University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

As the bushes parted, a tall figure sprang into
the path, and running round the pool, would instantly
have been at the side of the two Castilians,
who were yet unobserved, had it not been that
Befo, his ferocity greatly whetted by his former encounter,
darted forward as at first, with a sudden
roar, with equal violence, and with similar success.
As the stranger fell to the earth under an attack so
impetuous and unexpected, he uttered an exclamation
in which Juan recognized the language of
Mexico. He ran forwards, guided by the growls
of the beast and the stifled cries of the man, (for the
spot on which the two contended was covered with
impenetrable gloom,) and, by accident, caught the
stranger's arm, and felt that it wielded a heavy
macana, now uplifted against the animal. As his
other hand was stretched forward, again to remove
the victorious Befo from a fallen antagonist, it fell
upon the naked breast of a barbarian.—In a moment
more, he had torn the dog away, and dragged
the savage into the moonshine, where he had left
Camarga standing, but where Camarga stood no
longer. He had fled away in the confusion, unobserved,
and now almost forgotten.

Here Juan released the captive from his powerful
grasp, for his rapier was in his hand, and the
macana of the Mexican he had already cast into the
pool; and thus standing, confiding as much in the
aid of Befo as in the menacing attitude of his weapon,
he began to address his prisoner.

“What art thou?” he demanded, in the tongue
which, as he had boasted, was almost as familiar to
him as the language of Spain: “What art thou?
and what dost thou here?”

Instead of answering, the Mexican, gazing over
his conqueror's shoulder, seemed to survey, with
looks of admiration and alarm, some spectacle behind
his back. Juan cast his eye in the direction
thus indicated, and beheld the visage of Magdalena,
recalled by the tumult, gleaming hard by. In an
instant more, she had vanished, and he turned again
to the captive, who, when the vision, to him so inexplicable,
had faded away, now directed his attention
to an object equally surprising and much more
formidable in his estimation than even the redoubt
able Juan. As he rolled his eyes, in mingled wonder,
trepidation, and anger, on the huge Befo, who
now stood regarding him, writhing his lips and
showing his tusks, in the manner with which he
was wont so expressively to intimate his readiness
to obey any signal of attack, Juan had full leisure
to observe that the Indian was a young man not
above twenty-three or twenty-four years old, of
good and manly stature, and limbs nobly proportioned.
His only garments were a tunic and mantle
of some dark-coloured stuff, but little ornamented,
the former extending from the waist to the
knees, the latter, knotted, as usual, about his throat,
but so disordered and torn by the teeth of the dog,
as to leave the upper part of his body nearly naked.
His only defensive armour was a little round buckler
of the skin of the danta or tapir, not exceeding
fourteen inches in diameter, strapped to his left
arm. The loss of the macana had left him without
any offensive weapon. As he raised his head at
the second salutation of his capturer, he flung back
the long masses of black hair from his forehead, and
displayed a visage, as well, at least, as it could be

seen in the moonlight, not unworthy his manly
person.

“Olin, the tongue of the Teuctli, is a prisoner.”

As he pronounced these words, in his own language,
signifying that he was an orator of his
high class, and that he confessed himself a captive,
he touched the earth with his hand and kissed it,
in token of submission. The tones of his voice
caused Juan to start.

He dropped his sword-point, advanced nearer to
him, and perused his features with intense curiosity.
His gaze was returned with a look of equal
surprise, which betrayed a touch of fear; for the
Mexican at once exclaimed, withdrawing a step
backward,

“The Great Eagle fell among the archers of Matlatzinco!”

“The king is not wise—Guatimozin is in the
hands of Cortes!” said Juan, with deep earnestness.

“Olin is the orator—the king is wise,” replied the
Indian, hastily.

“It is in vain,” said Juan. “Thou art Guatimozin!
and a captive, too, ere a blow has been struck,
in the camp of thy foeman! Is this an end for the
king of Mexico?”

“Quauhtimozin can die: there are other kings
for the free warriors of Tenochtitlan,” replied the
young monarch, boldly and haughtily, avowing his
name,—which is here given in its original and
genuine harshness, that the reader may be made
acquainted with it; though it is not intended to substitute
it for its more agreeable and familiar corruption:
“Guatimozin is a prisoner,” he continued,
with a firm voice and lofty demeanour, “but the
king of Mexico is free.—When did the Great Eagle
become the foe of Guatimozin?”

“I am not thy foe,” replied Juan, “but thy friend;

so far, at least, as it becomes a Christian and
Spaniard to be. I lament to see thee in this place—
I am not thy foe.”

“Raise then thy weapon,” said the prince, dropping
his haughty manner and ceremonious style,
and speaking, as he laid his hand on Juan's arm,
with fierce emotion; “strike me through the neck,
and cast my body into the pool.—It is not fit that
Guatimozin should wear the bonds of Montezuma!”

It must not be supposed that this conversation
took place in quiet. During the whole time, on the
contrary, the garden continued to resound with the
voices of men running from copse to copse, from
alley to alley, sometimes drawing nigh, and, at other
moments, appearing to be removed to the furthest
limits of the grounds. At the moment when the
Mexican made his abrupt and insane appeal to the
friendship of his capturer, a party of Spaniards
rushed by at so short a distance and with so much
clamour, that he had good reason to conceive himself
almost already in their hands. They passed
by, however, and with them fled a portion of Juan's
embarrassment. As soon as he perceived they
were beyond hearing, he replied:

“This were to be thy foe indeed. But, oh, unwise
and imprudent! what tempted thee to this
mad confidence?”

“The craft of Malintzin,” replied the Mexican,
making use of a name which his people had long
since attached to Cortes,—“the craft of Malintzin,
who ensnares his foe like the wild Ottomi, hidden
among the reeds;—he scatters the sweet berry on
the lake, and steals upon the feeding sheldrake; so
steals Malintzin. He sends words of peace to the
foe afar; when the foe is asleep, Malintzin is a
tiger!”

“And thou hast been deceived by these perfidious
and unworthy arts?” said Juan, the innuen-does

of Villafana and the monitions of Magdalena,
recurring to his mind with painful force.

“Deceived and trapped!” replied the infidel, with
fierce indignation; “cajoled by lies, circumvented
by treachery, seduced and betrayed!—Is the Great
Eagle like Malintzin?” As he spoke thus, sinking
his voice, which was indeed all the time cautiously
subdued, he again laid his hand on the young
Christian's arm, and continued,

“Art thou such a man, and dost thou desire the
blood of thy friend? What shall be said to the little
Centzontli, the mocking-bird? The little Centzontli
sang the song to Guatimozin, `Let not the Great
Eagle die in the trap!' What sings she now? Does
the Great Eagle listen to the little Centzontli?”

“He does,” replied Juan, on whom these metaphors,
however mysterious they may seem to the
reader, produced a strong impression. “Thou art
my prisoner, not Don Hernan's; and it rests with
me to liberate or to bind, not with him. Answer
me, therefore, truly; for if thou hast been trained
by treachery into this present danger, coming with
thoughts of peace and composition, and not with
an army, to surprise and slay, thou shalt be made
free, even though the act cost me my life.”

“I come in peace: does the leader of an army
walk bareheaded and naked? My canoe lies hid
among the reeds: my warriors are asleep on the
island. The Christian sent for a lord of the city, to
give his hand to the angry men of Tlascala. Guatimozin
is not the king, but he brought them the
hand of the king.—It was the lie of Malintzin! I
am betrayed!”

“If I suffer thee to depart,” said Juan, anxiously,
“canst thou make good thy escape?”

“Is not Guatimozin a soldier?” replied the Mexican,
with a gleaming eye. “Give me a sword, and
hold fast the Christian tiger.”—

“Hark!—peace!” whispered Juan, drawing the

prisoner suddenly among the boughs: “we are beset.
Hist, Befo, hist!”

With a degree of uneasiness, which approached
almost to fear, when he found that Befo, instead of
following him into his concealment, remained out
upon the illuminated path, where he attracted notice,
while expressing fidelity, by setting up an
audible growl, Juan heard a man crash through the
boughs on the further side of the pool, all the while
calling loudly and cheerily to his companions.

“Hither, knaves!” he cried; “the fox is in cover!
Hither! quick, hither!”

It was the voice of Guzman. He had caught the
growl of the dog, and responded with a shout of
triumph, as he ran forward, closely followed by
three or four soldiers armed with spears;

“The bloodhound for ever! he has the fox in his
mouth, I know by his growling!—Hah, Befo, fool?”
he continued, when he had reached the animal;
“art thou baying the moon then?—Pass on, pass
on: no Indian passes scotfree by Befo at midnight
—Pass on, pass on!”

In a moment more, the nook was left to its solitude,
and Juan reappeared, with the prince. The
sight and voice of Guzman had stirred up his wrath,
and he took his measures with a quicker and sterner
resolution.

“He protects and loves this man, who is a villain,”
he muttered through his teeth. “There is
nothing else left. Follow me prince: if we are seen,
thy fate is not more certain than mine—Follow me
in silence.”

The garden was still alive with men; they could
be seen running about in different directions, though
the greatest numbers seemed to be collected at the
bottom, near to the lake side. It was not from this
circumstance, however, so much as from his ignorance
of every portion of the grounds except that
by which he had approached the pool, that he bent

his steps towards the wing of the palace he had so
lately left. He advanced cautiously, taking advantage
of every clump of trees, which could afford
concealment from any passing group; and once or
twice, to allay suspicion, adding his voice to those
of the others, as if engaged in the same duty; in
which latter stratagem he was ably seconded by
the unconscious Befo, whose bark, excited by the
shout of his master, was a sufficient warrant to all
within hearing, of the friendly character of the party.

Thus assisted by the undesigned help of the dog,
and by the imitative caution of the Mexican, he succeeded
in reaching the wing of the palace, and the
passage that led to his chamber, which was illumined
by torches of resinous wood. A door, leading
to the open square that surrounded the palace,
opened opposite to that by which he entered
from the garden. It was his intention, if possible,
to pass through this into the city, not doubting that
it would be easy to conceal the fugitive among the
thousand barbarians of his own colour and appearance,
who yet thronged the streets; after which, it
would not perhaps be impracticable to find some
way to discharge him from the gates. But, unfortunately,
as he pressed towards it, he found the outer
door beset by armed men, thronging tumultuously
in, as if to join their comrades in the garden. There
was nothing left him, then, but to seek his apartment,
as hastily as he could, and there conceal the
Mexican until the heat of pursuit was over. A motion
of his hand apprized the fugitive of his change
of purpose, and Guatimozin, darting quickly forward,
was already stealing into the chamber, when
a harsh voice suddenly bawled behind,

“Mutiny and miracles! here runs the rat with
the viper! Treason, treason!”

It was the hunchback Najara, whose quick eye
detected the vanishing hair, and who now ran
forward in pursuit, followed by a confused throng

of soldiers, from among whom suddenly darted the
cavalier Don Francisco de Guzman.

Juan had reached the door. The cry of Najara
assured him that he was discovered; and conscious
that his act of generosity was, or of right ought to
be, considered little better than sheer treason, the
varied passions of hope, grief, indignation and
wrath, which had been, the whole evening, chasing
one another through his bosom, gave place at once
to the single feeling of despair. He felt that he was
now lost.

At this very moment, while his brain was confused,
and his heart dying within him, a laugh
sounded in his ear, and he heard, even above the
clamorous shouts of the soldiers, the voice of Guzman,
exclaiming,

“What think'st thou now, señor? Art thou conquered?—Stand!
I arrest thee.”

He turned; the cavalier was within reach of his
arm, and the malignant sneer was yet writhing over
his visage. The words of scorn, the look of exultation,
were intolerable; the rapier was already naked
in his hand, and almost before he was himself aware
of the act, it was aimed, with a deadly lunge, at
Don Francisco's throat.

“The deed has slain thee!” cried Guzman, leaping
backwards, so as to avoid a thrust too fiercely
sudden to be parried, and then again rushing forward,
before he could be supported by the soldiers,
who had also recoiled at this show of resistance;
“the act has slain thee; and so take the fate thou
art seeking!”

As he spoke, he advanced his weapon, which was
before unsheathed, against an adversary, whom the
recollection of a thousand wrongs had inflamed to
frenzy, but who could scarcely be supposed to have
retained, during a year of servitude and suffering,
the skill in arms, which once made him an equal
antagonist. Nevertheless, Guzman's pass was turned

aside, and returned with such interest, that, had
the field been fair and unincumbered, it is questionable
how long he might have lived to repeat it.
As it was, the combat was cut short by the interposition
of the bloodhound, who, whining, at first,
as if unwilling to attack a cavalier so long and so
well known as Don Francisco, and yet unable to
remain neuter, at last added his fierce yell to the
clash of the weapons, and decided the battle by
springing against Guzman's breast. It was perhaps
fortunate for the cavalier that he did. He had
a breast-plate on; and, for this reason, Juan aimed
the few blows that were made, full at his throat,
with the fatal determination of one, who, hopeless
of life himself, had sworn a vow to his soul that his
enemy should die. It was but the third thrust he had
made, (they had scarce occupied so many seconds,)
and it was directed with such irresistible skill and
violence, that the point of the weapon was already
gliding through Guzman's beard and razing his
skin, when the weight of Befo's assault, for the third
time successful, hurled him from his feet, and thus
saved his life, at the expense of a severe gash made
through his right cheek and ear.

The whole of this encounter, from the first attack
to the fall of Guzman, had not occupied the space
of twenty seconds; and Don Francisco was at the
mercy of his rival, before even the rapid Najara
could advance a spear to protect him. It was not
improbable that Juan would have taken a deadly
advantage of the mishap, for, as he had declared,
in a cooler moment, he hated Don Francisco, and
his blood was now boiling. If such, however, was
his purpose, he was prevented putting it into execution
by another one of those opposing accidents,
which seemed this night, to pursue him with such
unrelenting rigour.

Before he could advance a single step, a cavalier,
bareheaded and unarmed, save that he flourished

a naked sword, sprang from the throng of soldiers,
followed by the señor Camarga, now without his
masking habit, the latter of whom cried with fierce
emphasis, all the time, “Kill him! cut him down!
kill him!” until the soldiers caught up the cry, and
the whole passage echoed with their furious exclamations.
These served but the end of still further
exasperating the choler of the young man,
thus beset as it seemed by the tyranny of numbers;
and seeing the bareheaded cavalier advancing
against him, and already betwixt him and his fallen
rival, he turned upon him with fresh fury.

“Hah!” cried the new antagonist, when Juan's
weapon clashed against his own; “traitor! dost
thou provoke thy fate?”

The words were not out of his lips, before Juan
perceived that he had raised his rapier against the
bosom of Cortes. He beheld, in the countenance
which he had once loved, the scowl of an evil spirit,
and the fire flashing from the general's eyes, was
no longer to be mistaken for aught but the revelation
of the deadliest hatred. He flung down his
sword, resisting no longer, and the next instant
would have been run through the body, but that
Befo, fearing to attack, and yet unable to resist the
impulse of fidelity, sprang up, with a howl, and
seized the weapon with his teeth. Before Cortes
could disengage it, and again turn it upon the unfortunate
youth, the Mexican fugitive glided from
the apartment, threw himself before the latter, and
taking the point of the weapon in his hand, placed
it against his own naked breast. Then bowing his
head submissively, he stood in tranquillity, expecting
his death.

At his sudden appearance, the soldiers set up a
shout, and Cortes was sufficiently diverted from his
bloody purpose, to smooth his frowning brow into
an air of official sternness.

“Olin is the prisoner of the Teuctli,” murmured

the captive, in words scarce understood by any one
present, except Juan.

“Where bide mine Alguazils?” demanded the
Captain-General, without condescending to notice
the Mexican any further than merely by removing
the rapier from his grasp. “Hah, Guzman! thou
art hurt, art thou? By heaven,”—But he checked
the oath, when he observed that Guzman, already
on his feet, notwithstanding the frightful appearance
that was given him by the blood running
down his cheek and neck, and drippling slowly
from his beard, replied to the exclamation with a
smile of peculiar coolness: “Get thee to a surgeon.
Where bide the Alguazils? Is there no officer to
rid me of a traitor?”

“Señor General,” said Juan, sullenly, “I am no
traitor—”

He was interrupted by the appearance of two
men, carrying batons, who bustled from among the
crowd, and laid hands upon him. The readiest
and the most officious was Villafana, who concealed
a vast deal of agitation under an air of extravagant
zeal.

“Ha, Villafana! art thou found at last?” cried
Don Hernan, with apparent anger. “Hast thou
no better care of thy ward on the water-side, but
that spies may come stealing into my garden?”

“May it please your excellency,” said Villafana,
recovering his wit, “I was neither gambling nor
asleep; but—'Slid, this is a pretty piece of villany!
Oho, señor mutineer, this is hanging-work?—Speak
not a word, as you love life.”—This was spoken
apart into Juan's ear.—“What is your excellency's
will, touching the prisoner?”

“Have him to prison, and see that he escape
not.”

These words were pronounced with a coolness
and gravity that amazed all who had witnessed
the rage, which, but a moment before, had shaken

the frame of the Captain-General. “And you, ye
idle fellows,” he continued, addressing the soldiers,
“get you to your quarters, to your watch, or to
your beds. Begone.—Why loiter ye, Villafana?
Conduct away the prisoner.”

Juan raised his eyes once more to the general,
and seemed as if he would have spoken; but, confused
and bewildered by the extraordinary termination
of the drama of the day, chilled by frowns,
oppressed by a consciousness of having provoked
his fate, his head sunk in a deep dejection on his
breast, and he suffered himself to be led silently
away.

A gleam of light, such as flares up at night from
a decaying brand, just lost in ashes, sprang up in
the leader's eyes, as they followed the steps of the
unhappy youth, until, passing from that door, which
he had so vainly sought to gain with the Mexican, he
vanished from sight. Its lustre was hidden from
all but the captive, who, maintaining throughout
the whole scene, the self-possession, characteristic of
all the American race, from the pygmies of the
Frozen Sea to the giants of Patagonia, did not lose
the opportunity thus afforded, of diving into the
thoughts of the Invader.

As soon as Juan Lerma had departed, with the
mass of the soldiers, Cortes turned to the Mexican,
and with a mild countenance, and a gentle voice,
which were designed to convey the proper interpretation
of his Castilian speech, said,

“Let my young friend, the Tlatoani, be at
peace, and fear not; no harm is designed him.”

Then, making a signal to those who remained,
to lead the captive after him, he passed into the
garden, and thence, by a private entrance, into the
hall of audience.