University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

The royal garden of Tezcuco was an extensive
piece of ground, fenced, on three sides, by the palace
and its dependencies, and bounded on the
fourth, by the waters of the lake, from which it was
divided by a low wall, long since broken down by
the Conquerors, by certain shadowy buildings, and
by clumps of noble cypresses and other trees. The
moon, not yet near her full, shone westward of the
meridian, in a sky intensely azure and almost
cloudless; and her beams could be traced, through
the wall of cypresses, glittering and dancing on the
light waves, as they rippled up merrily to the night-breeze.
What taste was displayed in the plan and
cultivation of the garden, could not be determined,
at this hour, and in this insufficient, though beautiful,
light. One could behold, indeed, obscurely,
flower-beds and shrubberies, winding alleys and
hanging groves, little still pools and even, here and
there, a jetting fountain, scattered about in a manner
which the imagination might believe was designed
and judicious; but it seemed, at night, rather
a wilderness, in which the nostrils had greater reason
to be gratified than the eyes. A thousand
odours fell from the trees, a thousand scents rose
from the flowers, as the heads of the one and the
petals of the other were shaken by the flitting gusts.
It was a scene calculated at least to soothe exasperated
feelings, and induce sentiment and melancholy
in the breast of the contemplative.

To Juan's temperament, it would have been, at
any other moment, saddening enough; but his

thoughts were, at present, far too much, and far too
painfully, engaged, to permit any to be wasted upon
it.

As he followed hastily at the heels of the Alguazil,
he made one or two agitated attempts to draw
from him some further tokens to remove or confirm
his boding suspicions; but the Alguazil had on the
sudden grown very cautiously or very maliciously
silent, and answered only by pressing his finger on
his lips, eyeing the youth significantly, and hurrying
him more rapidly along.

He led him to a spot, almost in the centre of the
garden, where a little oval-shaped pool lay embosomed
among schinus-trees, whose long weeping
branches, stirred by the wind, swept gracefully
over and in the water, which was only agitated,
when thus disturbed by the motion of a bough, or
by the plunge of the fragrant berries, the harvest of
a former year, which dropped at intervals from the
cluster. A single moonbeam found its way into
this solitary inclosure, falling upon a limited portion
of a path which seemed to surround the pool. In
other respects, all was dark and invisible, and not
a ray could be seen on the water, save when the
spectator, peering over the brink, beheld some faint
star of the zenith glimmering down among the
shadowy depths.

Upon this path, and in this moonbeam, the Alguazil
paused, and pointing hastily to a nook—the
darkest of all where all were dark,—Juan perceived
obscurely what seemed a moving figure. The next
moment, Villafana passed among the boughs, retracing
his steps, and strode again into the moonlight.
As he stood an instant shaking the dewdrops
from his cloak, he beheld a dark object approaching
slowly on the path. It was the faithful
Befo, who, with his head to the ground, and his tail
draggling in the grass, as if sensible of having committed
a breach of discipline, yet crawled along

after his master, under the irresistible instinct of
fidelity.

“This is ill thought on, and may be unlucky,”
muttered Villafana, with a subdued voice. “Here,
Befo! you rascal! come with me, and you shall
have a bone.—Ay, thou ill devil!” he continued, in
the same whispered tones, as Befo, without stirring
to the right or the left, and merely showing his
teeth, when the Alguazil seemed disposed to check
him with his hand, passed on towards the grove,—
“go thy ways, and growl as thou wilt: thou art
the only thing in the land incorruptible. But thou
wilt be acquainted with my dagger yet, if thou hast
no better appetite for my dinner.”

He resumed his path. He had not taken a dozen
steps, before he became sensible of the approach of
another intruder: but this time the intruder was
human. There was something in the fashion and
sweep of the garments, which, even at a distance,
apprized him of the character of the comer.

“The devil take these prying priests, monks,
friars, and all!” he muttered irreverently betwixt
his teeth.—“Holy father,—Hah! by the mass,
is it thou, Camarga! my brother of all orders,
monkish, mendicant, martial, and so on? Thy
masking goes the wrong way: I told thee to meet
me at the prison. 'Tis my palace, man; and the
princes are in waiting.—Come, these damp mazes
are ill for thy years and diseased liver. We will
walk together.”

“Señor Gruñidor, as they call you,” said Camarga,
flinging back the white cowl, and revealing
his sallow features in the moonshine, “señor Alguazil,
carcelero, rogue, conspirator, devil, and
what-not, how I came to be so deep among your
damnable devices, in the short month I have been
in this land, I know not, except that I have, like
thyself, a greater aptitude to be groping among
caverns than journeying on kings' highways. But

know, sirrah, that besides thy subtleties, I have
some whimseys of my own; to which, when the
wind stirs them, yours must give place, were they
ten thousand times more magnificent than your
wit strives to make them appear. Begone, therefore;
get thee to thy scurvy Tlascalan, whom thou
art training to the gallows; to thy Mexican Magnifico,
who is an ass to trust his neck to thy keeping;
and to what vagabond Christians will give thee
their countenance, who are e'en greater fools than
thyself, and the Indians together. Get thee away:
I have business of mine own; and I will come to
you when it is despatched, or I will not come,—
just as the imp urges me. So away with you, and
leave me to myself.”

“Under your favour, no,” said Villafana, apparently
too well acquainted with the man to be much
surprised at a tone and manner so unlike to those
which Camarga had used at the cypress-tree: “I
must e'en have your saintly cowl and leaden cross,
to swear the two infidels together: otherwise there
is no trusting them.—They have much superstitious
reverence for our priests and ceremonies.
Come, señor; I tell thee, the Mexican will make
our fortunes.”

“Thine, rogue, thine!” said the disguised Camarga,
impatiently: “Why talkest thou to me in
this stupid wise? I am an older villain than thou.—
I have a fancy for this lad of the Anakim, this thick-witted,
turtle-brained young Magog. Thou makest
a mystery of him, too. 'Slid! I will penetrate it;
for I have a use to make of him, as well as thou.”

“Demonios!” said Villafana; “are you seeking
Juan Lerma?”

“Ay, marry. I dogged thee hitherward, I saw
thee hide him in the bush, and by St. Dominic,
(who will fry my soul to cinders, for defiling his
garments—peccavi!) I will know what's i' the
wind betwixt you, ere I stir a step further in your

counsels. Dost thou think I will be thine accomplice,
and have anything hidden from me? Thou
swearest, he is to be murdered to-morrow, too.
There is no time to be lost.”

“Thou art mad,” said Villafana: “he is engaged
on our business. I make no mystery; I will tell
you all. It is well I met thee. He has company,—a
good sword,—and would think no more of lunging
through thy holy lion's skin, if he caught thee eavesdropping—”

“Hark! dost thou not hear tuck and corselet?”
said Camarga, smiling grimly, and rattling the hilt
of a sword against his concealed armour. “I must
know his companion too. I tell thee, I will have
all thy secrets, or I drop thee, perhaps denounce
thee.”

“Thou shalt have them,” said Villafana, gradually
drawing him further from the pool. “His companion
is La Monjonaza.”

“Ha! sits the wind there? I must have a peep
at her: they say, she is lovely as a goddess.”

“Thou wilt incense her,” said Villafana, emphatically.
“By heaven, thou knowest not the temper
of this woman, which is deadly. Leave the two
cooing fools to themselves. Our fortunes,—nay,
faith, our lives, depend upon them. La Monjonaza
is deep in our secrets,—”

“Knave!” muttered the pretended friar, in a low
but furious voice, “hast thou trusted my life in the
keeping of a woman?”

“Pho, she is an older conspirator than thou; a
wiser, too, for she can keep her temper. Out of
her love for the young man, we draw our truest
safety and quickest success.”

“Her love! oh fu! and is she of this corrupt
fickleness, that she will have two lovers in one
hour? But it is the way with these creatures!”

“They are old lovers, very old lovers, señor,”
said Villafana, endeavouring, as he spoke, but in

vain, to quicken the steps of Camarga. “You
shall hear the story.—Juan Lerma's father was
some low, poor, base fellow, killed in some tumult
at Isabela. The old hidalgo, Antonio del Milagro,
took the boy out of charity, first as a servant—”

“A servant? Dios mio!—Is he of no better beginning?”

“Not a jot; but the old fellow liked him, and, in
the end, treated him full as well as his own son,—
a knavish lad, called Hilario, some two or three
years older than Juan.”

'Slife!” said Camarga, “tell me no granddam's
tale, with all tedious particulars. How came the
youth into the hands of Cortes?”

“Even by setting out to seek his fortune, somewhat
early, and getting to Santiago, where Cortes
took him into keeping. You heard us say, that
Don Hernan, when he received his commission
from Velasquez, sent Juan back to his native island,
to recruit forces. It was natural he should visit
his old friends at Isabela. It was here he met with,
and quarrelled about, Magdalena—”

“Magdalena!” said Camarga, with surprise.
“You swore her name was Infeliz!”

“Ay; but the true one is Magdalena. When
she came from Spain—”

“From Spain!” cried Camarga, starting: “is she
not an islander?”

“Pho! didst thou ever see a creature of her
beauty, born out of Andalusia?”

“I have not seen her—but I will,—yes, by all
the saints of heaven, I will,—I must.—How came
she to the island?”

“Oh, a-horseback, I think,” said Villafana; “for
the ship was never seen at Isabela: never question
about that. The two young dogs, Hilario and
Juan, found her somewhere, brought her to old Milagro,
and, Juan being more favoured and better
beloved than Hilario, who, to say truth, was both

ugly and vicious, they fought about her, and Hilario
was killed. Thus, Juan was left the master of
the beauty; but being tired of her, or afraid of old
Milagro's vengeance, or perhaps both, he fled again
to Cuba, and thence as you heard, came to Mexico
in a fusta. What brought Magdalena after him I
know not, unless 'twas mad, raging love; yes, faith,
that's the cause; for she cares not half so much for
Don Hernan. But they did say, at Isabela, she had
a better cause; for the ship, it was well known—”

“Fool of all fools!” said Camarga, with a strange
and unnatural laugh, “didst thou not say the ship
was never seen at Isabela?”

“Ay, truly; but it was seen on the rocks at the
Point of Alonso, not many leagues distant,” replied
Villafana; and then added, “I would thou couldst
be more choice of thine epithets of endearment.
These `knaves,' `rogues,' and `fools,' do well
enough among friends; but one may season discourse
too strongly with them, even for the roughest
appetite.—The ship was a wreck: there was
said to be foul work about it; but that's neither
here nor there. The girl was brought ashore by
the young men, Juan being good in the management
of a skiff,—indeed, a notoriously skilful and
fearless sailor. What was said of Magdalena, was
this,” continued the Alguazil, with a low, confidential
voice: “It was discovered, or at least conjectured,
that the ship was no other than the Santa
Anonciacion, a vessel sent from Seville with a bevy
of nuns,—faith, some worshippers of thine own
good St. Dominic,—who were to found a convent at
the Havana. It was whispered, that the fair Magdalena
was even one of the number, and therefore
—But the thing must be plain! To be a nun, and
to love young fellows par amours—this is a matter
for the Inquisition. But thanks be to God, we have
no good Brothers in Mexico!—I will tell thee more,
as we walk, and show thee, if thou hast not the wit

to see it, how much it concerns us to have a friend
like La Monjonaza.”

“I have heard enough,” said Camarga, with tones
deep and hoarse; “enough, and more than enough.
And this woman was, then, the leman of Juan
Lerma, and, now, the creature of Cortes!”—Here
he muttered something to himself. Then, speaking
with an audible voice, he said,

“Get thee to thy den, and look to thyself: there
is danger afloat, and full enough to excuse me from
meddling with thee to-night. There is a force of
men concealed near to the prison, and commanded
by Guzman. Ask no questions—look to thyself:
thou art suspected.”

At these words, Villafana became greatly alarmed,
and exchanging but a few words more with Camarga,
hastily departed. He was no sooner gone,
than Camarga, yielding to an emotion he had long
suppressed, fell upon his knees and uttered wild
prayers, mingled with groans and maledictions, all
the while beating his breast and brows. Then
rising and whipping out his sword, as if to execute
some deadly purpose of vengeance, he strode towards
the pool.