ‘The king—my father—a prisoner!’ Below, past the coatapantli, the royal palanquin was being borne, guarded by the strangers. The blood stood still in my heart. I turned to the prince; he was gone. A sense of calamity seized me. I ran to the tower, and called the lord Cuitlahua, who was in time to see the procession. I shall never forget the awful look he gave me, or his words.” Hualpa again paused.

“What were they?” asked the ’tzin.

“‘My lord Hualpa,’ he said, ‘had you given the signal when Io’ came to you first, I could have interposed my companies, and saved him. It is now too late; he is lost. May the gods forgive you! A ruined country cannot.’”

“Said he so?” exclaimed the ’tzin, indignantly. “By all the gods, he was wrong!”

At these words, Hualpa for the first time dared look into the ’tzin’s face, surprised, glad, yet doubtful.

“How?” he asked. “Did you say I was right?”

“Yes.”

Tears glistened in the Tihuancan’s eyes, and he seized and kissed his friend’s hand with transport.

“I begin to understand you,” the ’tzin said, still more kindly. “You thought it your fault that the king was a prisoner; you fled for shame.”

“Yes,—for shame.”

“My poor friend!”

“But consider,” said Hualpa,—“consider how rapidly I had risen, and to what height. Admitting my self-accusations, when before did man fall so far and so low? What wonder that I fled?”

“Well, you have my judgment. Seat yourself, and hear me further.”

Hualpa took the seat this time; after which the ’tzin continued. “The seizure was made in the palace. The king yielded to threats of death. He could not resist. While the strangers were bearing him past the teocallis, and you were looking at them, their weapons were at his throat. Had you yielded to Io’s prayer, and given the signal, and had Cuitlahua obeyed, and with his bands attempted a rescue, your benefactor would have been slain. Do not think me dealing in conjectures. I went to him in the street, and prayed to be allowed to save him; he forbade me. Therefore, hold not yourself in scorn; be happy; you saved his life a second time.”

Again Hualpa gave way to his gratitude.

“Nor is that all,” the ’tzin continued. “In my opinion, the last rescue was nobler than the first. As to the lord Cuitlahua, be at rest. He was not himself when he chid you so cruelly; he now thinks as I do; he exonerates you; his messengers have frequently come, asking if you had returned. So, no more of shame. Give me now what else you did.”

The sudden recall to the past appeared to throw Hualpa back; his head sunk upon his breast again, and for a time he was silent; at length he replied, “As I see now, good ’tzin, I have been very foolish. Before I go on, assure me that you will listen with charity.”

“With charity and love.”

“I have hardly the composure to tell what more I did; yet the story will come to you in some form. Judge me mercifully, and let the subject be never again recalled.”

“You have spoken.”

“Very well. I have told you the words of the lord Cuitlahua; they burnt me, like fire. Thinking myself forever disgraced, I descended from the azoteas to the street, and there saw the people’s confusion, and heard their cries and curses. I could not endure myself. I fled the city, like a guilty wretch. Instinctively, I hurried to Tihuanco. There I avoided every habitation, even my father’s. News of evil travels fast. The old merchant, I knew, must needs hear of the king’s seizure and what I regarded as my crime. So I cared not to meet his eyes. I passed the days in the jungles hunting, but the charm of the old occupation was gone; somehow my arrows flew amiss, and my limbs refused a long pursuit. How I subsisted, I scarcely know. At last, however, my ideas began to take form, and I was able to interrogate myself. Through the king’s bounty, I was a lord, and owner of a palace; by his favor, I further reflected, Nenetzin was bound to me in solemn betrothal. What would she think of me? What right had I, so responsible for his great misfortune, to retain his gifts? I could release her from the odious engagement. At his feet I could lay down the title and property; and then, if you refused me as a soldier or slave, I could hide myself somewhere; for the grief-struck and unhappy, like me, earth has its caverns and ocean its islands. And so once more I hurried to Tenochtitlan. Yesterday I crossed the lake. From the Chalcan I heard the story which alone was needed to make my humiliation complete,—how Nenetzin, false to me, betrayed the great purpose of her father, betook herself to the stranger’s house, adopted his religion, and became his wife or—spare me the word, good ’tzin. After that, I lost no time, but went to the palace, made way through the pale-faced guards at the gate and doors, each of whom seemed placed there to attest the good king’s condition and my infamy. Suitors and lords of all degrees crowded the audience-chamber when I entered, and upon every face was the same look of sorrow and dejection which I had noticed upon the faces of the people whom I passed in the street. All who turned eyes upon me appeared to become accusers, and say, ‘Traitor, behold thy victim!’ Imagine the pressure upon my spirit. I made haste to get away,—unseemly haste. What my salutation was I hardly know. I only remember that, in some form of speech, I publicly resigned all his honorable gifts. I remember, also, that when I took what I thought was my last look at him,—friend, patron, king, father,—may the gods, who have forbidden the relation, forgive the allusion!—I could not see him for tears. My heart is in my throat now; then it nearly choked me. And so ends my account. And once more, true friend, I come to you, Hualpa, the Tihuancan, without title, palace, or privilege; without distinction, except as the hero and victim of a marvellous fortune.”

The ’tzin was too deeply touched, too full of sympathy, to reply immediately. He arose, and paced the arena awhile. Resuming his seat again, he asked simply, “And what said the king?”

“To what?”

“Your resignation.”

“He refused to take back his gifts. They could not revert, he said, except for crime.”

“And he was right. You should have known him better. A king cannot revoke a gift in any form.”

After a spell of silence, the ’tzin spoke again.

“One matter remains. You are not guilty, as you supposed; your friends have not lost their faith in you; such being the case, it were strange if your feelings are as when you came here; and as purposes too often follow feelings, I ask about the future. What do you intend? What wish?”

“I see you understand me well, good ’tzin. My folly has been so great that I feel myself unworthy to be my own master. I ought not to claim a purpose, much less a wish. I came to your door seeking to be taken back into service; that was all the purpose I had. I rely upon your exceeding kindness.”

Hualpa moved as if to kneel; but the ’tzin caught him, and said, “Keep your seat.” And rising, he continued, severely, “Lord Hualpa,—for such you still are,—all men, even the best, are criminals; but as for the most part their crimes are against themselves, we take no notice of them. In that sense you are guilty, and in such degree that you deserve forfeiture of all the king refused to take back. Put pass we that,—pass the folly, the misconduct. I will not take you into service; you have your old place of friend and comrade, more fitting your rank.”

Hualpa’s face brightened, and he answered,—

“Command me, O ’tzin! With you I can be brave warrior, good citizen, true friend; without you, I am nothing. Whatever the world thinks of me, this I know,—I can reinstate myself in its good opinion before I can in my own. Show me the way back to self-respect; restore me that, and I will be your slave, soldier, comrade,—what you will.”

“It is well,” said Guatamozin, smiling at his earnestness. “It is well. I can show you the way. Listen. The war, about which we have so often talked, thanks to the gods! is finally at hand. The public opinion has done its work. The whole nation would throw itself upon the strangers to-morrow, but for the king, who has become their shield; and he must be rescued; otherwise, we must educate the people to see in him an enemy to be removed. We cannot spare the time for that, and consequently have tried rescue in many ways, so far in vain. To-morrow we try again. The plot is arranged and cannot fail, except by the king’s own default. Reserving explanation, I congratulate you. You are in time; the good fortune clings to you. To-morrow I will set your feet in the way you seek.”

Hualpa gazed at him doubtingly. “To-morrow!” he said. “Will you trust me so soon, and in a matter so high?”

“Yes.”

“Will my part take me from you?”

“No.”

“Then I thank you for the opportunity. On the teocallis, that dreadful morning, I lost my assurance; whether it will ever return is doubtful; but with you, at your side, I dare walk in any way.”

“I understand you,” the ’tzin replied. “Go now, and get ready. Unless the king fail us, we will have combat requiring all our strength. To the bath first, then to breakfast, then to find more seemly garments, then to rest. I give you to midnight. Go.”

CHAPTER II
WHOM THE GODS DESTROY THEY FIRST MAKE MAD

The perplexity of the good man was not without cause. The day the king removed to the palace of Axaya’, the royal hospitality went with him, and had thenceforth been administered there; but though no less princely and profuse than before, under the new régime it was overshadowed by the presence of the strangers, and for that reason became distasteful to the titled personages accustomed to its enjoyment. Consequently, owners of palaces in the city betook themselves to their own boards; others, especially non-residents, quartered with the Chalcan; as a further result, his house assumed the style of a meson, with accommodations equal to those of the palace; such, at least, was the disloyal whisper, and I am sorry to say Xoli did not repudiate the impeachment as became a lover of the king. And such eating, drinking, playing, such conspiring and plotting, such political discussion, such transactions in brokerage went on daily and nightly under his roof as were never before known. Now all this was broken off. The silence was not more frightful than unprofitable.

“Steward, steward!” said Xoli to that functionary, distinguished by the surpassing whiteness of his apron. “What has befallen? Where are the patrons this morning?”

“Good master, the most your slave knows is, that last night a paba from the great temple passed through the chambers, after which, very shortly, every guest departed.”

“A paba, a paba!” And Xoli was more than ever perplexed. “Heard you what he said?”

“Not a word.”

“About what time did he come?”

“After midnight.”

“And that is all you know?”

The steward bowed, and Xoli passed distractedly to the front door, only to find the portico as deserted as the chambers. Sight of the people beginning to collect in the square, however, brought him some relief, and he hailed the first passing acquaintance.

“A pleasant morning to you, neighbor.”

“The same to you.”

“Have you any news?”

“None, except I hear of a crowd of pabas in the city, come, as rumor says, from Tezcuco, Cholula, Iztapalapan, and other lake towns.”

“When did they come?”

“In the night.”

“Oho! There’s something afoot.” And Xoli wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

“So there is,” the neighbor replied. “The king goes to the temple to worship to-day.”

A light broke in upon the Chalcan. “True, true; I had forgotten.”

“Such is the talk,” the citizen continued. “Will you be there? Everybody is going.”

“Certainly,” answered Xoli, dryly. “If I do not go, everybody will not be there. Look for me. The gods keep you!”

And with that, he re-entered his house, satisfied, but not altogether quieted; wandering restlessly from chamber to chamber, he asked himself continually, “Why so many pabas? And why do they come in the night? And what can have taken the lords away so silently, and at such a time,—without breakfast,—without even a draught of pulque?”

Invariably these interrogatories were followed by appeals to the great ebony jar of snuff; after sneezing, he would answer himself, “Pabas for worship, lords and soldiers for fighting; but pabas and soldiers together! Something is afoot. I will stay at home, and patronize myself. And yet—and yet—they might have told me something about it!”

About ten o’clock—to count the time as Christians do—the king issued from the old palace, going in state to the teocallis, attended by a procession of courtiers, warriors, and pabas. He was borne in an open palanquin, shaded by the detached canopy, the whole presenting a spectacle of imperial splendor.

The movement was slow and stately, through masses of people on the pavements, under the gaze of other thousands on the housetops; but neither the banners, nor the music, nor the pomp, nor the king himself, though fully exposed to view, amused or deceived the people; for at the right and left of the carriage walked Lugo, Alvarado, Avila, and Leon; next, Olmedo, distinguishable from the native clergy by his shaven crown, and the cross he carried aloft on the shaft of a lance; after him, concluding the procession, one hundred and fifty Spaniards, ready for battle. Priesthood,—king,—the strangers! Clearer, closer, more inevitable, in the eyes of the people, arose the curse of Quetzal’.

When the monarch alighted at the foot of the first stairway of the temple, the multitude far and near knelt, and so remained until the pabas, delegated for the purpose, took him in their arms to carry him to the azoteas. Four times in the passage of the terraces the cortege came in view from the side toward the palace, climbing, as it were, to the Sun;—dimmer the holy symbols, fainter the solemn music; and each time the people knelt. The unfortunate going to worship was still the great king!

A detachment of Christians, under De Morla, preceded the procession as an advance-guard. Greatly were they surprised at what they found on the azoteas. Behind Tlalac, at the head of the last stairway, were a score or more of naked boys, swinging smoking censers; yet farther toward the tower or sanctuary of Huitzil’ was an assemblage of dancing priestesses, veiled, rather than dressed, in gauzy robes and scarfs; from the steps to the door of the sanctuary a passage-way had been left; elsewhere the sacred area was occupied by pabas, drawn up in ranks close and scrupulously ordered. Like their pontiff, each of them wore a gown of black; but while his head was bare, theirs were covered by hoods. Thus arranged,—silent, motionless, more like phantoms than men,—they both shocked and disquieted the Spaniards. Indeed, so sensible were the latter of the danger of their position, alone and unsupported in the face of an array so dismal and solid, that many of them fell to counting their beads and muttering Aves.

A savage dissonance greeted the king when he was set down on the azoteas, and simultaneously the pabas burst into a hymn, and from the urn over the tower a denser column of smoke arose, slow mounting, but erelong visible throughout the valley. Half bending, he received the blessing of Tlalac; then the censer-bearers swept around him; then, too, jangling silver bells and beating calabashes, the priestesses began to dance; in the midst of the salutation, the arch-priest, moving backward, conducted him slowly toward the entrance of the sanctuary. At his side strode the four cavaliers. The escort of Christians remained outside; yet the pabas knew the meaning of their presence, and their hymn deepened into a wail; the great king had gone before his god—a prisoner!

The interior of the sanctuary was in ordinary condition; the floor and the walls black with the blood of victims; the air foul and sickening, despite the smoking censers and perfuming pans. The previous visit had prepared the cavaliers for these horrors; nevertheless, a cry broke from them upon their entrance. In a chafing-dish before the altar four human hearts were slowly burning to coals!

“Jesu Christo!” exclaimed Alvarado. “Did not the pagans promise there should be no sacrifice? Shrieve me never, if I toss not the contents of yon dish into the god’s face!”

“Stay!” cried Olmedo, seizing his arm. “Stir not! The business is mine. As thou lovest God,—the true God,—get thee to thy place!”

The father spoke firmly, and the captain, grinding his teeth with rage, submitted.

The pedestal of the idol was of stone, square in form, and placed in the centre of the sanctuary. Several broad steps, fronting the doorway,—door there was not,—assisted devotees up to a platform, upon which stood a table curiously carved, and resting, as it were, under the eyes of the god. The chamber, bare of furniture, was crowded with pabas, kneeling and hooded and ranked, like their brethren outside. The cavaliers took post by the entrance, with Olmedo between them and the altar. Two priests, standing on the lower step, seemed waiting to assist in the ceremonial, although, at the time, apparently absorbed in prayer.

Tlalac led the monarch by the hand up the steps.

“O king,” he said, “the ears of the god are open. He will hear you. And as to these companions in devotion,” he pointed to the assistants as he spoke, “avoid them not: they are here to pray for you; if need be, to die for you. If they speak, be not surprised, but heed them well; what they say will concern you, and all you best love.”

Thereupon the arch-infidel let go the royal hand, and descended the steps, moving backward; upon the floor he continued his movement. Suddenly he stopped, turned, and was face to face with Olmedo; all the passions of his savage nature blazed in his countenance; in reply, the Christian priest calmly held up the cross, and smiled, and was content.

Meantime the monarch kissed the altar, and, folding his hands upon his breast, was beginning to be abstracted in prayer, when he heard himself addressed.

“Look not this way, O king, nor stir; but listen.”

The words, audible throughout the chamber, proceeded from the nearest devotee,—a tall man, well muffled in gown and hood. The monarch controlled himself, and listened, while the speaker continued in a slow, monotonous manner, designed to leave the cavaliers, whom he knew to be observing him, in doubt whether he was praying or intoning some part of the service of the occasion,—

“It is in the streets and in the palaces, and has gone forth into the provinces, that Montezuma is the willing guest of the strangers, and that from great love of them and their society, he will not come away, although his Empire is dissolving, and the religion of his fathers menaced by a new one; but know, O king, that the chiefs and caciques refuse to credit the evil spoken of you, and, believing you a prisoner, are resolved to restore you to freedom. Know further, O king, that this is the time chosen for the rescue. The way back to the throne is clear; you have only to go hence. What says the king? The nation awaits his answer.”

“The throne is inseparable from me,—is where I am, under my feet always,” answered the monarch, coldly.

“And there may it remain forever!” said the devotee, with fervor. “I only meant to pray you to come from amongst the strangers, and set it once more where it belongs,—amongst the loving hearts that gave it to you. Misunderstand me not, O king. Short time have we for words. The enemy is present. I offer you rescue and liberty.”

“To offer me liberty is to deny that I am free. Who is he that proposes to give me what is mine alone to give? I am with Huitzil’. Who comes thus between me and the god?”

From the pabas in the chamber there was a loud murmur; but as the king and devotee retained their composure, and, like praying men, looked steadily at the face of Huitzil’, the cavaliers remained unsuspicious observers of what was to them merely a sinful ceremony.

“I am the humblest, though not the least loving, of all your subjects,” the devotee answered.

“The name?” said the king. “You ask me to go hence: whither and with whom?”

“Know me without speaking my name, O king. I am your brother’s son.”

Montezuma was visibly affected. Afterwhile he said,—

“Speak further. Consider what you have said true,—that I am a prisoner, that the strangers present are my guards,—what are the means of rescue? Speak, that I may judge of them. Conspiracy is abroad, and I do not choose to be blindly led from what is called my prison to a tomb.”

To the reasonable demand the ’tzin calmly replied, “That you were coming to worship to-day, and the conditions upon which you had permission to come, I learned from the teotuctli. I saw the opportunity, and proposed to attempt your rescue. In Tlalac the gods have a faithful servant, and you, O king, a true lover. When you were received upon the azoteas, you did not fail to notice the pabas. Never before in any one temple have there been so many assembled. They are the instruments of the rescue.”

“The instruments!” exclaimed the king, unable to repress his scorn.

The ’tzin interposed hastily. “Beware! Though what we say is not understood by the strangers, their faculties are sharp, and very little may awaken their suspicion and alarm; and if our offer be rejected, better for you, O king, that they go hence ignorant of their danger and our design. Yes, if your conjecture were true, if we did indeed propose to face the teules with barehanded pabas, your scorn would be justified; but know that the concourse on the azoteas is, in fact, of chiefs and caciques, whose gowns do but conceal their preparation for battle.”

A pang contracted the monarch’s face, and his hands closed harder upon his breast; possibly he shuddered at the necessity so thrust upon him of deciding between Malinche whom he feared, and the people whom he so loved.

“Yes,” continued the ’tzin, “here are the chosen of the realm,—the noblest and the best,—each with his life in his hand, an offering to you. What need of further words? You have not forgotten the habits of war; you divine the object of the concourse of priests; you understand they are formed in ranks, that, upon a signal, they may throw themselves as one man upon the strangers. Here in the sanctuary are fifty more with maquahuitls; behind them a door has been constructed to pass you quickly to the azoteas; they will help me keep the door, and stay pursuit, while you descend to the street. And now, O king, said I not rightly? What have you to do more than go hence? Dread not for us. In the presence of Huitzil’, and in defence of his altar, we will fight. If we fall in such glorious combat, he will waft our souls straightway to the Sun.”

“My son,” the king answered, after a pause, “if I were a prisoner, I would say you and the lords have done well; but, being free and pursuing my own policy, I reject the rescue. Go your ways in peace; leave me to my prayers. In a few days the strangers will depart; then, if not sooner, I will come back as you wish, and bring the old time with me, and make all the land happy.”

The monarch ceased. He imagined the question answered and passed; but a murmur, almost a groan, recalled him from the effort to abstract himself. And then the teotuctli, exercising his privilege, went to him, and, laying a hand upon his arm, and pointing up to the god, said,—

“Hearken, O king! The strangers have already asked you to allow them to set up an altar here in the house of Huitzil’, that they may worship their god after their manner. The request was sacrilege; listening to it, a sin; to grant it would make you accursed forever. Save yourself and the god, by going hence as the lords have besought. Be wise in time.”

“I have decided,” said the poor king, in a trembling voice,—“I have decided.”

Tlalac looked to the ’tzin despairingly. The appeal to the monarch’s veneration for the god of his fathers had failed; what else remained? And the ’tzin for the first time looked to the king, saying sorrowfully,—

“Anahuac is the common mother, as Huitzil’ is the father. The foot of the stranger is heavy on her breast, and she cries aloud, ‘Where is Montezuma? Where is the Lord of the Earth? Where is the Child of the Sun?’”

And silence hung heavy in the sanctuary, and the waiting was painful. Again the ’tzin’s voice,—

“A bride sits in the house waiting. Love puts its songs in her mouth, and kindles her smiles with the dazzle of stars. But the bridegroom lingers, and the evening and the morning bring him not. Ah, what is she, though ever so beautiful and sweet-singing, when he comes not, and may never come? O king, you are the lingering lord, and Anahuac the waiting bride; as you love her, come.”

The fated king covered his face with his hands, as if, by shutting out the light, to find relief from pangs too acute for endurance. Minutes passed,—minutes of torture to him, and of breathless expectancy to all present, except the cavaliers, who, unconscious of peril, watched the scene with indifference, or rather the scornful curiosity natural to men professing a purer and diviner faith. At last his hand dropped, and he said with dignity,—

“Let this end now,—so I command. My explanation must be accepted. I cannot understand why, if you love me as you say, you should receive my word with so little credit; and if you can devote yourselves so entirely to me, why can you not believe me capable of equal devotion to myself? Hear me once more. I do not love the strangers. I hope yet to see them sacrificed to Huitzil’. They promise in a few days to leave the country, and I stay with them to hasten their departure, and, in the mean time, shield you, the nation, the temples, and the gods, from their power, which is past finding out. Therefore, let no blow be struck at them, here or elsewhere, without my order. I am yet the king. Let me have peace. Peace be with you! I have spoken.”

The ’tzin looked once to heaven, as if uttering a last appeal, or calling it to witness a vow, then he fell upon his knees; he, too, had despaired. And as if the feeling were contagious, the teotuctli knelt, and in the sanctuary there was stillness consistent with worship, save when some overburdened breast relieved itself by a sigh, a murmur, or a groan.

And history tells how Montezuma remained a little while at the altar, and went peacefully back to his residence with the strangers.