University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

The sun was declining fast, when the travellers
made their way to the camp of Cortes. The River
of Canoes ran through a fertile valley; but this was
of no great extent, and towards its upper termination,
the scene of the events of the day, it was arid and
broken with rocks. Immediately beyond the river,
in a place made strong by rocks and bushes, impenetrable
to cavalry, and affording the safest covert to

his arquebusiers and crossbowmen, the wary rival of
Narvaez had pitched his quarters. Temporary huts
of boughs and fresh-woven mats were seen withering
among the green shadows, and from these ascended
the smoke of fires, at which the soldiers were dressing
their evening meal. But in advance of this primitive
encampment, dripping with rain like their commanders,
yet standing to their arms with a patient
and grave constancy, as if still in readiness for an
enemy, Don Amador beheld the forces of Cortes.
They had a weather-beaten and veteran appearance;
most of them were apparelled in the escaupil, cut in
separate pieces resembling cumbrous plate-armour,
and occasionally so hacked by the weapons of the
natives, that the white lining gaped out somewhat ludicrously
from its darker covering. Those arrayed
in a better investment, had their morions and breast-plates
commonly covered with rust, as if kept too
much occupied with perils by night and day to allow
leisure for burnishing them. Nevertheless, they looked
like disciplined and experienced soldiers. Amador
observed that few of them had fire-arms; the crosshow,
the sword, and the great lance of Chinantla,
with its long double head of bright copper, were almost
their only arms; but they handled them as if
well acquainted with their value. Behind this advanced
guard, under the shelter of the rocks and
bushes, he remarked several officers, a few of them
mounted, as well as divers groups of Indian menials;
and, as his ear caught a low exclamation from the
general, he turned his eyes, and beheld the object of
his long and painful search.

Under the shadow of a tall tree, remote from the
rest, and attended only by a single armed follower,
—on a coal-black horse, heavily harnessed, which
stood under his weight with a tranquillity as marble-like
as his own, sat the knight of Calavar. He was
in full armour, but the iron plates were rusted on his
body, and in many places shattered. The plumes
were broken and disordered on his helmet; the spear

lay at the feet of his steed; his buckler was in the
hands of his attendant; and instead of the red tabard
which was worn in a season of war by the brothers
of his order, the black mantle of peace, with its great
white cross, hung or drooped heavily from his shoulders.
His beaver was up, and his countenance, wan
and even ghastly, was fully revealed. The ravages
of an untimely age were imprinted upon his aspect;
yet, notwithstanding the hollow cheeks and grizzled
beard, the brow furrowed with a thousand wrinkles,
the lips colourless and contracted into an expression
of deep pain, he presented the appearance of a ruin
majestic in its decay. His hands were clasped, and
lay on the pommel of the saddle, and, together with
his whole attitude and air, indicated a state of the
most profound and sorrowful abstraction. In truth,
he seemed the prey of thoughts, many and deep;
and it scarcely needed the simple and touching legend,
Miserere mei, Deus! which usurped the place of a
scutcheon or other device on his shield, to know that
if fame sat on his saddle, sorrow rested under his
bosom.

No sooner had the neophyte beheld this gloomy
apparition, than, with a loud cry, he threw himself
from his horse; and, rushing forward, he seized the
relaxed hand of the figure, and pressed it to his lips
with reverence and affection. But the knight, not
yet roused from his revery, or struggling vainly with
imperfect recollections, looked only into his face with
a wistful stare.

“Patron and cousin! my friend and my father!”
cried the novice, passionately, “do you not know
me? I am Amador!”

“Amador!” muttered the knight, with a troubled
look and a tone of perplexity. “Very well,—to-morrow—to-morrow!”

“He will not understand you now,” said the general.
“He is often in these trances.”

“Mi padre! mi amigo!” cried the youth, vehemently,
without regarding the interruption of the

commander, “will you not know me? I am Amador!
Look,—here is Baltasar, old Baltasar! your servant
and favourite, that has been at your side ever from
the days of the Alpujarras to the fall of Rhodes.”

“The Alpujarras!” echoed the knight, with a deep
sigh. “Wo is me!—miserere mei, Deus!”

“He will recollect us now,” said Baltasar, who
had also descended, and who testified his fidelity by
a tear that glittered in his ancient eye. “I never
knew that word fail to call him out of his mood,
though I have often known it fling him into one.—
Master! I am Baltasar; and here is your honour's
kinsman, Don Amador!”

“Ay! is it so indeed? I thought I was dreaming,”
said the knight: “Art thou here indeed, my son Amador?
Give me thy brows, for I am rejoiced to find
thee in the world again.” And stooping and flinging
his arms round his neck, he kissed the forehead of
the neophyte, with a parental affection.

“This, my masters,” said Cortes, in an under voice,
“is not a spectacle for us. Let us pass on, and arrange
proceedings for the attack.” And, with his
suite, he instantly departed.

“And how dost thou prosper at Almeria?” continued
Calavar, mildly, and without any incoherence
of manner, though it was evident his thoughts were
far away. “Hast thou found me any brave hearts,
who will march with me against the infidels of Barbary?”

“Dear knight and patron,” said Amador, “we are
not now in Spain, but in the heathen lands of Mexico.”

“Ay! Dios mio, I had forgotten that!” said Don
Gabriel, with a bewildered air.

“Whither I have come,” said the novice, “to beg
your pardon for my negligence and desertion, and
never more to part from your side.”

“I remember me now,” said the knight, slowly and
sadly. “Wo is me! a sore infirmity is on my brain;
and sometimes I am not master of my own acts. But
I remember thee, my friend: I remember that, in an

evil hour of forgetfulness, I forsook thee, to come to
this unknown land. But I beg thy pardon, my son;
—the dark mood took me from thee, and in truth I
knew it not.”

The tears came into the eyes of Amador, as he
listened to the self-accusation of his kinsman, and
remembered how much the blame should rest on his
own momentary defection.

“It is I that must bear the reproach, and I that
must look for forgiveness,” he cried. “But I will
never need to be rebuked or forgiven again; for I
swear, dear kinsman, I will follow thee truly now,
until my death.”

“And thou hast left the fair hills of Spain, thy true
friends, and thy lady-love,” said Calavar, with a
mournful voice, “to follow me over the wide seas
and the hostile deserts? I welcome thee with gratitude,
for thy love is great, and thy task will be bitter.
I welcome thee well, Amador, but surely it is with
sorrow; for I heard thou hadst won the love of a
noble and virtuous lady; and heaven forbid I should
not lament to sever thee, in thy youth, from the enjoyment
of thy affection.”

A flush of shame and pain mantled the countenance
of the devoted novice, as he replied,—

“I confess I have much need of thy forbearance,
dear knight; but they did me wrong, who said I
could forget thee for the love of woman. I acknowledge
no duty that is not to thee, and no passion but
that of serving thee with constancy and truth. But
I am sent to thee not more by the impulses of my
own love, than by the commands of his most eminent
highness, the Grand Master, who leaves it to
thyself, as a well-beloved and much-trusted follower
of the holy order, whether thou wilt remain fighting
the infidels of this new world, or return at thy pleasure
to the island Malta, which his majesty the king
and emperor, Don Carlos of Spain and Austria, hath
promised to bestow upon the good knights, the defenders
of Christendom.”

“Among the infidels of the new world, then,” said
Calavar, casting his eyes meekly to heaven; “for I
know that what poor service I may yet render the
faith, must be rendered soon; and if God uphold me,
I will render it truly and well. But thou, Amador
my son, my faithful and my beloved! I adjure thee
that, when my task is finished, thou return to the land
of thy birth, and give thyself to a life of virtue, and,
if possible, of peace. Watch well the creatures that
are in thy breast, for among them are devils, which,
if thou do not chain them, will rend thee. Check thy
wrath, fetter thy fury,” continued the knight, vehemently;
“and when thou drawest thy sword, call on
God, that it may not fall unjustly; for when blood is
shed that should not have been shed, it lives on the
soul for ever—Ay de mi! Miserere mei, Deus!”

Don Amador feared, as he listened with a superstitious
reverence to the adjurations of the knight, that
he was about to relapse into his gloomy stupor; but
he was deceived. The lips of Calavar muttered on
for a moment, as if continuing to repeat the solemn
and impassioned appeal of the psalmist: and then,
making the sign of the cross on his breast, he turned
again to the novice with a kind of dismal cheer, and
said:—

“I welcome thee again to this land, Amador. And
Baltasar—What now, Baltasar? is it possible I should
forget thee? I am glad to look upon thy loyal
countenance; thine old friend Marco will rejoice to
fight again at thy side.—If I do not err, this is thy
henchman, Lazaro:—I greet thee well, Lazaro: be
very true to thy master, and forget not thy religion.
And this youth that rests behind thee—if he be thy
follower, my son, he shall share thy welcome.”

“I recommend the youth Fabueno to thy kindness,”
said Amador, well pleased to perceive his kinsman so
collected. “He is the secretary of the admiral Cavallero,
who claims to be related to your honour, and
sends you the assurance of his love. I have been
constrained, without yet knowing the pleasure of his

excellency, to receive the youth into my protection;
and this I did the more cheerfully, that he was my
fellow-sufferer in the camp of Narvaez, and did, for
my sake, very courageously expose himself to the
painful shot of a cross-bow, which now maims his
right arm.”

“If he have suffered for thee, my friend, I will not
forget him,” said the knight; “and I am rejoiced for
his sake that now, in this season of peace, we may
cure his wound before we call upon him to endure
another.”

The countenance of Don Amador fell; he thought
the knight's dream of peace denoted that he was sinking
again into abstraction.

“Call this not the season of peace,” he cried. “The
commander Cortes is resolute to fall upon his enemy,
Narvaez, the enemy of honour; and it needs we should
burnish up our arms, to give him help.”

Calavar looked seriously at the youth, and touching
his black mantle with an expressive gesture, said:—

“It is the time of peace, my son,—the time of peace
for those that follow the good St. John. I remember
me now, that Cortes came down from the mountains,
to fight the man Narvaez and his host: but these are
not infidels, but Christians.”

“Cousin,” said the cavalier, warmly, “though this
man have the name, yet do I very much doubt if he
possess any of the religion of a Christian; and I have
to assure you, I have endured such causeless indignities
at his hands, such as direct insult, violent seizure,
and shameful imprisonment, as can only be
washed away with his blood.”

“Wo's me! wo's me!” cried the knight: “the blood
that is poured in anger, will not flow like water; it will
not dry like water; nor will water, though blessed by
the holy priest in the church, wash its crust from the
hand! Thou seest,” he cried, extending his gauntleted
member, and gazing piteously into the face of
his heated kinsman—“thou seest, that though, for
thrice five years, I have washed it in brook and font,

in the river that flows from the land of the Cross, and
in the brine of the sea, it oozes still from between the
scales, like a well that must trickle for ever, and will
not be hidden.—Thou art very wroth with me, heaven!—Miserere
mei, Domine!”

Don Amador was greatly shocked and grieved, that
his imprudent obstinacy had so nearly again recalled
the distraction of his kinsman. But it needed not
many expressions of gentleness and submission, to divert
the current of his thoughts. The appearance of
the young and devoted follower had come to the spirit
of the penitent knight, like a cool breeze over the temples
of a fevered man; and having once been roused
from his gloom, he could not be long insensible to the
excitement of his presence. He cast an eye of kindness
and affection on the youth, and obeying, as one
who had been long accustomed to such control, the
humble suggestion of Marco, he turned to the tents of
the encampment.