University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

When Magdalena was led from the presence of
Juan, she was conducted through many chambers
and passages, which gave her an idea of the immense
extent of the palace, to the quarter especially
appropriated to the women, and which was as
carefully guarded from the approach of the other
sex as the harem of an oriental monarch. It consisted
of a series of dormitories and other small
apartments, as well as a vast hall, covered with
pictured tapestry and knots of flowers, in which
the daily labour of the loom and spindle was shared
by all, the princess and the slave alike, mingled with
the more elegant occupations of embroidery and
feather-painting.

But the toil of the day had been long since over,
and when she entered, the maidens were amusing
themselves, some talking and laughing, and others
dancing to the sound of flutes, and all unconscious
or heedless of the perils that were about to hem
them in.

The appearance of a vision so strange, so often
imagined, yet never before seen—a woman of the
race of the invaders, and one at once so majestic
and lovely as Magdalena—produced an immediate
sensation throughout the merry crew. The dancing
ceased, the music of the pipe was exchanged for a
murmur of admiration, and all eyes were turned
upon the novel apparition. But it was observable,
that the maidens indulged in no rude demonstrations

of curiosity or surprise. They neither thronged
about her, nor uttered any loud exclamations; and
however ardently they gazed, when unperceived,
each cast her looks modestly to the floor, the moment
she found the eyes of the stranger directed
upon her.

Troubled as were Magdalena's thoughts by the
strangeness of her situation, and conscious of her
inability to exchange a word with these new companions,
she yet felt a sort of relief, and even pleasure,
to find herself once more surrounded by individuals
of her own sex, who, as was evident from
their appearance, were neither rude in manners nor
degraded in mind.

In this happier frame of feeling, she suffered herself
to be conducted to a chamber, where two
young female slaves attended her with refreshments
of meats, fruits, and confections, and pointing to
a couch of robes, upon a little platform under a
canopy, left her to her meditations.

She rose from a troubled and dreamy slumber at
the dawn, and waited impatiently for the moment
when she should be led to Juan. The slaves again
made their appearance, bearing, besides food, which
they set before her, rich garments of the most splendid
hues, which they desired her by signs to substitute
for her monastic attire. To this she acceded,
after some hesitation, thinking it needful to
humour the wishes of those upon whose friendship
her existence, as well as that of Juan, so obviously
depended. She exchanged, at least, the gray veil
for a broad mantle embroidered with feathers and
gold, and placed over her other dress three several
tunics, each of a different hue, and each gorgeously
ornamented. Her toilet was completed when the
slaves had encircled her arms and neck with jewels,
and wreathed her hair with chains of gold; to all
which she passively, yet impatiently, submitted.

Thus dressed and decorated, she was conducted
again to the great hall, and seated upon a throne
cushioned over with feathers of every hue, when,
to her great surprise, she found herself the object
upon whom was to be showered marks of the most
extraordinary honour. The crowd of maidens was
huddled in the farther end of the apartment, where
they stood with downcast eyes, giving place to a
female, evidently of exalted rank, who came from
among them, followed by five or six girls, much
more splendidly dressed than the others, one of
whom bore in her arms a sleeping infant.

The Indian lady was distinguished from her attendants
by apparel similar in hues and splendour
to that worn by Magdalena, and she had on her
head a little cap or caul of emeralds, mingled with
pearls. Her face was prepossessing, her figure
well proportioned, and her bearing not without dignity.
Yet there was in her aspect something of
trouble and hesitation, and she went through the
business of salutation, or rather homage, for so it
appeared, with visible reluctance. She approached
the throne, and kneeling before it, took Magdalena's
hand, and laid it upon her head, speaking a few
words which the Christian did not comprehend.
Then taking the infant from the girl who bore it,
she laid Magdalena's hand upon its innocent brows,
in the same manner; after which she stepped aside,
and the young attendants went each separately
through the same ceremony. This accomplished,
she stole from the apartment, and in a few moments,
the spindle rolled, the shuttle of the simple
loom rattled, and the fingers of the embroiderers
and feather-painters moved over their tasks.

The morning passed away, and Magdalena still
expected a summons to the presence of Juan. The
evening darkened, the fragrant torches were lighted,
the pipe and dance were again summoned to close

the labours of the day, and Magdalena was, a second
time, conducted to her chamber, to muse with
fear and distrust over her singular situation.

The second day beheld the same ceremonies, succeeded
by the same labours and diversions, and
still not a movement indicated the approach of a
messenger. She looked upon the maidens around,
—their faces were grave and placid. They gazed
upon her no more, except when her eyes were
averted. She imagined a thousand reasons to account
for her seclusion. Was her brother, not withstanding
his assurances to the contrary, in a state
of as much restraint as herself? Or—was it possible?—did
it not depend upon himself?—was it possible,
he did not desire to see her? She thought of
his slowness to admit her claim of consanguinity;
she thought of the words of Camarga,—of their
wildness—Had not Juan said he was insane?—of
their insufficiency. Nay, she remembered that Juan
spoke of his father, whom he well remembered;
and among the tears she shed of doubt and disappointment,
she blushed at the boldness and warmth
with which she had advocated her claims.

Another day came,—another, and still another;
and her heart sickened and her cheek grew pale
with suspense and humiliation. Then impatience
waxed into anger, and she stalked among the maidens
with looks of determination, as if she would
have commanded them to lead her from what she
justly conceived to be imprisonment. But how command
them? Her language was as the language of
the gods to them, and their words were to her as unmeaning
as the songs of the birds at the windows.
Eyes can speak many things, but not all; and
signs are of too arbitrary a nature to serve as the
medium of communication betwixt two hemispheres.
If she strove to depart from the chamber,
she was followed by the two slaves, who seemed to

be specially devoted to her service, and who, attending
her from room to room, yet arrested her with
humble and supplicating gestures, when she seemed
to be overstepping the limits of the harem. If she
persisted, she found herself in the power of certain
antique beldames, who prowled around the sacred
chambers, bearing wands to indicate their authority,
and who opposed themselves, though without rudeness,
to further egress. If she still made her way
through these, she found herself stopped by passages,
in which were armed barbarians, who did not
hesitate to block up the avenues with their shields
and spears. In other words, she found that she
was a prisoner, confined to a society as recluse, as
peaceful, and perhaps as happy as that from which
it had been her misfortune to be released. The
pride and energy of her nature were here lost; for
there was nothing with which to contend, except
her feelings, and nothing to excite, save a sense
of wrong, inflicted she knew not by whom, nor
why.

This was precisely the state of things to tame
her spirit into submission and inaction; and, almost
insensibly to herself, she began to accommodate
her deportment to her condition, substituting
anxiety for anger, and despondence for decision.
She began to think that Juan was, like herself, a
prisoner; and the apprehension of his distresses
weighed on her heart more heavily than the sense
of her own; and, as with all her strength of mind
and passion, there was a tinge of superstition
running through all her thoughts, she beheld, in
the singular train of calamities that had brought her
so often to his side, a revelation and proof that she
was ordained, finally, to rescue him from this,
as well as the other ills, which oppressed him.
Another thought brooded also in her bosom.
Hitherto, whatsoever efforts she had made for his

good, had ministered only to his griefs; and what
had they brought to her? From the moment in
which she had first attempted deceit, by concealing
the sanctity of her profession, her life had been but
a history of agony and shame. Had she avowed
herself, immediately after the shipwreck, the bride
of the cross, Hilario had not died under the knife
of the assassin, Juan Lerma had not forfeited the
favour of his general, and she herself had, perhaps,
closed her life in the peace with which it had begun.
She began to picture to herself the sinfulness
of her evasions of vows, and to consider these the
causes of her sufferings. Such thoghts as these,
and a thousand others, divided and harassed her
mind by turns, and confounded while they tormented.
But one idea never left her—and that was, the
uncertainty of the fate of Juan Lerma, and the hope
that it might be reserved for her to free him from
the bondage of infidels. But how was this to be
effected? She knew not.

Her first vague desire was to gain a friend
among the grave and passionless creatures, by
whom she was surrounded. She examined all
their countenances, and soon fixed upon several
in which she thought she could trace kindly feelings
and simplicity of character. She strove also
to acquire a little of their language,—an effort
which she soon gave up, not so much from the
difficulty of acquisition, as from the remoteness of
any benefit to be derived in that way.

She perceived that the Mexican lady who, each
morning, for the first fortnight of her captivity,
(after which time she was seen no more,) commenced
the ceremonies of salutation, so humble, and
indeed to her so irksome, must be of the highest rank,
—perhaps the queen of Guatimozin himself; though
it seemed improbable that one so exalted would
condescend to homage so servile. She was conscious

also, that the six maidens who attended upon
this princess were of no mean rank; for though
they frequently remained in the hall, engaged in
labour, like the rest, it was clear that the others
looked upon them with the greatest deference. Of
these she had long singled out one who was superior
to the others in beauty and mildness of countenance;
and it seemed to her that this one, in
going through the morning ceremony, endeavoured
to make her sensible that she did so with sincerity
and feeling. Thus, besides placing Magdalena's
hand on her head, she carried it also to her lips,
expressing as much desire as her countenance
could convey, to be esteemed the Christian's friend.

These things almost escaped Magdalena's notice
at first; but she afterwards remembered them,
and strove to respond with manifestations of
similar inclination. She observed, however, that
the maiden gradually changed from tranquillity to
melancholy, as if something preyed upon her spirits.
She repeated, indeed, her salutation each morning,
but it was no longer with smiles, and with a disposition
to linger about Magdalena's person. On
the contrary, she retired without delay to a little
nook under a window, where she continued her
task among feathers and flowers, seldom stirring
from the spot. It was evident to the penetrating
eye of Magdalena, that the Indian maiden was
wasting away under some grief as poignant and
enduring as her own; and though she attributed
it only to some of the evils of war, the commencement
of which had long since been indicated by the
distant explosions of artillery, she was the more
favourably impressed by the damsel's emotion,
since none of the others seemed to share it, nor to
betray either fear or anxiety.

She attempted then to come to some understanding
with this maiden. She sat down by her in her

little nook, and watched, with what, had she been
in a better frame of mind, would have been admiration,
the progress of her toils, as well as the
effects of previous labours. She beheld, with surprise,
garlands and bouquets of flowers, constructed
of feathers, and imitated with such wonderful precision,
that when they were mingled with a few
natural ones, and impregnated with their odours, it
seemed almost impossible that they could be artificial.
The same art has existed in other parts of the
continent, and is practised to this day, in some of
the nunneries of Brazil. There were also pictures,
worked with the same beautiful materials, upon a
groundwork of prepared cloth, which were chiefly
confined to the representation of flowers and birds.
When Magdalena first visited the maiden, she
found her engaged upon what seemed a wood-pigeon,
surrounded by a little wilderness of flowers
and leaves. The design, though simple, was pretty
and spirited; yet the maiden seemed dissatisfied
with her work, and altered it daily, as if each day
still more displeased; until, at last, she seemed to
have hit upon a plan more to her taste, when she
pursued her task with what seemed a morbid ardour.
When Magdalena looked at it last, she found
the whole design and character of the work changed.
The flowers had been displaced by stones and
brambles; an arrow was represented sticking
through the neck of the bird; and the story of a
wounded heart was told in the metaphor of the
poor flutterer, harmed by some wanton bolt, and
left dying in a desert place.

When Magdalena beheld this painted sentiment,
she took the hand of the artist, and pressing it as
if with sympathy, pointed to her bosom. A faint
tinge of blood passed over her embrowned visage,
but she looked confidingly into Magdalena's face,
as if not ashamed to confess her grief. When

Magdalena was persuaded she was understood,
she directed the painter's eyes to the bird, and then
pointed expressively to her own bosom, as if to
signify that she also was unhappy. The maiden
bowed her head upon her breast, and Magdalena
saw that tears were stealing from her eyes. She
thought they were the tears of sympathy; and
when the damsel looked up, she cast off all reserve,
and indicated as plainly as she could, by
gestures, that she desired to make her way into
the garden.

The maiden shook her head, and would have
departed, but that Magdalena, rendered indiscreet
by her impatience, arrested her, to make trial of a
new appeal. She took the jewels from her hair,
and without reflecting that the rank of the maiden,
indicated by gems quite as valuable as her own,
might render her inaccessible to such temptation, she
made as if she would have thrown them upon her
head and neck. She was sorry for the act; for as
soon as the maiden understood what she designed,
she drew back with a look of offended dignity, and
with cheeks burning at once with mortification and
anger. Then, gathering up her little picture, her
bodkins, and basket of coloured feathers, she left
the apartment, and returned to it no more that day.

Amid all her grief at the disappointment of her
hopes, Magdalena had yet generosity enough to
appreciate the spirit of the young pagan, and to
lament having outraged her feelings.

That night, when the female slaves had departed
from her chamber, and she was musing disconsolately
in the light of a little night-lantern, consisting
of a taper of resinous wood, surrounded by thin
plates of gold, perforated with holes in many fantastic
figures, which transmitted the light, she was
roused by a sigh; and looking up, she beheld, to
her great surprise, the young artist standing before

her, in an attitude of sad and patient humility. As
soon as the visitor perceived that she was seen, she
approached, and knelt at Magdalena's feet, who
now saw, with a touch of shame, and, at first, even
of resentment, that, as if in requital of the insult of
the morning, she held in her hands all the jewels
that had decorated her hair and person, and offered
them for her acceptance. But Magdalena's displeasure
soon passed away; for the jewels were
proffered with the deepest humility, and the damsel's
eyes were suffused with tears. She murmured
out some words, too, and the tone was expressive
of grief.

All this was mysterious to Magdalena, who
puzzled herself in vain to account for the act and
the donation. She restored the jewels, and the
maiden being wholly submissive, she replaced them
about her person with her own hands; and then,
taking advantage of the opportunity, made another
effort to come to a better understanding with her.
She remembered that her companion was a painter,
and being herself a little skilled in the art, she drew
with a bodkin from her hair, upon the soft wood
of the table that supported her lamp, the figure of
a man in Spanish costume, bound in a cell. The
representation was awkward, yet it appeared that
the damsel understood it; for she took the bodkin,
and immediately, though with a trembling hand,
completed the picture by the addition of another
figure, representing a Mexican, with a crown like
that Magdalena had seen on the head of Guatimozin,
who, with one hand, extended to him the handle
of a macana, while threatening him with another,
brandished above his head.

This was expressive enough, and Magdalena's
alarm for the safety of the young man was only
removed when the maiden drew what was plainly

designed for a buckler, interposed between the
weapon and his head.

Magdalena then, without further hesitation, leaped
to the grand object of her desires, by drawing the
figure of a man paddling in a canoe. This also her
companion understood, and replied to it significantly
enough, by surrounding the little vessel with
many others, filled with Indians, or other human
beings, who attacked it with showers of arrows
and darts.

“Alas! is there no hope for us then? no hope
for my poor brother?” exclaimed Magdalena, wringing
her hands. “Maiden! maiden! carry me but to
him!—Alas, I speak as to a stone statue!”

She then resumed the bodkin, and returning to
the first sketch, she drew the figure of two women,
entering the cell. The response to this ended her
hopes immediately. The Indian girl sketched the
outlines of men, armed with spears, circling around
the whole cell.

Magdalena sank upon the couch in despair, and
almost in a frenzy. The maiden, frighted by the
vehemence of her grief, endeavoured to soothe her,
by pressing her hand to her bosom and forehead,
and covering it with kisses and tears; after which
she stole quietly from the chamber.

It was many weeks before Magdalena beheld
her again. She vanished from the hall, she came
no more to kneel on her footstool in the morning,
and display her melancholy visage to the stranger.
Magdalena's heart died within her. She was in a
solitude among living creatures,—the most oppressive
of all solitudes. Her suspense was intolerable,
and preyed upon her health, until she was wasted
to a shadow, and the pagan damsels eyed her,
when she appeared among them, with looks of pity.
She succumbed at last to her fate; the fever of her
mind extended to her body; and she was missed

from the hall, as well as the young artist. She became
ill, and she threw herself upon her couch, to
waste away with passion and delirium. But there
was still a gleam of happiness to break upon her.

One night, when the dancing,—now no longer
pursued with spirit, for the cannon of the Spaniards
sounded each day louder and nearer,—had ceased,
and the flutes were breathed upon no more, she felt
her hand pressed with a gentle grasp. She looked
up, and beheld the Indian girl at her side, eyeing
her with compassion. She sprang to her feet, in
an ecstacy of delight, and embraced her; for she
hailed her appearance as the herald of joy.

“Oh, maiden! maiden!” she cried, “what news
of my brother?”

The damsel replied with the only words in her
power, but the best she could have used, had she
been acquainted with the whole speech of Castile.
She looked sadly but firmly into Magdalena's face,
and murmured softly,

“Juan Lelma”—

The accent was imperfect and false, but the
sounds were music to Magdalena. She clasped the
young barbarian again in her arms, but her caresses
were only responded to by tears and sobs,
which seemed to increase in proportion to her own
raptures. But Magdalena was too wild with hope
to think of the sorrows of her friend. She saw that
the Indian held in her hand, two long and capacious
mantles of a plain stuff, which, she knew, were to
veil them from evil eyes, while they crept to the
cell of her brother. But the maiden checked her
impetuosity. She removed the trinkets from her
head and person, and again offered them to the
Christian; and persisted to do so, though still most
gently and humbly, until Magdalena, thinking this
might be some important ceremony, a proof perhaps
of friendship offered and received, and perceiving,

what was more influential still, that it was
necessary to hasten the proceedings of her visitor,
consented to receive them. She yielded to her importunities,
and the Indian girl clasped around her
ankles, arms, and neck, and twisted in her hair, all
the jewels that had decorated her own person, besides
hanging round her neck the silver cross and
rosary,—Magdalena's own gift to Juan,—which she
received with rapture, not doubting that he had sent
it to her as a token and a full warrant to submit herself
to the guidance of the young infidel. This accomplished,
she assisted Magdalena to secure the larger
mantle about her figure, and wrapped herself in
the other. Then beckoning the Christian to follow,
and signing to her to preserve silence, she led the
way from the chamber.