SCENE VIII.
Enter on one side
Montezuma, Odmar, Nobles
and Guards; on the other side
Cortez in
Chains, with
Melmar, Mexicans, and Traxallans.
Mont.
Whence are those shouts?—Haste, soldier, learn the tidings.
What, the redoubted thunderer in the toils?
He, whose almighty breath, to our low world,
Can dictate bonds or freedom, life or death,
And change our gods and customs at his pleasure?
Spaniard, thy power, like lightning from the west,
Hath spent a sudden blaze, and now is vanish'd!
Cort.
Indian, there's not a link in these vile chains,
But what shall be a mountain's weight, to whelm
Thee, and thy Mexico!
Mont.
Thy voice still sounds
As that of thunder—but, we heed it not,
'Tis emptied of its bolt.—Yet, noble Cortez,
We do not yet forget we are thy debtors;
And, as the man we love, thou shalt command us
Much more than as the god we fear'd.—Speak, Cortez;
And, if the terms, thou wouldst enjoin, are such
As may not sink us to a servile depth,
Below the friendship of the man we honour;
We ratify thy will.
Cort.
O, 'tis beneath the mighty Montezuma
To chaffer with his slave.
Mont.
Yet, to that slave
We give, with honour, more than we would yield
To ten such iron-harnessed hosts, as those
Which thou hast led against us.
Cort.
Off with thy crown; and prostrate at my feet,
Sue thou for peace!—My answer, haply, then,
May not displease.
Mont.
Hence, with him, to the dungeon!—
Ere morn, we may determine of his fate
