University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

As the Castilians followed the eyes of Najara,
they beheld, approaching them from behind, three
men, in whom, but for the direction given to their
thoughts by the exclamation, they would have seen
nothing but the persons of Indians, belonging to
some tribe more wild and savage than any which
inhabited the valley. Their garments were coarse
and singular; their gait—at least, the gait of two
of them,—not unlike to that of barbarians; and the
look of wonder with which they surveyed the long
train of the rear-guard, in which the high penachos,
or plumes, and the copper-headed spears of Tlascalan
chiefs, shone among the iron casques of Spanish
cavaliers, was similar to the childish admiration of
natives, unused to such a spectacle. Their dark
countenances and long hair, their vestments and
arms, were all of an Aztec character; yet a second
and more scrutinizing glance made it apparent,
that one, at least, if not two of them, was of another
and nobler race.

The foremost, or leader, of the little band, was
undoubtedly a savage; as was seen by the depressed
forehead, the high cheek-bones, the eye of
a peculiar form, and the skin of even uncommon
swarthiness, which distinguished him from his companions.
His stature was short, almost dwarfish;
his toes were turned inwards; and as he moved
along with a shuffling gait, with advanced chest,
and head still more protruded, his long locks, grizzled
as with extreme age, fell from either side of

his face, like patches of gray moss from the bough
of a tree, and almost swept the ground. A coarse
cloth was wrapped round his loins; another of a
square shape,—its opposite corners tied round his
neck,—hung like a mantle, or rather a shawl, from
his shoulders, over which were also strapped a bow
and quiver of arrows; and a thick mat of canework
was secured by thongs to his left arm, in the
manner of a buckler, and swung at his side, or was
laid upon his breast, as suited his mood or convenience.
In other respects, he was naked,—though
not without the native battle-axe of obsidian. This
weapon consisted of a rod, or bludgeon, of heavy
wood, (it was sometimes of copper,) at the extremity
of which, and on either side, were fastened six
or seven broad blades, or flakes, of volcanic glass,
standing a little apart from each other. Its native
name, maquahuitl, was speedily corrupted by the
Spaniards into macana,—a name that is applied, in
Castile, to a sabre of lath; and which, being more
practicable to civilized organs of speech than the
original title, is worthy of being preserved. The
appearance of this aged warrior presented none of
the infirmities of years. His stooping carriage was
rather the result of habit than feebleness; his step
was quick and firm, though ungainly; and his eye
rolled with the piercing vivacity of youth over the
scene, which occupied so much of the attention of
his followers.

Of these, that one whom the Castilians at the
cypress-tree hesitated, for a moment, whether to
esteem an Indian or a Christian man, was of a
figure more remarkable for sturdiness than elegance.
The roll of cloth round his body extended
from his waist, where it was secured by a leathern
girdle, to his knees. The mantle about his shoulders
was more capacious than his fellow's, but it
left his brawny chest in part exposed, and thereby
revealed a skin fairer than belonged to the natives

of Anahuac. His hair, though very long, was of a
reddish-brown colour, and waving rather than
straight; and a rough beard of a ruddy hue, though
so short that its growth seemed to have been
permitted for not more than the space of a week,
was another phenomenon not to be looked for in a
barbarian. But the indications of civilized origin
offered by these characteristics, were set at naught
by the step and bearing of the stranger, which
were to the full as wild and peculiar as those of his
more ancient companion; like whom, he carried a
buckler and macana, though without the bow and
quiver. His eye rolled with a like wildness; but
his features were European; and instead of being
entirely barefoot, like the senior, his feet were defended
by stout sandals of untanned skin.

The third, and by far the most remarkable of all,
was he who had first caught the eye of Najara,
and upon whom was now concentrated the gaze
of the whole party. A figure of the most majestic
height, and noble proportions, though, at the present
moment, greatly wasted, was rather set off to
advantage than concealed by a costume as spare
and primitive as that of the red-bearded man. His
skin was much tawnier than his companion's; indeed,
it was of the darkest hue known among the
southern provinces of Spain and Portugal, where
the blood of Europe has mingled harmoniously with
the life-tides of Africa. His lofty stature was more
obvious, perhaps, since he adopted not the bearing
or gait of the others, but moved along erect, with a
graceful demeanour, and a step of natural case and
dignity. He had but one characteristic of a Mexican;
and that was the long hair, straight, and of
an intense blackness, that fell from his temples to
his breast, with much of a wild and savage profusion,
concealing, in part, a cheek of the finest contour,
though somewhat hollowed by hardship, and,
perhaps, suffering. The puffs of wind, blowing

aside this sable curtain, disclosed an elevated forehead,
crowning a visage in which every feature
was of the mould of Castile, and after the happiest
model of that order of beauty, each being sculptured
with a touch that preserved delicacy, even while
giving boldness. His age would have been a question
wherewith to puzzle a physiognomist: there
was much in the smoothness of his brow, and the
unaltered freshness of a mouth, over which was
sprouting a mustache, short and bushy, as if as
lately submitted to the tonsure as the beard of his
companion, that spoke of youth just verging into
maturity; while, on the other hand, the complete
development of his frame, and the seriousness of
his countenance, would have conveyed the impression
of an age many years farther advanced. This
seriousness of expression was, indeed, more than
mere gravity; it indicated a melancholy, or even
sadness, which, though of a gentle cast, was become
a settled and permanent characteristic.

As he approached, his eyes were, like his companions',
fixed with curiosity upon the long and
dense body of Tlascalans, from whom they were
only withdrawn, when the exclamation of Najara
attracted them suddenly to the group at the cypress.
The confusion of these personages was so manifest,
and they handled their arms with an air so indicative
of hostility, that the old warrior and the red-bearded
man came to an instant halt, and looked,
as if for instructions, to their taller and more noble-visaged
companion. He instantly stepped before
them, and waving his hand to Najara, who was
hastily fitting a bolt to his crossbow, and to the
historian, who presented his partisan with greater
alacrity of decision than would have been anticipated
from his sluggish appearance, cried aloud,

“Hold, friends! We are not enemies, but Christians
and Castilians.”

“Art thou Juan Lerma? and art thou truly

alive? or do I look upon thy phantom?” cried the
hunchback, with an agitated voice.

“Out, fool! we are good living men,” exclaimed
the red-bearded man, angrily; “and with flesh
enough upon our bones, to cudgel thee into better
manners, I trow. Is this the way you receive old
friends, returning from bondage among infidels?
What, Bernal Diaz, thou ass! dost thou not know
Gaspar Olea, thine old townsman of Medina-del-Campo,
thy brother-in-arms and sworn friend? nor
yet the señor Don Juan Lerma, my captain and
friend in trouble? nor Ocelotzin, the old Ottomi
rascal, our guide here?”

“Ay, oho! old rascal, old friend; all friends, all
rascals,” cried the Indian, looking affectionately
towards the Castilians, who still stood in doubt,
and using the few Spanish words with which he
was familiar; “good friends, good rascals,—Castellanos,
Cristianos;—friends, rascals.”

While the rest were hesitating, the cavalier Don
Francisco de Guzman suddenly stepped out from
among them, and, advancing towards the young
man Lerma, with a smiling countenance and extended
hand, said,

“Though I am not thought to be the most loving
of thy friends, I will be the first to bid thee welcome,
señor Lerma, in token that old feuds do not
mar the satisfaction with which I behold a Christian
man rescued so happily, and as it appears to
me, so marvellously, from the grave.”

The emotions and changes of countenance with
which the young man heard these words, were
various and strongly marked. At the first tones
of Guzman, he started back, as if a serpent had
suddenly crossed his path, and grew pale, while
his eyes flashed a ferocious and deadly fire. At
the next, the blood rushed over his visage, and
throbbed with a visible violence in the vessels of
his temples; while he half raised the macana, which

he carried, in lieu of a better weapon, as if to
cleave the speaker to the earth. The next instant,
the angry suffusion departed, his brows relaxed
their severity, the deep melancholy gathered again
in his eyes, and he surveyed the cavalier with a
patient and grave placidity, until the latter had
finished his salutation. Then, bending his head,
and folding his hands upon his breast, he replied,
mildly, and without a shadow of anger,

“I have, as thou sayest, returned from the grave,
in the sight of which I strove, as a Christian should,
to make my peace with man as well as with heaven.
I have done so; I am at peace with all; I am
at peace with thee—But I cannot give thee my
hand.”

The cavalier Don Francisco received this rejection
of his good-will with no sign of dissatisfaction,
that was distinguishable by others, beyond a smile
or sneer; but inclining his head towards Lerma, he
muttered in his ear—

“The strife is unequal; but I accept thy defiance.
Thou art but a broken-legged wolf, and wilt fight
a fatted tiger—I am content.”

So saying, or rather whispering, for his words
were only caught by the ears of Juan, the cavalier
turned upon his heel, and without condescending
to exhibit his mortification in the vain air of pride
and scorn, assumed by ordinary men on such occasions,
he began to walk towards the city. He
was presently followed by the señor Camarga;
who, having fastened upon Juan, for a few moments,
a look of intense curiosity, flung, when he had satisfied
himself, his cloak over the lower part of his
visage, and thus departed.

“You give me but a cold welcome, good friends,”
said Juan, looking after the retreating man with a
sigh. “Will no one else in this company offer his
hand to one who burns with joy at the sight of
Christian faces?”

“When thou art better acquainted with the bounty
of the compliment, doubtless, but no sooner,” said
the hunchback, who had surveyed the youth with
an interest which was belied by his present scorn.
“A good day to you, señor Juan Lerma, and God
keep you well. There is a good path over the
mountains, northward, by the way of Otumba. If
you like not the company of heathens, there are
fair maids enow in Cuba.”

With these hints, which the young man listened
to with a disturbed aspect, and which the hunchback
accompanied with sour and contemptuous
looks, he turned away, and began to hobble after
his companions.

“Now God be our stay!” exclaimed Juan, with
some emotion, “there is not a man who has a tear
for our sorrows, or a smile for our joy. It were
better we had perished, Gaspar!”

“I am not ashamed to give thee my hand,” said
Bernal Diaz, shaking off his amazement, and advancing,
“though I know not how far thou art deserving
of such countenance. But I must first
claim to embrace my old friend and brother, Gaspar;
whom, by my faith, I can scarce believe that
I see living before me! How didst thou thus learn
to turn thy toes in, Gaspar?”

“Away, thou dog-eared, ill-blooded block!” cried
the red-bearded Gaspar, who had watched the turn
of proceedings with indignation, and now poured
forth his accumulated wrath upon the worthy historian.
“Ashamed!—thou ashamed!—thy countenance!—deserving
of thy countenance, thou ill-mannered,
bog-brained churl and ass! Thou wilt
give the young señor thy hand! If thou dost but
lift it, I will smite it off with my battle-axe. Curmudgeon!
I thy friend and brother?—I discard
thee and forswear thee; I do, marry—”

“Peace, Gaspar,” said Lerma, mildly; “quarrel
not with thy friend on my account; thou hast no

offence on thine own. It is plain, there is but cold
cheer in store for me: make none for thyself.”

“Oh, señor!” said Gaspar, sharply, for his anger
was waxing hot and unrespective, “I am no servant,
no grinning lackey, to be told, `do me this,'
and `do me that,' by your excellent favour; no, by
your leave, no;—I am your soldier, not your foot-man.
I will quarrel when I like, and I will not be
chidden. I am your soldier, señor, your soldier—”

“My friend, I think,” said the young man;
“though thou dost now afflict me more than those
who seem my enemies.”

“Afflict!—enemies!—I afflict!” cried Gaspar,
fiercely; “I quarrel with your enemies!—ay, à outrance,
as the Frenchmen, say. I have fought them
in Italy. Fuego! enemies!—call this knave by the
name, and if I do not smite him to the chine, townsman
though he be—”

“Peace, Gaspar, if thou art my friend, as, I trust
this good Bernal is,—”

“Go to,” said Bernal Diaz, in high dudgeon, addressing
himself to Gaspar, “thou art turned heathen,
or thou wouldst not so abuse me. I care for
you not; I have nothing to do with you, nor with
any of your companions. By and by you will repent.
God be with you, and make you wiser.”

With these words, the historian followed the example
of the others, and was straightway stalking,
with impetuous strides, towards Tezcuco.

“Now art you not ashamed, Gaspar, to have
given way to this boy's wrath? Wilt thou be womanish,
too?”

“Ay,” said Gaspar, shaking his head with the
fury of a mastiff, rending some meaner animal, and
thus dashing away certain tears of rage or mortification,
that were starting in his eyes: “it doth
make a woman of me, to think we have escaped
from dangers such as were never dreamed of by
these false traitors,—from infidel prisons and hea

then maws, and come, at last, among Christian
men, whom I could have hugged, every ill loon of
them all; and not one to stretch forth his hand, and
say God bless me! You were right, señor; it were
better to have remained slaves with the King of
the Humming-bird Valley, than to have left him for
such hangdog welcome.”

“Thou wouldst have had nothing to complain of,
hadst thou bridled thy impatient temper. These
men meant not to provoke thee.”

“Bad friends, bad rascals!” said the Ottomi, who,
during these several passages, had been staring
from one Christian to another in unconcealed
amazement: “bad friends! no good rascals!” he
muttered in Spanish; then instantly changing to
Mexican, which though not his native tongue, was
more familiar to him, and was besides well understood
by Juan, he continued,

“Itzquauhtzin, the Great Eagle,” (for thus he
chose to designate the youth,) “has settled upon
the hill of kites. Where are his wings? Malintzin
is angry; he sends his young men to frown. Here
is another: he laughs with his eyes.—Ocelotzin is
an old tiger,—Techeechee is a dog without voice;
but the itzli[1] is sharp in his hand. Shall he
strike?”

The wild eyes of the barbarian (for the Ottomies,
or mountain Indians, were the true savages of
Anahuac,) were bent with the subtle and malignant
keenness of the tiger whose name he bore, upon
the Alguazil, Villafana, who, standing a little aside,
and for a time unseen, had watched the salutations,
and, finally, the departure of his companions, without
himself saying a word. He now stepped forward,
disregarding the evil looks of the Indian, as
well as those of Gaspar, whose feelings of mortification
were thirsting for some legitimate object

whereon to expend their fury: and stretching forth
his hand in the most friendly manner, said to
Juan,

“How now, señor? drive this old cut-throat dog
away.—I claim to be an old acquaintance, and, at
this moment, not a cold one. The foxes being
gone, the goose may stretch her neck.—Here am
I, one man at least, heartily glad to find you coming
alive from the trap, and not afraid to say so.—Does
your favour forget me? Methinks you have the
gift of rejecting the hands that are offered, howsoever
you may covet those that are withheld.”

“You do me wrong—I remember you well,”
said Juan, taking the hand, from which he had first
recoiled with a visible reluctance: “I thank you
for your kindness. Yes, I remember you,” he repeated,
with extreme sadness: “Would I did not.”

“Come, señor Gaspar,” continued the Alguazil,
turning to Olea. “You and I were never such
friends as true men should be; but, notwithstanding,
I give you my true welcome and most Christian
congratulations.”

“I ever thought you a knave,” said Gaspar,
clutching Villafana's hand, with a sort of sulky
thankfulness, “being but an eternal grumbler and
reviler at the general. But I see you are more of
a Christian and man than any other villian of them
all. Fire and blood! why do they treat us thus?”

“Oh, you shall soon know. But how now, señor
Lerma, what is your will? Will you walk with
me to the city? We have royal commanders now:
'tis a matter for the stocks, and, sometimes, the
strappado, to loiter beyond the lines, after the
trumpet's call. Will you walk to Tezcuco? or do
you choose rather to betake you to the hills, as
Najara advised you? Cortes is another man now,
señor, and somewhat dangerous, as you may have
inferred from the bearing of his favourites. If you

would be wise, go not near him. It is not too
late.”

“Señor Villafana,” said Juan, “what I have seen
and heard has filled me with trouble; for, like
Gaspar, I looked for such reception as might be expected
by men returning from among heathen oppressors,
to Christian associates and old friends. I
know not well what has happened during the fourteen
months of my absence from the army, save
what was darkly spoken to me by a certain king,
in whose hands I have remained, with my companions,
many months in captivity. He gave me
to believe that my countrymen had all fallen in a
war with Montezuma, whom I left in peace, and in
strong, though undeserved, bonds. I perceive that
I have been cajoled: I rejoice that you are living
men; but I know not why I should fear to join myself
again among you. I claim to be conducted to
your general.”

“It shall be as you choose; but, señor, you are
no longer in favour. As for Gaspar and the Indian,
it will be well enough with them: a good soldier
like Gaspar is worth something more than hanging;
and such a knave as this old savage can be put to
good use. Señor, shall I speak a word with you?
Bid the two advance: I have somewhat to say to
you in private.”

The young man regarded the Alguazil with an
anxious countenance; and then, desiring his companions
to lead the way towards Tezcuco, followed,
at a little distance, with Villafana.