"Is it possible," thought Juan, while flinging the chain of silver beads by which it was secured round his neck, "that a creature so beautiful and so good—so pure, so innocent, so lovely to the eye and the thought—should be really a pagan and barbarian?"
The question was indeed natural enough. A sweeter impersonation of beauty both mental and corporeal, could scarcely be imagined; and the light of her eyes was so mild and seraphic, that one might wonder whence it came, if not from the operation of that divine belief, which chases from the heart the impurer traits of nature.
What further thoughts might have crowded into Juan's breast, and what might have been the conclusion of an interview so interesting, it is not necessary to imagine. While he was yet securing the chain around the bended neck of the princess, a step, previously heralded by the growl of Befo, rang upon the walk, and the Lord of Death, followed at a little distance by Techeechee, stalked into the covert, arrayed in all the Mexican panoply of war and knighthood. Instead of a tunic of cotton cloth or other woven material, he wore, doubtless over some stronger protection, a sort of hauberk of dressed tiger's skin, fitting tight to his massive chest, and bordered by a skirt of long feathers, reaching nearly to his knees. On his head was a helmet or cap which had once adorned the skull of the same ferocious animal, the teeth and ears flapping about his temples, and the skin of the legs, with the talons remaining, hanging at the sides over his shoulders and breast, waving about in connexion with his long black locks and the scarlet tufts among them. His shield of stout cane-work, painted, and ornamented with a long waving penacho of feathers, hung at his back, and a macana of gigantic size swung from his wrist. His legs were swathed, merry-andrew-wise, with ribands of scarlet and gilded leather, that seemed to begin at his sandals; and his arms, otherwise naked, were ornamented up to the elbow in a similar way. On the whole, his appearance was highly formidable and impressive, and not the less so that many marks of blood, crusted about his person, as well as divers rents in his spotted hauberk, told how recently and how valiantly he had borne his part in the terrors of conflict.
As he entered the covert, his step was bold, springy, and majestic, such as belongs to the native American warrior, when he treads the prairie and the mountain, beyond the ken of the white man. It happened that his ear being struck by the growl of Befo, his attention was not immediately directed to the princess and her companion; but, seeing the dog, and conceiving at once, though not without surprise, the cause of his presence, he turned round in search of his master, and beheld him engaged securing the relic around the neck of the daughter of Montezuma.
At this sight, his countenance changed from the haughty joy of a soldier, and darkened with gloom and displeasure. He even grasped his macana, and took a stride towards the pair, who were unconscious of his intrusion, until Befo made it evident by a louder growl, and by taking a stand, ready to dispute the warrior's right of approach.
The person of the Lord of Death was at first unknown to Juan; but he beheld enough in his visage to convince him it was not that of a friend. Still, he knew too much of the almost slavish reverence with which even the highest nobles regarded their king and the child of a king, to apprehend any danger from the warrior's wrath. In this belief he was justified by the act of the barbarian, who, perceiving Zelahualla look towards him with surprise, released the weapon from his grasp, and sinking into the lowest obeisance of humility, kissed the earth at her feet. Then rising and surveying her with a melancholy, but deeply respectful look, he said,
"What am I but a slave before the daughter of Montezuma? The young man of the east is the king's brother. I speak the words of Guatimozin: 'My brother shall look to-day upon the king of Mexico, with the crown upon his head, at the rock of Chapoltepec, among the people.' These are the words of the king. Shall the king's brother obey the king?"
"Doth Guatimozin call the Eagle his brother?" exclaimed Zelahualla, with a look of the greatest satisfaction. "Then shall no evil befall him among the people. Let my lord the Christian and Great Eagle depart, and fear not: for the men of Mexico know that he was good to the king and the king's daughter, when the king was a captive; and therefore Zelahualla will remember what he says of the god of the silver cross."
Thus summoned, and thus dismissed, Juan withdrew his eyes from the beaming and singularly engaging countenance of the maiden, and looked to the Lord of Death, as if to signify his readiness to depart. But the Lord of Death seemed for a moment to have lost his powers of locomotion. He remained gazing upon the princess with an aspect increasing in gloom, and once or twice seemed as if he would have spoken something in anger and reprehension. Yet deterred by the divinity of royalty that hedged about her, or more probably by the divinity of her beauty, he roused up at last, and, after making another deep reverence, which was as if a lion had bowed down at the feet of a doe, he strode away without speaking, followed by Juan and Techeechee.
From Techeechee Juan learned what he had in in part gathered from the obscure expressions of the noble: He was summoned to witness the coronation of the young king in form before the assembled Mexicans, on the consecrated hill of Chapoltepec, on which occasion he was to be honoured and his person made sacred, by the king bestowing on him the title of friend and brother.
The path led Juan as before through the royal menagerie; and while passing among the wild beasts, Techeechee signified to the Christian that the presence of Befo among the Mexicans would subject him to much difficulty, if not danger; and would certainly, the moment he was seen, produce a confusion in the assemblage, indecorous to the occasion, and highly displeasing to the king and the Mexican dignitaries. To this Juan justly assented, and not knowing in what other manner he could dispose of his faithful attendant, he agreed, at Techeechee's suggestion, to confine him in one of the several empty cages, wherein he was assured and believed, he would remain in safety. This being accomplished, and not without trouble, he endeavoured with caresses to reconcile the animal to his novel imprisonment, and then left him.
He found the Lord of Death at the pool, with a piragua, very singularly carved and ornamented, in which were six Mexicans, known at once by their dress to be warriors of established reputation, the rules of Mexican chivalry not allowing any soldier, even if the son of the king, to wear, in time of war, any but the plainest white garment, until he had accomplished deeds worthy of distinction. These were arrayed in escaupil, variously ornamented with plumes and gilded leather; they had war-clubs and quivers, and their appearance was both martial and picturesque.
At a signal from Masquazateuctli, they seized their paddles and began to urge the piragua towards the water-gate of the wall, and Techeechee leaping into the little canoe, Juan prepared to follow after him. He was arrested by the Lord of Death, who touched his arm, though not rudely, and looking into his face for awhile, with an expression in which anger seemed to struggle with melancholy, said,
"The Great Eagle is the brother of Guatimozin,—Masquazateuctli is but his slave. Where would the king's brother have been this day, had the king not taken him from the prison-house?"
"In heaven, if it becomes me to say so—certainly, at least, in the grave," replied Juan, in some surprise. "In this capture, or this rescue, as I may call it, the king will bear witness, I did not myself concur; for such concurrence I esteemed unbecoming to my state as a Christian and Spaniard. Yet I am not the less grateful to Guatimozin, and I acknowledge he has given me a life."
"It was a good thing of the king," said the barbarian; "but what is this? Are you a Spaniard in Mexico, and alive? neither upon the block of the pyramid, nor in the cage at the temple-yard? The king feeds you in his house, he gives you water from his fountain, and robes from his bed,—he takes you by his side, and, among his people, he says, 'This man is my brother; therefore look upon him with love.' Is not this good also of the king?"
"It is," replied Juan, gravely; "and I need not be instructed, that it becomes me to be grateful, even by a warrior so renowned and noble as the Lord of Death."
The eyes of the barbarian sparkled with a fierce fire while he continued,—
"What then should you look for in Mexico, but shelter and food?—a house to hide you from the angry men of Spain, and bread to eat in your hiding-place? Where are the quiver and the macana? Will the king's brother fight the king's enemies?"
"If they be my countrymen, the Spaniards,no," replied Juan, with great resolution, yet not without uneasiness; for he read in the question, an early attempt to seduce him into apostacy. "I am the king's guest,—his prisoner, if he will,—his victim, if it must be,—but not his soldier."
"Hearken then to me," said the Indian, with a stern and magisterial voice: "The king is the lord of the valley, the master of men's lives, and the beloved of Mexico; but he has not the heart of the old man gray with wisdom, and he knows not the guile of the stranger. Why should his brother do him a wrong? The king thinks his brother a green snake from the corn-field, to play with;[9]but he has the teeth of the rattling adder!"
"Mexican!" said Juan, indignantly, "these words from the mouth of a Spaniard, would be terms of mortal injury; and infidel though you be, yet you must know, they bear the sting of insult. What warrior art thou, that canst abuse the helplessness of a captive, and do wrong to an unarmed man?"
"Do I wrong thee, then?" replied the Lord of Death, grimly. "Lo, thou art here safe from thy bitter-hearted people, and wilt not even repay the goodness of the king, by striking the necks of his enemies, who are also thine! Is not this enough? Put upon thee the weeds of a woman, and go sleep in the garden of birds, afar from danger,—yet call not the birds down from the tree; hide thee in the bush of flowers, yet pluck not the flowers from the stem. Let the guest remember he is a guest, and steal not from the house that gives him shelter.—Does the king's brother understand the words of the king's slave?"
"I do not," said Juan, with a frown. "They are the words of a dreamer;—" and he would have passed on towards the canoe, which he now perceived was waiting him near the wicket, but that the Lord of Death again arrested him.
"The king is good," he said with deep and meaning accents, "but the wrong-doer shall not escape. Perhaps,"—and here he softened the severity of his speech, and even assumed a look of friendly interest,—"perhaps the Great Eagle has left his best friend among the fighting-men of Tezcuco? Let him be patient for a little, and his friend shall be given to him."
"You speak to me in riddles," replied Juan, impatiently. "Let us be gone."
The Mexican gave the youth a look of the darkest and most menacing character, and uttering the figurative name which Guatimozin had already applied to the princess, said,
"The Centzontli is the daughter of Montezuma,—the bird that is not to be called from the tree, the flower that is not to be pulled from the stem.—The king is good to his brother; but Mexico is not a dog, that the Spaniard should steal away the daughter of heaven."
Then, clutching his war-axe, as if to give more emphasis to his warning, the nature of which was no longer to be mistaken, he gave the young man one more look, exceedingly black and threatening, and strode rapidly away. The next moment, he leaped, with the activity of a mountain-cat, into the piragua, and speaking but a word to the rowers, was instantly paddled into the lake.
Juan followed, not a little troubled and displeased by the complexion and tone of the menace, and stepping into the canoe, was soon impelled from the garden. He perceived the piragua floating hard by, and the Lord of Death standing erect among the rowers. As soon as the canoe drew nigh, the warrior-noble made certain gestures to Techeechee, signifying that he should conduct the youth on the voyage alone. Then giving a sign to his attendants, the prow of the piragua was turned towards the east, and, much to the surprise of Juan, and not a little even to that of the Ottomi, was urged in that direction with the most furious speed. As they started, the rowers set up a yell, as if animated by the prospect of some stirring and adventurous exploit.
Techeechee gazed after them for a moment, and then handling his paddle, he directed the canoe round the point of Tlatelolco, and was soon lost among a multitude of similar vessels, all proceeding to the southwest, in the direction of the hill of Chapoltepec.
The review, division, and minute organization of the vast army now at the disposal of the Captain-General, occupied nearly the whole day, which was unexpectedly propitious, as the rainy season might be said to have already commenced. Clouds, indeed, gathered over the sky, in the afternoon, giving a melancholy aspect to the hills and meadows; and a thick fog rose from the lake and spread around, until it had pervaded the lower grounds on its borders. Yet not a drop of rain fell during the whole day, and, by sunset, the clouds dispersed, without having disturbed the firmament with thunder; and the lake was left to glimmer in the light of a young moon, and the multitude of stars.
The whole native population of Tezcuco had been drawn to the meadows, to witness the glories of military parade, and the city was deserted and solitary. Nay, even the watchmen on the walls, forgetting the audacious assault of the past night, and anxious to share a spectacle from which their duties should have separated them, stole, one after another, from their posts, until the northern gates were left wholly unguarded. The vanity of the Commander-in-Chief could not permit the absence of a single effective Spaniard from the scene of display, and the walls had been left to Tlascalans.
Late in the afternoon, and when the mists were thickest, and the hues of the fields most mournful, a single individual passed from that gate at which Juan Lerma, eight or nine weeks before, had terminated the first chapter of his exile. A friar's cassock and cowl enveloped his whole form, yet the dullest eye would have detected in the vigour and impetuosity of his step, the presence of passions which could not belong to the holy profession. His eye was fixed upon a shadowy figure, almost lost among the mists, that went staggering along, as if upon a course not yet defined, or over paths difficult to be traced; and while he was obviously watching and pursuing the retreating shape, it seemed to be with a confidence that feared not the observation of the fugitive. Thus, when the figure paused, he arrested his steps, and resumed them only when they were resumed by the other; and, in this manner, he followed onwards, with little precaution, until Tezcuco was left far behind, hidden in the fog. As he moved, he muttered many expressions, indicative of a deeply disturbed and even remorseful mind.
"All this haveIdone," he exclaimed, bitterly, and almost wildly. "Mine own sin, though black as the soot of perdition, is stained a triple dye by the malefactions it has caused in others—Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!Cursed avarice! cursed ambition! Thereisa retribution that follows us even to the grave; sin is punished with sin,—the first fault lays fire to the train of our vices, and in their explosions we are further stained,—punished, destroyed. That sin! and what has come of it? Where is the gain to balance it? Cajoled by the demon that seduced me, cheated and flung aside—suspected, degraded, demoralized—a wanderer, a villain, a cur—the friend of rogues, and myself their fittest fellow—Heaven is strong, and justice oppressive.—Munda cor meum ac labia mea!for I blaspheme!"
Thus muttered the distracted Camarga, for it was he who gave vent to such troubled expressions. Some of these were uttered so loudly, that they seemed to reach the ear of the fugitive, who turned round, looked back for a moment, and then diving into a misty hollow, was for a short time concealed from his eyes.
"Ay,—fly, fly!" he muttered, gnashing his teeth; "fly, wretch, fly! But wert thou fleeter than the mountain-deer, thou couldst not escape the fiend that is already tearing at thy vitals. Fling thyself into the lake, too, and after death, open thine eyes upon a phantom of horror, that will sit before thee for ever!"
Then pursuing with greater activity, he again caught sight of the fugitive, who was ascending the little promontory of the cypress-tree, on which Juan Lerma had first beheld the faces of his countrymen.
"And Hernan Cortes will yet have me speak the story!" he murmured. "Be it so—live she or die she, he shall hear it, and curse the curiosity that compelled it. Ay! and his anguish will be some set-off to the joy of having triumphed over the poor wretch he persecuted. God rest thee, Juan Lerma! for thou at least hast died in ignorance; and but for this mischance,—this fatal mischance,—hadst been worthy of a better fate, and therefore saved from destruction."
As he uttered these broken words, he perceived La Monjonaza,—for it was this unhappy creature whom he followed,—steal over the mound to the right hand, as if turning her steps from the lake landward. But being aware that she had beheld him, and suspecting this to be merely a feint, designed to mislead him, he directed his course to the water-side, and stepping among the rocks and brambles at the base of the hill, passed it in time to behold Magdalena stalking, with a countenance of distraction, towards the lake, as if impelled by some terrible goadings of mind, to self-destruction.
"Wretched creature!" he cried, springing forwards, and staying her frenzied steps, "what is this you do? Fling not away the grace that is in wait.—You, at least, may live and be forgiven."
To his great surprise, the unhappy girl, whose countenance had indicated all the iron determination of desperation, offered not the slightest resistance, while he drew her from the water-side; but turning towards him with the face of a maiden detected in some merry and harmless mischief, she began to laugh; but immediately afterwards, burst into tears.
"Good heavens!" said Camarga, with compassion, "are you indeed brought to this pass? What! the mind that even amazed Don Hernan—is it gone? wholly gone? Miserable Magdalena! this is the fruit of sin!"
At the sound of a name, so seldom pronounced in these lands, the lady rose from the rock, on which she had suffered herself to be seated, although it was observable that she showed no symptoms of surprise. She gazed fixedly at Camarga for an instant, and a dark frown gathering on her brows, she turned to depart, without reply. Camarga, however, detained her, and would have spoken; but no sooner did she feel his hand laid upon her mantle than she turned suddenly round, with a look of inexpressible fierceness, saying, with the sternest accents of a voice always strikingly expressive,
"Who art thou, that comest between me and my purpose? If a priest or an angel, fly,—for here thou art with contamination; if a man, and a bad man, still fly, lest thou be struck dead with the breath of one deeper plunged in guilt than thyself.—If a devil, then remain, and claim thy prey from the apostate and murderess. Dost thou forbid me even to die?"
"Ay—I do," replied Camarga, trembling, yet less at her terrible countenance than her fearful expressions: "I am one who, in the name of heaven,—a name which is alike polluted: in thy mouth and in mine—command thee to recall thy senses, if they have not utterly fled, and bid thee, thinking of self-slaughter no longer, leave this land of wretchedness, and, in a cloister, and with a life of penitence, obtain the pardon which heaven will not perhaps withhold."
"Pardon comes not without punishment," said Magdalena, sternly; "and I would not that it should: and for penitence,—the moaning regret that exists without torture and suffering,—know that it is but a mockery. Kill thy friend, and repent,—yet dream not of paradise. Scourge thyself, die on the rack or gibbet, and await thy fate in the grave. Begone; or rest where thou art, and follow me no more."
"Till thou die, or till thou art lodged within the walls of a convent," said Camarga, grasping her arm with a strength and determination she could not resist: "thus far will I follow thee, rave thou never so much. Oh, wretched creature! and wert thou about to rush into the presence of thy Maker, unshriven, unrepenting, unprepared?"
Magdalena surveyed him with a look that changed gradually from anger to wistful emotion; and then again shedding tears, she dropped on her knees, saying, with a tone and manner that went to his heart,
"I will shrive me then, and then let me go, for thy presence persecutes me.—Well, and perhaps it is better; for it is long since I have looked upon a man of God—long since I have spoken with any just Christian butone,—and him I have given up to the murderers. Hear me then, and then absolve or condemn as thou wilt, for I judge myself; and I confess to thee, only that my words may drive thee away, as would the moans of a coming pestilence. Hear me then, friar, and then begone from me."
"Arise," said Camarga, "I seek not thy confession, at least not now: I have that will draw it from thee, at a fitter time and place. In this distant spot, thou art exposed to danger from the infidels."
"If thou fearest them, away! Why dost thou trouble me? If thou stayest, listen to my words; for though they come too late, yet will they cause thee to do justice to the name, and say masses for the soul, of Juan Lerma."
"Speak of Juan Lerma," said Camarga, with a trembling voice, "and I will indeed listen to thee.In nomine Dei Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, speak and speak truly. Cursed be thou, even by my lips, if thou speakest that which is false, or concealest aught that is true!"
"Truth, though I die,—and let me die when it is spoken," said Magdalena, placing her lips with the instinctive reverence of habit to the cross which Camarga extended. As she kissed it, her heart seemed to soften, and she shed many bitter tears, while pouring forth her broken and melancholy story.
"Know, father," she said, not once doubting that she had a true father of the church before her, "that it was my misfortune never to have known the kindness and care of a parent."
"Let that be passed," said Camarga, hurriedly. "Speak not of the sins of thy youth, a thousand times confessed, and a thousand times absolved. Speak of thy coming to the island,—of thy broken vows,—thy—" But here perceiving that Magdalena started with a sort of affright, at finding how far his knowledge had anticipated her divulgements, he continued, with better discretion, "Thus much do I know—howI know, ask not; and yet thou mayst be told, too, that much of thy fate was interwoven with that of Villafana."
"Myfate, and that of Villafana!" cried Magdalena, with a withering look of contempt. But instantly changing to a more submissive air, she exclaimed, "Mystory, indeed, father, but not my fate. If he have confessed to you, then do you know enough,—perhaps all. He told you, then, that his avarice, gratified at the expense of a horrible crime,—the destruction of the ship, and the lives of all within it, abbess, nuns, sailors, and all,—was the cause of all my calamities, since it was my hard fate not to perish with the rest. He robbed the ship of the golden and silver church-vessels, when we were near to the port, and made his escape to the shore, leaving us to sink in the midst of a storm then rising. Our pilot having no hope but in running upon the shore, then within sight, ran the vessel among certain rocks, where it was beaten to pieces. Father, it chanced to be my fate, and mine alone, to be plucked out of that roaring sea, by one to whom, when lying in a gulf ten times more hideous, I refused to stretch out my hand. Father! last night a word from my lips would have saved the life of Juan Lerma, and I did not speak it!"
"Dwell not on this," said Camarga, sternly. "Rather thank heaven that thou wert rendered unable by any exercise of criminal love, to preserve on the earth's surface a wretch, at whose footstep it shuddered."
"Hah!" cried Magdalena, starting up in a transport of indignation, and sending daggers from her eyes, "who art thou, that speakest so falsely and foully of Juan Lerma? Wert thou, instead of a pattering friar, a canonized saint in heaven, still wert thou but a thing of dross and earth, compared with him thou malignest!"
Before Camarga could rebuke this burst of passion, she sank, as before, to the earth, weeping afresh; for she was in that pitiable state of mental feebleness, in which life seems only to continue in impulses,—a chain of convulsions and exhaustions. "Alas, father," she continued, with sobs, "you have been taught, like the rest, to misconceive and belie the best and most unfortunate of men;—for such is Juan Lerma;—and you have perhaps joined with the rest to compass his destruction. Has he wronged you? no—you have imagined a wrong. Has he wronged Cortes? no—he has wronged no one; but the ear of Cortes was open to his enemies. Hear me, father, and while you condemn me, listen to the refutation of slander. Father, when I opened mine eyes to the light, and in the presence of him who had saved me, I forgot my vows; nay, I thought that heaven had absolved them in the wreck, and ordained that I should be happy in a new existence. Never before had I looked upon the world, and the people of the world,—never before had I looked upon Juan Lerma. When had I seen one smile upon me with affection? Father, for a second such smile, I would have moaned again on the wreck, seeing my companions swept from me one by one. I grew cunning and deceitful, and when they asked me of the ship and people, I told them falsehoods, lest they should bring me the veil and the priest, and carry me from his presence. Alas! and my deceit availed not; he smiled no more; and when Hilario spoke of affection—affection for me,—Juan Lerma withdrew without a sigh, without a struggle."
"Saints of heaven!" cried Camarga, starting with horror, gasping for breath, and, in the sense of suffocation, forgetting his assumed character so much as to fling back the cowl that had concealed his features. "Dost thou speak me the truth? On thy life,—on thy hopes of heaven's forgiveness,—on thy love even for this lost, perhaps this dead, youth,—I charge thee speak me the truth. Went there no more than this between you? And Juan Lerma loved you not? and Villafana belied ye both? And you are not—"
He paused in agitation, unable to utter another word; and Magdalena, surprised as much at his extraordinary interest in her story, as well as confounded by the absence of the tonsure, and the glittering of an iron gorget about his throat, seemed for a moment unable to answer his questions. But summoning her spirits at last, she said,
"Thou art not a priest, but a layman, a stranger, and a man of sin! But be who thou wilt, friend or foe, thou knowest now enough of my history to be entitled to know all. Never did man couple my name with shame, and think of any but him who died under the dagger of Villafana. As for Juan Lerma, not even Cortes, his bitterest enemy, would dare accuse him of a deed of dishonour. Stranger, if thou art interested in the betrayed and murdered Juan, know at least that he died innocent of any wrong to Magdalena."
"Now God be praised for this good word!" said Camarga, dropping on his knees, and speaking with what seemed a distraction of fervour and delight: "God be praised that I may not think, at my death-hour, that my sins have caused among my children the crime of incest! God be praised! God be praised!"
"Incest!Thychildren!" exclaimed Magdalena, wildly. "What art thou? What is this thou sayst?"
"What do I say I and why need I say it?" cried Camarga, springing up and wringing his hands—"have we not slain him among us? Oh, wretched Magdalena, if, by thine influence, he was brought to this pass, know that thou hast slain thine own brother!"
At this strange and exciting revelation, Magdalena, who had, in the ecstacy of expectation, seized upon Camarga's hands with a convulsive grasp, uttered a scream, wild, loud, and thrilling, and yet how unlike to that which rose from her breaking heart in the prison! It was some such cry as might be supposed to come from a despairing Christian, who finds that the gates, which he thinks are conducting him to hell, have suddenly ushered him into the walks of paradise. It mingled fear and astonishment with joy, but joy predominant over the others; and though it sounded as if coming from a bursting heart, it was as if from one bursting in the over-bound and expansion of a breast released from a mountain of oppression. It echoed over the lake, and seemed to have called up the spirits thereof; for before its last hysterical echo had vibrated on the ear, there sprang up, as if they had risen from the earth or the waters, six or seven athletic barbarians, flourishing heavy macanas, who rushed at once upon the pair.
At the sight of such unexpected and formidable antagonists, though taken entirely by surprise, Camarga snatched his concealed sword from the scabbard, leaped with great intrepidity betwixt Magdalena and the nearest savage, who seemed the leader of the party, and made a blow at him, while calling to her,
"Fly! fly! and tell Cortes that thy brother—" But his lips finished not the sentence. Whether it was that he was rendered helpless by long continued disease, was embarrassed by the friar's cassock, or was really unskilful in the use of weapons, it is certain that his blade dropped harmless on the macana of the warrior. Before he could recover his guard, the battle-axe of the Mexican fell upon his head with deadly violence, and he rolled, to all appearance a dying man, on the ground.
At the same instant, another warrior clutched upon Magdalena, who, though pale as death, and agitated by a long succession of passions, yet drew the dagger she always carried at her girdle, and aimed it at the breast of the infidel. Before it could do him any harm, it was snatched out of her hand, and she herself caught up as by the grasp of a giant, in the arms of the leader, and hurried to the water. In an instant more, she was placed in a piragua, which her capturers drew from a reed-brake hard by, and secured, though not rudely, beyond the possibility of further resistance, among the infidels. They caught up their paddles, uttered a wild yell, and the next moment dashed from the shore, and were hidden among the mists of the lake.
Are the refinements and delicate sensibilities of the spirit confined to the highborn and polished? They are undoubtedly the offspring of nature: Education supplies their place only by the substitutes of affectation. Though poverty may crush, though wretchedness and evil habits may corrupt and extinguish them, yet they throb in the breasts of the lowly, during the days of youth, and are not always banished even by the rigours of manhood. They dwell under the painted lodge of the barbarian, and they burn even in the heart of the benighted heathen.
Let us fancy the moonlight streaming over the lake of Tezcuco. The moon is in her first quarter, and the evening-star, almost her rival in lustre and magnitude, precedes her in the blue paths of the west. The golden radiance of sunset trembles no more on the mountain peaks; but the thin vapours floating through the zenith, are yet gleaming faintly with the last expiring glories of day. The birds are at rest in the garden of Mexico,—all save the little madrugadores, that yet chirp merrily in the trees, and the centzontli, who leaves her ravishing melody, to mock them with their own music, made yet more musical. The breeze sleeps among the boughs, or it stirs only through the poplar leaves, and its rustling sound is mingled with the hum of a thousand nocturnal insects. In such a night, one forgets that man is not an angel. We see not the frown of malevolence in the sky; we hear not the step of the betrayer on the grass; nor does the dew-drop, falling from the leaf, admonish us of the tears that are streaming, hard by, in sorrow. In such a night, the feelings of the kind are kindest, the thoughts of the pure, purest; youth gathers about it the mantle of hope, and hope whispers in the voice of affection. At such a time, it is good to look into the hearts of the youthful, and forget the excitements of years. A draught from the waters of Clitorius was fabled to extinguish the thirst for wine.[10]He who can creep into the bosoms of the young, and drink of the fountain of innocent affections, will turn with loathing from the impure and maddening currents, that convert the human family into a race of moral Bacchanals.
Can we think that among the worshippers of the ferocious Mexitli, and the fierce invaders of his people, there were none with natures worthy of a better belief, and a nobler cause? Destiny had thrown together two, at least, whose spirits were but little tainted with the evil of their place and their day,—in whom, perhaps, feeling rather than reason, had set a talisman that left them incorruptible. A good heart is to man what the galvanic bar of the philosopher was to the ship's copper-sheathing. It gives this protection, at least, that, through the whole voyage of life, it preserves the integrity of the vessel. The barnacle and the remora will indeed deaden its course, but the metal remains clean and bright: the billows of the world waste their corrosive powers only on the protector. Morality itself is two-fold; it is of the head, and of the heart. The first belongs to the philosopher, the second to the poet. The one is an abstraction of reason; the other an exhortation of passion. The morality of the head is the only one that is just; but it is loveliest and best when the heart enforces its precepts. With good hearts, Juan Lerma and the princess of Mexico, moved among the corruptions of superstition, uncorrupted; and preserved to themselves, unabated and unsullied, the pure and gentle feelings, which nature had showered upon them at their birth.
The moon, falling aslant upon the garden, lighted the countenances of the young Spanish exile and the orphan child of Montezuma, as they rested upon the summit of a little artificial mound, ornamented with carved stone seats and rude statuary, constructed for the purpose of overlooking the walls. The visage of the Christian was illumined by pensive smiles, and his lips breathed gently and fervently the accents that were sweetest to the ears of the Indian maiden. But did he discourse of worldly affection and passion to one so ignorant and artless? A nobler spirit animated the youth. He spoke of the faith of Christians, and laboured with more than the zeal, though not perhaps with the wisdom of the missionary, to impress its divine truths upon the mind of his hearer. If his arguments were somewhat less cogent and logical than might have been spoken, it must be remembered that his religion was like that which will perhaps belong to the majority of Christians to the end of the world,—a faith of the heart, which the head has not been accustomed to canvass.
He directed her eyes to the moon, to the evening star, and to those other celestial wanderers, by which the heart of man was 'secretly enticed,' even before the days of the perfect man of Uz.
"They are the little bright heroes that hang down from the house of Ometeuctli, king of the city of heaven," said the poor infidel,—"all save Meztli," (the moon) "who is the king of night, brother of Tonatricli," (the sun) "god of the burning day. This is what they say of the two gods: There were men on the earth, but wicked: the ancient gods, the sons of Ipalnemoani killed them. Then Ometeuctli sent forth from the city of heaven his sons, who descended to Mictlan,—the dark hell,—by the road that leads between the Fighting Mountains, and the Eight Deserts,—and stole the bones of men, that Mictlanteuctli had heaped up in his cavern. The sons of Ometeuctli sprinkled the bones with their blood; and these men lived again, and the sons of Ometeuctli were their rulers and fathers. But the earth was dark,—it was night over the world, and the only light was the fire which they kindled and kept burning in the vale of Teotihuacan. The sons of Ometeuctli pitied the men they had revived; and, to give them light, they burned themselves in the fire. Ometeuctli, their father, then placed them in the sky,—Tonatricli the first born, to be the sun, Meztli to be the moon, and the others to be stars. So they hang in heaven, turned to fire: and men built pyramids to them, on the place of burning, Micoatl, the Field of Death.[11]They are very good gods, for they shine upon us."
"Forget these idle fables," said Juan, with a gentleness much more judicious than any zeal could have been. "Forget, too, Mexitli, Painalton, Quetzalcoatl, Centeotl, and the thousand vain beings of imagination, with which your priests have peopled the world. Think only of the greatTeotl, whom you have called Ipalnemoani,—the great God, the only God,—for there is no other than He, and the rest are but fables. Yonder moon and stars are not divinities, but great globes like this on which we live; and to worship them is a sin—it angers Ipalnemoani, who is the only God,—the Creator,—whom all men worship, though under different names. Worship but Ipalnemoani, and in mode as I will tell thee, and thou art already almost a Christian."
"But is not Christ another god of the Spaniards?" said the maiden, doubtfully.
"The Son of God, a portion of God, and God himself," replied the Christian, launching at once into all the theological metaphysics with which he was acquainted, and succeeding in confounding the mind of the poor barbarian, without being very sensible of the confusion of his own. But if he could not teach her how to distinguish between categories, not reducible to order and consistency by the poor aids of human language, he was able to interest her in the fate and character of the divine Redeemer, by no other means than that of relating his history. And it is this, to which men must chiefly look for instruction, belief, and renovation, without reference to dogmas and creeds; for here all find the unanimity of belief and feeling, which entitles them to the claims of fraternity.
When Juan had excited her sympathy in the character of the Messiah, he began to discourse upon the object and the ends of his mission. But unfortunately the doctrine of original sin, with which he set out, had in it something extremely repugnant to the rude ideas of the child of nature. It inferred a native wickedness in all, to be banished only by belief; and it seemed at once to placeherin an humble and degraded light, in the eyes of the young Christian.
"What has Zelahualla done," she said, with maidenly pride, "that the king's brother should make her out wicked?"
At this application of the doctrine, Juan was somewhat staggered in his own belief. He looked at the mild eyes of the catechumen, beaming as from a spirit without stain and without guile, and he said to himself, 'How can this be? for she has known no sin?' His imagination wandered among the moral and religious precepts stored in his memory, and settled at last with the triumph of a controversialist, as well as the satisfaction of a Christian, upon the first rules of the decalogue,—broken in ignorance, and therefore he doubted not, easily atoned. He told her that the worship of false gods was a sin, and homage shown to idols of wood and stone a deep iniquity; and these being common to all benighted people, he satisfied himself, and perhaps her, that they were unanswerable proofs of the existence of natural depravity. But a stronger light was thrown upon the maiden's mind, when he showed its effects in the scene of bloodshed, commenced long since in the days of her sire, and now about to be terminated in a war of massacre.
"He of whom I speak," he said, "came into the world, in order that these things should cease. He offers men peace and good-will; and when men acknowledge him and follow his commands, peace and good-will will reign over the whole world. Think not, because my countrymen are sometimes unjust, and often cruel, that our divine Leader is the less divine. These are the wickednesses of their nature, not yet removed by full or just belief; for the belief of some is insufficient, of others perverted, and some, though they profess it, have no belief at all. Know, then, that our religion, justly considered, and with a pure mind not selfish, has its great element inaffection. It teaches love of heaven, and, equally love of man. It denounces the wrong-doer, who is as a fire, burning away the cords that bind men together in happiness; and it exalts the good man, who unites his fellows in affection. It punishes vicious deeds and forbids evil thoughts; for with these, there can be no happiness and peace. This it does upon earth; and it prepares for the world beyond the grave, in which no human passion or infirmity can disturb the perfect purity and enjoyment, of which the immortal spirit is capable."
Thus he conversed, and thus, guided by the native bias of his mind, dwelt upon that feature of our heavenly faith, of which it requires no aid of enthusiasm to perceive the amiableness and beauty. "Peace and good-will to all!"[12]There is a charm in the holy sentence, at once the watchword and synopsis of religion, that thrills to the hearts even of those, who, to obtain the base immortality of renown, are willing to exchange it for the war-cry of the barbarian, theVæ victis!of a hero.
Thus far, then, the heart of the Indian maiden was softened, and tears,—not of penitence, for it never entered her mind that she had anything to repent,—tears of gentle and pleasurable emotion stole into her eyes, as she listened to tenets explained by one so revered and beloved.
"The religion that my lord loves, is good; and Zelahualla shall know no other."
"God be praised for this then," said Juan, fervently; "for now is the desire of my heart fulfilled, mine errand accomplished; and I will die, when I am called, cheerfully; knowing that thou wilt follow me to heaven. Now do I perceive that heaven works good in our misfortunes. The miseries that I have lamented,—the hatred of Don Hernan, the malice of my foes, my downfall, my condemnation,—what were they but the steps which have led me to effect thy conversion and salvation? God be praised for all things! and God grant that the seeds of the true faith, now sown in thy heart, may grow and flourish, till transplanted into paradise!"
Thus saying, Juan fell upon his knees, and invoked blessings upon the proselyte, who knelt beside him, confirmed greatly in her new creed by the evident pleasure her conversion, if it could be so called, had given him.
"Know now, Zelahualla," he said, as he raised her from the ground, and folded her in an embrace that had more of the gentle affection of a brother, than the ardent passion of a lover, "that now thou art dearer to me than all the world beside. While thou wert a worshipper of idols, I wept for thee; now that thou art a Christian, I love thee; and through this storm of war, that is gathering around thee, I will remain to protect thee, and, if need be, to perish by thy side."
"What my lord is, that will I be," said the young princess, with such looks of confiding affection as belong to the unsophisticated child of nature—"Yes, Zelahualla will be a Christian,—Juan's Christian,"—for she had been long since instructed to pronounce the name of her young friend—"and she will think of none but him—"
She paused suddenly, and disengaged herself from the arms of the Castilian, who, looking round, beheld almost at his side, surveying him with manifest satisfaction, the young king of Mexico. The gorgeous mantles of state were upon his shoulders, the golden sandals andcopilli, or crown, bedecked his feet and head; and though no sceptre-bearers or other noble attendants followed at his heels, his appearance was not without dignity, and even majesty.
He stepped forward, and taking the princess by the hand, said to Juan,
"The Centzontli is the king's sister;—thus said I, when Montezuma lived no more; for the Spaniards have killed the sons of the king, and who remains to be her brother? It is enough—the Eagle of the east is the king's brother.—The king will speak with his brother."
At this signal, the maiden stooped humbly over Guatimozin's hand, kissed it with mingled love and respect, and immediately stole from the mound.
"My brother beheld me among my people," said Guatimozin, as soon as she was gone. "What thinks he of the warriors of Mexico?"
"They are numerous as the sands and leaves. But hear the words of him who knows the Spaniards as well as the Mexicans. Before a blow is struck, speak good things to Cortes. Acknowledge thyself the vassal of Spain, and rule for ever."
"Is my brother yet a Spaniard? and does he tell me this thing?"
"If I anger thee, yet must I speak! for I speak with the heart of one grateful to thyself and friendly to the race of Montezuma. As a true Spaniard, I should counsel thee to resist; for resistance would excuse rapacity. How wilt thou fight upon this island, with thine enemies round about thee? They will sit down and sleep, while the king perishes with hunger."
"The houses are garners," replied Guatimozin, proudly: "There is food provided for many days; and how shall the big ships see the peasant's canoe, when it brings corn in the night-time?"
"The lake is broad, but thou knowest not of all the craft and skill of thy foes. Think then ofthis: Can a man drink the water of the salt lake and canals? Are the pipes of Chapoltepec under the mountains? The Spaniards will tear them up from the causeways; and the warriors will despair for drink."
"Is Guatimozin a fool?" exclaimed the royal barbarian, with a laugh. "The rains have begun to fall; and for seven[13]months, the sky will be my fountain. Is not Malintzin mad, that he should besiege me at this season? He is not a god!"
"Were it for thrice seven months," said Juan, "be assured that Cortes will still remain by thy city, awaiting its downfall."
"And what shall be done by the warriors of Mexico? Will they look from the island, and wring their hands, till he departs? For every grain of corn in the garners of Tenochtitlan, there is an arrow in the quivers of the warriors. Count the bones that lie in the ditches of Tacuba,—number the bearded skulls that are piled on the Huitzompan, the trophies gathered from the Spaniards in the night of their flight,—there are not so many living men in the camp of Malintzin, as perished that night when we drove them from Mexico."
"Dost thou hold, then, for nothing the two hundred thousand Tlascalans, Tezcucans, Chalquese, Totonacs, and other tribes, that follow with Cortes?"
"There are but three roads to Mexico.—Can they hurt me from the shores?"
"The ships are fourteen more; and by and by, there will be no canoe that swims the lake, but will bear the soldiers of Don Hernan. Think not resistance can do aught but protract the fate of thine empire, and incense the miseries of its subjects. Its history is written. Heaven is angry with your gods and with your acts. The blood of human sacrifices, detestable in the eyes of divinity, calls for revenge. Alas, thou didst this day condemn a poor Spaniard to the altar, and thus stain thine installation with cruelty! God will punish the Mexicans for this."
The eyes of Guatimozin flashed in the moonlight with indignation.
"Is not the prisoner," he cried, "the prey of the victor? The Spaniard burns the captive in the shoulder, and makes him a slave. Which is cruel? The prisoner and the felon we give to the gods—it is good. Did the Eagle ever behold a Mexican chain men to a stake, and burn them with fire? Yet he saw Malintzin burn the Chief of Nauhtlan and the fifteen warriors, in the palace-yard, in a great fire made with Mexican bows and arrows! Which, then, is cruel?"
"This act I will not defend," said Juan, "and it was my presumption in censuring it, that made Cortes my enemy. But, prince, let us speak of these things no more, for our arguments shake not each other's minds. Let me speak of myself, for it is just thou shouldst know my resolve. I am thy friend, but I will not lift my hand against my countrymen."
The countenance of the king darkened:
"Is not the Great Eagle brave? He fears his enemies!"
"I fearnothing," said Juan, with conscious dignity, "else would I speak no words to lose thy favour. I will be thy prisoner, thy sacrifice, if thou wilt.—I lament the fate that is coming upon thee, but I cannot fight in thy cause."
Guatimozin eyed him earnestly, as if to read his soul; and then said, a little softly,
"The Great Eagle knows all things: he shall rest in the palace all day, and at night, speak wise things to the king."
"Neither in this can I aid thee," replied Juan, resolutely. "What I know of religion and moral duties,—nay, all that I know of civilized arts, that are not military,—this much I am free to communicate; but nothing more. I can no more help thee to fight with my knowledge, than with my arm."
This was a declaration of principles somewhat above the powers of the infidel to appreciate, and it filled him, as Juan saw, with serious displeasure. He took him by the arm, and spoke sternly and even menacingly:
"The faith of a Christian is not that of a Mexican. The Indian kills his foes and the foes of his friend: the Christian forgets his friend, when his friend is in trouble."
Juan was stung by the reproach, and replied with emphasis:
"The king took me from the prison-house of Tezcuco: the block was in waiting for me. Who talked to me of prisons and of blocks, before Olin came to the garden?"
Guatimozin grasped his hand, and spoke with impetuosity,—
"I have said the thing that was false, and my brother doesnotforget his friend. He did a good deed to Olin; why should he turn his face from Guatimozin? Was Olin in greater distress than the king, beset by enemies who cannot be counted? My brother has looked in the face of the Centzontli, my sister.—The princes of the city, and the kings of the tribes, have said, each one, 'Give me the daughter of Montezuma, and I will die for Mexico.' But the king thought of his brother. Thus it shall be: the Great Eagle shall take the princess for his wife, and be a Mexican; and then, when Guatimozin entreats him to strike his foe, he will call upon his god of the cross,—the Mexitli of the Spaniards,—and strike with all his force. Is it not so?"
"Prince!" said Juan, sadly, "even this cannot be. According to our thoughts, there are sins of the deepest turpitude in acts which your customs cause you to esteem virtues. The Spaniard may change his country, but he cannot become the foe of his countrymen. What wouldst thou think of one of thine own people,—thy friend, thy subject—whom thou shouldst find among the Spaniards, and aiming his weapon against thee?"
"There are many thousands of them," said Guatimozin, giving way to passion. "Malintzin fights with weapons more destructive than the big thunder-pipes. He goes among the serfs that pay tribute, and he says, 'Pay no more—Is it not better to be free?' Thus he seduces them. But my brother shall think of this again. And now he shall eat and sleep."
So saying, and perhaps thinking it unwise to pursue his designs at the present moment, he drew Juan from the mound, and was leading him towards the palace, when the sound of voices and footsteps came from the bottom of the garden, accompanied by the fierce barking of Befo, who was still confined in the cage.
"Now do I remember me," said Juan, with a feeling of shame, "that I have suffered the noble animal—"
But his words were cut short by an unexpected circumstance. No sooner had his voice sounded, than a wild cry burst from a neighbouring copse, and a female figure, pursued by Mexican warriors, rushed forwards, calling upon him by name, and by a title that had never before blessed his ears.
"Juan! Juan! my brother! oh, my brother!"
It was Magdalena,—her hair disordered and drooping in the damp air of evening, her face, as far as it could be seen in the imperfect light, pale and distracted. No sooner did her eyes behold him than she redoubled her speed, and throwing herself upon his neck, she cried, with transports of emotion, while the pursuers gathered round in no little amazement.
"Oh, Juan! my brother! pardon me and forgive me; for I am your sister,—yes, your sister, your own sister,—and I have come to die with you!"
Confounded as much by the strange declaration as by her presence, Juan endeavoured gently to disengage himself from her embrace, but all in vain. She clasped his neck with tenfold strength, weeping and exclaiming he scarce knew what; and, though much affected, he began to think that sorrow and passion had turned her brain. What therefore was his surprise, when he gathered from her incoherent exclamations, that Camarga, the masking stranger, who had, on three several occasions, betrayed such an unaccountable desire to take his life, had, even with his dying lips, pronounced them brother and sister. His heart thrilled at the thought; for his affection for the singular being whose destiny of mourning was so like his own, had ever been great, though chilled and pained by the belief of her unworthiness. He pursued the idea with a thousand questions, the answers to which provoked his curiosity, while they damped his hope. Was Camarga their father? and was he dead? What did he say? What,—no more thanthis—'He was her brother?' No more? And no one alive to confirm the story? "Alas," he said, his thoughts reverting to what he remembered of his childhood; "this fancy has made me as distracted as thyself. Camarga was a dreamer—an evident madman.Myfather died at Isabela in the island; for was not I at his side? This cannot be, Magdalena;—deceive thyself no longer."
"Speak not to me of deceit, my brother—for my brother thou art," said Magdalena, vehemently. "Can my heart deceive me? Is it not the work of heaven, seen in our whole life? Heaven kept thee—yes, Juan, while heaven punishedmethe sin of neglected vows with the torments of unavailing affection—it kept thee from loving me as much, because thou wert my brother. Yes, this it is! The angels spoke with the lips of that man, who now lies dead on the lake-side! But what of that, Juan? We will go to Cortes—I can win thy forgiveness. Alas, alas! I could have saved thee before, but thou madest me mad. Why didst thou treat me so, Juan? I was innocent—indeed I was; and Hilario's recantation—oh believe me, I knew not of his murder, till it was accomplished! Villafana killed him from fear, for Hilario had discovered how he scuttled the ship; and thus it was that Hilario gained Villafana to corroborate the falsehoods he spoke of me. I can make all clear to thee, indeed I can.—But now, dear Juan, cast me not off again,—for you are my brother. We will go to Cortes,—he will pardon thee. We will find out the friends of Camarga, and it must needs be that we shall discover all. And then I will go to a convent again,—and then I care not what befalls me; for I shall have a brother in the world left to love me."
While Magdalena was pouring forth these wild expressions, for a time almost unconscious of her situation in the heart of the pagan city, and in the presence of so many barbarians, Guatimozin, who had looked on with an astonishment that was soon converted into the darkest displeasure, turned to the capturers of Magdalena, who had ceased their pursuit the moment they beheld the king, and flung themselves reverently at his feet. The Lord of Death, who made the like prostration, had assumed an erect posture, in virtue of his high rank. But his looks wandered from the king to the Christian pair, whose endearments he watched with exceeding great satisfaction, and indeed with exultation.
"What is this that I see?" said the king, in a low but stern voice; "and who hath brought this woman to my garden?"
Masquazateuctli bent his head to the earth, replying with the complacency of one who has achieved a happy exploit,—
"The king made the Great Eagle of the East his brother; he took him to the hill of Chapoltepec that his people might know him, and do him honour. Shall not Masquazateuctli do a good thing to the king's brother? He was sorry because of his loneliness in the king's garden, and the Maiden of the East was afar in Tezcuco. I thought of this, and I crept to the gates of Tezcuco: and I said, 'I will take a prisoner for the king, and perhaps I shall find a maiden with white brows; which will gladden the heart of the king's brother.' Mexitli was with me. But I killed the man that came with her, for I saw she was that daughter of a god, with eyes like the full moon, of whom the king had spoken, when he came from Tezcuco alone, and my heart was very joyful. The Eagle is glad—he will not ask the king for the daughter of Montezuma!"
Guatimozin muttered a fierce interjection betwixt his teeth, but replied with dignity,
"The Lord of Death should have spoken this to the king; but if he be angry, he remembers that Masquazateuctli was Montezuma's soldier. By and by, I will speak with him in the palace.—I have said."
The Lord of Death, thus dismissed, and not a little mortified at such insufficient thanks, beckoned to his followers and departed.
Guatimozin strode up to the Christians, and touching Juan on the shoulder, said, with a stern voice,
"What shall the king say of his brother, to the daughter of Montezuma?"
The colour rushed into Juan's cheeks; but he replied immediately, and even firmly,
"That he brings her his sister, to whom, for his own sake, he prays her to be kind and gentle."
"Does my brother tell me this?" said the king, starting. "The Great Eagle said he was alone in the world, with none of his kin remaining."
"And so I thought, until this hour," said Juan, not without embarrassment: "and now must I tell the king, that though I call this maiden my sister, and pray heaven she may prove so, yet neither she nor I have aught upon which to found our belief, but the words of one whom the Lord of Death killed, when he seized her."
Guatimozin intently eyed the maiden, who watched with painful interest the changes of his countenance and Juan's, for she understood not a word of their speech; and then said,
"Let it be so: Guatimozin will think of this. The Spanish lady is welcome—the Eagle shall speak with her a little, and then give her up to the women, that they may be good to her.—The king's house is very spacious."
He then turned gravely away, signing to the outcast pair to follow him.
They were suffered to be alone together for a brief hour, in which Magdalena, rejecting impetuously and passionately all Juan's doubts, poured out all the secrets of a life full of unhappiness, but not of crime; and Juan himself, forgetting the weakness of all her claims of consanguinity, melted into belief, and learned to call her his sister. There were indeed certain circumstances of mystery about his birth, which might have often disturbed his thoughts, had he been of an imaginative turn. The man whom he had called and esteemed his father, had died a violent death in the islands, while Juan was yet very young. He could recollect little of him that was agreeable to remember; and all that had afterwards come to his ears, only served to chill his curiosity; all persons, who had not forgotten him, representing the elder Lerma as a most depraved and infamous man. No one knew whence he had come, or if he had any relatives left in the world; and Juan remembered well, that the planters had, on several occasions, when the unnatural parent, if parent he was, had maltreated and abandoned him, taken him away from Lerma, and comforted Juan with the assurance that the villain had undoubtedlystolenhim from some one. It is, however, very certain that Juan never seriously thought of doubting that this man was his parent; nor would he have recalled such trivial circumstances to his mind, had he not been staggered by the impetuosity of Magdalena, and by his own feelings of affection, into a credulity almost as ample as her own. That he should desire also to find a relative in one, who, considered without reference to the weakness shown only in her love for him, was of a soul as stainless as it was noble, is not to be doubted; and such love he could be rejoiced to return. In truth, his reasons for admitting her claims were as flimsy as hers for making them, as he came to discover, when left to examine them in solitude. They made, however, a deep and lasting impression upon his mind. Perhaps the impression would have been still deeper, had the two been permitted to remain longer together; but before Magdalena had yet been able to speak with composure, there came a train of maidens, bearing chaplets of flowers, and rich ornaments of feathers, giving Juan to understand, that it was the king's will his companion should now leave him.
Magdalena turned pale, when this command was announced to her by Juan, and seemed at first as if resolved never to be parted from him more. But being persuaded by Juan that she had nothing to fear—that the king was his friend—that they should certainly meet again,—she at last consented. She strode to the door—she listened to his words of farewell, and she sobbed upon his breast; and then departed with the happy but delusive hope of seeing him again on the morrow.
It was the last night of peace that ever darkened over the Mexico of the pagans.
To one whose perverted imagination can dwell with pleasure on 'the pomp and circumstance of glorious war,' no better study can be recommended than the history of the siege of Mexico, which may be considered as one single battle, lasting for the space of ninety-three days, counting from the time when the different divisions of the besieging army had taken their positions in form, upon the different causeways. This does not include the period occupied in the march of these bodies from Tezcuco, and which was not devoted to inactivity. On the contrary, the Captain-General took advantage of the occasion to discipline his naval force, by sweeping over the lake from bay to bay, and town to town, destroying every piragua that made its appearance, as well as such chinampas, or floating gardens, as he could approach, and frequently by cannonading the imperial city itself. Besides this, he assaulted and took, on each occasion after a most sanguinary combat, certain fortresses upon two island rocks, one of which rose near to Iztapalapan: the other, though no longer insulated, still lies a little to the east of the republican city, and is called the Peñon, or Crag, of Montezuma.
The preparations of the Mexicans were extensive and anticipative of all the peculiar evils which they thought it in the power of their great enemy to inflict. They had cut through the causeways numberless ditches, each of which was furnished with a light bridge, to be withdrawn, when about to fall into the power of the Spaniards; and the earth and stones thus removed, were built up before and behind the chasms, into strong ramparts, which were still further strengthened with palisades. In this manner, while opposing the greatest obstructions to the passage of the foot-soldiers, they made it impossible for horses to be brought against them,—a precaution that, for a long time, robbed the Spaniards of their greatest advantage.
The beginning of the siege of Mexico, then, lay in the struggles of the besiegers to obtain possession of the ditches, which were to be filled up, by levelling the ramparts. This was a work both of infinite danger and toil, the besieged fighting from behind the advanced barriers with unexampled resolution, and, however overpowered, never retreating beyond the ditch, until their companions had left but a single plank for their passage, which was immediately afterwards withdrawn. After this, the Spaniards were forced to overturn the first barrier into the chasm, before they could rush across the slough of mud and water, to attack the second; and all this was to be done not only against violent opposition in front, but with a most dangerous and audacious species of annoyance practised on one flank or the other, and sometimes on both. Wherever the shallows admitted, the Mexicans drove into the bottom of the lake, and at but a short distance from the dike, strong piles, to which they secured their canoes, furnished with high and thick bulwarks of planks, almost musket-proof; and from these they drove arrows, darts, and stones against the soldiers with destructive effect. Nay, with such wisdom had the young king of Mexico devised means to embarrass his adversary, that he had even secured his little flotillas from the possibility of approach, by sinking rows of piles in the lake, parallel with the causeways, through which the brigantines could not pass, to disperse them. It was to but little purpose that Cortes battered them from a distance with his falconets; the following morning saw replaced every loss of men and canoes. The soldiers were excited to fury by an annoyance so irritating, and some were found at times frantic enough to leap into the lake, where the waters happened to be sufficiently shallow, and endeavour to carry the flotillas, sword in hand.
The narrowness and obstructed condition of the dikes making it impossible that all the forces could act upon them together, the vast multitudes of native allies were left in reserve, with the cavalry, on the shore,—where they were not idle, the numbers, as well as the boldness of the Mexicans being so great, that they frequently sent armies to the shore by night, who, at the dawn, fell upon the reserved troops with all the rancour of opponents in a civil war.
This was the condition of the war at its commencement. The grand desiderata,—the removal of the flotillas, and the profitable employment of the confederates, were not effected until Cortes had seized all the piraguas of the shore-towns, and sent them, manned with Tlascalans, against the palisaded posts, where, besides doing what execution they could upon the enemy, the allies tore away the piles, and thus admitted some of the lighter brigantines among the canoes.
Aided in this manner, the soldiers were able to advance along the several dikes, until they got possession of certain military stations, on each, which might have been called the gates of Mexico.
It has been already said, that the causeways of Iztapalapan and Cojohuacan, coming respectively from the south and southwest, united together at the distance of less than a league from Mexico. At the point of junction, the causeway expanded into a mole or quay, where was a strong and lofty stone wall, the passage through which was contrived by the overlapping of the walls, in the manner described at Tezcuco. This rampart was defended by very strong towers and by a parapet with embrasures, from which the defenders could easily repel any enemy, inferior in strength and determination to the Spaniards. The point was called Xoloc, and when wrested from the hands of the Mexicans, became the head-quarters of Cortes.
A similar expansion of the dike of Tacuba, fortified in the same way, and at the distance of two miles from the city, and one from the shore, afforded a resting-place and garrison for the forces under Alvarado, whose first act, after reaching Tacuba, was to destroy the aqueduct of Chapoltepec, which consisted of a double line of baked earthenware pipes, carried across the lake on a dike constructed only for that purpose, and therefore so narrow and inconsiderable, that it does not appear that the Spaniards derived any advantage from the possession of it.
The division of De Olid united with that of Sandoval at the point Xoloc; the latter of whom was afterwards directed to take possession of the northern dike of Tepejacac, the remains of which may yet be traced between the city and the hill of Our Lady of Guadalupe, on which was a fortification resembling the others.
These positions being thus assumed, the Captain-General divided the fleet of brigantines among the three captains, to whom they were of vast service, by protecting the flanks of their divisions.
From this period, the siege may be considered to have been begun in form; and it was continued with a fury of attack and resistance almost without parallel in the history of conquest. Foot by foot, and inch by inch, the invaders advanced, staining the causeways with their blood, and choking the lake with the bodies of their foes. Ditch after ditch was won and filled, and almost as often lost and re-opened. The day was devoted to battle, the night to alarms. The only periods of rest were when the daily tempests, for it was now the heart of the rainy season, burst over the heads of the combatants, as if heaven had sent its floods to efface the horrible dyes of carnage, and its thunders to drown the roar of man's more destructive artillery. Then, the exhausted soldier and the fainting barbarian flung themselves to rest upon the trodden mud of their ramparts, within sight of each other, regardless of the wrath of the elements, so much less enduring than their own.
At first, the Spaniards after winning a ditch and filling it, were content to return for the night to the fortified stations, to shelter themselves in the towers, and in miserable huts of reeds which they had constructed, from the rains, that, usually, continued until midnight. But finding that the infidels, more manly or more desperate, devoted the night to repair the losses of the day, by again opening the chasms, they denied themselves even this poor solace, and threw themselves to sleep on the spots where they fought, ready to resume the conflict at the first glimmer of dawn.
Thus, day by day, the approaches were effected, and by the end of the second month, the besiegers had advanced almost to the suburbs, which jutted out into the lake along the three causeways, supported upon foundations of piles, and sometimes piers of stone. The houses stood apart from each other, but were connected, in seasons of peace, by light wooden drawbridges, running from terrace to terrace; so that thestreetsof these quarters may be said to have been on the tops of the houses,—and the same thing was true of the gardens. The communication below was effected always by means of canoes. Among these edifices, the water was often of sufficient depth to float the brigantines of lighter draught, which sometimes entered them, to fire the buildings, that were so many fortresses, from which the soldiers on the causeways could be annoyed.
The labours and sufferings of the besiegers were constant, and almost intolerable; yet they endured them with a patience derived from the assurance of a certain though tardy success. The toils and distresses of the Mexicans were greater, and endured with heroism still more noble, because almost without hope; and it may be said with justice of these poor barbarians, whose memory has almost vanished from the earth, that never yet did a people fight for their altars and firesides with greater courage and devotion. They saw themselves each day confined to narrow limits,—they fought the more resolutely; they beheld all the marine forces of the neighbouring towns, late their feudatories, led against them,—they sent navies of their own to chastise the insurgents, and still kept their ground against the Spaniards.
It was certain that Cortes had found in the young king an antagonist far more formidable than he had expected. The resistance at the ramparts, the sallies by night that were often made with fatal effect, the secret expeditions against the shores, and the stratagems put in execution to cripple the brigantines, all indicated, in the infidel prince, a capacity of mind worthy of his unconquerable courage. A single exploit will prove his daring and his craft. He decoyed two of the largest brigantines into a certain bay, where many of his strongest piraguas lay in ambush among the reeds. With these, he attacked, boarded, and carried the two vessels, and had he possessed any knowledge of the management of sails, would have conducted them in safety to his palace walls. As it was, they were maintained against an overpowering force, sent to retake them, and not yielded until the captors had destroyed every Christian on board, fifty in number, as well as the sails and cordage, and cast the falconets into the lake.