University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

Hard by to the town of Zempoala ran a little
brook, coursing through agreeable meadows, and
here and there skirted by green forests. In a wood
that overshadowed this current,—but at the distance
of a quarter-league from it,—lay concealed the forces
of Hernan Cortes, waiting patiently for the time
when the squadrons of Narvaez, satiated with the
sports of their tawny neighbours, should, additionally,
recompense the exploits of the day with the oblivion
of slumber. They had watched with contempt, and
with joy (for they perceived in such spectacle, a
symptom of the infatuated security of their enemies,)
the great fire that lighted the diversions of the evening,
blazing on the pyramid, until it began to die
away, as did many of the sounds of revelry, that, in
the still hour of the night, were borne to their ears.
But it was not until their spies brought word that the
last brand was flinging its decaying lustre over the

caves of the towers, that they were bidden to arise,
cross the stream, and array for battle.

In deep silence—for they knew there were sentinels
on the path—they reached and forded the rivulet:
trooper and footman passed over, and were
ranked under their several leaders, and all seemed in
readiness for the assault.

Still, however, the knight of Calavar sat motionless
on his sable steed, as if all unaware of the tempest
of war that was brewing; and Don Amador beheld,
with a pang of unutterable grief and vexation, the
departure of those bold spirits to the scene of strife
and honour, in which he was to have no share. As
he sat fuming and frowning, now on the point of urging
his kinsman for permission to follow, now reproaching
himself in bitter reprehension, as if the
unuttered wish might recall some of those thoughts
of misery which so often perplexed the brain of the
crazed knight, he heard the foot-fall of a horse, and
perceived a cavalier riding towards him. To his
grief was superadded a pang of shame, as he saw
in this individual the person of Cortes himself, and
conceived the object of his return.

“I am loath to see that the noble Calavar still
abides by the black mantle,” he said, as if content to
waste no arguments on the knight; “but if the very
valiant Don Amador de Leste be desirous to repay
upon Narvaez the injuries done to his honour, or if
he be minded to bestow upon me that great favour
whereof he spoke on the River of Canoes, there can
never come a better opportunity than this present:
and for the services he may render me personally, as
well as a most loyal cause, this night, by leading his
followers with me to the pyramid, I shall ever remain
in thankful remembrance.”

The words stuck in the throat of the novice, as he
replied, “I am the slave of my kinsman: I burn to
follow you—but my knight must command.”

He turned to Calavar, with a look of despair; but

the night which concealed it from the eye, could not
preserve the reproach from the ear.

“Stay thou by my side, Amador, my son,” said
Calavar, sorrowfully; “and let no man that follows
thee or me, think to draw his sword this night; for
we are the followers of St. John, and may not contend
with a Christian, except in self-preservation.”

“God shield thee, sir knight,” cried the general,
anxiously; “every man who strikes with us to-night,
strikes for his own life: victory preserves us, and
defeat conducts us to the scaffold; and I am free to
confess to thee, what I dared not speak to my companions,
that unless every man does his duty, and God
looks kindly upon all, I know not how soon we may
be under the foot of our enemy.”

“I have not refused thee my sword,” said the
knight calmly, “when an infidel stood in thy path;
nor will I, when such opposition is again made.”

“But thy noble and valiant kinsman, and thy people,”
said the general, hastily: “they long to divide
the honour of this combat, and they have no vows
to restrain them. Every sword to-night is as valuable
as a Cid's right arm.”

“Tempt them not! delude them not into the commission
of a great sin, that will fill their future days
with remorse,” said Calavar, earnestly. But before
he could add any thing further, the report of an arquebuse
from the front filled the forest with its roar,
and Cortes, plunging the spur into his charger, was
instantly borne out of sight.

“For God's sake!” cried Amador, with despairing
entreaty, “let us cross the brook, and follow these
brave men a little, though we join not in the battle.”

“I will not refuse thee so much as that,” said the
knight, with some little animation, which was perhaps
caused by the martial associations of the explosion.
“It is not forbidden us at least to look on; and
by so doing, heaven may perchance allow us the happiness
to save some wretched life.”

In a moment the little party had crossed the brook,

and spurring their horses hard, followed, as they
thought, in the path of their late companion. But,
though the moon frequently displayed her resplendent
visage through loop-holes in the scudding clouds,
the many clumps of trees that dotted over the meadows
in the environs of Zempoala, so confounded
the vision, that they had reached the very suburbs.
without yet obtaining a view of the adventurers.
Indeed it had so happened, that not being provided
with a guide acquainted with the various approaches
to the town, they fell upon one entirely different from
that trodden by the assailants. Not doubting however
that they were following closely upon their rear,
they pushed boldly on through a deserted street,
echoing loudly to the clatter of their steps; nor did
they discover their error until, to their great surprise,
they found themselves issuing upon the great square,
in full view of the temple.

They paused an instant in confusion.—No tumult
of shouts or fire-arms came from the sanctuaries; a
deep silence brooded over the city as with wings; in
fact, no sound broke the solemn tranquillity of midnight,
save one which was the evidence and representative
of peace. The faint twangling of a lute,
mingling with the sweet tones of a youthful voice,
came from the chief tower; to hear which the sentinels
had doubtless stolen from their posts among the
cannon, which were now seen frowning in solitude
on the verge of the platform.

Before Don Amador could take time to ponder on
the infatuated recklessness of the Biscayan general,
or bethink him much of the young Moor of Fez,
whose voice it was, he did not doubt, that sounded
so plaintively from the tower, and which, by some
inexplicable principle of association, instantly wafted
his spirit to Granada, and wrung it with a sharp and
sudden anguish,—the clattering of a horseman riding
furiously up a neighbouring street, roused him from
the imperfect revery; and his heart waxed hot and
fierce, as the loud cry, Arma! Arma! A las armas!

burst from the lips of the flying sentry. In a moment
of time this faithful watchman was seen dashing
across the square; and as he flung himself from his
steed, and rushed up the steps of the pyramid, still
shouting the alarm at the top of his voice, there was
heard another sound following at his heels, in which
the practised ear of the neophyte detected the tramp
of footmen, pursuing with the speed of death. In a
moment, also, ceased the lute and the voice of the
singer; torches flashed suddenly from the doors of
the towers; and as their light shot over the open
square, there was seen a hurried mass of men running
in confusion over the area of the pyramid. But
the same flash that revealed this spectacle, disclosed
also the wild figures and hostile visages of the men
of Cortes, rushing to the assault, and sending forth a
shout, that made the whole town ring and tremble to
its foundations.

It was not in the nature of man to see these sights
and hear these sounds with composure; and accordingly
Don Amador had no sooner dismounted and
flung the reins of Fogoso into the hands of Lazaro,
than he perceived the knight of Calavar, on foot, at
his side. He turned an inflamed, and perhaps a rebellious
eye on his kinsman; but the countenance of
Calavar was bent on his own, with a ghastly placidity;
and as the hand of the knight was laid on his
shoulder, as if to restrain his fury, the youth groaned
in bitterness and anger.

“By heaven!” he cried, “I see the very face of
Sandoval, as he darts at the steps!—O my friend!
my father!”—

“Shed no blood!” said the knight, with a hollow,
but stern and vehement voice. “The avenger will
follow thee by night and by day, at prayers and in
battle—Shed no blood!”

“We are alone, too!” cried Amador, with ungovernable
fire, as he found that Marco, Lazaro, and
Baltasar, after flinging the reins of their horses round
the shrubs that grew at the corner, had vanished from

his side. “Even the varlets may strike at the knave
who has wronged me; yet may I not raise my hand!”

“Shed no blood!” reiterated Don Gabriel, in a sort
of frenzy: “Forget thy rage, forswear thy fury! slay
thyself, but strike not in vengeance!—Miserere mei,
Deus!”

All these wild words, though they take moments
to record, were the utterance of an instant; and while
the piteous plaint of the knight Calavar still winged
its way to heaven, and before Amador could reply a
single word, the shouts of the assailants, as they rushed
up the steps, were met by the roar of a cannon discharged
by a skilful hand, illumining tree and tower
with a hideous glare, and flinging death and havoc
among their ranks. But the foot of desperation was
on the earth of the temple; and before another piece
of artillery could answer to the hollow thunder of the
hills, the spear of Chinantla was drinking the blood
of the cannoniers. At this moment, and while even
the young Fabueno grasped the sword in his feeble
hands, and turned his pale face to the battle,—while
Amador gnashed his teeth with rage,—there rose
from the platform, above the shouts and yells of the
combatants, a shriek as though of a woman struck by
the spear of some ferocious dastard.—If the blow of
an enemy had fallen upon his cheek, the young cavalier
could not have started from the grasp of his kinsman,
and drawn his sword, with a more irresistible
impulse. But, in truth, the same cry that inflamed
his own brain, went also to the heart of Calavar;
and when he dashed up the pyramid, with furious
haste, as if to the rescue of a sworn friend, the knight
of Rhodes, drawing his weapon, followed fiercely
after.

The scene that awaited the neophyte on the platform,
though composed of men writhing together in
thick affray, did not dwell an instant on his eye. It
had caught, as if by providential direction, in the very
chaos of combat, the figure that had sent forth the
cry of affliction; and as he bestrid the body of Abdalla,

and caught up the childish minstrel from his
person, he shivered with a single stroke of his sabre,
the spear that, in a moment, would have pinned to
the earth both father and son.

“Dog of a conjurer!” he cried, as he discovered
the person of Botello in the discomfited slayer, and
prepared, while the terrified stripling clung convulsively
to his body, to shield him from the weapons
of others; “dog of a conjurer! thy cruelty
cancels thy services, and I will cleave thee for a
viper!”

“What is written is written—God be thanked! I
knew not 'twas a boy.” And in an instant Botello vanished
among the combatants.

“I thought thee a woman, thou scared varlet!—
Cheer up, Abdalla!—they shall not harm thee.—Father!
my knight and my father! wilt thou protect
my boy, that I have saved, and his sire, the Christian
Moor?” cried Amador, as he perceived the knight
stand staring wildly at his side. “I leave them to
thee.—Surely there may be other lives to save!”
And thus concealing his excitement in what seemed
an excuse for his disobedience, and without waiting
for an answer, he rushed instantly into the thickest of
the combat.