University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
THREE HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

—Texan MSS.

Upon the sandy shore a white tent arose,
shadowed by the deep-green leaves of a cypress
tree.

Around that tent were grouped a band of
warriors attired in linked steel, their bearded
faces surmounted by iron helmets, an iron
sword in each sinewy hand. A deep murmur
thrilled through the group, and the last gleam
of the fading light revealed the various passions,—anger,
despair, hope—contending for
the mastery in every warrior's face.

While they surrounded the tent, flinging
their mailed hands in fierce gesticulations, in
the air, the light of sunset mellowed the waveless
ocean, and the waters melted without a
sound upon the pebbled shore.

Around was the glowing panorama of fruit
and flowers: from the thickly clustered foliage
the purple grape, the fragrant fig, the
golden orange, were seen, while over all
arose the melancholy palm, so lone in its majesty;
the strong cypress, so big, in every
inch of its rugged bark, with the history of
ast years.

And over all, far away to the west, the
cloudless blue of the evening sky was broken
by a colossal mass, white as sunless
snow.

It was a wild and yet a beautiful scene.—
That group of warriors, beared from the
mouth to the throat, and clad in mail of iron,
clustered about the white tent, their warhorses,
also iron-clad, standing near; the
golded sand stretching far to the north and
south; to the east, the ocean, vast, calm and
trackless; in the west, the serene peak of
Orizaba.

Attracted by the sound of those earnest
voices, speaking deeply, in pure Castilian,
we enter the group and start back, wondering
and dumb, as we behold the two figures that
form the centre of the circle.

A man of thirty-three years, clad in glittering
steel armor, his form at once agile
and athletic, is seated there, upon a rock; his
helmet laid aside, his hands clasping that
sword whose hilt pierces the sand.

A face, high and bold in the forehead,
thoughtful, almost sad, with the light of those
eyes, so unnaturally large and dark,; firm in
the silent compression of the bearded lip—
altogether the face of an enthusiast and a
warrior. Were it not for the air of practical
energy which invests the face we should say,
at the first glance, that we beheld in that
mail-clad man, a dreamer, cased in armor instead
of a cowl.

While all are moved by the tempest of passion,

he alone is calm. Yes, while the monk
at the right surveys the group, and clasps his
crucifix in prayer, while the splendid warrior
on the left, whose battle-steel shines with
drops of gold, seizes his sword, and with a
scornful lip, confronts the group, this man,
with the uncovered brow, is firm and colds a
marble.

`The ships which bore us to this accursed
land, you have destroyed!' shouted an athletic
man, whose dogged features, half-hidden
in his hair and beard, announce a reckless
nature. `By the Holy Trinity, we are here
in a heathen land, at the mercy of the savages
—our bones will bleach upon their altars before
many days!'

And a chorus of fierce ejaculations disturbs
the silence of the evening hour.

`Pity us, Mother of God! We shall never
see Castile again.'

`Never! Our ships, torn to pieces, rot
beneath yonder wave; the madness of this
man hath undone us all.'

`Conquer a nation like this, a nation of
millions, ruled by a great king! It is madness
to think it.'

The man with the uncovered brow heard
it all, with his large eyes fixed upon the sand.
Not a word passed his lips.

`Back!' shouted the splendid knight, who
with drawd sword stood by him; `dare you
menace the captain?'

`For the love of God, my children, be calm,'
besought the priest, lifting into light the holy
Cross.

By this time you have doubtless discovered
that the name of the priest was Olmedo,
the splendid knight, Alvarado; these
mailed forms, the adventurous Spaniards, who
landed a few days since on this unknown
shore; the central figure, so calm, while all
around is storm, Hernan Cortes.

He has destroyed their ships. They cannot
go back—the ocean is between them and
home; before them the wonderous land of
Montezuma, swarming with its millions of
people, and glorious with its unmeasured
stores of gold. This man, Cortes, not long
ago an obscure planter of Cuba, has sworn
with this little band to conquer the empire of
Montezuma!

It is indeed madness.

At last he lifts his eyes and surveys the angry
group. You see the madness of his
dream in the deep flush which reddens his
cheek, in the unnatural glare of his eye.—
That flush, that glare, says more to the warriors
than a thousand words, for they tell us
that the soul of this man is up within him,—
that alone he will accomplish this deed, if
not a single arm moves with him.

He rises, lays his left hand upon the banner
staff—above him the Gonfalon of black velvet,
with its red cross; and with his right he
raises the blade or his sword slowly over his
head.

`Be it so!' his deep, indignant voice is
heard exclaim. `You all desert me. I will
go alone.'

Silence! The genius flashing from this
man's eyes begins its work upon every heart.
Silence, hesitation, suspense!

`There is a land to conquer—it is yonder!'
—he pointed to the setting sun—`there is
gold to win—it is there. There are millions
of heathen, whom we can convert to the true
cross; they, too, are there. You are afraid
to conquer, convert, or win—afraid!—you
desert me. It is a crime that I have destroyed
your ships. I am guilty; I confess it.—
Take your way where you will; as for me,
with this sword in my hand, this banner over
my head, I will cry to God and his saints and
go forth to conquer, alone!'

The silence deepens, heads are drooped,
upraised arms sink with their swords; with
wondering eyes they gaze upon the form of
Cortes.

Alvardo, so splendid in his knightly array,
advances silently to his side,—

`Not alone! for I am with you.'

`And I!' exclaims the priest Olmed, advancing
from the other side.

`And I!' exclaims a soft, low, musical
voice in Castilian, broken by a strange accent
it echoes from the tent and pierces
every heart.

Two white arms are wound around the
neck of Cortes; and pillowed on his right
shoulder is seen a warm face, framed in flowing
hair, and lighted by large eyes that burn
with the religion, the love of a true woman.

Who is this beautiful woman, from whose
brown cheeks glows the ripeness of fiery
blood? So queenly is her form, so voluptuous
in every out line—her young limbs trembling
beneath a robe of spotless white—so
like a passionate woman in her ripe lips, so
like a spirit in her large, eloquent eyes?

Every Spaniard knows her at a glance. The
child of the heathen people, he has forsaken
home and altar for the Christian; she has
linked her fate with Cortes, saying to him in
the beautiful language of the Hebrew maiden
to Naomi,—`wherever thou goest, I will go;
thy people shall be my people—thy God my
God!'

Now spreading forth her arms she looks
upon the stern soldiers, with that glance, so
sublime with woman's faith, and utters the
broken words,—

`I, too, will go!'

Had you turned your eyes for a moment
from this group and then looked again, you
would have seen the sand crowded qy kneeling
men, their eyes gleaming with the frenzy
of enthnsiasm, their swords lifted towards the
holy banner, their voices joining in the shout
—`Mexico and Montezumal Lead us on—
we will conquer with you Cortes, or with you,
Cortes, we will die!'

Orizaba glowed in the setting sun, and the
Indian maiden, Mariana, held over the dark
hair of Cortes a crown of orange blossoms,
with a single blood-red flower in the centre.
As the night sank over the scene, she fluttered
it gently in the air, and it sank, like a good
omen on his brow.