Another stratagem of a still more daring character, and infinitely more fatal to the Spaniards, was conceived and executed, almost at the moment when they thought the young monarch reduced to despair. But of that we shall have occasion to speak more at length hereafter. The thousand conflicts on land and water, that marked the progress of a siege so extraordinary, have but little connexion with the adventures of the two outcasts; and we are glad of the privilege to pass them by.
When Magdalena was led from the presence of Juan, she was conducted through many chambers and passages, which gave her an idea of the immense extent of the palace, to the quarter especially appropriated to the women, and which was as carefully guarded from the approach of the other sex as the harem of an oriental monarch. It consisted of a series of dormitories and other small apartments, as well as a vast hall, covered with pictured tapestry and knots of flowers, in which the daily labour of the loom and spindle was shared by all, the princess and the slave alike, mingled with the more elegant occupations of embroidery and feather-painting.
But the toil of the day had been long since over, and when she entered, the maidens were amusing themselves, some talking and laughing, and others dancing to the sound of flutes, and all unconscious or heedless of the perils that were about to hem them in.
The appearance of a vision so strange, so often imagined, yet never before seen—a woman of the race of the invaders, and one at once so majestic and lovely as Magdalena—produced an immediate sensation throughout the merry crew. The dancing ceased, the music of the pipe was exchanged for a murmur of admiration, and all eyes were turned upon the novel apparition. But it was observable, that the maidens indulged in no rude demonstrations of curiosity or surprise. They neither thronged about her, nor uttered any loud exclamations; and however ardently they gazed, when unperceived, each cast her looks modestly to the floor, the moment she found the eyes of the stranger directed upon her.
Troubled as were Magdalena's thoughts by the strangeness of her situation, and conscious of her inability to exchange a word with these new companions, she yet felt a sort of relief, and even pleasure, to find herself once more surrounded by individuals of her own sex, who, as was evident from their appearance, were neither rude in manners nor degraded in mind.
In this happier frame of feeling, she suffered herself to be conducted to a chamber, where two young female slaves attended her with refreshments of meats, fruits, and confections, and pointing to a couch of robes, upon a little platform under a canopy, left her to her meditations.
She rose from a troubled and dreamy slumber at the dawn, and waited impatiently for the moment when she should be led to Juan. The slaves again made their appearance, bearing, besides food, which they set before her, rich garments of the most splendid hues, which they desired her by signs to substitute for her monastic attire. To this she acceded, after some hesitation, thinking it needful to humour the wishes of those upon whose friendship her existence, as well as that of Juan, so obviously depended. She exchanged, at least, the gray veil for a broad mantle embroidered with feathers and gold, and placed over her other dress three several tunics, each of a different hue, and each gorgeously ornamented. Her toilet was completed when the slaves had encircled her arms and neck with jewels, and wreathed her hair with chains of gold; to all which she passively, yet impatiently, submitted.
Thus dressed and decorated, she was conducted again to the great hall, and seated upon a throne cushioned over with feathers of every hue, when, to her great surprise, she found herself the object upon whom was to be showered marks of the most extraordinary honour. The crowd of maidens was huddled in the farther end of the apartment, where they stood with downcast eyes, giving place to a female, evidently of exalted rank, who came from among them, followed by five or six girls, much more splendidly dressed than the others, one of whom bore in her arms a sleeping infant.
The Indian lady was distinguished from her attendants by apparel similar in hues and splendour to that worn by Magdalena, and she had on her head a little cap or caul of emeralds, mingled with pearls. Her face was prepossessing, her figure well proportioned, and her bearing not without dignity. Yet there was in her aspect something of trouble and hesitation, and she went through the business of salutation, or rather homage, for so it appeared, with visible reluctance. She approached the throne, and kneeling before it, took Magdalena's hand, and laid it upon her head, speaking a few words which the Christian did not comprehend. Then taking the infant from the girl who bore it, she laid Magdalena's hand upon its innocent brows, in the same manner; after which she stepped aside, and the young attendants went each separately through the same ceremony. This accomplished, she stole from the apartment, and in a few moments, the spindle rolled, the shuttle of the simple loom rattled, and the fingers of the embroiderers and feather-painters moved over their tasks.
The morning passed away, and Magdalena still expected a summons to the presence of Juan. The evening darkened, the fragrant torches were lighted, the pipe and dance were again summoned to close the labours of the day, and Magdalena was, a second time, conducted to her chamber, to muse with fear and distrust over her singular situation.
The second day beheld the same ceremonies, succeeded by the same labours and diversions, and still not a movement indicated the approach of a messenger. She looked upon the maidens around,—their faces were grave and placid. They gazed upon her no more, except when her eyes were averted. She imagined a thousand reasons to account for her seclusion. Was her brother, notwithstanding his assurances to the contrary, in a state of as much restraint as herself? Or—was it possible?—did it not depend upon himself?—was it possible, he did not desire to see her? She thought of his slowness to admit her claim of consanguinity; she thought of the words of Camarga,—of their wildness—Had not Juan said he was insane?—of their insufficiency. Nay, she remembered that Juan spoke ofhisfather, whom he well remembered; and among the tears she shed of doubt and disappointment, she blushed at the boldness and warmth with which she had advocated her claims.
Another day came,—another, and still another; and her heart sickened and her cheek grew pale with suspense and humiliation. Then impatience waxed into anger, and she stalked among the maidens with looks of determination, as if she would have commanded them to lead her from what she justly conceived to be imprisonment. Buthowcommand them? Her language was as the language of the gods to them, and their words were to her as unmeaning as the songs of the birds at the windows. Eyes can speak many things, but not all; and signs are of too arbitrary a nature to serve as the medium of communication betwixt two hemispheres. If she strove to depart from the chamber, she was followed by the two slaves, who seemed to be specially devoted to her service, and who, attending her from room to room, yet arrested her with humble and supplicating gestures, when she seemed to be overstepping the limits of the harem. If she persisted, she found herself in the power of certain antique beldames, who prowled around the sacred chambers, bearing wands to indicate their authority, and who opposed themselves, though without rudeness, to further egress. If she still made her way through these, she found herself stopped by passages, in which were armed barbarians, who did not hesitate to block up the avenues with their shields and spears. In other words, she found that she was a prisoner, confined to a society as recluse, as peaceful, and perhaps as happy as that from which it had been her misfortune to be released. The pride and energy of her nature were here lost; for there was nothing with which to contend, except her feelings, and nothing to excite, save a sense of wrong, inflicted she knew not by whom, nor why.
This was precisely the state of things to tame her spirit into submission and inaction; and, almost insensibly to herself, she began to accommodate her deportment to her condition, substituting anxiety for anger, and despondence for decision. She began to think that Juan was, like herself, a prisoner; and the apprehension of his distresses weighed on her heart more heavily than the sense of her own; and, as with all her strength of mind and passion, there was a tinge of superstition running through all her thoughts, she beheld, in the singular train of calamities that had brought her so often to his side, a revelation and proof that she was ordained, finally, to rescue him from this, as well as the other ills, which oppressed him. Another thought brooded also in her bosom. Hitherto, whatsoever efforts she had made for his good, had ministered only to his griefs; and what had they brought toher? From the moment in which she had first attempted deceit, by concealing the sanctity of her profession, her life had been but a history of agony and shame. Had she avowed herself, immediately after the shipwreck, the bride of the cross, Hilario had not died under the knife of the assassin, Juan Lerma had not forfeited the favour of his general, and she herself had, perhaps, closed her life in the peace with which it had begun. She began to picture to herself the sinfulness of her evasions of vows, and to consider these the causes of her sufferings. Such thoughts as these, and a thousand others, divided and harassed her mind by turns, and confounded while they tormented. But one idea never left her—and that was, the uncertainty of the fate of Juan Lerma, and the hope that it might be reserved for her to free him from the bondage of infidels. But how was this to be effected? She knew not.
Her first vague desire was to gain a friend among the grave and passionless creatures, by whom she was surrounded. She examined all their countenances, and soon fixed upon several in which she thought she could trace kindly feelings and simplicity of character. She strove also to acquire a little of their language,—an effort which she soon gave up, not so much from the difficulty of acquisition, as from the remoteness of any benefit to be derived in that way.
She perceived that the Mexican lady who, each morning, for the first fortnight of her captivity, (after which time she was seen no more,) commenced the ceremonies of salutation, so humble, and indeed to her so irksome, must be of the highest rank,—perhaps the queen of Guatimozin himself; though it seemed improbable that one so exalted would condescend to homage so servile. She was conscious also, that the six maidens who attended upon this princess were of no mean rank; for though they frequently remained in the hall, engaged in labour, like the rest, it was clear that the others looked upon them with the greatest deference. Of these she had long singled out one who was superior to the others in beauty and mildness of countenance; and it seemed to her that this one, in going through the morning ceremony, endeavoured to make her sensible that she did so with sincerity and feeling. Thus, besides placing Magdalena's hand on her head, she carried it also to her lips, expressing as much desire as her countenance could convey, to be esteemed the Christian's friend.
These things almost escaped Magdalena's notice at first; but she afterwards remembered them, and strove to respond with manifestations of similar inclination. She observed, however, that the maiden gradually changed from tranquillity to melancholy, as if something preyed upon her spirits. She repeated, indeed, her salutation each morning, but it was no longer with smiles, and with a disposition to linger about Magdalena's person. On the contrary, she retired without delay to a little nook under a window, where she continued her task among feathers and flowers, seldom stirring from the spot. It was evident to the penetrating eye of Magdalena, that the Indian maiden was wasting away under some grief as poignant and enduring as her own; and though she attributed it only to some of the evils of war, the commencement of which had long since been indicated by the distant explosions of artillery, she was the more favourably impressed by the damsel's emotion, since none of the others seemed to share it, nor to betray either fear or anxiety.
She attempted then to come to some understanding with this maiden. She sat down by her in her little nook, and watched, with what, had she been in a better frame of mind, would have been admiration, the progress of her toils, as well as the effects of previous labours. She beheld, with surprise, garlands and bouquets of flowers, constructed of feathers, and imitated with such wonderful precision, that when they were mingled with a few natural ones, and impregnated with their odours, it seemed almost impossible that they could be artificial. The same art has existed in other parts of the continent, and is practised to this day, in some of the nunneries of Brazil. There were also pictures, worked with the same beautiful materials, upon a groundwork of prepared cloth, which were chiefly confined to the representation of flowers and birds. When Magdalena first visited the maiden, she found her engaged upon what seemed a wood-pigeon, surrounded by a little wilderness of flowers and leaves. The design, though simple, was pretty and spirited; yet the maiden seemed dissatisfied with her work, and altered it daily, as if each day still more displeased; until, at last, she seemed to have hit upon a plan more to her taste, when she pursued her task with what seemed a morbid ardour. When Magdalena looked at it last, she found the whole design and character of the work changed. The flowers had been displaced by stones and brambles; an arrow was represented sticking through the neck of the bird; and the story of a wounded heart was told in the metaphor of the poor flutterer, harmed by some wanton bolt, and left dying in a desert place.
When Magdalena beheld this painted sentiment, she took the hand of the artist, and pressing it as if with sympathy, pointed to her bosom. A faint tinge of blood passed over her embrowned visage, but she looked confidingly into Magdalena's face, as if not ashamed to confess her grief. When Magdalena was persuaded she was understood, she directed the painter's eyes to the bird, and then pointed expressively to her own bosom, as if to signify that she also was unhappy. The maiden bowed her head upon her breast, and Magdalena saw that tears were stealing from her eyes. She thought they were the tears of sympathy; and when the damsel looked up, she cast off all reserve, and indicated as plainly as she could, by gestures, that she desired to make her way into the garden.
The maiden shook her head, and would have departed, but that Magdalena, rendered indiscreet by her impatience, arrested her, to make trial of a new appeal. She took the jewels from her hair, and without reflecting that the rank of the maiden, indicated by gems quite as valuable as her own, might render her inaccessible to such temptation, she made as if she would have thrown them upon her head and neck. She was sorry for the act; for as soon as the maiden understood what she designed, she drew back with a look of offended dignity, and with cheeks burning at once with mortification and anger. Then, gathering up her little picture, her bodkins, and basket of coloured feathers, she left the apartment, and returned to it no more that day.
Amid all her grief at the disappointment of her hopes, Magdalena had yet generosity enough to appreciate the spirit of the young pagan, and to lament having outraged her feelings.
That night, when the female slaves had departed from her chamber, and she was musing disconsolately in the light of a little night-lantern, consisting of a taper of resinous wood, surrounded by thin plates of gold, perforated with holes in many fantastic figures, which transmitted the light, she was roused by a sigh; and looking up, she beheld, to her great surprise, the young artist standing before her, in an attitude of sad and patient humility. As soon as the visitor perceived that she was seen, she approached, and knelt at Magdalena's feet, who now saw, with a touch of shame, and, at first, even of resentment, that, as if in requital of the insult of the morning, she held in her hands all the jewels that had decorated her hair and person, and offered them for her acceptance. But Magdalena's displeasure soon passed away; for the jewels were proffered with the deepest humility, and the damsel's eyes were suffused with tears. She murmured out some words, too, and the tone was expressive of grief.
All this was mysterious to Magdalena, who puzzled herself in vain to account for the act and the donation. She restored the jewels, and the maiden being wholly submissive, she replaced them about her person with her own hands; and then, taking advantage of the opportunity, made another effort to come to a better understanding with her. She remembered that her companion was a painter, and being herself a little skilled in the art, she drew with a bodkin from her hair, upon the soft wood of the table that supported her lamp, the figure of a man in Spanish costume, bound in a cell. The representation was awkward, yet it appeared that the damsel understood it; for she took the bodkin, and immediately, though with a trembling hand, completed the picture by the addition of another figure, representing a Mexican, with a crown like that Magdalena had seen on the head of Guatimozin, who, with one hand, extended to him the handle of a macana, while threatening him with another, brandished above his head.
This was expressive enough, and Magdalena's alarm for the safety of the young man was only removed when the maiden drew what was plainly designed for a buckler, interposed between the weapon and his head.
Magdalena then, without further hesitation, leaped to the grand object of her desires, by drawing the figure of a man paddling in a canoe. This also her companion understood, and replied to it significantly enough, by surrounding the little vessel with many others, filled with Indians, or other human beings, who attacked it with showers of arrows and darts.
"Alas! is there no hope for us then? no hope for my poor brother?" exclaimed Magdalena, wringing her hands. "Maiden! maiden! carry me but to him!—Alas, I speak as to a stone statue!"
She then resumed the bodkin, and returning to the first sketch, she drew the figure of two women, entering the cell. The response to this ended her hopes immediately. The Indian girl sketched the outlines of men, armed with spears, circling around the whole cell.
Magdalena sank upon the couch in despair, and almost in a frenzy. The maiden, frighted by the vehemence of her grief, endeavoured to soothe her, by pressing her hand to her bosom and forehead, and covering it with kisses and tears; after which she stole quietly from the chamber.
It was many weeks before Magdalena beheld her again. She vanished from the hall, she came no more to kneel on her footstool in the morning, and display her melancholy visage to the stranger. Magdalena's heart died within her. She was in a solitude among living creatures,—the most oppressive of all solitudes. Her suspense was intolerable, and preyed upon her health, until she was wasted to a shadow, and the pagan damsels eyed her, when she appeared among them, with looks of pity. She succumbed at last to her fate; the fever of her mind extended to her body; and she was missed from the hall, as well as the young artist. She became ill, and she threw herself upon her couch, to waste away with passion and delirium. But there was still a gleam of happiness to break upon her.
One night, when the dancing,—now no longer pursued with spirit, for the cannon of the Spaniards sounded each day louder and nearer,—had ceased, and the flutes were breathed upon no more, she felt her hand pressed with a gentle grasp. She looked up, and beheld the Indian girl at her side, eyeing her with compassion. She sprang to her feet, in an ecstacy of delight, and embraced her; for she hailed her appearance as the herald of joy.
"Oh, maiden! maiden!" she cried, "what news of my brother?"
The damsel replied with the only words in her power, but the best she could have used, had she been acquainted with the whole speech of Castile. She looked sadly but firmly into Magdalena's face, and murmured softly,
"Juan Lelma"—
The accent was imperfect and false, but the sounds were music to Magdalena. She clasped the young barbarian again in her arms, but her caresses were only responded to by tears and sobs, which seemed to increase in proportion to her own raptures. But Magdalena was too wild with hope to think of the sorrows of her friend. She saw that the Indian held in her hand, two long and capacious mantles of a plain stuff, which, she knew, were to veil them from evil eyes, while they crept to the cell of her brother. But the maiden checked her impetuosity. She removed the trinkets from her head and person, and again offered them to the Christian; and persisted to do so, though still most gently and humbly, until Magdalena, thinking this might be some important ceremony, a proof perhaps of friendship offered and received, and perceiving, what was more influential still, that it was necessary to hasten the proceedings of her visitor, consented to receive them. She yielded to her importunities, and the Indian girl clasped around her ankles, arms, and neck, and twisted in her hair, all the jewels that had decorated her own person, besides hanging round her neck the silver cross and rosary,—Magdalena's own gift to Juan,—which she received with rapture, not doubting that he had sent it to her as a token and a full warrant to submit herself to the guidance of the young infidel. This accomplished, she assisted Magdalena to secure the larger mantle about her figure, and wrapped herself in the other. Then beckoning the Christian to follow, and signing to her to preserve silence, she led the way from the chamber.
A short passage through which they stole, darkly, for it was not lighted, conducted them to a chamber, where the guide paused a moment, as if in doubt and fear. A strong light beamed through the curtained door. They listened for a time, until hearing no one stir within, the Indian maiden pulled the curtain timidly aside, and then beckoned Magdalena to follow her. It was a spacious apartment, richly tapestried, and lighted by many such masked torches as Magdalena had seen in her own chamber. The hangings were even continued over the ceiling, so that it resembled a pavilion rather than the sleeping apartment of a king,—for such it was. In the centre was suspended a magnificent canopy, wrought with feathers, overhanging a couch blazing with gold, and bedecked with the richest spoils of the parrot and flamingo, with little pedestals both at the head and foot, on which incense was burning before golden idols. Upon this lay sleeping the Indian lady, whom Magdalena had so often seen during the two first weeks of her durance; and the infant slept clasping her neck. Magdalena doubted no longer that she beheld the queen of the young monarch. But she crept softly after her guide, and was soon buried again in darkness. After many turnings and windings, which made her fancy the palace was a great labyrinth, she suddenly found herself conducted into the open air, by a door exceedingly narrow, and concealed by a mass of trailing vines. But secret as this entrance appeared, it was not unguarded. A tall savage with a spear, started up from the bushes, as if to dispute their right of egress. But a word from his companion, low as the whisper of a breeze, removed his opposition. He flung himself upon the earth, as if to his divinity, and thus remained, until the maidens had passed.
It was by this time midsummer—for so long a period had elapsed since the departure from Tezcuco; but it was the season of the rains, and the chill winds from the lake penetrated Magdalena to the heart. The sky was overcast, the grass loaded with moisture, and every gust shook down a shower from the trees.
It was very dark, and she knew not well to what quarter she was bending her steps. But she could see a line of fires running as it seemed across the lake, from a point in the city to the right hand, and lost in the distance or obscurity of the left. This was, in fact, the northern causeway, or dike of Tepejacac, the nearest point of which was scarce a mile distant from the garden. It was occupied by the troops of Sandoval, who had extended his approach already within the limits of the water suburb. Two or three of his brigantines were also perceived anchored near to the calzada,—at least, their lanterns were seen shining from their prows.
While Magdalena was yet stealing along after her guide, her eyes fixed upon this line of fires, she heard suddenly a great tumult begin among them, in which the yells of men were faintly distinguished amid the crash of fire-arms and artillery. Shocked and frighted as she was, at being thus made a witness, though afar, of the terrors of human wrath, she soon began to look upon the conflict as of good omen for herself. It would certainly be a more attractive spectacle to any wandering infidels in the garden than might be furnished by the obscure figures of herself and companion.
Apparently the Indian maiden thought so too; for she increased her pace, and instead of skulking as before, among green-arched and shadowy alleys, she walked boldly along in a broad exposed path, that led directly to a corner of the palace. But from this very corner they saw rushing a tumultuous throng of barbarians, some of whom ran directly towards them, though the course of others was in another direction.
The young guide drew Magdalena into a sheltered walk, and crept timorously along until she reached the palace wall, when she sank down, from fatigue or fear, signing to Magdalena to do the same thing, and thus remained, until the last of the barbarians had vanished. The path now seemed clear, but still the Indian maiden remained cowering on the earth; and Magdalena, whose impatience distracted her mind and almost hardened her heart, perceived that she was sobbing bitterly. She touched her arm. The guide shrank away, but seemed to collect her spirits and courage at the sign. She rose up, and led the way to a broad door, where an armed Indian stood, holding a flambeau. He seemed alarmed, though not surprised at the sight of the pair, and spoke earnestly to the guide, as if to dissuade her from entering. She passed him, however, with a word, and the next moment stopped, in great agitation, before the curtain of a door. Magdalena looked eagerly to her to confirm her hopes; but before the maiden could lift her finger, signing to her to enter, she heard, from within the apartment, the well known growl of Befo.
"Juan! dear Juan!" she exclaimed, and darted through the curtain.
The young man was pacing to and fro, not bound hand and foot, as her fears had anticipated, but evidently excited in the most painful degree by the distant firing. He turned at the sound of her voice, and threw himself into her arms.
"Sister! for I believe thouartmy sister," he cried,—"else how could I love thee with a love so unlike that of man for woman? God be praised that I have seen thee once again: for it is time thou wert wrested out of this place. But what is this? Thou art wasted and thin! very thin: thy hands burn, thy cheek is hot—Sister, dear sister, thou art ill!"
"Think of it not," said Magdalena, with the delight of a maiden, listening for the first time to the voice of affection, and caressing him without reserve: "Oh, Juan, I could die twice over, to hear you speak so; and I care not if I do die, so you are but saved; for you have made me very happy.—You are a prisoner, Juan,—we are both prisoners. An Indian girl brought me here—she will help you to escape, for you can speak her language. You can go to Cortes, and tell him you are the brother of Magdalena. He will not wrong you then,—no, he will not dare—Or perhaps we can fly together—we can fly in a canoe. The maiden will help us, the good maiden: She is at the door—I will call her in."
At this moment, the Indian girl, driven in, immediately after Magdalena, by some sudden alarm, stood at a distance, near the door, muffled in her cloak, and shrinking almost within herself. A single dim and half expiring torch twinkled in the apartment; and its light scarcely reaching her, she remained unobserved, a spectator of every thing, but of course unable to understand a word of the conversation.
"Go not, dear Magdalena," said Juan, folding her in his arms; "for it may be that we have but a moment more to share together. Tarry, and hear what I have to say. I am, as I may say, a prisoner; yet it seems, if I can believe the young king, more because I have incurred the wrath of the Mexicans than his own. Thus it is: the king rescued me from prison in Tezcuco, first, because I had not long before given him liberty, to my own great misfortune, and secondly, because he doubted not, that the wrongs I have suffered would incense me to take part with him, and fight against my countrymen; whereby, as he thinks, he would gain an invaluable auxiliary. On the day of his coronation, he presented me to his people, and called me his brother; nevertheless, they gave me but sour looks, for bitterly do they hate the sight of a Spaniard. If I will fight with them and for them, I win their love,—so he assures me, and so I can well believe; but this is clearly impossible. I have not fought, and I will not; and they say, therefore, that the king should give me up to be sacrificed; and twice already, after having suffered some severe losses, they have come turbulently to the palace, to demand me. For this reason, I dare not appear among them, unless to be torn to pieces.—Tremble not, fear not," he continued, as Magdalena clasped him, as if to shield him from approaching weapons: "I have seen thee bold and resolute among roaring breakers,—else how could I have saved thee, dear sister?—Heaven pardon Hilario! and heaven pardon me, my sister, that I imputed his death to thy warrant!—I have seen thee bold and intrepid. Now summon back what courage thou hast; and, if heaven will, I will save thee yet again from destruction. I can myself escape, but not with thee—"
"Think not of me, Juan, think not of me," said Magdalena, earnestly and fondly. "Thou canst do nothing to make me so happy, as to tell me how I can die for thee. Fly, then; pause not a moment, but fly; and know, that, if I meet thee not again but in heaven, yet thou wilt leave me in heaven, even upon earth, knowing that thou art saved, and that I have ministered somewhat to thy liberation."
"Be of this heart, Magdalena," said Juan, "and rest assured that I will soon return, if I have life, with such a force as will rescue thee likewise from thraldom. My plan of escape involves duplicity, nay, even perfidy; yet are mine ends all pure, honourable, and humane. I perceive that Guatimozin is incapable of resisting much longer. His people are slain by thousands each day, and thousands must soon perish from want. Cortes has already his foot upon the island; and house by house, the city is tumbled into ruins. The poor king is distracted, and resolved to die, burying himself and his whole people under the ruins of his capital. This may be excused in a soldier, and in men; but the town is thronged with poor women and children; there are thousands of them—tens of thousands; and they must perish, if the siege be longer continued. To save them—to save the king himself (for thus only can he be saved,) I will break faith with him; and thus also will I save thee. My only fear is, that his anger may fall upon thee, when he finds I have deceived him; yet this he may not discover. There is one here, with whom, could I but find speech, I could secure thee a protector. Magdalena, I have one friend here, who will be thine. An unfortunate attempt to escape has perhaps robbed me of her assistance. Yet I spoke of thee to her, and—But, dear Magdalena, thou art sick and feeble!—I talk to thee too much. If thou art alarmed, I will not leave thee: we will await our fate together."
"Iamsick, Juan, and I know not what is the matter with me," said Magdalena, faintly, suffering the young man to place her upon a seat. "But who is this of whom you speak? Your friend, Juan—surely I shall loveyourfriends."
At this moment, Juan, as he bent over her, caught sight of the jewels which the Indian maiden had placed upon her head and neck, and among others, beheld the star of pearls which had gained for the daughter of Montezuma the name of Zelahualla, or the Lady of the Star, and the silver crucifix.
"Good heaven!" he cried, "do you wear her jewels, and yet ask me who she is?"
Magdalena started to her feet, and both turning together, they beheld the Indian princess, shrinking in the shadow of the room, behind Befo, who seemed to consider her an old friend, her arms crossed upon her breast, her head drooping, and her whole attitude and appearance indicative of a spirit entirely crushed and broken.
"Zelahualla!" cried Juan, with a voice of delight; and rushing towards her, he folded her in his arms, and strove to draw her towards his sister. "Why didst thou not speak to me, Zelahualla? Why dost thou turn from me, Zelahualla?"
The maiden sobbed, and strove to disengage herself from his embrace, saying,
"There is no Zelahualla now—The bright lady of the east is Zelahualla. Juan and the bright lady shall go. Why should Juan think there aretwo?"
In these broken expressions, Magdalena, had they not been in an unknown tongue, would have traced the workings of jealous and wounded affection. They filled Juan with surprise.
"What is this you say to me, Zelahualla?" he cried, "and what do you mean? Did not Zelahualla promise she would love my sister?"
"She did," replied the princess, without abating her grief: "she will love Juan's sister, and any one that Juan loves; and she has brought the bright lady to Juan, and she has given her her jewels, that Juan may love her more, and forget Zelahualla,—and the cross of his God, too, that he may not be sorry."
"Alas, Zelahualla, what evil-eye has struck thee? Dost thou think I deceive thee? Wilt thou not believe this is my sister?"
The princess looked at him doubtfully and sadly:
"It is all as Juan says: but the king has asked questions, and the nobles have spoken to him with the words of captives; and they say, he has spoken falsely of the bright lady."
"Wilt thou believethem, and notme?" said Juan, not without emotion, for he was touched by the deep and unreproachful sorrow of the young princess, though greatly surprised to find how her ear had been abused. "I swear to thee, and may heaven judge me according to my truth, that, in this matter, I deceive thee not. There is but one Zelahualla, and she is the daughter of Montezuma."
The maiden sank upon his breast, sobbing, but now with rapture. Then running to Magdalena, who had surveyed the scene with varying and extraordinary emotion, she threw herself at her feet, and embraced her knees.
Magdalena stood like one entranced, until Juan, raising up the princess, placed her in her arms, saying,
"Dear sister, give her thy friendship; for there is no one more pure or noble of spirit, though artless, than this poor ignorant maiden; and let the cross again hang on her bosom, for she has confessed her Redeemer. She will watch thee and guard thee while I am gone;—nay, she will nurse thee too, for thou art very ill, and needest kind nurture."
Magdalena returned the embraces of the Indian maiden, but it was with a wildness of manner, that greatly disturbed her brother, and even frighted the princess. He took her hand,—it was hot and trembling. He kissed her, and found her lips burning with fever; and he perceived that excitement had wrought her indisposition into a degree of illness that might prove serious.
"Compose thyself, dear Magdalena," he said. "All now depends upon thy coolness and courage. If thou becomest ill, my scheme must needs miscarry—Nay, I cannot attempt it, until thou art better; for it seems to me now thou art almost delirious."
"Delirious, Juan? No, I am not delirious. Yet I am ill,—very ill, I think. Thou goest alone, dost thou not? Tarry not a moment.—We will leave thee,—we will not stay longer, lest the guards should return and find us."
"Listen to me, Magdalena," said Juan, earnestly, as if he feared lest her senses should wander. "If I fall into the Spaniards' hands alive, I will come to this garden in canoes, with a proper force, and enter it by surprise. If it be possible, I will seize the person of the king, having previously secured him such terms from Cortes as shall protect him in person and in his government, as the vassal of Spain. This will end the war at once. But in this I may not succeed, yet be able to liberate both thee and the princess. Through her address, thou wilt be enabled to walk often in the garden. Walk therein, as near to the lake as possible, especially late in the day, and in the first hours of the evening. The dog Befo I will leave in a cage: when you are in fear, give him liberty.—The princess hath often fed him, and he will guard you well; and his voice, if I come in the night-time, will show me where to seek you.—Do you understand me, dear sister? Struggle but a little against this fever, and perhaps it may leave you. At all events, the thought of your suffering will arm me with double strength, when I return, bringing you relief. Alas, Magdalena, I am sorry to see you thus!"
"It shall be as you say, Juan," said Magdalena, a little incoherently. "I will be governed by this maiden, and for your sake, I will love her well. We will walk in the garden, too. Yet think not of us. If you are safe, we will be content."
"Farewell, Magdalena, dear Magdalena," said Juan. "Walk, if thou art able, even to-morrow; for in the morning I will essay to depart. At any rate, be thou sick or well, if thou hearest a bugle winded in the garden, at any hour, be it morn or midnight, then be sure that you sally out, and Zelahualla with you.—Farewell, sister, farewell!—and farewell, thou, dear princess. When thou thinkest of me, let the cross be in thy hands and on thy lips!"
With these words, and having tenderly embraced them both, Juan led them to the door, and putting their hands together, he had soon the satisfaction to hear them step from the passage into the open air.
What Juan had said in relation to the cause of his confinement, was true, although he was not aware of the whole extent of the truth. In releasing him from impending death at Tezcuco, the young infidel did not doubt, in the simplicity of his heart, that he was adding a powerful engine of defence to his preparations, as well as requiting the obligation, which, he believed, had been the principal cause of Juan's downfall. He reckoned confidently upon Juan's desire for vengeance, the absence of which feeling, after wrongs so stirring and manifold, his nature did not allow him to anticipate; and he dwelt also, with the security of pride, upon the incentive offered in the love of the daughter of Montezuma. In this spirit of confidence, without much regarding Juan's previous averments, he introduced him to his assembled forces, upon the day of coronation, that all might know him, and respect him thenceforth as one honoured with the highest of titles—the king's brother. So far, all was well: the name of the Young Eagle was not wholly unknown to the Mexican warriors; and the sight of his manly figure, arrayed in a native cloak, his head crowned with a lofty penacho, put on by the king's hand, and the glittering axe of obsidian received from the same quarter, and grasped a moment with a military air, made an impression in his favour, that could only be obliterated by his own act of rejection. The spectacle was hailed with acclamations, and
Far and wide, the thundering shout,Rolling among reduplicating rocks,Peal'd o'er the hills and up the mountain vales.[14]
Far and wide, the thundering shout,Rolling among reduplicating rocks,Peal'd o'er the hills and up the mountain vales.[14]
Unfortunately, Juan, unwilling that any act should be interpreted as expressing his assent to take arms against his countrymen, immediately threw down the macana, and would even have taken the plumes from his head, had he not been arrested by Techeechee, and made sensible that such a proceeding would be followed by the most fatal consequences. The movement, however, had been observed by many of the nobles; and from that moment, Juan saw that he was watched by jealous and hostile eyes. His explicit and absolute refusal to take part in the conflicts, had convinced the young king of his error; yet, though greatly exasperated, he took such measures, from motives of honour or humanity, as protected the obdurate Christian from the daily increasing anger of his people. He confined him in the palace, and forbade even the ardent Zelahualla to go near him. In this he was actuated by suspicions, constantly inflamed by the Lord of Death, and not unnatural in themselves, that the young man had abused his credulity in the case of Magdalena. The love of the Indian maid, however, penetrated through guards and prison-doors; and Juan, almost as impatient of confinement and suspense as Magdalena herself, resolved to effect his escape, and by throwing himself upon the mercy of the Captain-General, make one effort to liberate his unhappy sister. The attempt was discovered and thwarted; and from that moment his confinement had been very rigid.
Still, however, the young infidel was wont frequently to visit him, after the combat of the day, in the hope of overcoming his scruples, or of gathering from his accidental expressions some hints that might be turned to advantage against the besiegers. On all such occasions, he refused to satisfy the prisoner's questions concerning his sister and the princess; giving him plainly to understand that nothing but the assumption of the pagan battle-axe, or positive counsels in his straits, which he did not attempt to conceal, could purchase a sight of either. In all these things, if the infidel acted with more crafty selfishness than generosity, he only proved that he belonged to his race. The whole conduct of Juan was, according tohisscale of morals and honour, both unfriendly and unaccountable. He designed, this very night, to visit the prisoner, of which intention Juan was apprized; and hence his eagerness to dismiss the maidens from the chamber, before the conclusion of the attack upon the neighbouring dike, with the nature and objects of which he was well acquainted.
Before the maidens had departed, it was evident that the firing and other noises on the causeway were subsiding. Before they had been gone the full space of an hour, a heavy step rang in the passage, and the next moment the Indian monarch stood before the captive. He was singularly and sumptuously armed. From head to foot, his body was covered with a garment, perhaps of escaupil, fitting so tightly as to display his limbs to advantage; and over all was a coat of mail, consisting of copper spangles or scales, richly gilded, and stitched upon a shirt of dressed leather. His head was defended by a morion of the same metal, shaped not unlike to those of the Spaniards, and equally strong; and its ability to resist a violent blow was increased by the folds of a stout serpent, painted green, wreathing over its whole surface. A shield of tapir-skin, studded with copper nails, hung from his neck; and he bore a macana, which was stained with blood. He wore none of the emblems of royalty, and his appearance was only that of some highly distinguished noble. His eye was bright and fiery, his step firm and proud, but his aspect was thin and haggard.
"Has my brother heard the shouts of men near him, and does he yet say, 'Let me sleep?'" were the words with which he saluted the captive.
"Prince," said Juan, eyeing him anxiously and interrogatively, though speaking with positive emphasis, "as I told you before, so has it happened. The cannon were ready on the dike, the falconets were charged in the ships, and the men of Sandoval slept with swords and matches in their hands, and with their eyes open. Guatimozin does not come back a victor!"
"He comes back with a prisoner," said the prince, proudly; "and, to-morrow, the lord with red hair (Sandoval) will count the dead and weep, and Malintzin shall see the flames of sacrifice rising from the pyramid."
"Alas!" exclaimed Juan, "in condemning captives to this horrible death, against your will, for I know your heart is not cruel, you harden the soul of Cortes against you; and he will remember each sacrifice, when the day of surrender comes at last."
"Let it be harder than it is, what cares the Mexican who dies?" replied the king. "Does my brother think that I am weary, or that Malintzin can fight longer than I?"
"Think not to deceive me, prince—I know that already your altars and palaces are within reach of the cannon-shot—nay, of the musket-bullet—You are hemmed in, like a wild-cat on a tree—Your enemies are all round you, and they look into your eyes. Are not the water-suburbs already taken?"
"Why should I lie?" replied Guatimozin. "If you go to Tacuba, you will see the banks of the island—the city of the water is not there. If you look from Iztapalapan, the surges go rushing up towards the great temple—the houses are under the lake—If you look from the door of my dwelling, you will see the quarter of Tepejacac falling also into the lake. When Malintzin calls aloud in the morning, the lord of the red hair answers him, and Malintzin hears. Thus it is with Mexico; yet my brother sleeps, while I die, saying to his soul, 'It is all very just, for I sleep and see not.'"
"If I see not and help not, yet is my heart torn by your distresses," replied Juan, earnestly. "But why should I help? It would be a great sin upon my soul, and could do you no good. Listen to my counsel, Guatimozin: It is not yet too late. Cease to protract an unavailing resistance; send to Cortes with offers of submission, and be assured of reigning still, a king, though a vassal."
"Does Guatimozin fight to be a king?" said the infidel, with dignity. "He struck the Spaniard before he thought of a crown. He thinks not of palaces and fine garments, but says, 'Why should the people of Mexico be made slaves?' The king fights for Mexico."
"He will fight best for Mexico with peace. The kings of Tezcuco and Iztapalapan pay tribute to Mexico—are their people slaves? Thus shall it be with Mexico: the king shall give gold, as the tributary of Spain, and Mexicans shall remain in freedom."
"Will my brother prattle like Malintzin?" demanded the monarch, sternly. "Where is the freedom of Zempoala, of Tlascala, of Cholula? The people talk of it, while a Spaniard strikes them with a lash. Where is the freedom of Tezcuco? The young king, who is a boy, sits on the throne; but the Spaniard, whom my brother struck in the face with a sword, when he chased Olin-pilli, is there with him, and he robs and abuses the people, so that they have sent their tears to Malintzin. What was the fate of Montezuma? He sat in the Spaniards' house in chains, and the soldiers murdered his nobles, who danced in peace in the courtyard. What was the fate of Montezuma? The Spaniard, who is lord of the king of Tezcuco, would have done violence to the captive maiden—Does my brother remember?"
"Ay!" replied Juan, with the gleam of passion that visited his eyes, only when he spoke of Guzman: "I remember, and I hope yet to avenge—Sinner that I am, I cannot think it a crime, to covet the blood of this man!—But, prince, let me know—My captivity is very hard—Why should I not be allowed to speak with the princess? Why should my sister be hidden from me?"
The countenance of Guatimozin darkened.
"When my brother will fight for them, he shall be at liberty. My brother thinks again of the canoe at the bottom of the garden?"
Juan coloured, and said,
"You keep me a prisoner—I strove to escape. The king mocks me, to call me his brother."
"The warriors are very angry, yet the Great Eagle is alive. He cannot go among them in safety, unless as their friend."
"And who," said Juan, "shall warrant me of safety, if I go even as a friend?"
He deemed it now the period to commence acting upon his scheme of escape, yet hesitated, stung with shame at the thought of the duplicity to which he was descending.—"It is better to die on the dikes than to pine in the dungeon."
Guatimozin's eye gleamed with a sudden fire:
"Does my brother jest with me?" he said. "If my brother think it wrong to strike a Spaniard, he shall not be called upon to fight. He can teach me the things it is needful to know; and be in no fear."
"When did Guatimozin see me afraid?" cried Juan, stifling as well as he could the sense of humiliation and disgust, with which he began the office of a deceiver. "To give you counsel how to resist or attack, will make me as much a renegade as to draw sword at once. If I do become apostate, it shall be boldly, and with the sword. Prince, I have thought over this thing: my heart is grieved with your distress; and for my sister, and for Zelahualla, I will do what my conscience condemns. Does the king know what shall be my fate, if I am found fighting by the Spaniards?"
"Twenty chosen warriors shall circle my brother round about, and he shall keep aloof from the van of battle."
"If I fight, it shall be in the van," said Juan, his self-condemnation giving a character of sullenness to his tones. "But what, if I fall,—what shall become of my sister?"
"She shall be the sister of Guatimozin and of Zelahualla," said Guatimozin, with energy, yet with doubt; for he could hardly believe that Juan was speaking seriously.
"Let the king saythis, and I will go out with him to battle:—If I die, he will cause my sister and the princess to be delivered into the hands of Cortes."
"The Spanish lady shall be sent to Malintzin; but the Centzontli shall remain with her brother the king. It is better she should die with him than dwell with the Spaniards. Why shouldst thou think it? Are there not more Guzmans than one?"
Juan muttered painfully to himself,
"Perhaps itisbetter. Heaven will protect her, for she has acknowledged her Redeemer.—Will the king swear, then, if his brother falls, that Magdalena shall be sent to the Spaniards?"
"He will swear," said Guatimozin, ardently. "It is better for the Spanish lady; for she knows not our speech, and she pines away with grief. And if the king prevails over his enemies, the king will remember what Juan says of her."
"Now, then, let the king tell me the truth, and mislead me not. How much longer can he maintain the city?"
"Till he is dead!—But he may soon die," he added, confidingly, for now he doubted no longer that he had gained his purpose. "My brother shall first teach me how to get food. The ships move about at night, and no canoe can reach the shore. The king sits down to eat with the warriors, and he eats no more—but the warriors cry all night for food."
"Good heaven!" said Juan, surveying the wasted cheeks of the monarch; "are you already so straitened? your garners already exhausted?"
"Who can reckon for so many mouths?" cried Guatimozin.
"I dreamed not of this—Sure,Ihave never been denied abundance!"
"My brother is a prisoner; and the women and children are feeble. Why shouldtheywant, when the warriors can endure hunger better?"
The communication of this painful intelligence nerved Juan more strongly in his purpose. He perceived the necessity of acting without delay, if he wished to protect the young infidel from the consequence of his own despairing fury, and the maiden of his love, and his sister, from a fate too dreadful to be imagined. His eagerness the more fully deluded the young monarch, not prone to suspicion where he loved, and he was soon made acquainted with the whole condition of the beleaguered city, and the situation of the Spaniards. He was also instructed in the particulars of a design of Guatimozin, to be practised upon the ensuing day, the boldness of which, as well as its strong probabilities of success, both astonished and dismayed him. He perceived that perhaps the fate of the entire Spanish army depended upon the course he might pursue, and his honour and feelings seemed all to call upon him for some exertion to arrest the impending destruction.
When he had been made acquainted with all that Guatimozin thought fit to divulge, and had again and again repeated his resolution to take arms and accompany the Mexicans against his countrymen, the king embraced him with great warmth, promising to provide him with a good Spanish sword and helmet from among the spoils; but recommending that, in all other respects, he should assume the guise of a Mexican.
When these arrangements were completed, he turned to depart, and yet seemed loath to go. Finally, he took Juan by the arm, and said,
"To-night the king will sleep by the side of his brother: we will wake in the morning and go out together."
"Why will not the king speak kind things to the queen? It will rejoice her to look upon the king."
"Has she not a little sick babe by her side? and are they not very wretched?" said Guatimozin, exposing, without reserve, the miseries preying upon his own bosom, and abandoning himself to a grief that seemed to mock the greatness of his station. "When I look upon them," he said, "I am no longer the king who thinks of Mexico and the people, but a man with a base heart, who cries, 'Why am not I a prisoner and a slave, that my little child may be saved, and his mother protected from the famine that is coming?' The king should not think these things,—he should not look upon his household, but his country."
"Go, notwithstanding," said Juan, touched still further by the distresses of the infidel. "Comfort them with your presence, and let their sufferings admonish you of the only way to end them. It is not too late to submit."
"Is this the way my brother begins the duties of a Mexican?" said Guatimozin. "The gods tell me to die, not yield. I fight for Mexico,—not for the wife and child of Guatimozin."
With these words, and having banished all traces of weakness and repining, he left Juan to slumber, or to weigh, in painful anticipation, the risks and uncertainties of his projected enterprise.
As Guatimozin had confessed to Juan Lerma, the three suburbs of the causeways were already demolished, and their ruined walls, battered by cannon and blackened by smoke, peered over the lake, along the causeways, in melancholy ruins. The hand of desolation had extended still further; at least, in the quarter that was pierced by the dike of Iztapalapan. Here Cortes commanding in person, and fighting every day at the head of his army, he had infected the whole division with a share of his own energy. While Alvarado and Sandoval were contending for a foothold on the very borders of the city, he had already penetrated it to the distance of half a mile, destroying many houses, though without being able to effect a secure and permanent lodgment upon any portion of the island.
It must not be supposed, that, having reached the island, the Spaniards could exchange the narrow and ditched causeways for firm and spacious streets. On the contrary, the causeways, so to speak, were continued up to within half a mile of the principal square which was in the very centre of the city, and contained the great pyramid, as well as the chief temples of Mexico. On either side was a canal both broad and deep, dividing the road from the houses; and others, running from intersecting streets, perforated the causeways with chasms, the number of which the Mexicans had long since greatly increased. The island, which was circular, did not exceed three miles in diameter, of which the central third only was dry and solid. Hence the advanced posts of the three divisions were at no considerable distance from each other; and if the call of Cortes in the morning was not absolutely heard and answered by his two lieutenants, the bugles of each could be easily distinguished, cheering one another as they advanced to the daily assault.
The labour of Cortes in destroying the suburb in his quarter, was less than that of the others; for here, the lake being deeper, the houses extended but a short distance from the island. His advanced post was almost within the limits of the suburb, and separated from the island by only one ditch, which he had twice or thrice taken and filled up, but was as often obliged to yield again to the foe, subduing his impatience, until his lieutenants had advanced equally far in their quarters.
The outposts were always guarded with the most jealous vigilance, particularly in the later hours of the night, after the rains, which, in this climate, commonly prevail with the greatest violence between the hours of noon and midnight. A guard of forty men, with two pieces of artillery, kept watch until midnight; when, yielding their places to forty more, but not retiring, they threw themselves to sleep upon the damp stones and clay. Two hours before dawn, the post was strengthened by another company of forty, who watched until morning, the others flinging themselves in their cloaks among the first watchmen. Thus, there were ready, before day, one hundred and twenty men, the strongest and boldest of their divisions, who, in case of sudden attack, could preserve the station, until reinforced by the whole strength of the division, from the towers of the gates, which were still the head-quarters of the several divisions. The causeway between the gates and the pickets, was occupied by patrols of horsemen, who watched lest the enemy, coming in canoes, should make a descent behind the advanced post, and thus cut it off.
Two hours after midnight, upon the night in which Juan revealed his purpose of escaping, the second guard on the causeway of Iztapalapan was relieved from watch by the coming of the third; and the soldiers flung themselves, as usual, upon the earth, to prepare for a morning, which, it was known to all, was to witness a general assault, made simultaneously by all the divisions, from their three several quarters.
The watchfires were replenished, and two subalterns, the leaders of the party, advanced a little beyond them, to reconnoitre the condition of the enemy. Three hundred paces in front, the causeway was intersected by the ditch, held by the Mexicans; and beyond it, on a strong rampart, blazed a great fire, in the light of which the pagan sentinels could be seen, squatting upon the mound, or stalking idly about. The gap was bridgeless, as was well-known; but this the Spaniards could not observe with their own eyes, not thinking it prudent to advance within the range of a Mexican arrow.
As they returned, they conversed together in low voices; and it was worthy of remark, as indicating how little their spirits were occupied by the dangers around them, that they bestowed more words upon the ordinary scandal of the camp than upon the horrible conflicts through which they had passed, or in which they were yet to mingle.
"They lay this thing of Camarga entirely to the door of Guzman," said one; "and, in my mind, the imputation were reasonable, could we discover any cause for enmity between them. They say, that Guzman smothered him with pillows of cottontree-down. Wherefore—"
"Pho, Najara," said the other, bluffly; "blame not a man upon these vain fancies; for Camarga was killed by a hard weapon, and by no pillows of cotton-down or feathers. I found him myself."
"Ay," said Najara, for it was the hunchback, whose companion was no other than the worthy historian, Bernal Diaz del Castillo,—"Ay, señor amigo, but he was not dead; and we are speaking of two very different events: to make which palpable to thy historical wits, we must e'en go back to the starting point. It is with a man of ill mind as with a cannonier; who, if he look for the mark of his ball in a forest, must go back to the place whence he shot it, and take the range over again."
"I do not understand thy trope," said Bernal, "nor what thou meanest by an 'ill mind,' not having one myself, but one that harbours animosities against none but Indians. As for Camarga, I found him myself. It was when we marched out of Tezcuco, by the northern road; for I was then with Alvarado, going to Tacuba. I say it, and it is to my honour, not shame, that Cortes, when he left the brigantines, demanded me of Alvarado; 'for,' said he, 'Bernal Diaz is one of my best friends, and a soldier second to none:' which is true, though I say it myself. De Olid was with us, with his men. The story is this: When we passed by the cypress-tree on the hill, I bethought me of a chapter of my book, which I had lost, I knew not where nor when. 'Now,' said I, 'perhaps I left it under this tree;' for what with the sudden coming of Juan Lerma, poor fellow, and the quarrel I had with Gaspar on his account, I departed from that place, without much thought of what might be left behind me. But pondering on this, as we passed, I dropped from the ranks, and hunting about, I saw Camarga lying mangled at the bottom of the hill; and when we came to examine him, it was plain he had been struggling there for many hours,—perhaps, all night. We thought he was dead; but Juan Catalan, the cannonier, who is so good at a fresh wound, said, his heart was yet beating, and he might live. So we sent him back to Tezcuco, then in charge of Guzman, that the Indian doctors might see what could be done for him. And there he died."
"Ay, if we can believe Guzman," said Najara; "and no doubt, he did: buthow? Know now, Bernal, for thou art too innocent to look further than thy nose, that this man's death has made a great noise at head-quarters; for, somehow, they have come to associate it with the marvellous disappearance of La Monjonaza; for which there are but two ways of accounting."
"As how?" said Bernal, gravely. "Gil Ortaga told me, he saw her ghost, six nights after, in Iztapalapan, dragging the spirit of Villafana by the hair; which frightened him very much."
"The first thought," said Najara, "is, that she drowned herself for the love of Juan Lerma, of which—that is, of her love, at least—there is some proof that might be mentioned, were there any wisdom in speaking it; and the second, that Guzman hid her in some den about Tezcuco, trusting to the departure of Cortes on the morrow. It is well known that Guzman will play rival with the devil himself, if he have taken a fancy to a woman."
"Fu," said Bernal, "that is a foolish thought."
"Dost thou not know," demanded the hunchback, "that he is in disgrace, for acts still darker than these? He abused the Indians in the palace, robbing them of their gold and women, at his will, and greatly incensed the young king Ixtlilxochitl, who complained to Cortes. Cortes sailed to Tezcuco in person, and removed him from his government; and now he is in such disgrace, that were it not for some old friendship between him and the Captain-General, it is thought, Cortes would utterly renounce him. The Indians say, that he murdered Camarga, when the poor man was recovering. But this is improbable. Camarga was a stranger, and without foes. Yet his fate has greatly troubled the general. As for the lady Infeliz, Don Francisco persists in averring that he knows nothing about her. He brought a Tlascalan, who swore he saw both her and Camarga walk out from the northern gate together, during the review; whereby he would have us believe they fell into the hands of the Mexicans; but Indians will swear anything, if you tell them how. It is said, that Guzman has got permission to serve in the fleet with Garci Holguin, his old friend. They are two dare-devils together, and neither in very good odour; so they will doubtless do some desperate act to regain favour.—Hark, Bernal! dost thou hear nothing?"
"Nothing but the whistling of the Indians at the fire;—for that is the way they make their signals. We shall have hot work to-morrow, Najara."—
"Hark!—Ah, 'tis the sound of oars! One of the night-ships is approaching the dike. What's in the wind now?—Hah, sirrah! what brings thee out of limits?"
These words were directed to a tall man, cloaked to the eyes, whom they had not before noticed, who stood hard by, peering into the lake, as if he sought to discover the approaching vessel. Najara hobbled up to him, in no little dudgeon, and repeated the question, before the stranger deigned to answer him. He then turned, and replied, with great coolness,
"Curiosity, crookback, curiosity,—some little itching to know how thou and thy brother ass, Bernal Diaz, discourse of thy betters. Well, rogues, have you done? have you despatched mine honour twice over again? I am not in good odour, hah? I have murdered Camarga, and suborned Indians to invent fables of La Monjonaza? Out upon ye, fools! I thought thou wert not so sodden-brained, Najara!"
As if his voice were not enough to make him known, the cavalier removed the cloak from his visage, and exhibited the iron features of Don Francisco de Guzman, illuminated by the watchfire hard by. There was something about his countenance unusually dark and fierce; yet he did not speak angrily, although Najara perceived he must have overheard some of his concluding expressions. But Najara was not a man to be daunted even by a stronger arm and a sterner eye. He replied therefore, with composure,
"What we have said, señor Don Francisco, we have said, and may take the same liberty again. But under your favour, señor, I am, just now, the captain of the guard; and as I cannot number you among my company, I must e'en make bold to ask your will, as well as your business, here, in advance of the post?"
"Thou shalt ask, and be answered," said Guzman, clapping his fingers to his lips, and whistling with a strength that might have done honour to the neighbouring infidels, though in a manner differing entirely from any of their signals. "One, two,—three,—andtoo-whit! too-whit!like a hungry kite in the morning! Dost thou understandthat, mi Corcobado? If thou dost not, thenpoco á poco, y paciencia, as we say after dinner; for presently thou shalt be made wiser. After which, get thee to thy dogs there, in the mud, and snore with them.—Ah,amigo y hermano! Garci,mi corazoncito! I will know thy pipe among a thousand, for it whistles out of the nose, like the hiss of a serpent!—Fare ye well, patches; and heaven send ye a rough rouse in the morning."
While the cavalier was yet speaking, a little boat from the brigantine, the heavy oars of which they had long since heard, though they could scarce trace it in the gloom, shot against the causeway; and an officer of a powerful frame and forbidding aspect, just rendered visible by the fire, rising up, extended his hand to Guzman, who immediately jumped aboard, and took a seat at his side. It was then pushed off, and soon vanished on the lake.
"There they go," said Najara, not without admiration, "two imps after the devil's own liking, strong-handed, tough-headed, hard-hearted! Wo betide ye, brown lambkins of Mexico! for these wolves have scented a hole in your pinfold. I tell thee, Bernal, man, we shall have rare work to-morrow, and these men will make it rarer. When the gall comes from Guzman's lips, the devil is waked up in his liver. 'A rough rouse in the morning!' For thy good wish, mayst thou have as rugged a couch in the evening—Amen! for I love thee not."