What Alvarado had reported of Don Amador was true. The neophyte averred, that, dead or alive,—a spectre or a creature of flesh and blood,—the steed, bestridden by the sable phantom, and urged with such fury against the footmen, was neither less nor more than his own good beast, Fogoso; and he declared, with even more impetuosity, as Don Pedro had related, that the figure, descending the opposite hill, was the knight of Calavar, on his ancient war-horse,—an apparition, perhaps, but no St. James,—unless this heavenly patron had condescended to appear in the likeness of a knight so valiant and so pious. Strange fancies beset him, and so great was his impatience to resolve the marvel, that he scarce waited to behold the general balance his good spear, before he turned his horse, and spurred furiously backward.
Meanwhile, the black horseman descended with such violence upon the footmen, as threatened their instant destruction, his fierce eyes, as the Christians thought, gleaming with the fires of hell; so that, notwithstanding the sudden relief coming in the person of the supposed saint, they were seized with horror, and gave way before him. At the moment when he rushed among them, uttering what seemed theLelileeof another land, he was encountered by his celestial opponent, whose strong voice shouted out—"God and St. John! and down with thee, paynim demon!"
The shock of two such steeds, both of great weight, each bearing a man cased in thick armour, each urged on by the impetus of descent from the hills, and meeting, midway, in a narrow valley, was tremendous. At the moment of encounter, the sable rider perceived, for the first time, his opponent;—he checked his steed suddenly, and flung up his lance, as if to avoid a contest. But the precaution came too late—his rising lance struck the casque of his adversary, tearing it off, and revealing the grim visage and grizzly locks of the knight of Calavar; while, at the same moment, the spear of Don Gabriel, aimed with as much skill as determination, smote the enemy on the lower part of the corslet, and piercing it as a buckler of ice, penetrated, at once, to the bowels and spine. The shock that unseated the riders, was shared by the steeds, and horse and man rolled together on the earth.
The loud cry of "Calavar! the Penitent Knight! the valiant Don Gabriel!" set up by the bewildered and awe-struck infantry, reached the ears of the novice. He spurred on with new ardour, and reaching the footmen just as they divided in pursuit of the flying barbarians, he sprung from his horse, and beheld his kinsman lying senseless, and as it appeared to him, lifeless, in the arms of the wounded Baltasar.
"In the name of heaven, and Amen! what is this? and what do I see?" he cried. "Oh heaven, is this my knight?—and doth he live?"
"He lives," said Baltasar, "and he feels as of flesh and blood; and yet did he die on the lake-side. God forgive us our sins! for neither heaven nor hell will hold the dead!"
Just at that moment, the knight opened his eyes, and rolled them on his kinsman,—but his kinsman regarded him not. A low moaning voice of one never to be forgotten, fell on the ear of the novice, as he gazed on his friend; and starting up, he beheld, hard by, the page Jacinto, lying on the body of Abdalla, from whose head he had torn the helm, and now strove, with feeble fingers, to remove the broken and blood-stained corslet.
"Jacinto!—Leila!" cried Amador, with a voice of rapture, flinging himself at her side, (for now, though the garments of escaupil still concealed the figure of the Moorish maid, the disguise could be continued no longer.) The joy of the cavalier vanished, for the maiden replied only with lamentations; while the Zegri fixed upon him an eye, in which the stony hardness of death was mingled with the fires of human passion.
"Place my head upon thine arm, cavalier!" said Abdalla, faintly, "and let me look upon him who has slain me."
"Oh, my father! my father!" cried the Moorish girl.
"God forbid that thou shouldst die, even for the sake of the maiden I love," exclaimed Amador, eagerly, supporting his head. "Thou art a Wali, a Christian, and the father of her that dwells in my heart. Live, therefore; for though thou have neither land nor people, neither home nor friends, neither brother nor champion, yet am I all to thee; for I crave the love of thy daughter."
The maiden sobbed, and heard not the words of the cavalier; but the dying Moor eyed her with a look of joy, and then turning his gaze upon Amador, said,—
"God be thy judge, as thou dealest truly with her, who, although the offspring of kings, is yet an orphan, landless, homeless, and friendless on the earth."
"I swear to thee," said the novice,—"and I protest——"
"Protest me nothing: hearken to my words, for they are few; the angel of death calls to me to come, and my moments fly from me like the blood-drops," said the Zegri. "Until the day, when I dreamed thou wert slumbering in the lake, I knew not of this that hath passed between ye. Had it been known to me, perhaps this death that comes to me, might not have come; for, what I did, I did for the honour and weal of my child, knowing that, in the hand of Spaniards, she was in the power of oppressors and villains. That I have struck for revenge, is true; I have shed the blood of Castilians and rejoiced, for therein I reckoned me the vengeance of Granada. Yet, had it been apparent to me, that the feeble maid, who, besides myself, knew no other protector of innocence in the world, could have claimed the love of an honourable cavalier, and enjoyed it without the shame of disguise and menial occupation, then had I submitted to my fate, and locked up in the darkness of my heart, the memory of the Alpujarras."
"Who speaks of the Alpujarras?" cried the knight of Rhodes, staring wildly around; "who speaks of the Alpujarras?"
"I!" said the Moor, with a firm voice, bending his eye on Don Gabriel, and striving, though in vain, for his nether limbs were paralyzed, to turn his body likewise; "IGabriel of Calavar,Ispeak of the Alpujarras; and good reason have I to speak, and thou to listen; for I was of the mourning, and thou of the destroyers."
"Pity me, heaven!" cried the knight, staring on the Moor, in the greatest disorder. "I have seen thee, and yet I know thee not."
"Rememberest thou not the field of Zugar, and the oath sworn on the cross of a blood-stained sword, by the river-side?"
"Hah!" cried Don Gabriel; "dost thou speak of mine oath?—mine oath to Alharef?"
"And the town of Bucarcs, among the hills?" continued the Zegri, loudly, and with a frown made still more ghastly by approaching death; "dost thou remember the false and felon blow that smote the friend of Zugar,—and that, still falser and fouler, which shed the blood of Zayda, the beloved of the Alpujarras?"
As the Wali spoke, the knight, as if uplifted by some supernatural power, rose to his feet, and approached the speaker, staring at him with eyes of horror. At the name of Zayda, he dropt on his knees crying,—
"Miserere mei, Deus! I slew her! and thou that art Alharef, though struck down by the same sword, yet livest thou again to upbraid me!"
"Struck down by thy steel, yet not then, but now!" exclaimed the Moor. "I live again, but not to upbraid thee—I am Alharef-ben-Ismail, and I forgive thee."
At this name, already made of such painful interest to the novice, his astonishment was so great, that, as he started, he had nearly suffered the dying prince (for such were the Walis of Moorish Spain,) to fall to the earth. He caught him again in his arms, and turned his amazed eye from him to Don Gabriel, who, trembling in every limb, still stared with a distracted countenance on that of his ancient preserver.
"I am Alharef, and, though dying, yet do I live," went on the Zegri, interrupted as much by the wails of his daughter, as by his own increasing agonies. "The sword wounded, but it slew not—it slew notall—Zayda fell, yet live I, to tell thee, thou art forgiven. Rash man! rash and most unhappy! thine anger was unjust; and therefore didst thou shed the blood of the good, the pure, the loving and the beautiful, and thereby cover thyself, and him that was thy true friend, with misery. When thou soughtest the love of Zayda, she was the betrothed of Alharef. Miserable art thou, Gabriel of Calavar! and therefore have I forgiven thee; miserable art thou, for I have watched thee by night, and looked upon thee by day, and seen that the asp was at work in thy bosom, and that the fire did not slumber. Great was thy sin, but greater is thy grief; and therefore doth Zayda, who is in heaven, forgive thee."
"She pardons me not," murmured Don Gabriel, not a moment relaxing the steadfast eagerness of his stare. "At the pyramid of Cholula, on the anniversary of her death, she appeared to me in person, and, O God! with the beauty of her youth and innocence, yet robed in the blackness of anger!"
"And have thine eyes been as dark as the looks of the lover?" cried Alharef. "Stand up, Zayda, the child of Zayda! or turn thy face upon Calavar, that his delusion may leave him."
As he spoke, he lifted feebly the arm which embraced his child, removed the cap, and parted the thick clustering locks from her forehead. Still, however, did she look rather the effeminate boy, upon whom Calavar had been accustomed to gaze, than a woman;—for there is no effort of imagination stronger than that required to transform, in the mind, the object which preserves an unchanging appearance to the eye. Nevertheless, though such a transformation could not be imagined by Don Gabriel, there came, as he wistfully surveyed the pallid features of the maiden, strange visions and memories, which, every moment, associated a stronger resemblance between the living and the dead. He trembled still more violently, heavy dew-drops started from his brow, and he gazed upon the weeping girl as upon a basilisk.
"Wherefore," continued the Zegri, speaking rapidly, but with broken accents,—"when I had resolved to fly to the pagans, as being men whom, I thought, God had commissioned me to defend from rapine and slavery. I resolved to take such advantage of their credulity, as might best enable me to befriend them,—I say, wherefore I resolved this, I need not speak. I protected my child, by recommending her to their superstition; and, had I fallen dead in the streets, still did I know, that reverence and fear would wait upon the steps of one whom I delivered to them as a messenger from heaven. In this light, I revealed her to the princes at the temple, when——"
"It is enough!" muttered Don Gabriel, with the deep and agitated tones of sorrow; "I wake from a dream.—God forgive me! and thou art of the blood of Zayda? the child of her whom I slew?—Alharef forgives me; he says, that Zayda forgives me; but thou that art her child, dostthouforgive me?"
"Father! dear father, she doth!" cried Amador, gazing with awe on the altered countenance of Alharef, and listening with grief to the moans of Zayda. "O holy padre!" he exclaimed, perceiving the priest Olmedo rising, at a little distance, from the side of a man, to whom he had been offering the last consolations of religion,—"Hither, father, for the love of heaven, and absolve the soul of a dying Christian!"
"Is there a priest at my side?" said the Zegri, reviving from what seemed the lethargy of approaching dissolution, and looking eagerly into the face of the good Olmedo. Then, turning to Amador, he said solemnly, though with broken words, "Thou lovest the orphan Zayda?"
"Heaven be my help, as I do," replied the cavalier.
"And thou, Gabriel, that wert my friend, and standest in the light of this young man's parent,—dost thou consent that he shall espouse the daughter of Zayda, saved, while a piteous infant, by Christian men, from out the house of death?"
The knight bowed his head on his breast, and strove to answer, but, in his agitation, could not speak a word.
"Quick, father! for heaven's sake, quick!" cried Alharef, eagerly; "let me, ere I die, know that my child rests on the bosom of a husband. Quick! for the sand runs fast; and there is that in my bosom, which tells me of death. Love and honour thy bride; for thou hast the last and noblest relic of Granada. Take her—thou wert her protector from harsh words and the violence of blows. Quick, father, quick! quick, for mine eyes are glazing!"
The strangely timed and hurried ceremony was hastened by the exclamations of Alharef; and the words of nuptial benediction were, at last, hurriedly pronounced.
"I see thee not, my child!" muttered the Moor, immediately after. "My blessing to thee, Amador,—Gabriel, thou art forgiven.—Thine arm round my neck, Zayda; thy lips to mine. Would that I could see thee!—Get thee to Granada, with thy lord—to the tomb of thy mother—I will follow thee—Tarry not in this land of blood—I will be with thee; we have a power yet in the hills——"
"Let the cross rest on thy lips, if thou diest a Christian," said the father.
The novice drew the maiden aside; the Zegri pressed the sacred symbol to his lips, but still they muttered strangely of Granada.
"I am of the faith of Christ, and Mahomet I defy. My people shall be followers of the cross, but they shall sweep away the false Spaniard, as the wind brushes away the leaves.—The Emir of Oran is prepared—the king of Morocco will follow.—A power in the hills—Ah!—We will creep, by night, to Granada—a brave blow!—Africa shall follow—Ha, ha!—Seize the gates! storm the Alhambra!—but spare life—kill no women!—Remember Zayda!—--"
With such wild words, accompanied by the faint cries of his daughter, the spirit of the Moor passed away, and Alharef-ben-Ismail lay dead in the land of strangers.
Don Gabriel uttered a deep groan, and fell across the feet of his ancient friend.
At this moment, Cortes descended from his horse, and, followed by other cavaliers, stepped up to the lamenting group.
"And Calavar, the valiant, has been murdered by this traitor Moor!" he cried.
"Señor Don Hernan," said the novice, sternly, and as he spoke, rising from the earth, and folding the Moorish maiden to his heart, "you speak of him who was Alharef-ben-Ismail, a Wali of Granada, driven by the injustice of our companions, and in part, by your own harshness, to take arms against you. As one that am now his representative, and, as I may say, his son, I claim for him the honourable burial of a Christian soldier; and, after that, will hold myself prepared, with sword and spear, to defend his memory from insult."
A few words will finish the first part of the chronicle of Don Cristobal.
The victory so marvellously gained, removed the last obstruction from the path of the Spaniards. The ensuing day beheld them entering the territories of their allies; and, in four days more, the chiefs of Tlascala ushered them, with songs of joy, into the republican city.
Six days after this happy event, the novice of Rhodes sat by the death-bed of his kinsman.—From the moment when Calavar roused out of the fit of unconsciousness, into which he had fallen on the field of Otumba, his brain wandered with delirium; but it gave his young kinsman, as well as the faithful Baltasar, much relief to perceive, that his visions were oftener of a pleasant than a disagreeable character. Thus, the reappearance of Alharef, after such long seeming death, dwelt in his memory, without the recollection of his subsequent decease; and with this came the conceit that Zayda yet lived among the Alpujarras, restored, like the Wali, to life, and all forgetful of the wrongs he had done her. He prattled of returning now to Spain, and now to Rhodes, and now of making a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. It is true, that, sometimes, dark thoughts crept to his brain, and agitated him with his former griefs; but these were ever chased away by the sight of Leila, whose countenance seemed to him as that of a holy seraph, sent from heaven, to bid him be of good cheer.
On the fifth day, he recovered his senses, and being sensible of his approaching dissolution, assembled at his bed-side, after having received absolution, the padre Olmedo, and the few friends and followers whom heaven had spared him in this pagan land, being the young cavalier of Cuenza, the melancholy Zayda, or Leila, as Amador yet loved to call her, and Baltasar. The spear of Alharef had not harmed him; he was dying, the victim of a long remorse; or, rather, as it may be said, he expired, when the excitement of this passion no longer supported him. For, perhaps, the same thing may be said of many mental diseases, which is true of certain physical ones, to which a human constitution has been long accustomed; that is, they may obtain so vital a command over all its functions, as to become in themselves the elements, or at least the bulwarks, of life; so that, when they are arrested by some unskilful leech, death shall almost immediately follow the cure.
"I have now called you, my children," he said, bending an eye of affection upon the pair, and speaking very feebly, "to give you such counsel as may be drawn from the history of my life. Its secrets are revealed to you, its pages all lie open; and as you read, your spirits will find their own instruction; for they will discover, that the indulgence of passion, especially the passion of anger, doth lodge a barb in the bosom, never to be plucked out, save by the hand of death. What I have to say, is rather of command than advice; and thou wilt listen to me, Amador, my son, for God hath given thee, in the person of this gentle Zayda, an argument of obedience, which will touch thy heart more eloquently than words.—Break thy sword, hack off thy spurs, cast thine armour into the sea, and think no more of war, unless to defend thy fire-side, and the altars of thy country, from the fury of invaders."
The novice started with alarm.
"Think not that I rave," said the knight. "I speak to thee with the wisdom that comes from the grave. Think no more of war; for war it is that rouses our passions; and passions have made me what I have been, and what I am. I cannot thinknow, (for, at this moment, methinks I stand in the presence of Him who abhorreth contention,) that He will pardon the shedding of any blood, except that which the necessity of self-preservation, and the defence of our country, enforce us to lavish. I repent me of that which I have poured, though even from the hearts of pagans; for pagans are still the sons of God, though walking in darkness, for which we should pity them, not slay. Thou hast drawn thy sword for glory; but the lives that are taken for fame, shall weigh upon the souls of men as murders;—for such they are. Thou drawest for religion:—give thy purse to the priest, and bid him convert with the cross; for the wrath of God will rest for ever upon him who maketh proselytes with the sword. Wo is me, that the delusions of glory and Christian zeal have stained me so deeply! Live for happiness, and thou shalt wrong none, neither man nor God, and, thus, happiness shall be awarded thee; live for honour, and thou shalt know, that heaven acknowledges none but that which is justice; live for peace, which is virtue; and for religion, which is goodness. Get thee to thy castle, to the lands which thou shalt inherit; plant thy vines and olives, relieve the unhappy, succour the distressed; and if thy young brother should pant for the barb and lance, teach him the history of thy kinsman. Be virtuous, be peaceful, be charitable, and be happy. When thou hearest of glory, bethink thee of the poor deluded creatures we have slain in this land; when thou art told of pious crusades, remember the days of the Alpujarras.—Would that my days were to pass again!"
He paused, with exhaustion.
"The noble knight," said the padre, "hath spoken much good and wholesome truth; nevertheless, in the matter of infidels, what he has counselled, is not well. For how is it written——"
"Holy father," murmured Don Gabriel, "there be men enow who will obey thee in this matter, and without exhortation or argument. Defeat not my work; for I rob thee of but one. Let me think, that the son of my affection will dwell in peace, and thereby be clean in the eyes of God, and thus happy at his death-hour. Would that I might appear before my Maker, without the stain of blood!"
With a few more such precepts of virtue, for grief and the hand of death had made his heart wise, Don Gabriel continued to address the novice. He spoke many words of kindness, also, to the old and faithful Baltasar, and was about to give his benediction to the child of Zayda, when a film came suddenly over his eyes:
"Give me thy hand," he muttered, faintly and almost inarticulately; "I see thee not, but mine eyes are opened to Zayda. Where art thou, Amador, my son? Heaven is blissful—Alharef—Zayda—all—Miserere mei, Domine!"——Thus he murmured for a moment, his voice dwindling to a whisper; then his lips moved, but without yielding any sound, until, at last, it was apparent that he had expired, and yet so gently, that not even a spasm of muscle, or change of countenance, indicated the passage of his spirit.
Three days after this, at sunrise, the señor Cortes stood alone with Don Amador de Leste, on the terrace of the great dwelling in which he had quartered the remains of his army.
"Thou leavest me then, De Leste?" he said, in a low voice, looking westward to the hills, beyond which lay the valley of the lakes.
"Such is my purpose, very noble señor," said the cavalier, mildly, but firmly. "My horses are caparisoned in the court-yard, my little company is in waiting, my friends have been saluted, and nothing remains for me but to thank your excellency for your many manifestations of goodness to me and mine,—the living and the dead together,—and to pray your excellency wish me God speed."
"And can you look upon yonder blue cliffs, and those snow-capt pinnacles," said Don Hernan, with a smothered voice, "and think of leaving the paradise they encompass, in the hands of the heathen?"
"I know not," said Don Amador, "that it becomes me to intrude any advice upon your excellency. But you have already done deeds, as I am myself a witness, which will give you immortal fame, though you should proceed no farther in the impossible attempt to subjugate this very potent and wonderful empire."
"It shall be mine!" said Cortes, smiting his hands together, and speaking with clenched teeth. "Though there were but an hundred men left with me,—nay, were there but ten,—I would sooner that they should see me rent under the tusks of the wild mountain hogs, than turning my back for ever against the city of Montezuma. Thou thinkest the case is desperate; yet, with those ten Christians, and the hundreds of thousands of disaffected barbarians, whom I will gather together, thou shalt hear, perhaps, ere thou art housed in thy mountain castle of Cuenza, that he whom thou leavest, is the lord of Mexico; and the valiant men who remain by him, the barons and counts of the great empire!"
"With mine own hills of olive and cork, have I enough to content me," said the novice, coldly.
"And thou carest not to revenge thy friends, massacred so barbarously, that fatal night—Flames be on the soul of the enchanter for ever!" exclaimed the general, bursting into fury at the recollection.
"I say, God pardon him!" replied Amador, "and God receive to his rest those friends, of whom you speak. I have naught to revenge; I lament their fate, which was dreadful; but I acknowledge that they were slain in honourable combat."
"And thou carest not then to strike for the cause of Christ, and aid in the conversion of countless souls from perdition?"
The cavalier regarded his general with a meaning eye. Cortes felt the reproof, and catching his hand, said, hastily,—
"It is enough! thou hast a young and tender wife—Who would have dreamed that such a creature walked with us throughout that night? It is right, thou shouldst desire to bear her from these scenes of tumult, and not unnatural thou shouldst wish to share the peace and happiness to which thou art conducting her. For myself, I sometimes think of my own fair Doña in the island, and the pleasant sound of the surf, rolling, by night, on the beach under her lattice; but nevertheless, there are, in this same heathen clime, certain charms, which cause me to forget the fair Catalina, and my merry brats into the bargain."
"For me," said the novice, sadly, "there is nothing in this land but melancholy. Alharef, sire of Zayda, sleeps under a rock at Otumba; and Calavar, whom I may call my father, since such he was to me, now rests in yon grove, on the hill-side. I have buried a faithful servant in the lake, and a good youth, whom I loved, an old follower of my knight, and a very dear friend. I shall think of the land with regret, yet must I leave it without a sigh. I have hopes to find me some conveyance to the islands, and there, thank heaven, it is not so difficult to light upon a trader of Seville bound on the homeward voyage."
"If thou art, indeed, resolute to depart," said Cortes, "I have it in my power not only to wish thee God speed, but to give thee a good ship of my fleet at Ulua, commanded by thy very noble kinsman, which he will, doubtless, man to thy liking with choice sailors; and wherein, thou canst proceed instantly to Spain, without the tedious necessity of touching at Cuba."
The eyes of the neophyte sparkled. Don Hernan smiled:
"Assuredly," said he, "I am rejoiced to pleasure thee so much; and yet thou wilt thyself confer upon me a very ineffable obligation, by sailing in that same good ship, and taking charge of a certain letter I have here written to his majesty, our lord, Don Carlos, being the second despatch wherein I have presumed to acquaint him with the success of our arms, fighting in his cause, and in that of the holy church. If it may suit your convenience to bear the same, in person, to his imperial majesty, I hope you will have no cause to repent doing me so great a favour."
"I will bear it to his majesty, in person," said the novice, taking the sealed packet, laying it upon his forehead in token of fealty, and then warmly grasping the general's hand: "I will do this with much satisfaction; and, in memory that thou hast, upon three several occasions, done me such personal service, as touches me to answer with a life's thankfulness, if there be any other act wherein I can pleasure thee, I pray thee command me to the same, without any reserve; for I will consider that thou dost thereby acquaint me with a way to testify my gratitude."
"I thank you," said Don Hernan: "I have no commission with which I will dare further to trouble you. And yet, and yet,—and yet"—He hesitated a moment, and his lip slightly quivered; but instantly resuming an air of indifference, he continued, "If it should suit your good convenience,—that is, if you should prefer,—to travel rather by the hot mountains of Estremadura, than the barren ridges of La Mancha, while passing to the court at Madrid, I would crave of your goodness to inquire me out a certain village called Medellin, that lieth on the Guadiana, some few leagues above the city of Merida."
"Were it an hundred leagues, and they of the rudest," said Amador, "I should be no less ready to do your bidding. But give me to know, when I am arrived at this same village of Medellin, in what I can pleasure you."
"Inquire me out," said Cortes, "a certain old man, a poor hidalgo, called Martin Cortes, as also his wife, Catalina.—By my conscience, señor, they are my father and mother; and they will have some joy to hear you speak of me!"
"Now, I vow to heaven!" cried Amador, struck by the sudden and impetuous tone of feeling, which Don Hernan strove to hide under a burst of gayety. "I am sorry they live not as far away as Pampeluna, at once; that I might show you the readiness with which I will be your messenger: for, herein, do I perceive, I shall be looked on by them as a good angel, sent to them from heaven."
"Be not over-sanguine," said Cortes, affecting a laugh: "for, by my conscience, if you tell her not every thing to her liking, my mother hath somewhat of a shrewish way of admonishing you. Nevertheless, it is enough: it hath been some long years since they have heard of my whereabout and my what-about; since, sooth to say, I one day played them a dog's trick, and, a month after, was chasing the Indians in Cuba. It will greatly amaze them to hear I have not been absolutely hanged, as my mother oft-times promised me, for my sins; and, surely, they will stare at you, when you tell them I have been killing a great emperor, as some idle fellows have charged on me; whereas, you know yourself, having been so forward to shield him, that Montezuma was slain by his own people,—a murrain on them!"
"I will bear witness to the truth, and I will say nothing that can give them pain."
"I shall be much beholden to you," said Don Hernan, eagerly; "for my mother is somewhat more righteous than other women, and might be convinced, out of the mouths of some of my friends, that I am given to godless acts on occasions, which is very false and slanderous. I will beseech you to bear them certain curious jewels, and trifles of golden ware, the fabric of my good savages here, more as mementos of my gracelessness, than as presents of affection;—seeing that they are of no great value. They are such curiosities as will make mine old play-mates stare. Ah, the rascals! they were all better than I at their books, and somewhat less acquainted with the pedagogue's palm.—But pho!" he continued, suddenly dropping the tone of bagatelle, with which he had spoken, "I do but fool the time: your steed neighs in the court-yard, your lady looks up to the terrace—I will detain you no longer. The king's letter which you bear, will authorize you to demand of the admiral the best ship in our small navy, as also to have it sailored and provisioned to your mind; and therein you can voyage, at your good pleasure, to the Guadalquivir. I have presumed to order in waiting, subject to your command, a company of guides, consisting of four Castilian soldiers, ten Tlascalans, and thrice as many Totonacs of the coast, with whom you will take your own will as to speed, though I recommend you to submit to theirs, in the matter of the road. Commend me to your kinsman, the admiral, as also very truly to my parents; and if the emperor should see fit to express doubts of the success of this enterprise, in which I am engaged, tell him that I, Hernan Cortes, do say, and I gage my head for the fulfilment of the same, that the land shall be his,—all that lies between the two seas, and betwixt the narrow neck of Panama to the south, and the huge isle of Florida to the north: this I promise, and this I will fulfil.—And now, señor, giving you my thanks for the good deeds you have already done me, as well as those which you meditate, and wishing to your fair and noble wife a green path by land and a smooth way by sea, I do, very truly and devoutly, and from the bottom of my heart, pray you God speed!—Remember me; for you shall hear of me yet!"
So saying, the two cavaliers descended and parted,—Don Amador de Leste to cross the seas, and, discharging the commands of his friend, both to the ancient hidalgo of Medellin and the great Charles of Austria, to seek for happiness in his castle of Alcornoque, in the society of his Moorish bride; and Hernan Cortes to ponder alone upon the fall of Tenochtitlan.
Of the secondary characters of this history, enough has been already narrated. Our respect, however, for the memory of the magician, Botello, requires that we should mention two circumstances in relation to his fate, and his chief and most mystical familiar. His unexpected death, instead of destroying his credit among those who survived the Noche Triste, gave him additional claims to respect, even in the grave; for when it was remembered, that the arrows which slew so many Spaniards, were adorned with the feathers of eagles, as well as other birds of prey, they perceived, in his fate, only a confirmation of the juggling subtlety of the fiends that 'palter with us in a double sense.' "Truly," said they, "Botello was borne out of danger on the wings of eagles, as he prophesied, albeit he was borne to heaven." In after days, when Mexico had become the prey of the invader, the lake was dragged for the bones of the Christians who had fallen with him in the nocturnal retreat, which were then deposited, with many religious ceremonies, in ground consecrated for the purpose. In the last ditch, at the very spot where Botello had fallen, a fortunate fisherman hooked up the magic Crystal, the prison of Kalidon-Sadabath; who, greatly to the horror of the finder, began instantly, as of old, to dance, and curvet, and perform other diabolical antics, in his hands. No other conjurer in the army having the skill to interpret the motions of this mysterious imp, his crystal habitation was transmitted, along with divers Mexican rarities, to the shelves of the Escurial, where it was long viewed with wonder and respect, as an instrument contrived by the hands, and devoted to its unearthly uses by the skill, of the celebrated Cornelius Agrippa. A philosopher, who was thought, as was Feyjoó in later days, by his countrymen, to have too little consideration for vulgar prejudices, asserted, after attentive examination, that the marvellous crystal was nothing more than a piece of glass, hollowed by the maker into many singular cavities, wherein was deposited a coloured drop of some volatile liquor, which being, at any time, expanded by the heat of the breath, or of the hand, would instantly dart about, and assume the most fantastic shapes, according to the sinuous vacuities through which it happened to be impelled. This explanation was received with incredulity; but, nevertheless, Kalidon of the Crystal was treated with neglect, and, in course of time, entirely forgotten. We surmise, however, and the conjecture is not without argument, that the Enchanted Crystal, presented, half a century afterwards, by the angel Uriel to the famous English conjurer, Doctor Dee, was no other than this identical stone, filched by the angelic thief from its dusty repository, and given to him who best knew how to put it to its proper uses.
Late in the autumn of the following year, the señor Don Amador de Leste sat watching the sunset of a peaceful day, from a little bower, on a lawn in front of his castle Del Alcornoque. A clump of aged oaks flung their branches over a low, square, and mouldering tower,—the work of the Moorish masters of Spain many a long year back, and a fragment, as it seemed, of some ancient bath or fountain; for a body of pure water still made its way through the disjointed stones, and fell bubbling into a little basin beneath.
The scene, as beheld from this spot, was one of enchanting beauty and repose. The fountain was, perhaps, midway on the slope of a long hill, a few rods in advance of the castle, (with which it was, indeed, connected by a somewhat neglected walk of orange trees,) whose irregular turrets and frowning battlements rose among groups of cork-trees, while a broken forest of these, extended behind, up to and over the crest of the hill. In front, the little valley, wherein was embosomed the silvery Jucar, was bounded now by sharp cliffs and jutting promontories, and now by green lawns, which ran sweeping upwards to the hill-tops on the opposite side. A hazy, smoky atmosphere, warmed into lustre by the sinking luminary, while it mellowed all objects into beauty, did not conceal from the eye the flocks of sheep which dotted the distant slopes, the cattle standing at the river-side, and the groups of peasantry, who adding their songs to the lowing of the herds and the cawing of a flight of crows, urged forward the burthened ass from the vine-tree. A monastery rose in the forest, a little village glimmered pleasantly on the river bank, under the shadow of a cliff; and over the ridges, which shut in the valley to the south, was seen the dim outline of those sierras of Morena, from which might be traced the peaks of the Alpujarras.
Over this fair prospect, the young cavalier looked with pride, for it was the inheritance handed down to him by a long line of ancestors,—not snatched away by violence from vanquished Moors, but reclaimed from them by a bold knight, whose genealogical tree had been rooted in those hills, before Tarik, the Arab, had yet looked upon the Pillars of Hercules. He gazed on it also with joy, for he had learned to love peace; and this seemed the chosen abode of tranquillity.
"It doth indeed appear to me,now," he muttered, "as if my past life were a foolish dream. There is a rapture in this quiet nook, a happiness in this prospect of loveliness and content, entirely beyond any pleasure which I ever experienced in my days of tumult and fame. What can there be, to add a further charm to this paradise?"
Perhaps he muttered this interrogatory in the spirit of an improver and adorner of nature.—It was answered by the fall of a gentle footstep. He looked behind him, and beheld, standing at his back, pausing a moment with patient and yet dignified affection, the fair figure of a woman, who had no sooner caught his eye, than she smiled, and pointed to a female attendant, who bore in her arms, hard by, a sleeping infant. A cross of rubies glittered on the lady's breast.
"If thou didst apprehend, Leila!" said the cavalier, with eyes of joy, "that I reckoned this hill-side a paradise, without thinking of thyself and my young Gabriel, thou didst most grievously wrong me; for I protest to thee, I never cease thinking of ye."
"Never?" murmured the mild voice of the Moorish lady: "Heaven be praised!—But, sometimes, when thou lookest upon the sports of our little brother Rosario, it seems to me, thou dost forget us."
"I vow to thee, my honoured and beloved lady," said the hidalgo, earnestly, "and, if thou wilt believe me the rather for that, I swear by the bright eyes of my young boy, that, since I discovered thou wert alive, and, especially, since thou hast been mine own Zayda, I have come to look with new eyes upon those things, which were the joys of my youth. Let us sit down upon this mossy stone; and, while we gaze a little upon Rosario, who, thou seest, is hacking the wooden Turk's-head on the knoll—Thou knowest, he did so gash my young plantations of olive-trees, that I was enforced to allow him this block, for his recreation——While we thus regard him, (for, of a truth, he is a most gallant boy, and of soldierly bearing,) I will discourse to thee in such manner, as to convince thee that I have utterly weeded from my bosom the foul plants of ambition, and that I am equally solicitous to cleanse the breast of my brother.—Hah! by my faith, what now?—Seest thou yonder ill-looking, lurking knave? I doubt me, he has been robbing my vineyard.—May I die, but the young varlet doth advance his sword against him! Well done, sir Hector!—And he knows not I am near, to give him aidance!—What ho, sirrah Rosario! put up thy sword—This is no robber."
"It is a pilgrim—some poor pilgrim," exclaimed the lady:—"Rosario gives him his hand, and leads him towards us."
It was even as the fair Doña had said. The youth Rosario, who had, at first, advanced valiantly towards the stranger, as if to question his right to walk so near the castle, was now seen to sink his weapon, speak a word or two to the comer, and then give him his hand, as if to conduct him to the cavalier.
As they approached, Don Amador could perceive that the stranger had robed his figure in a cloak of the humblest texture; he was barefooted; he held a staff in his hand; and his great slouched hat was adorned with scallop-shells. He seemed a palmer, who had performed a long and painful pilgrimage; for, though obviously a young man, his frame was wasted, his beard long and haggard, and his cheeks were very thin and pale.
"By my faith," said Don Amador, "this palmer hath speedily won the heart of my brother; for, thou seest, Rosario doth look into his face, as though he had got him the hand of some great knight from Judea.—I welcome you with peace and good-will, señor pilgrim; and my gates are open to you.—Art thou from Compostella or Loretto? Or, perhaps, thou comest even from the Holy Land?"
While the cavalier spoke, the Moorish lady surveyed the features of the pilgrim with a surprise and agitation which drew the attention of Don Amador; but before he could speak, the pilgrim replied:
"Not from the Holy Land, but from a land accurst,—from death and the grave, from the depths of the heathen lake and the maws of Mexicans——"
At these words, the lady screamed, and Don Amador himself started aghast, as he listened to the voice of the speaker.
"In the name of God, amen!" he cried, recoiling a step; "I know thy voice, and I saw thee perish!"
"Pardon me, noble patron!" said the pilgrim, hastily; "I spoke but in figures; and therein I spoke not amiss, since I perceived that my noble lord looked upon me as one that was dead. Alas, señor, I live—I am your honour's poor ward and secretary, Fabueno."
"Fabueno!" cried the cavalier, recovering himself a little: "If thou livest, thou liest; for Lorenzo is dead!"
"Hast thou been lying, then, thou knave?" cried Rosario, with much indignation. "I will knock the cockles from thy cap; for thou saidst, thou hadst fought with the great Cortes, among the Indians!"
"Alas, señor!" cried Lorenzo, "will you still think me dead? Have sorrow and misery so changed me, that your noble goodness cannot see, in this broken frame and this withered visage, your poor follower, Fabueno?"
"By my troth, I am amazed! This hand is flesh and blood; this darkened brow and weeping eye—Pho! Look upon him, Zayda!—Thou livest, then?—God be praised! And thou sheddest tears, too? Never believe me, but I am rejoiced to see thee; and thou shalt dwell with me, till thy dying day—Heaven be thanked!—By what miracle wert thou revived, after being both killed and drowned? I'faith, thou didst greatly shock my lady.—'Tis wondrous, how soon she knew thee!"
"Knew me?" exclaimed the secretary, gazing with a bewildered eye upon the lady.
"Why, dost thou forget," cried the cavalier, catching the hand of Leila, over whose brow a faint colour rose at the remembrance,—"dost thou forget my dear and beloved page, Jacinto?"
"Alas, madam," said Lorenzo, bending to the earth, "nothing but my confusion could have made me so blind; and this is more wondrous, too, since his excellency, Don Hernan, had made me acquainted with the happiness of my lord."
"Speakest thou of Don Hernan?" cried the cavalier. "By my troth, I have an hundred thousand questions to ask thee; and I know not which to demand first. But thine own reappearance is so marvellous, that I must first question thee of that; and, afterward, thou shall speak to me of Don Hernan. How wert thou fished up?"
"Fished up, señor!" said Lorenzo, sadly; "I know not well what your favour means. At that moment of distraction and horror," he went on, with a shudder, "when I called to you for succour——"
"I heard you," said Amador, "and I ran to your assistance,—but, heaven forgive me! I cursed the act afterwards, when I discovered that it had lost me my poor Jacinto. Ah, señora mia! was there ever so dreadful a night?"
"When I called," continued Fabueno, "I was then beset by the infidels. The princess—the poor princess, was slain in my arms, and my horse speared under me, so that we fell to the earth. Señor, I know not well what happened to me, then, for my mind fled from me: I only remember, that, as they flung me into a canoe, there came a cavalier, the valiant Don Francisco de Saucedo, as I found by his voice, to my assistance, shouting aloud. I think, he was slain on the spot; for I heard a plunging in the water, as if his horse had fallen into the lake."
"It was he, then," said Don Amador, "whom I saw sink so miserably into the flood! Heaven give him rest!—I thought it was thyself."
"Señor," continued the secretary, "I will not weary you, now, with all the particulars of my sorrow. When heaven restored me my reason, I found myself lying in a wicker den,—a cage of victims,—in the temple yard, under the pyramid; and I knew that I was saved, only to be made a sacrifice."
"Heaven forefend!" cried Amador, while Zayda grew white with horror.
"I tell you the truth, señor," said Fabueno, trembling in every limb. "There were more than thirty such cages around me, and in every one a wounded Spaniard, as I could both hear and see; and every day, there was one dragged out by the priests, and immolated.—I could hear their yells from the temple top.—Señor, these things drove me into a delirium, which must have lasted long; for when I came again to my wits, I looked out, and saw that the cages were empty—all butone. Then, I beheld the priests come to mine own dungeon, and debate over me. I tried to pray—but, in my fear, I swooned. When I looked forth again, they were dragging away my fellow-prisoner.—I knew that I should die upon the morrow.—That night, I fell into a frenzy, and with my teeth (for my arms were bound behind me,) I gnawed away the wooden bars of my cage. Heaven helped me! God gave me strength! and St. James, to whom I cried, sharpened my teeth as though they were edged with iron! So, by this miracle, I escaped; and, bound as I was, and beaten to the earth by a tempest which raved over the lake, I made my way, I know not how, by a causeway that lies to the north, until I had reached the shore of the lake. I hid me, by day, in groves and in marshes, and when the night came, I journeyed onward, though I knew not whither. What sufferings I endured from hunger and thirst, I will not weary you by recounting. Mine arms were still bound behind me; and when it was my good fortune to find a field of green maize, I could only seize upon the ears, like a beast, with my teeth. I strove, by rolling upon the earth, and rubbing against trees, to get rid of the thongs, but all in vain. This maddened me; and I thought that heaven had deserted me. But the good St. James showed me, one day, a place where the Indians had made a fire. I rekindled it with my breath, and when it began to blaze, I prayed and held my arms in the flames, until the green withes, wherewith I was bound, were burned asunder."
"Good heaven!" cried Amador, starling from the stone on which he had seated himself, while Zayda bent forward, as if to snatch the poor youth from the flames, which still burned in her imagination;—"didst thou suffer all this horrible combustion? Or, perhaps, heaven vouchsafed thee a miracle, and scorched away the cords, without suffering the fire to do thee harm?"
"Had I been there," said Rosario, doughtily, "I would have cut the thongs with my sword; and, then, I would have killed the bitter pagans that wronged thee!"
"The miracle whereby I escaped from the cage, was more than my sins deserved," said the secretary, bending his head upon his bosom, and speaking with an agitated voice. "Heaven took not the pangs from the fire, but it gave me strength to bear them. I am here again, restored to my native land, and among Christian men—but mine arms are withered."
"Were they hacked off at the shoulders," cried Amador, ardently, "ay, and thy legs into the bargain, yet will I so entertain thee here in my castle, that thou shall cease to lament them."
"Nay," said the youth, looking with gratitude on the cavalier, "'tis not so bad as that, as my lord may see; for, though I may never more bear sword, yet I can carry the pilgrim's staff—ay, and I can raise them to my cheek, to brush away my thanks.—I have yet strength enough left to wield a pen; and, if my noble patron——"
"Speak no more of this, good Lorenzo," said the Moorish lady, quickly and kindly. "My lord hath told thee thou art welcome; and I say to thee also, thou art very welcome."
"By my troth,Isay so too," cried Rosario. "But after all, thou wilt be but pitiful, if thou hast not strength left to handle a sword. I hoped you should teach me a little; for old Baltasar is grum and crusty."
"Peace, Hector! what art thou talking about?" said Don Amador.—"Think no more of thy misfortune, Lorenzo; but give me to know the rest of thy adventures."
"They are spoken in a word," said the secretary. "When mine arms were freed, though so dreadfully scorched, I could travel with more peace of mind. I doubted not, that all the Christians had been slain on the lake; yet, I thought, if I could but reach the sea-coast, I might be, sometime, snatched out of the hands of the barbarians. Nevertheless, this hope deserted me, when I perceived that the land was covered with people; and, one day, finding a cave among the mountains, hard by to a water-fall, with a wooden cross stuck up at the mouth——"
"Surely," said Zayda, "this was the cavern, wherein I found my lord, Don Gabriel."
"I doubt it not, noble lady," said Fabueno, "but this I knew not then. I thought it was a retreat provided for me by the good St. James, who willed that there I should pass my life, under the shadow of that little crucifix. So there did I hide me, and, feeding upon roots and such living creatures as I could entrap, I remained in my hermitage a full year; until, one day, I heard a trumpet sounding at the bottom of the mountain; and running out in wonder, I beheld—thanks be to heaven! I beheld a company of Spanish soldiers marching up the hill. By these men, I was carried to Mexico, which was now fallen——"
"Fallen, say'st thou?" cried Amador. "Is the infidel city fallen?"
"Not the city only, but the empire," replied Fabueno; "and Cortes is now the lord of the great valley."
"Thou shalt tell me of its fate; but first thou must rest and eat.—I remember me now of the words of Cortes."
"His excellency," said Lorenzo, "commanded me to bear to your favour this little jewel, in token that he has made good a certain vaunt which he made you in Tlascala—the same being an emerald from the crown of Quauhtimotzin, the king."
"Hah! my valiant ambassador at Tlascala? Hath he been the emperor?"
"And to your noble lady, he craves permission to present this chain of gold, the manufacture of Mexican artists, since Mexico has become a Spanish city."
"It is enough," said the cavalier; "I perceive that his genius is triumphant. I would that I might bear this news to his father, Don Martin, as I did the relation of his disasters. But come; let us retire. Why hast thou on these palmer weeds?"
"I vowed to St. James, on the mountains of Mexico, in my great misery, that, if his good favour and protection should ever bless mine eyes with the sight of Christian man, I would make a pilgrimage, barefoot, to his holy shrine at Compostella. This it has been my good fortune already to accomplish, our ship having been driven, by a storm, into a port of Gallicia. Not thinking this penance enough for my sins, I resolved to continue my pains, and neither doff my pilgrim's cap, nor do on my shoes, until I had reached your favour's castle of the Cork-tree."
"I welcome thee to it, again, and for thy life; and I congratulate thee, that thou art relieved of the love of war; wherein, thou wilt find, I have somewhat preceded thee. Enter, and be at peace.—When thou art rested a little, I shall desire of thee to speak,—for very impatient am I to know,—what circumstances of marvel and renown, of romance and chivalry, have distinguished the last days of Tenochtitlan."