In his sleep, the wounded cavalier was no longer a captive. Memory and imagination, acting together, bore him to the shores of the Mediterranean; and as he trode the smooth beach, his eye wandered, with transport, to the blue Alpujarras, stretching dimly in the interior. But not long did he gaze on those mountains, which intercepted the view of his distant castle. He stepped joyously along over the sands, obeying the voices and gestures of his conductors; for, it seemed to him, that his hands were grasped, the one by the page Jacinto, the other by the priestess of Mexico, both of whom urged him on with smiles, while pointing to a group of palm-trees, under which reclined the long-lost maid of Almeria. The cross of rubies shone upon her breast, and her downcast eyes regarded it with a gaze of sadness; but, ever and anon, as the cavalier vainly strove to approach, and called to her with his voice, they were raised upon him in tears; and the hand of Leila was uplifted, with a melancholy gesture, towards heaven. With such a vision, repeated many times in his brain, varied only by changes of place, (for now the scene was transferred to the deserts of Barbary, now the fair vales of Rhodes, and now the verdant borders of Tezcuco,) he struggled through many hours of torture; and, at last, awoke, as a peal of thunder, bursting on the scene, drove, terrified away, as well his guides as the maid of his memory.
As he started from his couch, confused and bewildered, the thunder seemed still to roll, with distant murmurs, over the city. His practised ear detected, in these peals, the explosions of artillery, mingled with volleys of musketry; but for awhile, in his disorder, he was unable to account for them; and in a few moments they ceased.—Night had succeeded to day; no taper burned on the table, and scarcely enough light shone through the narrow casement into the apartment, to show him that he occupied it alone.
His lips were parched with thirst; he strode to the table, and finding nothing thereon to allay the burnings of fever, he called faintly on Jacinto. No answer was made to the call; he seemed to be the only tenant of the house; and yet he fancied that the deep silence, which succeeded his exclamation, was broken by distant and feeble lamentations. He listened attentively; the sounds were repeated, but yet with so low a tone, that they would have escaped him entirely, had not his senses been sharpened by fever.
Obeying his instincts of benevolence, rather than his reason, for this had not yet recovered from the disorder of slumber, he stepped from the chamber; and, following not so much the sounds, which had become nearly inaudible, as a light that gleamed at a little distance, he found himself soon at the door of an apartment, through the curtain of which streamed the radiance.
The image of Leila, surveying the cross of rubies, had not yet departed from his imagination, when he pushed aside the flimsy arras, and stood in the room; and his feelings of amazement and rapture, of mingled joy and terror, may be imagined, when he beheld, at the first glance, what seemed the incarnation of his vision.—Before a little stool, which supported a taper of some vegetable substance, burning with odours and smoke, there knelt, or seemed to kneel, a maiden of exquisite beauty, whose Moorish character might have been imagined in her face, but not detected in her garments, for these were of Spanish fashion. The light of the taper streamed full upon her visage, from which it was not two feet removed, and showed it to be bathed in tears. Her eyes were fixed upon some jewel held in her hands, close to the light, which was attached, by a chain of gold, to her neck; and the same look which revealed to Don Amador the features of the maid of Almeria, showed him, in this jewel, the well-known and never to be forgotten cross of rubies. The cavalier stood petrified; a smothered ejaculation burst from his lips, and his gaze was fixed upon the vision as on a basilisk.
At his sudden exclamation, the maiden raised her eyes, gazed at him an instant, as he stood trembling with awe and delight; and the next moment,—whether it was that she struck the light out with her hand, or whether the taper and the figure were alike spectral, and snatched away by the same enchantment which had brought them into existence,—the chamber was left in darkness, and the pageant of loveliness and sorrow had vanished entirely away.
No sooner had this unlooked for termination been presented, than Don Amador recovered his strength, and, with a cry of grief, rushed towards the spot so lately occupied by the vision. The stool still stood on the floor, but no maiden knelt by it. A faint gleam of dusky light shone suddenly on the opposite wall, and then as suddenly disappeared. It had not been lost to the cavalier; he approached it; his outstretched hands struck upon a curtain hung before another door, which admitted him into a passage, where a pleasant breeze, burdened with many perfumes, as from a garden, puffed on his cheeks. The sound of steps, echoing at the end of the gallery, and the gleaming of a light, struck at once upon his ears and eyes; he rushed onwards, with a loud cry, gained the door, which, he doubted not, would again reveal to him the blessed vision, and the next moment found himself arrested by the Zegri.
Behind Abdalla stood the slave Ayub, bearing a torch, whose light shone equally on the indignant visage of the renegade Moor, and the troubled aspect of his captive.
"Hath the señor forgot that he made me a vow?" cried Abdalla, sternly: "and that, in this effort to escape, he covers himself with dishonour?"
To this reproach, Don Amador replied only by turning a bewildered and stupified stare on his host; and the Zegri, reading in this the evidence of returning delirium, relaxed the severity of his countenance, and spoke with a gentler voice.
"My lord does not well," he said, "to leave his chamber, while the fever still burns him."
He took the cavalier by the arm, and Don Amador suffered himself to be led to his apartment. There, seating himself on the couch, he surveyed the Moor with a steadfast and yet disturbed look, not at all regarding the words of sympathy pronounced by his jailer. At last, rousing himself, and muttering a sort of prayer, he said,
"Are ye all enchanters? or am I mad? for either this thing is the fabrication of lunacy, or the illusion of unearthly art!"
"Of what does my lord speak?" said the Moor, mildly, and soothingly. "He should not think of dreams."
"Dost thou say, dreams?" cried the cavalier, with a laugh. "Surely mine eyes are open, and I see thee. Dost thou not profess thyself flesh and blood?"
The Moor regarded his captive with uneasiness, thinking that his wits had fled.
"My noble patron does not ask me of his countrymen and friends," he said, willing to divert his prisoner's thoughts. "This day, did I behold his followers, and, in addition, his kinsman, the knight of Calavar."
At this name, the neophyte became more composed. He eyed the speaker more attentively, and now remarked, that, besides the leathern mail which he wore in the manner of the Mexicans, his chest was defended by an iron corslet, which, as well as the plumes of his tunic, was spotted with blood. As the Moor spoke, Don Amador perceived him to lay upon the table, along with the torch, which he had taken from Ayub, a sword dyed with the same gory ornament; and he started to his feet, with a feeling of fierce wrath, which entirely dispelled his stupefaction, when he recognized in this, his own vanished weapon.
"Knave of a Zegri!" he cried, "hast thou used my glave on Spaniards, my friends and brothers?".
"When I struck thee the blow which saved thy life," said Abdalla, calmly, "I was left without a weapon; for the steel shivered upon thy casque. I borrowed the sword, which, to thee, was useless, and I return it, not dishonoured, for it has drunk the blood of those who are, in the eyes of heaven, idolaters and assassins. I give it back to thee, and will not again use it, even in a just and righteous combat; for, thanks be to God! it has been the means of providing me a store, which I hope to increase into an armoury."
"Thou avowest this to me? and with exultation?" said the cavalier, passing at once, in the excitement of anger, from the effects, and even the remembrance, of the vision.
"If my lord will listen," replied Abdalla, not unrejoiced at the change, and willing to confirm the sanity of the prisoner, "he shall hear what good blows this rich and very excellent weapon hath this day struck. A better never smote infidel or Christian."
"I will hear what thou hast to say," said the novice, with a stern accent; "and, wondering what direful calamity shall befall thee, for having thus profaned and befouled the sword of a Christian soldier, I hope thou wilt tell me of such things as will prove to me that God has punished the same, if not upon thy head, yet, at least, upon the heads of divers of thy godless companions."
"There are many of the godless, both heathen and Christian, who have slept the sleep of death this day," said Abdalla, knitting his brows with the ardour of a soldier; "many shall die to-morrow, some the next day, but few on the last—for who shall remain to perish? Every day do I look down from the pyramid, and hearken to the groans of those who destroyed Granada; and every day, though the lamentings be wilder and louder, yet are they fewer. Heaven be thanked! a few days more, and not a bone shall be left to whiten on the square, that does not speak of vengeance for the Alpujarras!"
"Moor!" said the frowning Spaniard, "have a care that thy ferocious and very unnatural triumph do not cause me to forget that I am thy prisoner. It was, perhaps, proper, that thou shouldst fly from Don Hernan, seeing that the slanders of very base caitiffs had prejudiced thee, and left thy life in jeopardy; perhaps, also, the necessity to gain the favour of Mexicans for thyself and Jacinto, by fighting with them against their foes, may, in part, extenuate the sin of such impiety; but I warn thee, thou leapest wantonly into superfluous crime, when, instead of mourning thy cruel fate, thou rejoicest over the blood thou art shedding."
"Whose fault is it? and who shall account for my crime?" said the Zegri, with energy. "I came to these shores against my will; when I landed upon the sands of Ulua, my heart was in the peace of sorrow. I besought those who held me in unjust bondage, to discharge me with my boy: had they done so, then had I left them, and no Spaniard should have mourned for his oppression; the wrongs of Granada had not been repaid in Mexico. My prayers were met with mockery; the Zegri that hath sat in the seat of kings, was doomed to be the bearer of a match-stick; and the boy, whose blood runs redder and purer than that in the veins of the proudest cavalier of all, was degraded into the service of a menial, in the house of the bitterest enemy of his people! What was left for me? To choose between slavery and exile, contempt and revenge.—The señor thinks that the base Yacub belied me: Yacub spoke the truth. From the moment when I perceived I could not escape from the land, then did I know, that God had commissioned me to the work of revenge; and I resolved it should be mighty. I meditated the flight I have accomplished, the treason I have committed, the revenge I have obtained. I saw that I should remain in wo, with benighted barbarians; but I saw, also, that I should be afar from Spaniards. God be thanked! It was bitter to be parted, for ever, from the land of my birth, and the people of my love; but it is goodly and pleasant, to see the Castilian perish in misery, and remember Granada!"
Throughout the whole of this harangue, Don Amador de Leste preserved a countenance of inflexible gravity.
"Sir Zegri," said he, with a sigh, when it was concluded, "I perceive, that heaven hath erected a wall between us, to keep us for ever asunder. Whether thy bitter hatred of Spaniards be just or not, whether thy appetite for revenge be allowable or accurst, still is it apparent, that, while thou indulgest the one, and seekest to gratify the other, it is impossible I should remain with thee on any terms, except those of enmity and defiance; for those whom thou hatest, and dost so bloodily destroy, they are my countrymen. I love thy boy, but thee I detest. And now, having discovered that thou art of very noble blood, and being impelled to punish on thee the very grievous and unpardonable wrongs, which thou art doing to my country, I beg thou wilt release me from my parole, and fetch hither one of those swords which thou hast rifled from Spanish corses, I arming myself with my own weapon, here befouled with Spanish blood. We will discharge upon each other, the obligations we are under, thou to hate and slay Spaniards, and I to punish the haters and slayers of the same; for it is quite impossible I can live longer in peace, suffering thee to destroy my friends. Fetch hither, therefore, a sword, and let us end this quarrel with the life of one or the other; and, to ease thee of any anxiety thou mayest have, in regard to Jacinto, I solemnly assure thee, that, if thou fall, I will myself take thy place, and remain a father to him to the end of my days."
As the cavalier made this extraordinary proposal, Abdalla surveyed him, first with surprise, then with gloomy regret; and when he had finished, with a glistening eye. Before Don Amador had yet done speaking, the Zegri unbuckled his corslet, and, flinging it on the floor, at the last word, said, with mild and reproachful dignity,—
"Behold! thy sword is within reach, and my breast is naked. What hinders that thou shouldst not strike me at once? Thou speakest of Jacinto—It is enough that thy hand saved him from the blow of thy countryman: at that moment, I said, in my heart, though I spoke it not, 'Thou hast bought my life.' If thou wilt have it, it is thine. If thou hadst killed my father, I could not aim at thine!"
"Of a truth," said the cavalier, moodily, "I should not slay thee out of mere anger, but duty: yet I would that thou mightest be prevailed upon to assault me, so as to enforce me into rage; for, I say to thee again, so long as thy hostile acts continue, I must very violently abhor thee."
"They will not continue long," said Abdalla. "After a few days, there will remain in my bosom no feeling but gratitude; and, then, my lord shall see, that the fury which has slain all others, has been his own security."
"Of this," said Don Amador, "I will have a word to speak with thee anon. At present, I am desirous, that thou shouldst relate to me the fate of this day's battle, which I am the more anxious to know, since thou hast spoken the name of Calavar."
"I am loath to obey thee," said the Zegri, struggling with the fierce satisfaction that beset him at the thought, "for it may again excite thee to anger."
"Nevertheless, I will listen to thy story, with such composure as I can, as to a thing, it may be needful for me to know; after which, I have myself a matter of which it is quite essential I should acquaint thee."
Thus commanded, the Moor obeyed; and his eyes sparkled, as he conned over in his mind the events of a day so dreadful to the Spaniards.
"Yesterday, when thou wert sleeping," said the Zegri, "or lay as one that slept——"
"That day, then," muttered Amador, "is a blank in my existence! and very grievous it is, to think that so great a space of so short a period as life, should be lost in a stony lethargy.—It seems to me, that that blow thou gavest me, was somewhat rounder than was needful.—Nevertheless, I am not angry, but grateful."
"Yesterday was a day of comparative peace," continued the Zegri. "The Spaniards shut themselves in their citadel, preparing for the greater exploit of to-day. It was evident to the dullest of the nobles, that Don Hernan had cast an evil eye on the temple."
"Did he so?" cried the cavalier. "It was the thought of a good Christian: and, methinks, my countrymen had not been judged with so many of these present torments, if they had sooner torn down that strong-hold of the devil, which is detestable in the eye of heaven."
"To-day, they marched against it," said Abdalla, "with all their force, both of Spaniards and Tlascalans; and, I will say for them, that they marched well, fought boldly, and revenged their own heavy losses, in the blood of many barbarians, as well on the pyramid as in the temple-yard and the streets. They came against us, with four such turrets, moving on wheels——"
"Is it possible," cried Amador, "that the general was not sufficiently warned of the inefficacy of those engines, by the doleful fate of the manta, that day, when it was my mishap to be vanquished?—I shall remember the death of the ship-master, Gomez, to the end of my life.—Twice or thrice, did I long to be with him among the fire-worshippers, who must be a very strange people. But the Mexicans are very valiant."
"Of a truth, they are," said the Zegri. "I will not detain my lord with the account of the battle in the streets, wherein the mantas were again, in great part, destroyed; nor will I relate, with what suffering the Castilians won their way to the Wall of Serpents, and the temple-yard. It was here, that I beheld my lord's kinsman, the knight of Calavar, unhorsed, and in the hands of the infidel——"
"Accursed assassin!" cried the neophyte, springing to his feet, "and hast thou kept me in bonds, that my knight should perish thus, without succour?"
"The foe of Granada did not perish, and he was not without succour," said the Zegri, loftily. "When his steed, slipping on the polished stones, with which that yard is paved, fell to the earth, and many savage hands were fastened on his body, there was a friend hard by, who raised both the knight and charger, and preserved them from destruction."
"Give me the name of that most noble friend," cried Don Amador, ardently,—"for, I swear, I will reckon this act to him, in my gratitude, as the salvation of my own life. Tell me, what true Christian was he?"
"One," said Abdalla, calmly, "who hated him as the slayer of his people, but remembered that he repented his evil acts with misery and distraction,—one, who abhorred him for these deeds of sin, and yet loved him, because he was, like his kinsman, the protector of childhood and feebleness."
"I doubt not, thatthouwert the man," said the cavalier, faltering, "and, therefore, I return thee my thanks. But I would have thee know, that, whatever blood was improperly shed by my kinsman, was shed by accident and not design; for, no man is more incapable of cruelty than the noble knight, Don Gabriel. But, this shows me, that thou art really of lofty blood; for none but a magnanimous soul can render justice to a hated enemy."
"Why should I dwell upon the conflict in the yard?" continued the Moor, hastily. "Through the flames of the many chapels, that filled it,—with shouts and the roar of muskets,—the Christians, ever victorious, and yet ever conquered even by victory, rushed against the steps of the pyramid, disregarding the stones tumbled on them from the terraces, the darts flung down from the little barbicans or niches in the wall, and the flaming logs shot down, endwise, from the steps. Terrace after terrace, stair after stair, were won; and the Christians stood, at last, on the summit, fighting hand to hand with the four thousand nobles who defended it. My lord cannot think, that even these numbers of naked men could long withstand a thousand Christians, robed in iron, and infuriated by desperation. Score after score were slain, and tumbled from the top; the flames burst from the altar of Mexitli,—the priest died in the sanctuary, the Tlatoani at the downfallen urns; and, in an hour's time, the Spaniards were masters of the pyramid."
"Thanks be to heaven, which fought with them!" cried Amador, devoutly. "And thus may the infidel fall!"
"Does not my lord pity the wretches, who die for their country?" said the Zegri, reproachfully. "This is not a war of heaven against hell, but of tyranny against freedom.—I did see some sights, this day, upon the pyramid, which caused me to remember those noble Roman generals, who, in ancient times, were wont to devote themselves to death, for the good of the state. At the very moment when the condition of the Mexicans was most dreadful, when, despairing of the usefulness of longer resistance, they rushed frantically upon the Spanish spears, transfixing themselves by their own act, or flung themselves from the pyramid, to be dashed to pieces below,—at this moment, I beheld, with mine own eyes, two very young and noble Tlatoani, to whom I had myself just shown a means of escape, rush upon Don Hernan, who fought very valiantly throughout the day. They cast away their arms, flung themselves at his feet, as if to supplicate for mercy; and having thus thrown the general off his guard, they seized him, on a sudden, in their arms, and hurried him to the edge of the terrace. From that dizzy brink they strove to drag him, willing, themselves, to die dreadfully, so that the great enemy of Tenochtitlan should fall with them. But the strength of boys yielded to the iron grasp of the Christian; and, flinging them from him like drops of water, or gouts of blood from his wounded hand, he beheld them fall miserably to the earth,—dead, but not yet avenged."
"Thanks be to God again!" cried the cavalier, warming with excitement; "for, though these youths met their death very bravely, they were guilty of a most vile treachery; for which, death was but a just punishment. And so, my true and excellent friends did win this battle? By heaven! it galls me to the marrow, to think that I lie here idle, while such things are doing around me!"
"They won the temple top," said Abdalla, with a laugh of scorn, "that they might look down from that height, and behold themselves surrounded by an hundred thousand men, who were busy slaying their Tlascalan slaves, and waiting for the masters. Very plainly did I hear their cries of despair at that sight; and these were goodly music. For myself, I escaped, as did some few others, by dropping from terrace to terrace, upon the dead bodies, which, being tumbled, in great numbers, from the top, lay, in some places, in such heaps along the galleries, as greatly to lessen the dangers of a fall. Well were the Mexicans revenged for this slaughter," continued the Moor, his eyes glittering with ferocious transport, "when the Spaniards descended, to cut their way to the quarters, encumbered with captive priests, and such provisions as they had gathered in the chapels. How many fell in the squares and streets, how many were suffocated in the canals,—how few were able to pierce through the myriads that invested the palace, (for, all this time, had there been thousands assailing the weak garrison, and tearing down the court-yard wall)—why should I speak of these? It is enough, that the gain of the pyramid,—lost as soon as gained,—cost them irreparable wo; and that the wounded fugitives (for the Mexican glass drank of the blood of all,) now lie in their desolate house, their court-walls prostrate, the buttresses of their palace cracked by fire, their steeds unfed and starving, their ammunition expended—hopeless and helpless, calling to the leaders who cannot relieve, the saints who will not hear, and waiting only for death. Death then! for it cometh; death! for it is inevitable; death! for it is just; and death! for it repays the wrongs of Granada!"
As the triumphing Moor concluded his fiery oration, the cavalier, whose excitement was raised to the last pitch, and whose indignation and remorse were alike kindled by a full knowledge of the condition of his countrymen, cried aloud,—
"Hark thee, sir Moor! with these friends, thus reduced to extremity and despairing, it is needful I should straightway join myself, to endure what they endure, to suffer as they suffer, to die as they die. I refuse to save my life, when the forfeit of it to an honourable purpose, may relieve them of their distresses. I repent me of the gage which I gave thee, I revoke my promise of captivity, and am, therefore, free to make my escape; which I hereby attempt,—peacefully if I can,—but warning thee, if thou oppose, it shall be at the peril of thy life!"
So saying, the cavalier snatched up the sword from the table, and sprang towards the door. So quickly, indeed, did he act, and so much did he take his jailer by surprise, that he had nearly arrived at the curtain, before Abdalla had time to intercept him. His brain was in a ferment of passion, and the various excitements of the evening had inflamed him again into fever; so, that, in the fury of the moment, when the Zegri leaped before him, endeavouring to catch him in his arms, he forgot every thing but his purpose, and the necessity of escaping. He caught the Moor by the throat, and struggling violently, raised the crimson steel to strike. The life of Abdalla seemed not to have a moment's purchase,—the weapon was already descending on his naked head, when,—at that very instant,—the curtain was drawn from the door, and dimly, but yet beyond all shadow of doubt, in the light of the torch, the cavalier beheld the pale visage of the maid of Almeria, shining over the shoulders of the Moor.
The sword fell from his hand, and his whole frame shook, as, with wild eyes, he returned the gaze of the vision. The Zegri, amazed, yet not doubting that this sudden change was the mere revolution of delirium, took instant advantage of it, snatched the leathern strap from the lute of Jacinto; and when the curtain, falling again, had concealed the spectral countenance, the arms of the cavalier were bound tightly behind him. This was a superfluous caution. His strength had been supplied by fury, and the instant that this had subsided, the exhaustion of two days' illness returned; and had not his spirits been otherwise unmanned, he would now have been as a boy in the hands of Abdalla.
The Moor conducted him to the couch, on which he suffered himself to be placed without opposition, and without speaking a word. His whole faculties seemed lost in a sudden and profound stupor; and Abdalla began to fear that, in his prisoner, he had found, in more respects than one, a true representative of his kinsman, Don Gabriel.
A certain degree of monotony prevails among all the vicissitudes of life, and even the most exciting events fail, after a time, to interest. A paucity of incidents will not much sooner disgust us with the pages of history, than the most abundant stores of plots and battles, triumphs and defeats, if too liberally dispensed;—for these are composed of the same elements, and have, on the whole, the same wearisome identity of character. For this reason, though the many battles fought in the streets of Mexico, during the seven days which intervened betwixt the second coming and the second departure of Cortes, have something in them both of interest and novelty, we have not dared to recount them in full, nor, indeed, to mention all of them; being satisfied to touch only such, and, in truth, only such parts of such, as, in themselves, have each some peculiar variety of characteristic. We pass by, with a word, the increased sufferings of the Christians,—their murmurs and lamentations,—their despair and frenzy.
The day that followed after the fatal victory of the pyramid, brought its battles like others. That day it became apparent that the last fibre which bound hope to the palace wall, was about snapping—it was known to all, that the Indian monarch was expiring. The prediction of Botello had made all acquainted with the day on which a retreat might be accomplished. That day was drawing nigh; but the impatience of the soldiers, and the anxiety of the officers to prepare, or, at least, to reconnoitre, the path of retreat, again drove them from their quarters. A weak, but well chosen and trusty garrison was left in charge of the palace; while Don Hernan, with all the forces that could be spared of his reduced army, sallied from the court-yard, and fought his way to the dike of Iztapalapan.
In this exploit, new difficulties were to be overcome, and new proofs were exhibited of the sagacity and determination of the barbarians. Besides the obstacles offered by the ditches, robbed of their bridges, the Mexicans had heaped together across the streets, the fragments of their demolished houses, thus forming barriers, which were not passed without the greatest labour and suffering. Nevertheless, the Spaniards persevered, and not only gained the causeway, but approached nigh to Iztapalapan, before a Tlascalan messenger, creeping in disguise through the crowds of enemies, recalled them to the palace, which was furiously assailed, and in imminent danger of being carried by storm.
It is not to be supposed, that this attempt on the great dike, and the return, were effected without the most bloody opposition. The lake suddenly swarmed with canoes full of fighting men, and when Don Hernan again turned his face towards Tenochtitlan, he beheld the causeway covered with warriors, who, besides disputing his passage with unappeasable rage, broke, as well as they could, the bridges over the sluices, seven in number, wherein were mingled the floods of Chalco and Tezcuco. His valour, however, or his good fortune, prevailed; and by night-fall he reached the square of Axajacatl, and fell with renewed fury upon the savages who still struggled with the garrison. When he had carved his way through them, and had directed the exertions of his united forces against the besiegers, who still raved, like wolves, around him, he gave some thought to those companions, whose fate it had been, to lay their bodies on the causeway, or to take their rest, with such exequies as could be rendered in the lamentations of men expecting each instant to share their fate, under the salt bosom of Tezcuco.
It became known, that, among these unhappy victims, was the knight of Calavar,—but how slain, or where entombed, no one could relate. From the day of the loss of his kinsman, he had been reckoned by all, entirely insane. He held communion with none, not even his attendants; but casting aside his abstraction, and resuming his armour, he was present in every conflict which ensued, fighting with an ardour, fury, and recklessness, as astonishing as they were maniacal. All that was remembered of his fate, this day, was, that, when at the farthest part of the causeway the trumpets were ordered to sound a retreat, he was seen, without attendants, for they were wedged fast in the melée, dashing onwards amid the dusky crowds that came rushing upon the front from the suburbs of Iztapalapan. Cortes had, himself, called to the knight to return, and not doubting that he would extricate himself without aid, had then given all his attention to the Mexicans attacking on the rear. This was known; it was known also that Don Gabriel had not returned: beyond this, all was mystery and gloom.
Two hours after night-fall, and while the Spaniards were still engaged in close battle with the besiegers, who, this night, seemed as if their rage was never to be appeased, the cavalier Don Amador de Leste rested in his chamber, (the Moorish boy sitting dejected at his feet,) now starting up with cries of grief and impatience, as the continued explosions of artillery admonished him of the straits of his friends, and now, as these seemed to die away and be followed by silence, giving his mind to other not less exciting thoughts, and questioning the page of the events of the past day.
"Not now, not now,—ask me notnow!" replied the page, with great emotion to one of his demands; "for now can I think of naught but my father. It is not his custom to leave me so long by night, even when the battle continues. Heaven protect him! for at any moment, he may die; and what then am I, in this land, and among this people? Would to heaven we had perished in Spain,—nay, in Barbary,—in the sea along with our friends; for, then, might we have died together!"
"Give not way to this passion," said the cavalier, with an attempt at consolation, which drove not the gloom from his own countenance; "for thou knowest, that, whatever evil may happen to Abdalla, I will myself befriend thee."
"My father is slain!" cried Jacinto, wringing his hands, "or long since would he have been with us."
"If this be the case," said Amador, with grave benevolence, "and I will not deny that Abdalla doth keep his life in constant jeopardy, it plainly shows, that I am bound to make a father's effort to protect thee, and thou to follow my counsels. Hark!" he exclaimed, as a furious cannonade, seemingly of all the pieces shot off together, brought its roar and its tremor to his prison-house,—"dost thou not hear how ferocious is the combat, at this moment? Know, Jacinto, that every explosion seems like a petard fastened to and bursting upon mine own bosom,—so very great are the shock and pang of mind with which, at such time, I bethink me of the condition of my countrymen. Much longer I cannot endure my captivity; I have resolved that it shall end, even, if that be needful, by the breach of my solemn vow; for, I am persuaded, the dishonour and compunction which must follow upon that, will be but light, compared with the great ignominy of my present inactivity, and the unspeakable remorse which rends my vitals, while submitting to it. But I can by no means escape, while thou art left alone to be my jailer; if I escape by force of arms, it shall be when thy father is here to oppose me. I counsel thee, however, as thinking, with thee, that Abdalla may be dead——"
Here Jacinto burst into the most bitter lamentations.
"Be not thus afflicted; for I speak to thee only of a possibility which may be feared, and not of a certainty to be mourned. What I mean is, that this possibility should be enough to release thee, as well as myself, from this house; for if Abdalla be really deceased, it must be evident to thee, nothing could be more foolish, and even dangerous, than to remain in it alone; seeing that, if we be not found out and murdered by the Mexicans, we must surely expect to be starved. Guided by the sounds of battle, we can easily find our way to the palace; and perhaps, by wrapping ourselves in some of these cotton curtains, we may make our way through the herds of Mexicans, without notice, as being mistaken for some of their fellow-combatants. Once arrived within earshot of the palace, I have no fear but that we shall be very safe; and I pledge my vow to thee, that I will so faithfully guard thee on the way, that no weapon shall strike thee, that has not first pierced my own bosom."
The page clasped his hands, and regarded his master with looks in which affection struggled with despair.
"But if my father should live—oh, if my father should live! and returning to this desolate house, should find that his child has deserted him!"
"If he live," said the cavalier, "then shall he know, that thou hast taken the only step to preserve him from destruction, both temporal and eternal. I will not rest, till I have procured for him a free pardon; I will hold thee as a hostage, which, in addition to the assurance of forgiveness, will speedily bring him into the garrison: for, knowing his love to thee, I know he cannot live without thee. Besides, I will obtain, for I will demand it, permission for him to return with thee to Spain; and if my knight consent, we will depart together; for now I am convinced that heaven doth fight against us, even to upholding the godless heathen. Let us therefore depart, making our trust in God, who will cover us, this night, as with shields, to protect our weakness."
"Alas, alas!" cried the boy, faltering with grief and fear, "my lord is sick and wounded, feeble and helpless."
"That I have not all the vigour, which, a few days since, was mine," said the cavalier, snatching up his sword, and brandishing it, once or twice, in the air, as if to make trial of his strength, "I cannot deny. Nevertheless, I am stronger than yesterday; and besides, while placing great reliance on the protection of heaven, I shall trust less to my weapon than to such disguises as it may be in our power to adopt. With these figured curtains wrapped about us, and, if there be any feathers about the house, a bunch or two tied to our heads, I have no doubt, we can delude the Mexican fighting men, and, in the tumult of battle, pass through their ranks, entirely unmolested."
While the page hesitated and wept, visibly struggling between his wishes and his fears, there occurred a sudden interruption in the cannonade; and, in the dead silence that followed, both heard the sound of rapid footsteps approaching the door, accompanied by smothered groans.
The page started—In an instant, the steps were heard in the passage, followed by a heavy sound, as of a man falling upon the floor.
"Oh God! my father! my poor father!" cried Jacinto, springing to the door.
He was arrested by the arm of the neophyte, who plainly distinguished, along with the groans that came from the passage, a noise as if the sufferer were struggling to his feet; and in a moment after, as he pushed aside the curtain, to go out himself, the slave Ayub, covered with blood, rushed by him into the apartment, and again fell prostrate.
"My father, Ayub! my father?" cried the page, kneeling at his side.
"Allah il Allah! praised be God, for now I am safe!" said the Morisco, raising on his arm, and, though his whole frame shook as in the ague of death, regarding the pair with the greatest exultation. "I thought they had shot me through the liver with a bullet; but Allah be praised! 'twas naught but an arrow. Help me up, noble señor—Eh? ay? Trim the taper a little, and give me a morsel of drink."
"Thou sayest naught of my father, Ayub?" said Jacinto, eagerly and yet with mortal fear,—for he knew by the gesture of Don Amador, as he ceased his unavailing attempt to lift the wounded man, but more by the countenance of Ayub himself, that he was a dying man.
"How can I speak without light?" cried the Moor, with a sort of chuckle. "Trim the torch, trim the torch, and let me see where these boltheads be rankling.—Praise be to Allah, for I thought myself a dead man!"
"Wilt thou not speak to me of my father?" exclaimed Jacinto, in agony.
"A brave night! a brave night!" muttered Ayub, fumbling at his garments—"Valiant unbelievers!—Praised be God—The Wali——"
"Ay, the Wali! the Wali, thy master!" cried Jacinto, his voice dwindling to a hoarse and terrified whisper;—"my father, thy master, Ayub?"
"The Wali——Hah!" exclaimed the unbeliever, roused by the distant explosions;—"At it yet, brave pagans? Roar, cannon! Shout, infidel! shout and whistle—shout, whistle, and kill!—Save me the Wali, save me the Wali!"
"Oh heaven, Ayub!—thou sayest nothing of him,—of my father!"
"They took him a prisoner—but we'll have him again!—Lelilee! Lelilee!—Strike fast, pagan!—A brave day for Granada!"
At these words, Jacinto seemed not less like to die than the fugitive. But as he neither fell to the floor, nor screamed, Don Amador still held fast to Ayub, who was now struggling in the most fearful convulsions, and yet, strange to hear, still uttering broken expressions of joy.
"A prisoner, a prisoner!—A little drink, for the sake of Allah!" he cried, incoherently. "Ha, ha! one runs not so far with a bullet in the liver!—Now they are at it! now they are killing the great señores! now, they murder 'em!—Great joy! a great sight for a Moor! great—great—great revenge!—Many days agone—Great—great revenge! says the Wali—They killed my mother—Great revenge—great—great—Oho! great revenge for Granada!"
With these accents on his lips, mingled with sounds of laughter, and horrid contortions of countenance, the infidel Moor, (for such was Ayub,) sprang suddenly to his knees; and flinging abroad his arms, and uttering a yell of agony, fell back instantly upon the floor, quivered a moment, and then lay a disfigured corse.
"Dost thou see, Jacinto!" said Don Amador, taking the shivering boy by the arm. "Ayub is dead, and thy father a prisoner. If thou wilt save the life of Abdalla, the Wali, (I never before knew that Abdalla, though noble, was of this dignity—but this shall help me to plead for him;) get thyself instantly in readiness, and let us begone."
The page turned a tearless countenance on his patron, and replied, with a tranquillity that seemed to come from desperation,—
"I will go with my lord, for I have no friend now but him,—I will go with my lord, to look upon my father's dead body; for I know the Spaniards will not spare his life a moment,—I will go with my lord,—and would that I had gone sooner! for now, it is too late."
As Jacinto pronounced these words, he began to weep anew, though hearkening passively to the instructions of the cavalier.
"If thou canst find me any plumes," said Amador, "fetch them to me straight; and if thou hast about the house, any Mexican garment, which thou canst wear, haste thou to don it. As for myself, I will first arm, and then robe me in the tunic of this poor dead misbeliever. Be of good heart, I charge thee—God will protect us."
"There are robes enough, both for my lord and me," said the sobbing boy,—"and shrouds too—It is too late.—But I can die with my lord!"
"Why, that is spoken with more valour than I thought thou hadst," said the cavalier. "But bring me the robes, without thinking of thy shrouds; and be very quick, for I must have thee to buckle some of these straps of my jambeux."
The page took up a little taper that lay near the flambeau, and, shuddering as he passed by the body, instantly departed on his errand.
When the boy returned, bearing a bundle of garments, and two or three such crests as were worn by the nobler Mexicans, in time of war, the cavalier had more than half-armed himself. He sighed, as he flung the habergeon over his shoulders, to find the many rents made among the Flemish links by the Mexican glass; but he sighed more, when he discovered how greatly his bodily powers were enfeebled, by feeling, almost for the first time in his life, the oppressive weight of the mail. Nevertheless, the cannon still roared at the palace, every moment was expediting the doom of Abdalla, perhaps, also, that of his friends and kinsman; and he seized upon cuish and greave, gauntlet and helm, with activity and eagerness.
"What is that huge mantle thou placest upon the table?" he demanded of the page, without relaxing in his efforts.
"Atilmatli, or Indian cloak, large enough to hide my lord's armour," replied Jacinto, hurriedly. "If the Mexicans should see the gleaming of but a single link, death on the spot, or, still more horrid, on the pyramid, will be the fate of my lord."
"Now that I know, that such would be the consequence of captivity," said the cavalier, fiercely, "I swear to God and St. John, I will die fighting—that is, if it please heaven, that I shall be struck no more blows that overpower without killing."
"And this great penacho," said the boy, "I will tie to my lord's crest, so that it shall entirely veil the helmet. I have fastened some of the red tufts among the feathers, whereby the pagans may think my lord is a war-chief, and noble, if they should see them."
"Of all boys that I have ever yet seen, thou art by far the shrewdest and wisest," said Don Amador with complacency, but without ceasing a moment to do on his armour, "What disguise hast thou provided for thyself?"
"A garment," said Jacinto, "which, being flung about my body and hooded over my head, will cause the Mexicans to think me a woman devoted to the service of one of their gods."
"A most damnable delusion," said the novice, "and I would thou hadst fallen upon some other device. But, perhaps, thou hadst no choice; and, now that I think of it, thy small stature, and very smooth and handsome visage, will, perhaps, suit this disguise better than another. If there be any sin in assuming it, heaven will allow the necessity, and forgive the commission. Quick, and don it,—for I would have thee tighten these greave-straps, before I pull on my boots."
"It will but encumber me: I will fling it over me in the passage," said Jacinto, kneeling, and endeavouring, with an unsteady hand, to perform the office required of him.
"Be of good heart, I charge thee, and tremble not. Thou art unused to this service; but think not, though thou beest the son of a Moorish Wali, of the noblest blood, that this duty can dishonour thee. I have performed it myself, times without number, to my good knight, Don Gabriel. I would thou wert somewhat stronger, though. Fear not to pull with all thy strength. I have shrunk somewhat with the fever,—greatly to the disparagement of my leg,—and the strap is of the stiffest."
"It is stiffened with my lord's blood!" said the page, trembling more, but succeeding, at last, in securing it. Then rising, and knotting a broad and shadowy plume over his patron's helmet, so as, in a great measure, to conceal the gleaming iron, he assisted to fasten it. There remained nothing, then, for the cavalier, but to arrange the tilmatli about his person; a feat, in which, with the aid of the page, he succeeded so well, as quite to hide his martial equipments, without yet depriving him of the power, in case of necessity, of using the sword, which he held naked in his hand.
"Thy woman's weeds! Why dost thou hesitate, Jacinto?" he cried, prepared, and now eager to make his departure. "Thou thinkest of thy lute? By my faith, I shall be loath thou shouldst lose it, for much good has it done, and yet may do, to Don Gabriel. I will bear it under my arm."
"Think not of the lute," said Jacinto, sorrowfully. "What need have we now of music? It will but overburden my lord, whose hands should be free; and in mine, it would only serve to expose the deception of my apparel."
"Cast it aside, then; and now, in God's name, let us depart!"
Jacinto stepped, faltering, up to the body of Ayub, lying stiff and cold, the countenance, illuminated by the slanting torch-light, still mingling a grin of exultation with the contortion of the death-agony. A tear dropped upon the swarthy cheek, and a deep sob burst from the bosom of Jacinto, when he gazed his last upon the dead Morisco.
"Why dost thou tarry to weep?" said Amador, impatiently.—"Ayub was an infidel."
"My lord does not know how those who have not many friends, can value the few," said the page. "This man was faithful to my father; and therefore do I lament him, as one whose loss is a sore misfortune; and, infidel though he were, yet was he of the faith of my ancestors."
"Remember, however, that, while thou weepest over a dead friend of Abdalla, thou deprivest him of the services of a living one."
Thus rebuked, Jacinto moved rapidly into the passage, and flinging, as he went, the garment he held about his person, stepped with the cavalier into the street.
A thick scud, threatening rain, careered over the heaven, and the smoke of cannon, mingling with the mists of the lake, covered the city with a gloom so deep, that Don Amador could not easily distinguish the peculiar habiliments of his companion. Nevertheless, he could well believe that his appearance was that of an Indian maiden. He bade Jacinto to take him by the hand, adding an injunction, under all circumstances that might arise, to maintain his grasp. To this, Jacinto answered,—
"Let it not be so,—at least, not until we are so environed, as to be in danger of separating. My lord must now consent to be guided by me." (He spoke with singular coolness, as if restored, by the urgency of the occasion, to all that self-command and discretion, which had so often excited the wonder of his patron.) "I will walk a little before; and if the people should approach, let my lord take no notice, but follow calmly in my steps, as though he were a great noble, disdaining to look upon his inferiors. Be not amazed at what may happen, and, especially, do not speak a word until close by the Spaniards."
"Dost thou mean," said the cavalier, suddenly struck with the memory of the vision, not yet accounted for by the page,—"dost thou mean to practise any arts of magic? for if so——"
"I beseech my lord not to speak," said the boy, with a hurried voice; "for, if a word be heard, neither valour nor magic can save us from destruction. By-and-by, my lord shall see the wisdom of this counsel; and all that is strange in its consequences, shall be explained to him."
Thus speaking, Jacinto strode forwards, and Don Amador, wondering, yet yielding to his instructions, followed in silence.
The cannon still roared at the palace, and the shouts of the infuriated combatants were plainly heard, in the intervals of the discharges; so that, as the cavalier had hinted, there could be no difficulty in determining their path. Nevertheless, it appeared to him, that Jacinto walked forwards with the boldness and certainty of one familiar with the streets he was treading.
For a time, their course lay through a street entirely deserted; but, by-and-by, passing into one of greater magnitude, they beheld shadowy masses, now of single figures, now of groups, darting about, many of them with lights, as if flying, some from the scene of combat, and others, like themselves, approaching it. It was apparent that this street was one of the four great avenues leading to the square of Axajacatl; for no sooner had the two Christians stepped upon it, than the sounds of conflict came to them with tenfold loudness; and they could behold, ever and anon, as the deadly discharges burst from the artillery, the flames flashing luridly up through the mists, like the jets of a distant volcano.
With the consciousness that he now trod a principal street, Don Amador became aware that he was, of a certainty, advancing full upon the mouth of, at least, one piece of ordnance; and, as Jacinto paused suddenly, as if dismayed at his peril, (for at that moment a ruddy flame shot out of the mist, and a falconet bellowed down the street,) he approached the boy, and said,—
"For thy sake, Jacinto,—(it does not become me to say for my own; though I confess some repugnance to advance thus on the cannon of my friends,)—I should wish thou couldst find some other path, not so much exposed to be raked as this."
"Speak not,—we have no choice," muttered the boy. "But God be thanked! the bullet that strikes my lord, will first pass through my own body."
This little expression of devotion was pronounced with an earnestness that touched the heart of the cavalier; and he was about to utter his satisfaction, when a gesture of Jacinto, who immediately began to resume his pace, warned him into silence. The usefulness of the caution was soon made manifest; for two or three Mexicans suddenly brushed by, though without seeming to notice them. An instant after, there passed several groups, bearing wounded men in their arms; and, by-and-by, while every moment seemed to surround them yet more with isolated individuals, there came a party in some numbers, uttering lamentations, as if over the body of a great noble. Several of these bore torches in their hands, wherewith they were enabled to descry the pair; and Don Amador's heart beat quick, as he saw three or four detach themselves from the group, and run forwards, as if to make sure of a prey. He grasped at his weapon, invoked his saint, and moved quickly up to Jacinto, to give him what protection he could. But, at the very moment when he feared the worst, he was amazed to behold the barbarians come to a dead halt, and, at the waving of Jacinto's hand, part from before him with countenances of reverence and fear. The same remarkable change was observed in those who composed the party bearing the corse, with the addition of new marks of homage; for, leaving the body in the hands of a few, they seemed about to follow the page in a tumultuous procession, until he turned round, waving his hand again; at which gesture, nearly all immediately fell on their knees, and so remained until he passed. All this time, the wondering cavalier was conscious that he was himself unregarded.
Little by little, while the screams and cannon-shots grew louder at each step, Don Amador perceived that the groups began to grow into crowds, and then into dense masses, every moment; while, every moment, also, it became still more apparent, that his guide exercised some powerful, though, to him, inscrutable, influence, over the mob; for, no sooner did their torches reveal his figure, than all were straightway seized with admiration, falling upon their knees, or returning on their path, and following him towards the battle.
The gestures of Jacinto served no longer to repel them; and in a few moments there were hundreds of men, their numbers increasing at each step, who pressed after him eagerly, though reverentially,—uttering, at first, low murmurs, and then, at last, shouts of joy and triumph. These reaching the ears and drawing the attention of others in front, they, in turn, added their respect to the homage of the rest.
However surprising, and, indeed, confounding, this notice, and these salutations, to Don Amador, they were far from agreeable; for the train followed so close upon his heels, that he dreaded, every moment, lest some derangement of his mantle or plumes might expose to their gaze the hidden ensigns of a Christian. Greatly was he rejoiced, therefore, when the steady and persevering advance of the page had carried him so deeply into the crowd, that it was scarcely practicable for more than one or two individuals, at a time, to look upon him, and quite impossible that the noisy train should follow. He ceased, therefore, to lament his proximity to the cannon-mouths, which still, at intervals, flung death among the besiegers; for he thought that in that alone there was safety. His desire, in this particular, was soon gratified; for he was, at last, wedged, with the page, among a mass of men so dense and so disordered, that he no longer feared a scrutiny. He was in sight of the palace, his foot planted upon the square, and but a few paces separated from his friends and his knight.
In the flash of the arquebuses, but more particularly in the fiendish glare of the cannon, when disemboguing their contents upon the barbarians, he beheld the terraces covered with his countrymen, resisting as they could, and with every shot from the musket, every bolt from the arbalist, adding a life to the reckoning of their revenge, and yet fainting with fatigue over a slaughter which had no end. The square was filled with men, as with a sea, and when the fiery flashes of the ordnance lit it up as with a momentary conflagration, the commotion following upon each, made him think of those surges of fire which roll in the crater of a volcano, and of the billows of blood that dash upon the shores of hell. A more infernal spectacle could not, indeed, have been imagined; and when the harsh yells of the pagan myriads were added, the tophet was complete, and man appeared,—as he yet appears,—the destroyer and the demoniac.
This spectacle, however horrible it might have been to one accustomed to look upon man as the image of his maker, and the blow struck at the life of man, as a stroke aimed at the face of God, had the effect to stir the blood of Don Amador de Leste to such a degree, that, had he not been checked by the cold hand and the deadly pale visage of his companion, he would have followed the impulse of his valour, uncovered his weapon, and, shouting a war-cry, dashed at once upon the throat of the nearest infidel. The look of Jacinto recalled him to his senses; he made him a signal to clutch upon his mantle and follow, and then plunged again into the gory crowd.
The tempest, both physical and mental, which beset all that rout of pagans, reduced the intelligence of each to but two objects of thought,—his enemy and himself. Not one turned to wonder or observe, when the strong shoulders—strong from excitement—of the cavalier thrust him aside, or the hard touch of an iron-cased elbow crushed into his bosom; nor, perhaps, was a look cast upon the effeminate figure, that seemed a girl, at the back of this impetuous stranger. Thus, then, unresisted and disregarded, the cavalier made his way, step by step, taking advantage of every moment when the barbarians gave way before an explosion of artillery, or a charge of the garrison,—hoping, at each effort, to issue upon the open space betwixt the besiegers and the besieged, and, at each, arrested by a denser crowd,—speaking words of encouragement to the horror-struck page, for well he knew he might speak without fear in such a din,—and, feeling, at each moment, his strength melting away, like burning wax, under the prolonged exertion. He toiled for his life, for the life of the boy, perhaps for the life of Don Gabriel; but human nature could not sustain the struggle much longer. Despair came to his heart, for he knew not how far he stood from the palace wall, and felt that he could labour no more. His eye darkened, as he looked back to Jacinto,—the boy was swooning where he stood.
"God be merciful to us both! But, at least, thou shalt die in my arms, poor boy!" he muttered, making one more effort, and raising the page from the earth. "God be merciful to us,—but especially to this child, for he is sinless, and, I fear me, fatherless."
At this moment, a dreadful scream burst from the lips of all around the novice, and immediately he felt himself borne back by the barbarians as they recoiled, seemingly, from a charge of cavalry. The thought was hope, and hope again renewed his strength. He planted his feet firmly on the earth, and with his elbow and shoulder dashed aside the fleeing pagans, pressed the senseless boy to his heart, raised his voice in a shout, and the next moment stood free from the herd, ten feet from the muzzle of a cannon, from which the Mexicans had been recoiling. His eye travelled along the tube;—the magician Botello stood on the broken wall at its side, and the linstock he held in his hand was descending to the vent.
"For the love of God, hold!" shouted the cavalier, "or you will kill Christian men!"
The match fell to the earth, and the cavalier sprang forward. But if his voice had reached the ears of friends, it had not escaped the organs of foes. A dozen savages, forgetful of their fears, sprang instantly towards him, endeavouring to lay hold upon him. A back-handed blow of his weapon loosed the grasp of the most daring, and the hands of others parted along with the flimsy disguise of Jacinto. He left this in their grasp, tottered forward, and the next moment, as the cannon belched forth its death upon the pursuing herds, stood in the court-yard of the palace.
As the cavalier sprang among his countrymen almost fainting with exhaustion, he loosened, with as much discretion as dexterity, the knot of the tilmatli, and dropped it to the earth, so that he might not be mistaken for a foe. The sudden gleam of his armour, and the sight of his wan visage, struck all those who had rushed against him with horror. Among the foremost of all, was the man-at-arms Lazaro, who no sooner perceived that he had raised his trusty espada against what he doubted not was the spectre of the novice, than he fell upon his knees, yelling aloud,
"Jesu Maria! my master! my master's ghost!" with other such exclamations of terror.
At this moment, the page revived in the arms of his patron, but only to add to the cry of Lazaro a shriek so wild and heart-piercing, that it drove all other sounds from the ears of Don Amador. The cavalier observed the cause of this cry, and again his eye lighted up with the fires of passion. A group of soldiers, agitated by some tumult, which had no part in the conflict around, stood against the palace wall, under a casement, from which was projected a bundle of partisans. Round this extempore gibbet was fixed a rope, one end of which being pulled at by those below, the cavalier beheld, shooting up above the heads of the mass, a human being, to all appearance, bound hand and foot; and in the blackened and horribly convulsed countenance of the sufferer, he perceived the features of Abdalla, the Wali.
With a bound, that carried him at once into their midst, and with a rapidity that prevented opposition he rushed up to the wall, and before the Morisco was elevated above his reach, struck the halter with his weapon. The Zegri fell to the earth;—the executioners looked upon the visage of his bold preserver, and being persuaded, like Lazaro, that the very ghastly apparition before them was nothing less than the ghost of an hidalgo, universally reckoned dead, they recoiled in affright. Before they had recovered from their confusion, the culprit rose to his feet, glared a moment on the cavalier, and then springing away, was instantly lost among the combatants. A wild and exulting cry of "Moro! Moro! Tlatoani Moro!" rose among the barbarians; and the Spaniards knew that their prey was beyond pursuit.
"Santos santísimos! Holy Mother of heaven! grace upon all, and Amen! if thou beest a living creature, speak,—or I will smite thee for a devil!"
These words came from the lips of Alvarado, who had himself commanded the body of hangmen, and who now, though his teeth chattered with terror, advanced his rapier towards the bosom of his late companion. As he gazed and menaced, Don Amador, yielding, at last, to the consequences of labours altogether above his enfeebled powers, sunk swooning to the earth; and Jacinto, rushing from the crowd, flung himself upon his body.
"Viva! praise God, and let the cry go round; for we have saved the noble De Leste!" shouted Don Pedro, with a voice of joy, raising the senseless cavalier. "Now shall ye hear from his own mouth, ye caitiffs that have belied me, that I played not the foul companion. Viva! I swear it rejoices me to behold thee!—Why, thou little rascal traitor, art thou here, too! It was God's will thy vagabond father should purchase me my brother; for which reason, I am not incensed he has escaped me. One day is as good as another for hanging.—How now, my noble friend! art thou hurt beyond speaking! God's lid! but I would hug thee, if thou didst not look so dismal!"
All this time, the neophyte surveyed the astounded visages around him with a bewildered eye; and, doubtless, his obtuse senses could not, at that moment of clamour, detect the accents of Don Pedro.
"Tetragrammaton! did I not tell thee the truth?" cried the harsh voice of Botello.
"Master! dear master!" exclaimed Lazaro, as he embraced the knees of the novice.
"Thanks be to God! the noble señor has escaped!" shouted the secretary.
"God be praised! but would it had been yesterday! for then might it have been better for Don Gabriel."
The name of his kinsman, spoken by the well-known voice of Baltasar, dispelled at once the dreamy trance of the cavalier.
"How fares my noble kinsman?" he cried.
The head of Baltasar fell on his breast, and a loud groan came from his fellow-servitor. Don Amador looked to the Tonatiuh, and witnessed the change from blithe joy to gloomy hesitation, which instantly marked his handsome aspect; the face of Fabueno darkened; and the magician strode away.
"Clear for me, if ye will not speak!" said the cavalier, with sudden sternness; "for there is no sight of wo I cannot now look upon."
He grasped the arm of Jacinto, and pushing into the palace, made his way toward the chamber of the knight.—The hand of devastation had been upon the walls of the passage; beams and planks had been torn away to supply the materials for the mantas and other martial engines; and Don Amador no longer knew the apartment of his kinsman. A dim light, and a low sound of wailing, came from a curtained door. Before the secretary and the other attendants who followed, could intercept him, he stepped into the room.
The sight that awaited him instantly fastened his attention. He was in the chamber of Montezuma, and the captive monarch lay on the bed of death. Around the low couch knelt his children, and behind were the princes of the empire, gazing with looks of awe on the king. In front were several Spanish cavaliers, unhelmed and silent; and Cortes himself, bare-headed and kneeling, gazed with a countenance of remorse on his victim; while the priest Olmedo stood hard by, vainly offering, through the medium of Doña Marina and the cavalier De Morla, the consolations of religion.
The king struggled in a kind of low delirium, in the arms of a man of singular and most barbarous appearance. This was a Mexican of gigantic stature, robed in a hooded mantle of black; but the cowl had fallen from his head, and his hair, many feet in length, plaited and twisted with thick cords, fell like cables over his person and that of the dying king. This was the high-priest of Mexico, taken prisoner at the battle of the temple.
The countenance of Montezuma was changed by suffering and the death-throe; and yet, from their hollow depths, his eyes shot forth beams of extraordinary lustre. As he struggled, he muttered; and his broken exclamations being interpreted, were found to be the lamentations of a crushed spirit and a broken heart.
"Bid the Teuctli depart," were some of the words which Don Amador caught, as rendered by the lips of Marina: "before he came, I was a king in Mexico.—But the son of the gods," he went on, with a hoarse and rattling laugh, "shall find that there are gods in Mexico, who shall devour the betrayer! They roar in the heavens, they thunder among the mountains,"—(the continued peals of artillery, shaking the fabric of the palace, mingled with his dreams, and gave a colour to them)—"they speak under the earth, and it trembles at their shouting. Ometeuctli, that dwelleth in the city of heaven, Tlaloc, that swimmeth on the great dark waters, Tonatricli and Meztli, the kings of day and night, and Mictlanteuctli, the ruler of hell,—all of them speak to their people; they look upon the strangers that destroy in their lands, and they say to me, 'Thou art the king, and they shall perish!'—Wo! wo! wo!" he continued, with an abrupt transition to abasement and grief; "they look upon me and laugh, for I have no people! In the face of all, I was made a slave; and, when they had spit upon me, they struck me as they strike the slave; so struck my people. Come, then, thou that dwellest among the rivers of night; for, among the rivers, with those who die the death of shame, shall I inhabit. Did not Mexico strike me, and shout for joy? Wo, wo! for my people have deserted me! and, in their eyes, the king is a slave!"
"Put thy lips to this emblem of salvation," said the Spanish priest, extending his crucifix, eagerly; "curse thy false gods, which are devils; acknowledge Christ to be thy master; and part,—not to dwell among the rivers of hell, which are of fire, but in the seats of bliss, the heaven of the just and happy."
"I spit upon thy accursed image!" said the monarch, rousing, with indignation, into temporary sanity, and endeavouring to suit the action to the word; "I spit upon thy cross, for it is the god of liars and deceivers! of robbers and murderers! of betrayers and enslavers! I curse thy god, and I spit upon him!"
All the Spaniards present recoiled with horror at the impiety, which was too manifest in the act to need interpretation; and some, in the moment, half drew their swords, as if to punish it by despatching the dying man at once. But they looked again on the king, and knew that this sin was the sin of madness.
As they started back, the person of De Leste, whom, in their fixed attention to Montezuma, none of them had yet perceived, was brought into the view of the monarch. His glittering eye fell upon the penacho, which the cavalier had not yet thought to remove from his helmet, and which yet drooped, with its badges of rank, over his forehead. A laugh, that had in it much of the simple exultation of childhood, burst from the king's lips; and, raising himself on the couch, he pointed at the ruddy symbols of distinction. The cavaliers, following the gesture with their eyes, beheld, with great agitation, their liberated companion; and even Cortes, himself, started to his feet, with an invocation to his saint, when his eye fell upon the apparition.
The words of Amador,—"Fear me not, for I live,"—though not lost, were unanswered; for, notwithstanding that many of the cavaliers immediately seized upon his hands, to express their joy, they instantly cast their regards again upon Montezuma, as not having the power to withdraw them for a moment from him.
"Say what they will," muttered the king, still eyeing the penacho with delight, "I, also, am of the House of Darts; and in Tlascala and Michoacan, and among the Otomies of the hills, have I won me the tassels of renown. Before I was a king, I was a soldier: so will I gather on me the armour of a general, and drive the Teuctli from my kingdom. Ho, then, what ho! Cuitlahuatzin! and thou, son of my brother, Quauhtimotzin! that are greater in war than the sons of my body, get ye forth your armies, and sound the horns of battle! Call upon the gods, and smite! on Mexitli the terrible, on Painalton the swift! call them, that they may see ye strike, and behold your valour! Call them, for Montezuma will fight at your side, and they shall know that he is valiant!"
The struggles of the king, as he poured forth these wild exclamations, were like convulsions. But suddenly, and while the Spaniards thought he was about to expire in his fury, the contortions passed from his countenance, his lips fell, his eyes grew dim, and his voice was turned to a whisper of lamentation.
"I sold my people for the smile of the Teuctli; I bartered my crown for the favour of the Christian; I gave up my fame for the bonds of a stranger; and now what am I? I betrayed my children—and what are they? Let it not be written in the books of history,—blot the name of Montezuma from the list of kings; let it not be taught to them that are to follow.—Tlaloc, I come!—Let it be forgotten."
Suddenly, as he concluded, and as if the fiend of the world of waters he had invoked, had clutched upon him, he was seized with a dreadful convulsion, and as his limbs writhed about in the agony, his eyes, dilating with each struggle, were fixed with a stony and basilisk glare upon those of Cortes; and thus,—his gaze fixed to the last on his destroyer,—he expired.
When the neophyte beheld the last quiver cease in the body, and knew by the loud wail of the Mexicans, that Montezuma was no more, he looked round for Don Hernan; but the general had stolen from the apartment.—The visage of Cortes revealed not the workings of his mind; but his heart spoke to his conscience, and his soul recorded the confession;—"I have wronged thee, pagan king;—but thy vengeance cometh!"
Don Amador's arm was touched by his friend De Morla.
"In the chamber of death," said the cavalier, sadly, "thou mightest best hear of death: but I cannot discourse to thee, while Minnapotzin is mourning. Let us depart, brother."
Don Amador motioned to the page, and followed his friend out of the apartment.