Fast as her nimble little gay-sandalled feet could move, the aged Cacique's grandchild danced along the well-thronged streets of the fine city of Tlascala, the capital of the Republic.
Friends passed her, and with smiles and nods tossed to her great bunches of roses and sweet honeysuckle. From many a broad, flat-terraced roof sweet-toned, merry laughter floated down, as a well-aimed garland fell over Montoro de Diego's handsome head and rested round his neck, or a brilliant chaplet of bright blossoms stopped its flight on the footway before his feet.
Thither marched along a band of warriors in glittering array, and singing as they marched to the wild music of the instruments. And here Xicotencatl's granddaughter paused a few moments, with the impatient small feet curbed to stillness, and the bright eyes bent to the ground with meek deference. A company of the white-robed, long-haired priests was passing, swinging burning censers as they went, and the clouds of aromatic incense floated like a purple veil through the dazzling, sunlit air of that October day.
The priests passed on, and once more the Indian maiden led her companions on again, showing her rows of little white teeth in gratified smiles as her Spanish companion lingered now and again to admire the beautiful pottery, elegant in design and fine in make as that of Florence, or to gaze in surprise at the fine public baths, or the busy barbers' shops and sweetmeat stalls.
At the entrance of one especially narrow street she came to a second standstill. Montoro very quickly read the cause. About half-way down the street there was a disturbance of some sort going on,—a fight over a bad market bargain,—and the partisans on both sides effectually blocked up the way from every one else.
"Let us take another route," said Montoro.
But his guide shook her head.
"No need," she said confidently.
And even as she spoke two or three of the efficient, well-disciplined Tlascalan police put in an appearance on the scene, and the tumult was quelled almost instantaneously. A half-unconscious wish passed through the Spaniard's mind that the Spanish guardians of the peace were anything like as effective.
But they were nearing the temple now for which they were bound, and all other thoughts were lost sight of for the present in wondering speculations as to what new sights he had been brought to witness. It was thanks to the rank and good-will of his guide, and to the fame of her late deed, which had already spread through the city, that he thus easily gained admission to them.
The temple-in-chief of Tlascala did not, indeed, cover forty acres of ground, with an acre of platform for its colossal summit, like its bewildering giant of a sister at Cholula, but it was of sufficient size and proportions to embrace various ecclesiastical institutions within its limits, under the jurisdiction of the priests—seminaries for the education of children, girls and boys, colleges for the priests, and training-schools for the young knights before their entry into the world and its many strifes.
It was with some parade and solemn ceremony that Montoro de Diego was admitted into its precincts, and only upon the half-pleading, half-authoritative demand of the great chieftain's child. But at length he and his companions stood within one of the great halls, and the chatterbox tongues of the young girl, of Doña Marina, and of the Indian women were hushed to reverential silence.
There upon the pavement, a few yards before them, lay a motionless human figure, emaciated to the last degree, and with a deathly pallidness visible even through the red-lined skin. Beside it lay the gaudy feather mantle, the grotesque helmet, and the copper-tipped javelin.
The figure was that of a very young man, and, so it seemed to Montoro, of one fast dying, if not already dead. He turned with a glance of awed interrogation to his conductor, and was bewildered past all saying, and astounded, when he met her face glowing with enthusiasm and lighted by a pair of eyes brilliant with proud joy.
"See, good chieftain," she murmured, with lips trembling with lofty emotion, "see now that it is not I only of the Tlascalans who know how to endure for honour's sake and our country. Yonder is my brother, the youngest. This is now the fifty-third day that he watches, prays, and fasts in the temple beside his armour, that he may hereafter with due rank and fortitude fight in the Republic's wars."
"Surely," ejaculated Montoro, "surely this youth will never live to fight! Methinks he hath but hours of life left even for peace."
As Doña Marina interpreted this speech the words caught the young knight's ears, and the figure which the Spaniard had taken for that of one in the death swoon had sprung to its feet, and by rapid words, and gestures of indignant scorn, gave swift proof that the emaciated frame was still instinct with keen vitality.
The brother and sister exchanged a few low-spoken sentences, the probationer returned to his hard and comfortless couch beside the armour that he so longed to don, and the young guide led her party away to another part of the temple, where fresh scenes for wonder awaited her amateur surgeon.
These said fresh scenes very nearly led to an outbreak of hostilities, for even Montoro de Diego, for all his self-discipline, had the fiery Spanish blood in his veins, and would imagine himself specially commissioned to set other folks to rights; at any rate to try to do so, whether the effort were wild or sensible.
It is true, however, that the sights to which he was now introduced without any previous preparation were terrible enough to have aroused the uninformed indignation of any feeling heart.
In one of the inner courts the Indian maiden made another pause, and pointed with one of her swathed-up arms to the farther end, where a group of men were collected around a companion, whom they were flogging with a savage force that cut open the flesh at every stroke of the lash.
Montoro winced with sympathy as the great whip fell.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "use the authority of your father's name to stay that cruel punishment."
The young girl's lip curled proudly.
"It is a self-chosen punishment."
"Self-chosen!"
"Ay, self-chosen. How should the warrior dare the peril of being made a sacrifice by enemies, if he had not fortitude sufficient to bear the rods of his friends? But come, there is more to see, that the white-face may learn that the warriors of Tlascala know how to suffer, and can thereafter have small chance to fear aught that the most cruel foes can do to them."
So saying, the girl once more led the way on to an inner hall opposite to that by which they had first entered. She had, however, scarcely entered it when she turned back again hastily, saying—
"No, not this yet; this is for the last. Come!"
But for once the slightly imperative "Come!" was not obeyed by the white-face as it had been before. His keen eyes had alighted on that which had thrilled him with horror.
"Verily," he exclaimed, "it seems that if ye have many of the blessings of civilization ye have also its curses, even to an Inquisition with all its iniquities."
"What do you mean? what would you do?" exclaimed the girl, half-angered, half-terrified as she saw her companion's perturbed countenance, and could scarcely, with the help of Doña Marina and her attendants, keep him from dashing forward into the dim hall, where a young man lay stretched upon a bier of damp reeds, beneath which burned a great fire of smoking herbs, which were stirred from time to time into greater heat.
Truly the punishment, if it were a punishment, was a fearful one; but the Indian girl laid a firm, determined clasp upon Montoro de Diego's arm as she pointed to the young man on his fiery bed.
"He too is my brother," she said, with stern pride—"my eldest brother. That is his final trial. When he wins through that he will be enrolled in the noble order of our knights. Now you know why the Indian warrior fights well."
"You are a noble race, and worthy of a noble fate," murmured the Spaniard; and many a sigh escaped him as they wended homewards.
And now we must pass on quickly to the occupation of Mexico itself, and there, in that island city of flowers and palaces and temples and turrets, take our final leave of Hernando Cortes, its great, world-famous conqueror.
Scarcely any one in this nineteenth century, who pretends to the name of traveller, neglects to visit the world-famous and beautiful water city of Italy, the white-robed bride of the Adriatic.
When the Spanish discoverers set out for the lands of another hemisphere they little dreamt that they were to find out there another Venice, even more strange, more wonderful in its sweet, flowery, marvellous beauty, than the Venice on their own side of the Atlantic.
As the rough, way-hardened soldiers of Cortes came in sight of the great Lake of Tezcuco, with its fringe of white, well-ordered, flower-embowered villages, its dark groves of oak, cedar, and sycamores, and its richly-cultivated fields, they involuntarily came to a sudden halt, with first a dead silence, and then the air was rent with a simultaneous burst of ecstatic admiration.
"But behold!" exclaimed Juan de Cabrera with sudden bewilderment; "behold, Toro, the very islands on the bosom of yon fair lake are islands of enchantment!"
"How so?" queried Velasquez, pushing in his eager face between the two. "What new marvel hast discovered, Juan, where all is past belief?"
"Past belief, you may well say," returned the other. "I believe not that Hernando Cortes himself, even in his dreams, hath had thought of what he was to find out here. As I said before, I have cut the old world for aye; my home is henceforth here in fairy-land."
"Well, well," retorted Velasquez, "that is stale news now. Thou'st said that same every time, the past weeks, that thou hast caught sight of bright blossoms, bright eyes, or a palm tree. What hast seen now of novelty?"
"Why, his new home on a moving island," said Montoro, laughing. "Have I not guessed right, Cabrera?"
"That hast thou," was the satisfied answer. "Trust thine eyes, my Toro, to see farther through a deal board than the very wood-worm itself. Thine eyes and thy voice make some amends to thy friends for thy long face and scruples."
"I hope he thanks thee for thy compliment," ejaculated Velasquez, with his more short-sighted eyes roving here, there, and everywhere meantime. "But I do wish thou couldst answer a comrade's civil question, instead of indulging in questionable flatteries. What meanest thou by moving islands?"
"Just what I say," replied Juan de Cabrera, as the group of men moved slowly on down the mountain road towards the vast plain of Mexico, his eyes for the time diverted from the proud island city of Tenochtitlan to the chinampas, or wandering islands, being propelled by their owners from one part of the lake to another, as trade or inclination prompted.
These chinampas might be regarded as the market-gardens of the capital. Originally they were nothing but masses of earth loosened from the shore by the action of the water, and held together by the fibrous roots of the various plants flourishing upon them. Gathering these into rafts, tightly knit together, of reeds and rushes, the Aztecs had made for themselves artificial islands two or three hundred feet in length, on which were grown the fruits and vegetables for Tenochtitlan.
Bright with luxuriant vegetation, graceful with little fruit-trees, and homelike with the pretty little wooden hut of the owner, these moving islands were a feature in the glorious landscape, quite sufficiently noteworthy to excuse Cabrera for letting his attention be diverted by them for a few minutes from more important objects. Even the warlike Velasquez was momentarily charmed into an amused pleasure with the novel sight.
"I tell thee what it is, Juan," he said, laughing. "Our General will thus have small trouble in rewarding his faithful followers with lands and homes. He has but to turn off a score or two of those redskin beggars yonder and put us on, and there we are."
"Yea, verily," exclaimed Montoro in a tone of indignant scorn. "There ye would be. Fresh examples of the base, thievish instincts of the Spanish nation."
Velasquez started forward with flashing eyes, and his sword half-drawn. But Cabrera dragged him back, muttering hurriedly—
"Nonsense, Leon. Thou mightest as well wish to fight that enthusiast, Bishop Las Casas, for taking the Indians' part, as this monk-soldier here. Let him be. He returns to Spain, he tells me, with the next despatches. See yonder. What is Hernando Cortes regarding thus intently?"
"Thy magic islands, perchance," was the reply.
But Cortes had no eyes just then for the mere prettinesses of the majestically-beautiful scene lying stretched out beneath his feet, nor even for the great volcano Popocatapetl towering above it all. His eyes were fixed upon the approaches to that great capital of the powerful empire of Mexico, within which he meant to rest that coming night. As he gazed upon the city, and its approaches, his face told nothing of the nature of his intent thought, but in his heart there was the full confession that his determination was one bold almost to madness.
On the east of Tenochtitlan there was no access but by water. On the other three sides the entrances were by causeways. That of Iztapalapan, built out from the mainland to the city, on the south. That of Tepejacac on the north, which, running through the heart of the city as its principal street, met the southern causeway. And lastly, the dike of Tlacopan, connecting the island city with the continent on the west.[10]
This last causeway, which a short time hence Cortes and his companions were to have the bitterest reasons for remembering, was about two miles in length. All the three were built in the same substantial manner, of lime and stone, were defended by drawbridges, and were wide enough for ten or twelve horsemen to ride abreast.
"But still," as Cortes told himself in the secresy of his own heart, and as some of the more thoughtful of his men also told themselves as they now looked down upon it for the first time, "wide as that causeway was, some thousands of determined enemies upon it in their rear, the thousands of the great city's inhabitants driving them in front, that long causeway might well become the death-blow of them and their exalted hopes."
There was a few minutes' pause. Some would not unwillingly have heard the word of command for a retreat, while there was yet time. But that word did not come. As Cabrera had once said so Cortes always thought: "We must all die, and we can die but once."
The word of command was given to advance, and in no long time after, the army had reached the city of Iztapalapan, where it was finally determined to call a halt for the night, and make a first appearance before the Emperor at a more seasonable hour on the following day.
With the first streak of dawn of the 8th November, 1519, the Spanish general and his troops were astir. A lovely morning, the brilliant beams of the sun gradually fading into dimness the innumerable sacred fires of the assemblages of temples.
The whole city was visible to them. The wide-spreading palace of the Emperor, like a second palace of the Cæsars, comprising many homes, gardens of every description for plants and animals, and aviaries of the most gorgeous description, within the one circle. Then the great redstone mansions of the nobles, their roofs blooming like so many exquisite parterres of flowers. The neat dwellings of the poorer classes, of stone and unbaked bricks, here and there rudely adorned with crossbar wooden rafters. Everywhere gardens, streets perfectly kept and perfectly clean, and terraces.
The whole place was waking up now to a new day. All was gay with business and bustle. Canoes glancing swiftly up and down the canals, the streets crowded with people in their bright and picturesque costumes, fountains playing in courts adorned with porphyry and jasper. Stone footways, revenue offices, and numerous bridges, over which people were hurrying in all directions; whilst the enormous market was already becoming thronged with an animated company of many thousands of buyers and sellers, and commodities of all kinds, from slaves for work or sacrifice, down to pastry, sweets, and flowers. Cotton dresses and cloaks, curtains and coverlids, toys and jewellery of the most delicate and exquisite workmanship. Pottery stalls, graceful wood-carvings, helmets, quilted doublets, copperheaded lances and arrows, feather-mail, and the broad maquahuitl or Mexican sword, with its sharp blades of itztli. Itztli razors and mirrors, and barbers to use the razors and lend or sell the mirrors, hides raw and dressed, and live animals. Fish, game, poultry, and building materials. Flowers everywhere, and also, almost everywhere, in and out amongst the motley throngs, the royal officers of justice to keep the peace, collect the duties, and to see to weights and measures, and good faith and order generally.
This Empire of Mexico, and above all its heart, this fair city of Tenochtitlan, was decidedly no abode of savage ignorance, but rather the region of a civilization but very little lower in the scale than that of its conquerors. The deep astonishment and wonder they felt at the discovery is but reproduced in us, as we read of all these marvels. And the wonder in our minds must but be a hundred-fold increased as we remember that this great and far-advanced nation, was utterly conquered and overthrown by a handful of rough, half-taught adventurers!
Meantime, to return to these same adventurers, with no apology either for having given you Prescott's descriptions of this most astonishing Mexico almost word for word, as he, in his turn, has copied it from the letters of one of the very adventurers themselves who accompanied Cortes, that 8th of November morning over the south causeway into ancient Mexico.
On the causeway, at the distance of about half a league from the capital, the small army of conquest encountered a solid wall of stone twelve feet high stretching right across the dike, and strengthened by towers at the extremities. In the centre was a battlemented gate which was opened to admit the white-faced warriors.
"I confess," muttered Alvarado to Velasquez, who rode beside him, as those gates clanged to behind them, "I confess that I should not think him quite a craven among my brethren who should indeed, at this moment, show a real white-face for once."
Velasquez shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, it is true we have walked into the jaws of death. It but remains to see whether our Captain-General be a wedge strong enough to split them."
"Or, as our Diego yonder would say," returned the other, "to hold them open until we walk out again."
"Bah! for the walking out again," was the impatient reply. "Unless, forsooth, it be to leave but bare walls behind us. As the Lord's people of old had command to spoil the Egyptians, so I believe are we now ordained to spoil the heathen savages who imbrue their land with human sacrifices."
"Well," murmured Pedro de Alvarado thoughtfully, "I know not. But it is true, these hateful sacrifices have made even Diego himself grow somewhat cooler, methinks, in his desire to keep our fingers away from this Mexican pie."
At this point in the short conversation the Spanish expedition was met by a splendid cortege of several hundred Aztec chiefs, sent forward by their monarch, who had at length so far overcome his unwillingness to receive the dreaded strangers as to send these messengers with words of welcome to them, and to announce his own approach.
Having spent a somewhat tedious hour in ceremonious greetings, the route was continued over a drawbridge, accompanied by their brilliantly attired escort, each member of which evidently had studied the art of setting himself off to the best advantage, as well as any dainty Spanish cavalier at the Court of Madrid. At length there came in sight the glittering retinue of the Emperor, wending its stately course along the great, wide, central street towards the foreigners.
Amidst a crowd of Indian nobles, preceded by three officers of state bearing golden wands, was borne the royal palanquin, blazing with burnished gold, and canopied with brilliant feather work, powdered with jewels and fringed with silver.
Having advanced to within a few yards of the Spanish General, the palanquin was lowered, the intervening ground was spread with cotton carpetings; nobles, bare-footed, and with faces bent to the earth, lined the way, and the great monarch Montezuma, clothed with the girdle and ample national cloak of the finest embroidered cotton, stepped forth.
"Behold them!" softly ejaculated Cabrera, as the Emperor stepped to the ground, and the Spaniard's eyes were dazzled by the passing flash of the sandals' golden soles, and the glisten of emeralds and pearls with which their fastenings were beautified.
Montezuma, this monarch who had taught both friends and foes to tremble at his frown, was at this time about forty years of age, tall and slender. His hair, which was black and straight, and of a due length to become his rank, was crowned with a plume of feathers of the royal green, which waved above features marked by a considerable degree of thoughtful intelligence. He moved with dignity, and his whole bearing, tempered by an expression of benignity not to have been anticipated, from the reports of him that had hitherto reached the Spaniards' ears, proclaimed a great and worthy ruler among men.[11]
Such courtly and dignified compliments were forthwith exchanged between the Aztec Emperor and the Spanish commander as might be expected between two such men, and then the Emperor was once more borne back to his palace, amid the homage of his prostrate subjects; while the Spaniards, with colours flying and music playing, were conducted by Montezuma's brother to the quarters assigned to them in the capital.
With royal hospitality the Emperor had devoted to the use of his visitors a splendid palace, built some fifty years before by his own father, and here he was waiting to receive them when they entered, and he completed the ceremony of welcome by hanging a superb and massy collar of golden ornaments around the neck of Hernando Cortes, or 'Malinche,' as with a touch of brotherly affection he now renamed him.
"This palace," he said, with the superb generosity he had already several times shown in the magnificence of the gifts to his 'Brother of Spain'—"This palace, Malinche, henceforth belongs to you and to your brethren. Rest after your fatigues, and in a little while I will visit you again."
So saying, with the most true tact and politeness, Montezuma withdrew, only to evince afresh his thought and kindness by forthwith sending his stranger guests a bountiful collation, and a tribe of obsequious and skilful Mexican slaves to serve it.
Having left his visitors ample leisure, both for feastings and for a few hours' quiet sleep, the Emperor's glittering palanquin once more made its appearance, amidst the fountains and flowers of the courtyard of their pleasant new quarters.
He did not depart this time until he had left behind him substantial proofs of his good-will. Suits of garments for every man of the small army, even including the hated Tlascalan allies, profusion of gold chains and other ornaments, and so many gracious expressions of face and voice, that he left even the most morose or prejudiced amongst the Spaniards deeply impressed with the munificence and affability of one whom they had been taught, by his enemies, to regard as a tyrannical and bloodthirsty monster.
The iron hearts of the rough adventurers were touched for once in their lives; and when, on the next day, they, in turn, visited Montezuma in his royal abode, they beguiled their return march with discourse on his gentle breeding and courtesy, and their new-born respect for this potentate of a new-found world.
Meantime Cortes was not quite so thoroughly satisfied with this new aspect of affairs as might, perhaps, be expected, or as were Montoro de Diego, Father Olmedo, and others of the gentler spirits of the expedition.
Cortes was bent on conquest, not compliments, and the strong position of the Indians and their immense numbers, combined with the growing good-will towards them, and respect of many of his own followers, inspired him with a sudden hurry, and most unusual feverish eagerness to bring matters to an issue.
As a first step to demonstrate his power he treated the inhabitants of the capital to a discharge of the artillery, which the poor terrified people regarded as powers wielded by the white-faces' very gods themselves.
But this was not enough for Cortes. He decided by one great theft, made at once, to gain a bloodless victory. He decided to steal from them their king.
"I cannot help it, Diego. It is the force of circumstances. Either we must be the aggressors or the victims. And how, thinkest thou, I could then answer it to myself, were I to see these men, who have with so full a trust followed me, butchered before mine eyes?"
Hernando Cortes was striding up and down the enormous apartment of the palace appointed him for a residence by Montezuma. His whole bearing, his face, his voice, betokened excessive agitation. He had only one companion with him at that hour, Montoro de Diego, and Montoro also looked very sorely troubled.
"We have received nought at the hands of this heathen monarch," he murmured, in tones of heartfelt grief; "nought but the noblest generosity, the most chivalrous respect."
"That is true," was the stern reply. "And we are going to return it with—with——"
"The basest treachery and black ingratitude."
There was silence in the apartment, but for those tramping feet, and the somewhat heavy breathing of the men. At last Cortes turned aside, and came to where his friend sat with clasped hands and bowed head, pondering over the inscrutable ways of Providence. He stood before him, looking down upon him with an expression of impatient sorrow.
"Toro, thou and I have been friends for many a stirring year now. We have never yet had cause to doubt each other's truth. Whatever I do in these coming days, believe, or strive to believe, that I act—I declare it by the holy faith itself—according to what I feel to be the loudest calls of duty."
Montoro grasped the other's hand for a moment. He did believe the assurance, although, to his more tender conscience and more enlightened mind, it seemed extraordinary that a glaring wrong could assume the garb of duty.
As the friends thus stood together the gold-embroidered, brilliantly-dyed cotton hangings before the entrance of the room were hastily thrust aside, and a young Spanish knight entered, and advanced impetuously towards the Captain-General. He paused in some confusion when he had approached near enough to see the two grave faces.
"Well, Velasquez," said his superior, with an accent of friendly encouragement, "methinks thy countenance betokens a whole budget of news. What is its nature? Good or evil? Fear not to speak out. I hold myself ever prepared in spirit to accept either."
Thus encouraged, the young soldier of fortune came a step or two nearer, as he replied with suppressed eagerness—
"It is not news, to be so called, that I bring you, Captain. I come rather as a messenger, I would say."
"Ah!" ejaculated Cortes, with some surprise. "A messenger! And from whom?"
"Well," said Velasquez, more slowly, "I believe that I might almost say with truth that I bear a message to you from the whole of our force now gathered in this island city. We would know, Captain, with your good pleasure, what is the next step that you propose to take for the furtherance of the objects of this present expedition—the spread of the most holy Catholic faith, and the glory of the Spanish kingdom."
"Methinks," said Cortes, with some tone of coldness and hauteur,—"methinks, friend, that we have already not only taken many steps in pursuit of those two worthy objects, but that we have likewise, in some large measure, gained them. What wouldst thou more—thou and those for whom thou claimest to be the messenger?"
The young Velasquez de Leon changed colour somewhat at this address. The buoyant hope of success had made Hernando Cortes even more than usually frank and friendly, the past few days, with his officers. But none knew better than he how to suddenly surround himself with a chill, impassable barrier when he chose.
There was an uncomfortable pause. Cortes broke it.
"Well, Leon," he said, with a short laugh, "say on, man. Methinks thou art but a sorry ambassador. Wilt thou find a readier tongue when I send thee to Montezuma to invite him hither?"
The young knight sprang forward, his colour still further heightened, truly, but with delight now instead of uneasiness.
"Order me on that service, my Captain, this very hour, and if my tongue prove not ready enough, my sword shall make amends."
Cortes turned with a meaning look to Montoro ere he answered, more cordially—
"I do not doubt you; that is to say, if I did not add my hand to thine on its hilt. It is just that over-readiness of my followers to use their swords that ofttimes ties me to inaction. If I took thee with me to yon red-skinned monarch's palace, couldst thou possibly abide by the policy of patience?"
"Put him in my charge, Captain," came a laughing shout from the end of the apartment, and the next moment Don Juan de Cabrera had joined the trio.
"Your charge indeed!" said Cortes, with a shrug of the shoulders. "A monkey tied to a cockatoo!"
"Ah," was the calm retort, "my hair is rather rough, for I broke my comb awhile since on the dog Ciudad's back. But yet, worthy Captain, thy natural history is somewhat astray, as I have remarked before, or I am ignorant if cockatoos are ornamented with black crests."
"I wonder whether thou wouldst still laugh if thou wast beaten black," muttered Velasquez, irritably.
"Perhaps," said the careless-hearted cavalier, "if thou wast standing by, looking solemn enough to tempt me. Dost ever laugh thyself, my Don Velasquez?"
"Not when life and honour lie trembling in the balance," said the young knight, indignantly. And, forgetful for the instant of the leader's presence, he continued—"For you, Don Juan, you seem not to remember that we are here pent up like a stack of wood, ready for the burning when our enemies choose to desire light for their temple's sacrifices."
Cortes bent his face forward swiftly towards the speaker.
"Say then, Leon, do you counsel retreat over yonder bridges while yet there is time? Is that what thou camest to——"
But the commander could not finish his sentence. The Spaniard's deference and decorum were neither of them sufficient to restrain him at such an imputation.
"Retreat!" he exclaimed. "I have never yet been of the number of those who have counselled that. Ere I would join in retreat I would of myself yield me into these heathen butchers' hands, to have my heart plucked out as an offering to their gods."
"But yet, if we stay," was the quiet answer,—"bethink you, Velasquez, if we stay, that may still possibly be thy fate, and that of many of us."
"Not if we make a bold fight for it at once," said Cabrera, grown almost as serious as if Leon's rebuke were weighing on his mind. But, as a fact, he did feel grave enough at their present insecure situation, and, brave as he was, he had a shuddering horror at the thought of becoming one of those dreadful sacrifices.
"Any spark may kindle the fury against us of these savages," muttered Velasquez, "and already our easy sloth is nourishing their contempt."
A return of the former haughty look was quickly visible on the face of Cortes at these words; but ere he could reply to them a noise and tumult without startled all four occupants of the room, and they hastily issued forth to learn the cause.
Montoro was the first to reach the threshold of the palace, and with a low, terrible cry he fell back upon his comrades.
"What is it?" gasped Cortes; and, pushing to the front, he received a ghastly answer to his query.
Spiked upon Indian lances, and held aloft by Indian hands, was an immense human head, crowned with heavy dark locks matted and stiffened with gore. A crowd of Indians, warriors and women, trooped along behind it, rending the air with their yells of triumph.
For the space of ten seconds it might be that the bronzed cheek of Cortes blanched; then he made a dash forward, caught one of the yelling youths, and dragging him back with him to the doorway, questioned him rapidly.
"Whose was that head yonder? Was it the head of an enemy of the Mexicans? a Tlascalan, or whose?"
The Indian boy cringed and trembled in that tightening grip.
"It is not the head of one of the white men here with the great white chief."
"It is the head of poor Morla, whom we left behind at Vera Cruz as one of Escalante's garrison," said Montoro sadly. "I should know it anywhere, and under any circumstances."
"Ay, truly," added Alvarado, in confirmation; "it is doubtless his. I did but save the poor fellow from hanging to leave him to a fate still worse. But what of the rest of the garrison? How comes he to have suffered? What is the meaning of this dismal matter? Was he sent out by Escalante as a messenger?"
All these questions, asked as they were by the lips of Alvarado, were indeed asked by the entire party in their thoughts. Montoro, resolved to know the worst at once, hurriedly obtained permission from Cortes, and, regardless of personal risk, he made his way, with his faithful interpreter, to the strangers, who were still bearing on high their ghastly trophy.
It was with no good news that he returned soon after to his companions in arms. Their saddest fears were realized. The noble-hearted, upright young officer, the beloved of all ranks of his companions, had met an early death with seven or eight of the garrison of Vera Cruz, in a pitched battle with a Mexican general.
"Is that the boasted discipline of this great empire," exclaimed Cortes indignantly, "that we should be cherished visitors of its Emperor, and meanwhile our comrades should be attacked and slain by his officers? What say you now, Montoro? Do you still place implicit trust in these base Indians?"
There was a moment's pause ere Montoro answered gravely—
"Base, I cannot call them, in that they fight for their lands and liberty; but I confess that I do feel now, strongly almost as yourself, that either we must re——"
"Retreat! never!" exclaimed Velasquez de Leon fiercely, interrupting the speaker. "What is thy other alternative, Don Diego, for the first is nought?"
"Ay, the other?" asked Cortes, with some extra touch of anxiety, to which Montoro's eyes replied with a grave, sad smile, as his lips answered—
"The other alternative then, I would say, that is forced upon us for the common safety, is, that some step be taken without delay to make our present position more secure."
Cortes grasped his friend's fingers tight as he muttered in a voice hoarse with emotion—
"Toro, I thank thee for those words. Thou hast strengthened my hands. Thy stern disapprobation of my intent lay too hardly on me. Now I can go forward."
"But meantime," muttered young Juan de Cabrera, with something of a gulp,—"meantime, poor old Escalante hath gone forward to that land whence none return."
Montoro laid his hand for one moment on the younger man's arm, as he murmured earnestly—
"Only free from care and toil a little sooner, Juan. We shall join him. Methinks rest must be very grateful after labour."
The fate of the young commander of the garrison of Vera Cruz, and of poor Morla, effected a speedy change in the sentiments of the whole of the Spaniards towards their Mexican entertainers.
"When the Tlascalans entered upon hostilities with us," said Juan de Cabrera, with a grim laugh, "they fed us up as men feed fowls, to make them fatter eating for themselves; but then, like sturdy, blunt warriors as they are, they told us so, whereas——"
"Ay," interrupted that hot-headed Velasquez, "whereas these smooth-spoken scoundrels here fill our mouths with one hand, only that our eyes may be covered while they give us a dose of itztli with the other."
"Well, well," said Hernan Cortes himself, rather gravely, "it may be so; and verily I hope it is, for I confess I would fain believe that we are but about to meet treachery with treachery, and not true-hearted generosity with cruelty."
The two officers glanced at one another significantly as they moved away out of hearing, and Velasquez remarked irritably to his companion—
"Talk of true hearts, indeed! That Diego yonder is making the General well-nigh as soft-hearted as himself. What is a soldier, i' faith, if he sets up to have feelings for his foes?"
"I will tell thee," said the calm, clear voice of Montoro unexpectedly. "I will tell thee, friend Leon. He is then a true knight, such a knight as our Cid would have called comrades with, and not a rascal. But the General is calling for us. Father Olmedo waits to say mass, and to bless us ere we start."
"Finish your sentence, Toro," said Cabrera quietly, and with a smile, as he passed on with him to the chapel they had fitted up for their own services.
Montoro looked round at his companion with some slight surprise.
"What finish wouldst have to my sentence, Juan? I understand thee not."
The other laughed as he answered in low tones—
"Mind me not, my dear friend Long-face; but thou knowest well that thy tongue ached to say—'ere we start on our kidnapping expedition.' Ah!" with another low, merry laugh, "said I not truly? Thy face betrays thee."
It was indeed true that Montoro de Diego regarded the present intentions of his companions in anything but a favourable light, although, unless they would retreat, he knew well enough that some strong measure was needful under present circumstances.
All he could do now he did. Whilst Fathers Olmedo and Juan Diaz were engaged in the celebration of mass, he offered up the most fervent, heartfelt prayers that the Father of all would have pity upon all His children, that the Almighty Lord of the universe would so order all things that they should further His kingdom upon earth, and His glory.
The mass ended, Cortes at once set out for the palace of Montezuma, accompanied by a trusty band of his officers—the inflexible, sunny-haired Alvarado, the fiery Velasquez de Leon, the intrepid and upright Sandoval, the wary Lugo, Davila, ready-handed, careless and fearless Juan de Cabrera, and the calm, keen-eyed, dependable, noble Montoro de Diego.
Montoro did not, could not, approve of the new, stern step about to be attempted for the conquest of Mexico. Nevertheless, when he unobtrusively placed himself by the General's side, Cortes knew well enough that, should the matter on hand come to bloodshed, Montoro de Diego would die before his General suffered hurt.
Arrived at the palace, the unsuspecting monarch gave his usual gracious and ready assent to his guests' demand for an audience. His oracles of old had foretold the coming of white-faces as gods, or the messengers of the gods, and so he ever treated them with a singular reverential courtesy, even when he had learnt to recognize them as scourges of evil, rather than the bright angels of mercy, teaching and blessing, he had been led to look for and to await with eager hopefulness.
Stationed cautiously, at various intervals between their barracks and the royal residence, were companies of the Spanish soldiers, armed to the teeth, ready to support their General and their officers in case of need. The guns were loaded, and pointed at the palace. Every preparation and precaution was attended to that prudence or foresight could dictate, and with that consciousness Cortes advanced to the undertaking with his usual air of bold, calm confidence.
The poor Emperor was in a specially bright, gay humour. He entered into a cheerful conversation, through the interpreters, with the young Spanish knights, and to prove his brotherly attachment to 'Malinche,' offered him one of his daughters for a wife. He pleased his own generous love of giving, and his guests' love of receiving, by lavishing costly and elegant little gifts upon them after his usual fashion.
Cabrera caught sight suddenly of Montoro de Diego's scornful, curling lip, and eyes flashing with indignation, as Velasquez de Leon bent his head to have a gold chain hung about his neck.
"What is it now, good Long-face?" he muttered, in some slight surprise. "Methought that thou wouldst be well satisfied with this interval of amity."
Montoro turned upon his friend with the fierceness of his ungovernable boyhood.
"I would that yon poor monarch's gifts could burn ye all!" he exclaimed passionately. "The base love of gold hath turned Spaniards into a crew of the meanest hounds that walk the earth. Even a cat would not accept a gift from the mouse it meant to kill."
But Montoro's generous wrath acted as the unintentional signal for the consummation of the proposed act of treachery. His angry words and looks startled the Emperor, and Cortes took advantage of his anxious queries to reply to them in his own way. Suddenly dropping the mask of smiles from his face, he exclaimed sternly—
"Can it surprise you, Montezuma, that my followers should show some tokens of indignation, when their well-loved comrades have been slain by your generals, during the very hours when you have made pretence to grasp their hands as brothers?"
The Emperor's face paled somewhat.
"It has been no pretence, Malinche. I have learnt to love and trust you."
"Then prove your words," cried Cortes, with a rapid glance round at his Spanish officers, who gathered instantly close up about him and the Emperor,—that poor Emperor, who had already, one would think, sufficiently proved his trust by dismissing all his own faithful guards and attendants from the apartment where he entertained his treacherous visitors. "Then prove your words," exclaimed Cortes a second time, striding a step nearer to the trembling monarch. "Trust yourself to our care for awhile. We have been your guests; now be our guest in our quarters, until you have proved your innocence of this cruel slaughter of our comrades. So only will we credit what you say."
Montezuma rose from his pile of cushions, and grasping the embroidered hangings of the wall behind him for support, he replied, with a brave effort at self-command, and with returning dignity—
"Nay, ye white-faces, as messengers from the gods have I received you; but you, as a culprit prisoner would hold me in your power."
"Not would, but will, or as a corpse," exclaimed that hot-brained Velasquez de Leon; and, drawing his sword with unforeseen speed, he had it already touching the Emperor's breast, before Montoro could spring forward and dash it down again.
But the rash, discourteous act had pushed matters to an extremity beyond recall. Even had Hernando Cortes felt any inclination to repent of his harsh purpose, it would now truly have been impossible. After suffering such a gross indignity Montezuma must have consulted his high estate by destroying, or expelling, the handful of foreigners who had dared to inflict it, were he able. Even he seemed conscious of this new aspect of the affair.
"Do you desire to have me in your power that you may kill me?" he asked at length, with a tone of calm despair that touched even Cortes' heart.
He answered eagerly—
"Nay, verily. You profess affection for me; I swear to it for you. But I cannot let my followers be slain with impunity. I have their lives to answer for to my sovereign."
"That may well be," was the answer. "But now they are slain; and although, on my kingly word I declare, without my will or knowledge, I yet profess my deepest grief for the mischance. What would you more, Malinche?"
"That you should come with us now," was the ready answer. "Not as a prisoner, as you put it, but as an honoured guest, surrounded by your own attendants, and free of access to all your subjects as you are here in your own palace."
"And for how long to remain such a guest?" asked Montezuma. He was beginning to waver, not indeed from inward conviction of the truth of the plausible words, but from a growing knowledge that they covered an iron, inflexible resolve; and that he would be allowed no power to summon any of his subjects to his aid from this snare, but at the peril of instant death from that circle of ready, flashing swords. "How long would you that I should thus abide amongst you, Malinche?"
"Until Guanhpopoea and his warriors shall have obeyed your summons hither, to answer for their crimes."
"Crimes," repeated the Emperor. "Their crime, it is but one, Malinche."
"Not so," was the stern, cold answer, while Hernando's piercing eyes fixed themselves with a full gaze upon the monarch's face. "Not so, your Majesty. For one crime, there is the unprovoked slaughter of our brethren. That is for us to avenge. For the other crime, there is the presumptuous warfare waged by your general against those with whom you are at peace, and without your will or knowledge. That is the act of a rebel. That is for you to avenge, that insult to your supreme authority. And it merits—death!"
Before that look, and at that word, Montezuma blanched, as before a fatal blow, and he grew pale as death himself. Even Montoro, in his secret heart, asked himself whether a faithful general were not about to suffer, not for presumption, but for too great fidelity to one who knew the arts of treachery, and of wearing a double face, almost as well as did his Spanish brethren themselves.
One more feeble effort Montezuma made to maintain the dignity of his sovereignty.
"My people will never submit to such an indignity for me, as that I should quit my own royal domain to take up my dwelling with a handful of needy strangers, who have to be dependent on our bounty even for the food they eat."
But this last remonstrance was as vain as all the others had been.
"Your word is law with your people," said Cortes. "Give your orders, and you will be obeyed. I, on my part, swear to you, by St. Jago, that nought now or ever, on the part of myself or my followers, shall lower you in the eyes of your subjects."
And so far, to the letter, Cortes did at least keep his word. From the outward show of respect and deference towards the unhappy monarch he never permitted his rough soldiers to depart, when that golden litter, and the Aztec nobles, had for the second time borne the once all-powerful Emperor of Mexico to those Spanish quarters, which were henceforth to be his sad prison during the short remainder of his life.
Montezuma had been in his gilded bondage but a few days when the noble chieftain Guanhpopoea, his son, and fifteen lesser Aztec chiefs, arrived in proud obedience to the summons, and in like proud, speechless submission suffered the cruel punishment decreed them by Cortes, of being burnt alive. They had but done their duty in trying to rid their sovereign of encroaching strangers, who refused all requests to leave a country to which they had not been invited.
The chiefs were burnt alive in the courtyard of the Spaniards' palace; Montezuma sat manacled in an apartment above, mute with a despair only to be equalled by the shame and grief with which the heart of Montoro de Diego felt bowed to the very dust.
He had saved ere now many an Indian from his threatened fate. This time he was powerless.
"And you must leave us then, Diego—leave us on the very eve of our full and final triumph?"
Hernando spoke with a mingled accent of regret and bitterness. In his reply Montoro hinted at both notes.
"I wish to leave. But believe, my captain and my long-time friend, I shall part with you with grief, and although my conscience forbids my further aiding a conquest and spoliation which I deem unjust, I would not, and I dare not if I would, endeavour to be the ruler of the consciences of others."
Cortes looked at him in some surprise.
"How so, Diego? What sayest thou? Surely thou wouldst make me, and all of us, think as thou dost, were it but possible to thy persuasive tongue."
But the answer came readily enough.
"Nay then, verily," said Montoro, with tones deeper and more earnest than before; "that truly would I not. I am not omniscient. These marvellous and wide-spread conquests and slaughters are allowed by the universal Father, I know——"
"Why, of course they are," came the hasty interruption. "They are undertaken for the glory of the Faith."
"And," muttered Juan de Cabrera, with just a momentary twitch of his lips at the corners,—"and just a little, perchance, for the glory likewise of ourselves and our silk-lined, empty pockets."
But Montoro de Diego paid no more heed to the one interruption than to the other, as he continued with scarcely a pause—
"They are allowed by the Almighty, I know, for against His will there can be nought on earth. But perchance they are also with His will, by His law, and for the spread of the knowledge of His Gospel. What mortal shall dare to judge of this? I, at least, veil my face before the mysterious workings of the Creator; and although I feel my own call henceforth to be to quieter scenes, I judge not those who, with regard to honour and humanity, shall prosecute these wars."
"Then you do not leave me as you left Hispaniola long since, because you believed it given up to the government of Satan and his captains?" asked Cortes, with a touch of anxiety in his voice. "It is not quite so bad as this then, is it, Toro?"
A grave smile overspread Montoro's face.
"I leave you, my friend, because, to my thinking, each nation should be content with its own possessions, and such as it may win peaceably, or in lawful trading; but I confess freely that, since discovery and conquest are now the order of the day, I heartily congratulate these countries that Providence has permitted it to you, rather than to any others, to be the Commander of this, the most glorious expedition of any hitherto undertaken by Spanish arms. Some things you have done hardly, but in much you are merciful. And now, farewell."
"Farewell," returned the other fervently. "Have you any wishes, my Diego, to leave with me?"
Diego retained his friend's hand a few moments.
"Yes—one wish. If, as the days roll on, you have any time and thought to spare to our old friendship, yield it this offering, Cortes—show mercy for its sake whenever it is possible."
"It is a promise," came the low-spoken answer, and the two friends parted, never to meet again on earth.
Hernando Cortes completed his splendid conquest of Mexico; Montoro de Diego wended his way homewards to his mother and his native land, where a surprise awaited him of a most unexpected nature.
The philanthropy and unselfishness which had distinguished Montoro's American career so greatly that in some circles his fame was scarcely inferior to that even of the apostle of the Indies himself, had not, at the same time, very much increased his wealth. This was to be expected; but still, as the Spaniard neared Spain an involuntary sigh burst from him.
"What meaneth that sigh, Diego?" asked a companion.
There came a second half-sigh before the answer.
"I fear it meaneth that I am not as strong as I had I hoped."
"Ah!" said Cabrera sympathetically; "that climate out yonder doth touch—"
"Climate!" echoed Montoro with momentary scorn. "Tush, man! I speak not of climates and bodily strength. It is of the moral powers I was meditating when you caught me in that sigh. I started from our native land eighteen years ago, confident, with a boy's confidence, that a couple of years or so—say half-a-dozen at most—were to send me back to my country so berobed and begirt with gold and glory that I should dazzle all beholders, and walk back to my ancestral halls over the backs of crowds of humble suppliants."
Cabrera laughed gaily.
"Ay, Diego. How like that was to a boyish dream. But now?"
"But now," said Montoro with a shrug of the shoulders, but betraying more sadness than he wished—"but now, there is little need for thee or any one to question. Now, as thou knowest, I return to my mother, able, indeed, henceforth to keep her and myself in bread; but for the olives and the oil and the wine, well, for my purse's length I will trust that they reach not up to famine prices so long as the dear mother lives."
"And where dost thou propose that that same living shall be?" asked Cabrera, with a curious gleam in his eyes, over which the lids were somewhat lowered for concealment.
But such care was a little superfluous. Montoro was so taken up with regrets which for once would have their way, that he paid small heed to his companion's looks. He was thinking of his mother's face, and wondering whether he should read any mute reproach for empty-handedness in the sweet eyes that lighted it. But he had heard the question, and he answered it—
"Have I never yet told thee, my Juan, of the humble home I have long since provided for my mother in the little town of El Cuevo? I hope to join her there within the next fortnight, and there I suppose I shall end my days."
"And there I suppose that thou'lt do nothing of the sort," responded the captain with a downright bluntness, that acted as a wholesome tonic to his friend. "Why, Toro, I suppose not that yon wretched little town of El Cuevo is big enough to hold above half-a-score of beggars altogether. How, in the name of St. Jago, dost suppose that, with thy wide sympathies, thou wilt be able to exist in such a narrow field?"
This was a new way of putting the matter, and a very clever one for that moment; and Montoro broke out into a hearty laugh, at sound of which Juan de Cabrera took himself back to the duties of his ship with a growling mutter to himself.
"Well, at any rate, that is some crumb of consolation to a fellow, perhaps, for having to keep a secret that seems sometimes to be burning a regular hole in my brain."
Happily, before that seeming grew into reality Cabrera's vessel arrived safely at the port of Cadiz. Shortly after that he reached the Court of King Charles in safety, and got comfortably rid of that burden of mystery which he found so trying. Better still, he was authorized to have the telling of it to the one it so greatly concerned—his comrade, Montoro de Diego. He also was empowered to tell it after his own desire,—bit by bit,—and found as much satisfaction in this telling, or nearly so, as in telling over his own number of ounces of gold, which proved a goodly sum in spite of his usual honesty, and general carelessness as to golden or any other gains that had not fun for a foundation.
"Adios, my friend," said Montoro, a couple of weeks after landing on Spanish soil.
"Adios for the night, for I am sleepy," returned Cabrera. "But as yet, adios for no longer."
"But it must be," remonstrated Montoro. "My business here is accomplished at last, and I am off to El Cuevo with the first dawn of to-morrow."
"Are you so?" retorted Don Juan. "I must surely say that thou art in mighty haste to part company with thy friends, my hasty Señor."
"And I must say," returned Montoro, with a pleased smile, "that thou art as unreasonable as thou art gracious. What thinkest thou the mother will say, whom I have not seen for six years, and then but for a flying visit, if I linger on my road home now?"
"And what thinkest thou," demanded Don Juan, with dry deliberation—"what thinkest thou our somewhat imperious sovereign, the noble King Charles of Spain and Emperor of Germany, will think, and possibly also do, if you disobey the orders of his minister that you remain here?"
"When he pleases to give such orders about his insignificant subject he will be obeyed," was the laughing answer. "Meantime, pending such orders——"
"Meantime, you have such orders," said again Don Juan calmly, but so firmly that the words began to carry some conviction to his hearer's brain, and he started to his feet.
"Nay, Juan, play not with me thus. Tell me, is there real meaning in thy speech?"
"Judge for thyself," was the reply. And he drew letters from his pocket and spread them before his companion's eyes. "Canst read, Diego?"
The question was not wholly sarcastic. Many a brave knight in those days could read the signs of a field of battle far more readily than the pages of a book, or those written signs conveying thoughts from mind to mind. But, as is well known, Diego could read, and his eyes dilated with wonder as he read the few lines of the two letters now laid before him.
One of the letters ordered that the Don Montoro de Diego should remain at Cadiz until further advice should have been taken about him. The second of them contained the information that the Don Montoro de Diego was to remain at Cadiz until the end of the coming week, and then to proceed, without further delay, to Madrid in the company of Cabrera, his suite, and the Aztec treasure.
Montoro's bronzed cheeks grew pale as his eyes rested on the letters. His first thought was one of dumb despair. Not for himself, for he was toilworn and heartworn, and would have felt inclined to welcome any death just then as the gateway to rest. But for his mother he feared greatly that those orders signified an ominous memory of his origin.
Juan de Cabrera read his friend's face readily enough, and before the reading his own boyish love of tormenting faded, and the mysterious import of the letters was explained.
Montoro de Diego's report had gone before him. The good bishop Las Casas had long since sounded a trumpet for him. Montejo months ago had echoed the blast, and now Cortes, the conqueror of an Empire, and Father Olmedo, the wise missionary of Mexico, had made one of the bearers of their magnificent spoils to the King Charles also the bearer of his own praises.
A few weeks hence Montoro de Diego, with the trembling hand of the sweet-eyed, silver-haired mother, Rachel de Diego, clasped tightly within his own, once more entered the home of his ancestors, from which he had been driven in his helpless first weeks of infancy.
He had sought neither gold nor glory, but only to tread in the steps of Him who has said—'I will have mercy, and not sacrifice.' 'By this shall all men know that ye are My disciples, if ye have love one to another.'
He had sown the seeds of mercy, uprightness, honour, and compassion; and even in those wild, wealth-clutching days he reaped men's honour and a golden harvest.
THE END.