University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
WHO ARE THE STRANGERS?

MARCH passed, and April came, and still the strangers,
in their great canoes, lingered on the coast. Montezuma
observed them with becoming prudence; through his lookouts,
he was informed of their progress from the time they left the
Rio de Tabasco.

The constant anxiety to which he was subjected affected
his temper; and, though roused from the torpor into which
he had been plunged by the visit to the golden chamber, and
the subsequent prophecy of Mualox, his melancholy was a
thing of common observation. He renounced his ordinary
amusements, even totoloque, and went no more to the hunting-grounds
on the shore of the lake; in preference, he took
long walks in the gardens, and reclined in the audience-chamber
of his palace; yet more remarkable, conversation
with his councillors and nobles delighted him more
than the dances of his women or the songs of his minstrels.
In truth, the monarch was himself a victim of the
delusions he had perfected for his people. Polytheism had
come to him with the Empire; but he had enlarged upon it,
and covered it with dogmas; and so earnestly, through a
long and glorious reign, had he preached them, that, at last,
he had become his own most zealous convert. In all his
dominions, there was not one whom faith more inclined to
absolute fear of Quetzal' than himself.

One evening he passed from his bath to the dining-hall
for the last meal of the day. Invigorated, and, as was his
custom, attired for the fourth time since morning in fresh
garments, he walked briskly, and even droned a song.

No monarch in Europe fared more sumptuously than
Montezuma. The room devoted to the purpose was spacious,
and, on this occasion, brilliantly lighted. The floor was
spread with figured matting, and the walls hung with beautiful
tapestry; and in the centre of the apartment a luxurious
couch had been rolled for him, it being his habit to
eat reclining; while, to hide him from the curious, a screen
had been contrived, and set up between the couch and principal
door. The viands set down by his steward as the
substantials of the first course were arranged upon the floor
before the couch, and kept warm and smoking by chafing-dishes.
The table, if such it may be called, was supplied by
contributions from the provinces, and furnished, in fact, no
contemptible proof of his authority, and the perfection with
which it was exercised. The ware was of the finest Cholulan
manufacture, and, like his clothes, never used by him but
the once, a royal custom requiring him to present it to his
friends.[1]

When he entered the room, the evening I have mentioned,
there were present only his steward, four or five aged councillors,
whom he was accustomed to address as “uncles,” and
a couple of women, who occupied themselves in preparing
certain wafers and confections which he particularly affected.
He stretched himself comfortably upon the couch, much, I
presume, after the style of the Romans, and at once began
the meal. The ancients moved back several steps, and a
score of boys, noble, yet clad in the inevitable nequen, responding
to a bell, came in and posted themselves to answer
his requests.

Sometimes, by invitation, the councillors were permitted
to share the feast; oftener, however, the only object of their
presence was to afford him the gratification of remark. The
conversation was usually irregular, and hushed and renewed
as he prompted, and not unfrequently extended to the gravest
political and religious subjects. On the evening in question
he spoke to them kindly.

“I feel better this evening, uncles. My good star is rising
above the mists that have clouded it. We ought not to complain
of what we cannot help; still, I have thought that
when the gods retained the power to afflict us with sorrows,
they should have given us some power to correct them.”

One of the old men answered reverentially, “A king
should be too great for sorrows; he should wear his crown
against them as we wear our mantles against the cold winds.”

“A good idea,” said the monarch, smiling; “but you forget
that the crown, instead of protecting, is itself the trouble.
Come nearer, uncles; there is a matter more serious about
which I would hear your minds.”

They obeyed him, and he went on.

“The last courier brought me word that the strangers
were yet on the coast, hovering about the islands. Tell me,
who say you they are, and whence do they come?”

“How may we know more than our wise master?” said
one of them.

“And our thoughts, — do we not borrow them from you,
O king?” added another.

“What! Call you those answers? Nay, uncles, my
fools can better serve me; if they cannot instruct, they can
at least amuse.”

The king spoke bitterly, and looking at one, probably the
oldest of them all, said, —

“Uncle, you are the poorest courtier, but you are discreet
and honest. I want opinions that have in them more wis

dom than flattery. Speak to me truly: who are these
strangers?”

“For your sake, O my good king, I wish I were wise;
for the trouble they have given my poor understanding is
indeed very great. I believe them to be gods, landed from
the Sun.” And the old man went on to fortify his belief
with arguments. In the excited state of his fancy, it was
easy for him to convert the cannon of the Spaniards into
engines of thunder and lightning, and transform their
horses into creatures of Mictlan mightier than men. Right
summarily he also concluded, that none but gods could
traverse the dominions of Haloc,[2] subjecting the variant
winds to their will. Finally, to prove the strangers irresistible,
he referred to the battle of Tabasco, then lately fought
between Cortes and the Indians.

Montezuma heard him in silence, and replied, “Not
badly given, uncle; your friends may profit by your example;
but you have not talked as a warrior. You have forgotten
that we, too, have beaten the lazy Tabascans. That
reference proves as much for my caciques as for your gods.”

He waved his hand, and the first course was removed.
The second consisted for the most part of delicacies in the
preparation of which his artistes delighted; at this time appeared
the choclatl, a rich, frothy beverage served in xicaras,
or small golden goblets. Girls, selected for their rank and
beauty, succeeded the boys. Flocking around him with light
and echoless feet, very graceful, very happy, theirs was indeed
the service that awaits the faithful in Mahomet's Paradise.
To each of his ancients he passed a goblet of choclatl,
then continued his eating and talking.

“Yes. Be they gods or men, I would give a province to
know their intention; that, uncles, would enable me to determine
my policy, — whether to give them war or peace.

As yet, they have asked nothing but the privilege of trading
with us; and, judging them by our nations, I want not better
warrant of friendship. As you know, strangers have
twice before been upon our coast in such canoes, and with
such arms;[3] and in both instances they sought gold, and
getting it they departed. Will these go like them?”

“Has my master forgotten the words of Mualox?”

“To Mictlan with the paba!” said the king, violently.
“He has filled my cities and people with trouble.”

“Yet he is a prophet,” retorted the old councillor, boldly.
“How knew he of the coming of the strangers before it
was known in the palace?”

The flush of the king's face faded.

“It is a mystery, uncle, — a mystery too deep for me.
All the day and night before he was in his Cû; he went not
into the city even.”

“If the wise master will listen to the words of his slave,
he will not again curse the paba, but make him a friend.”

The monarch's lip curled derisively.

“My palace is now a house of prayer and sober life; he
would turn it into a place of revelry.”

All the ancients but the one laughed at the irony; that
one repeated his words.

“A friend; but how?” asked Montezuma.

“Call him from the Cû to the palace; let him stand here
with us; in the councils give him a voice. He can read the
future; make of him an oracle. O king, who like him can
stand between you and Quetzal'?”

For a while Montezuma toyed idly with the xicara. He
also believed in the prophetic gifts of Mualox, and it was
not the first time he had pondered the question of how the
holy man had learned the coming of the strangers; to satisfy

himself as to his means of information, he had even instituted
inquiries outside the palace. And yet it was but one
of several mysteries; behind it, if not superior, were the
golden chamber, its wealth, and the writing on the walls.
They were not to be attributed to the paba: works so wondrous
could not have been done in one lifetime. They were
the handiwork of a god, who had chosen Mualox for his servant
and prophet; such was the judgment of the king.

Nor was that all. The monarch had come to believe that
the strangers on the coast were Quetzal' and his followers,
whom it were vain to resist, if their object was vengeance.
But the human heart is seldom without its suggestion of
hope; and he thought, though resistance was impossible,
might he not propitiate? This policy had occupied his
thoughts, and most likely without result, for the words of
the councillor seemed welcome. Indeed, he could scarcely
fail to recognize the bold idea they conveyed, — nothing
less, in fact, than meeting the god with his own prophet.

“Very well,” he said, in his heart. “I will use the paba.
He shall come and stand between me and the woe.”

Then he arose, took a string of pearls from his neck,
and with his own hand placed it around that of the
ancient.

“Your place is with me, uncle. I will have a chamber
fitted for you here in the palace. Go no more away. Ho,
steward! The supper is done; let the pipes be brought,
and give me music and dance. Bid the minstrels come. A
song of the olden time may make me strong again.”