University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

In the prosecution of his purpose, our historian, the
worthy Don Cristobal Ixtlilxochitl, though ever adhering
to his `neglected cavaliers' with a generous
constancy, is sometimes seduced into the description
of events and scenes of a more general character,
not very necessarily connected with his main object,
and which those very authors whom he censures,
have made the themes of much prolix writing. The

difficulties that beset an historian are ever very great;
nor is the least of them found in the necessity of determinating
how much, or how little, he is called upon
to record; for though it seems but reasonable he
should take it for granted that his readers are entirely
unacquainted with the matters he is narrating, and
therefore that he should say all that can be said, this
is a point in which all readers will not entirely agree
with him. Those who have acquired a smattering
of his subject, will be offended, if he presume to reinstruct
them. For our own part, not recognizing
the right of the ignorant to be gratified at the expense
of the more learned, we have studied as much
as is possible, so to curtail the exuberances of our
original as to present his readers chiefly with what
they cannot know; for which reason, it will be found,
we have eschewed many of the memorable incidents
of this famous campaign, in which none of the neglected
conquerors bore a considerable part; as well
as all those minute descriptions which retard the
progress of the history. We therefore despatch in
a word the glories of the morning that dawned over
Tlaseala, the gathering together of the Spaniards,
who, upon review, were found to muster full thirteen
hundred men, and their savage allies, two thousand
in number, commanded, as had been anticipated, by
Talmeccahua of the tribe Tizatlan.

Amid the roar of trumpets and drums, and the
shouts of a vast people, the glittering and feathered
army departed from Tlascala, and pursuing its way
through those rich savannas covered with the smiling
corn and the juicy aloe, which had gained for this
valley its name of the Land of Bread, proceeded onwards
towards the holy city, Cholula.

What rocky plains were crossed and what rough
sierras surmounted, it needs not to detail: before
night-fall, the whole army moved over the meadows
that environ Cholula; and there, where now the traveller
sees naught but a few wretched natives squatting
among their earthen cabins, the adventurers beheld

a city of great size, with more than four hundred
lofty white towers shining over its spacious dwellings.
The magnificent mountains that surrounded it—the
sublime Popocatepetl, still breathing forth its lurid
vapours,—the forbidding Iztaccihuatl, or the White
Woman, looking like the shattered ruins of some
fallen planet, vainly concealing their deformities under
a vestment of snow,—the sharp and serrated
Malinche,—and last (and seen with not the less interest
that it intercepted the view towards home,)—the
kingly Orizaba, looking peaceful and grand in the
east,—made up such a wall of beauty and splendour
as does not often confine the valleys of men. But
there is one mountain in that singular scene, which
human beings will regard with even more interest
than those peaks which soar so many weary fathoms
above it: the stupendous Teocalli—the Monte hecno á
manos, (for it was piled up by the hands of human
beings,)—reared its huge bulk over the plain; and,
while looking on the stately cypresses that shadowed
its gloomy summit, men dreamed, as they dream yet,
of the nations who raised so astonishing an evidence
of their power, without leaving any revealment of
their fate. Whence came they? whither went they?
From the shadows—back to the shadows.—The
farce of ambition, the tragedy of war, so many
thousand times repeated in the three great theatres
that divided the old world, were performed with the
same ceremonies of guilt and misery, with the same
glory and the same shame, in a fourth, of which
knowledge had not dreamed. The same superstitions
which heaped up the pyramids and the Parthenon,
were at work on the Teocallis of America; and the
same pride which built a Babylon to defy the assaults
of time, gave to his mouldering grasp the
tombs and the palaces of Palenque. The people
of Tenochtitlan and Cholula worshipped their ancient
gods among the ruined altars of an older superstition.

Great crowds issued from this city—the Mecca of

Anahuac—to witness the approach of the Spaniards;
but although they bore the same features, and the
same decorations, though perhaps of a better material,
with the Tlascalans, it was observed by Don
Amador, that they displayed none of the joy and triumph,
with which his countrymen had been ushered
into Tlascala. In place of these, their countenances
expressed a dull curiosity; and though they kissed
the earth and flung the incense, as usual, in their
manner of salutation, they seemed impelled to these
ceremonies more by fear than affection. He remarked
also with some surprise, that when they came to
extend their compliments to the allies,—the Tlascalans,
from their chief down to the meanest warrior,
requited them only with frowns. All these peculiarities
were explained to him by De Morla:

“In ancient days,” said the cavalier, “the Cholulans
were a nation of republicans, like the Tlascalans,
and united with them in a fraternal league against
their common enemies, the Mexicans. In course of
time, however, the people of the holy city were
gained over by the bribes or promises of the foe;
and entering into a secret treaty, they obeyed its
provisions so well, as to throw off the mask on the
occasion of a great battle, wherein they perfidiously
turned against their friends, and, aided by the Mexicans,
defeated them with great slaughter. From that
day, they have remained the true vassals of Mexico;
and, from that day, the Tlascalans have not ceased
to regard them with the most deadly and unrelenting
hatred.”

“The hatred is just; and I marvel they do not fall
upon these base knaves forthwith!” said Amador.

“It is the command of Don Hernan, that Tlascala
shall now preserve her wrath for Tenochtitlan; and
such is his influence, that, though he cannot allay the
heart-burnings, yet can he, with a word, restrain the
hands of his allies. Concerning the gloomy indifference
of these people,” continued De Morla, “as now
manifested, it needs only to inform you how we discovered,

or, rather, (for I will not afflict you with the
details,) how we punished a similar treachery, wherein
they meditated our own destruction, more than
half a year ago, when we entered their town, on our
march to Mexico. Having discovered their plot to
destroy us, we met them with a perfidious craft
which might have been rendered excusable by their
own, had we, like them, been demi-barbarians; but
which, as we are really civilized and Christian men,
I cannot help esteeming both dishonest and atrocious.
We assembled their nobles and priests in the court
of the building we occupied; and having closed the
gates, and charged them once or twice with their
guilt, we fell upon them; and some of them having
escaped and roused the citizens, we carried the war
into the streets, and up to the temples: and so well
did we prosper that day, and the day that followed,
(for we fought them during two entire days,) that,
with the assistance of our Tlascalans, of whom we
had an army with us, we slaughtered full six thousand
of them, and that without losing the life of a single
Spaniard.”

“Dios mio!” cried Don Amador, “we had not so
many killed in all the siege of Rhodes! Six thousand
men! I am not certain that even treachery could excuse
the destruction of so many lives.”

“It was a bloody and most awful spectacle,” said
De Morla, with feeling. “We drove the naked
wretches (I say naked, señor, for we gave them no
time to arm;) to the pyramids, especially to that
which holds the altar of their chief god,—the god of
the air; and here, señor, it was melancholy, to see
the miserable desperation with which they died; for,
having, at first, refused them quarter, they declined
to receive it, when pity moved us afterwards to grant
it. About the court of this pyramid there were many
wooden buildings, as well as tabernacles of the like
material among the towers, on the top. These we
fired; and thus attacked them with arms and flames.
What ruin the fire failed to inflict on the temple, they

accomplished with their own hands; for, señor, having
a superstitious belief, that, the moment a sacrilegious
hand should tear away the foundations of their
great temple, floods should burst out from the earth
to whelm the impious violator, they began to raze it
with their own hands; willing, in their madness, to
perish by the wrath of their god, so that their enemies
should perish with them. I cannot express to
you the horrible howls, with which they beheld the
fragments fall from the walls of the pyramid, without
calling up the watery earthquake: then, indeed, with
these howls, they ran to the summit, and crazily
pirched themselves into the burning towers, or flung
themselves from the dizzy top,—as if, in their despair,
thinking that even their gods had deserted them!”

“It was an awful chastisement, and, I fear me,
more awful than just,” said Amador. “After this,
it is not wonderful the men of Cholula should not
receive us with joy.”

Many evidences of the horrors of that dreadful
day were yet revealed, as Don Amador entered into
the city. The marks of fire were left on various
houses of stone, and, here and there, were vacuities,
covered with blackened wrecks, where, doubtless,
had stood more humble and combustible fabrics.

The countenance of Cortes was observed to be
darkened by a frown, as he rode through this well-remembered
scene of his cruelty; but perhaps he
thought less of remorse and penitence, than of the
spirit of hatred and desperation evinced by his victims,—as
if, in truth, the late occurrences at Mexico
had persuaded him, that a similar spirit was waking
and awaiting him there.—It was in his angry moment,
and just as he halted at the portals of a large
court-yard, wherein stood the palace he had chosen
for his quarters, that two Indians, of an appearance
superior to any Don Amador had yet seen, and followed
by a train of attendants bearing heavy burthens,
suddenly passed from the crowd of Cholulans,
and approached the general.

“Señor,” said De Morla, in a low voice, to his
friend, “observe these new ambassadors;—they are
of the noblest blood of the city; the elder,—he that
hath the gold grains hanging to his nostrils, in token
that he belongs to the order of Teuctli, or Princes by
Merit, is one of the lords of the Four Quarters of
Mexico—the quarter Tlatelolco, wherein is our garrison.
His name, Itzquauhtzin, will be, to you, unpronounceable.
The youth that bears himself so
loftily, is no less than a nephew of the king himself;
and the searlet fillet around his hair, denotes that he
has arrived at the dignity of what we should call a
chief commander,—a military rank that not even the
king can claim, without having performed great actions
in the field. 'Tis a sore day for Montezuma,
when he sends us such princely ambassadors.—I will
press forward, and do the office of interpreter; for
destiny, love, and my mother wit, together, have
given me more of the Mexican jargon, than any of
my companions.”

As the ambassadors approached, Don Amador had
leisure to observe them. Both were of good stature
and countenance; their loins were girt with tunics
of white cotton cloth, studded and bordered with
bunches of feathers, and hanging as low as the knee;
and over the shoulders of both were hung large mantles
of many brilliant colours, curiously interwoven,
their ends so knotted together in front, as to fall
down in graceful folds, half concealing the swarthy
chest. Their sandals were secured with scarlet
thongs, crossed and gartered to the calf. Their raven
looks, which were of great length, were knotted together,
in a most fantastic manner, with ribands,
from the points of which, on the head of the elder,
depended many little ornaments, that seemed jewels
of gold and precious stones; while from the fillets,
that braided the hair of the younger, besides an abundance
of the same ornaments, there were many tufts
of crimson cotton-down, swinging to and fro in the
wind. In addition to these badges of military distinction,

(for every tuft, thus worn, was the reward
and evidence of some valiant exploit,) this young
prince—he seemed not above twenty-five years old
—were, as had been noticed by De Morla, the red
fillet of the House of Darts,—an order, not so much
of nobility as of knighthood, entitling its possessor to
the command of an army. His bearing was, indeed,
lofty, but not disdainful; and though, when making
his obeisance, he neither stooped so low, nor kissed
his hand with so much humility, as his companion,
this seemed to proceed more from a consciousness
of his own rank, than from any disrespect to the
Christian leader.

“What will these dogs with me now?” cried Cortes,
at whose feet, (for he had dismounted,) the
attendants had thrown their burthens, and were proceeding
to display their contents. “Doth Montezuma
think to appease me for the blood of my brothers?
and pay for Spanish lives with robes of cotton and
trinkets of gold?—What say the hounds?”

“They say,” responded De Morla to his angry
general, “that the king welcomes you back again to
his dominions, to give him reparation for the slaughter
of his people.”

“Hah!” exclaimed the leader, fiercely. “Doth he
beard me with complaint, when I look for penitence
and supplication?”

“In token of his love, and of his assured persuasion
that you now return to punish the murderers of his
subjects, and then to withdraw your followers from
his city for ever,” said De Morla, giving his attention
less to Cortes than to the lord of Tlatelolco, “he sends
you these garments, to protect the bodies of your new
friends from the snows of Ithualco, as well as—”

“The slave!” cried Don Hernan, spurning the
pack that lay at his foot, and scattering its gaudy
textures over the earth: “If he give me no mail to
protect my friends from the knives of his assassins,
I will trample even upon his false heart, as I do upon
his worthless tribute!”

“Shall I translate your excellency's answer word
for word?” said De Morla, tranquilly. “If it be left
to myself, I should much prefer veiling it in such
palatable language, as my limited knowledge will
afford.”

But the scowling general had already turned away,
as if to humble the ambassadors with the strongest
evidence of contempt, and to prove the extremity of
his displeasure; and it needed no interpretation of
words to convince the noble savages of the futileness
of their ministry. The lord of Tlatelolco bowed
again to the earth, and again kissed his hand, as if in
humble resignation, while the retreating figure of Don
Hernan vanished under the low door of his dwelling;
but the younger envoy, instead of imitating him, drew
himself proudly up, and looked after the general with
a composure, that changed, as Don Amador thought,
to a smile. But if such a mark of satisfaction—for it
bore more the character of elation than contempt,—
did illuminate the bronzed visage of the prince, it
remained not there for an instant. He cast a quiet
and grave eye upon the curious cavaliers who surrounded
him, and then beckoning his attendants from
their packs, he strode, with his companion, composedly
away.

“In my mind,” said the neophyte, following him
with his eye, and rather soliloquizing than addressing
himself to any of the neighbouring cavaliers, “there
was more of dignity and contempt in the smile of
that heathen prince, than in all the rage of my friend
Don Hernan.”

“Truly, he is a very proper-looking and well-demeanoured
knave,” said the voice of Duero. “But
the general has some deep policy at the bottom of all
this anger.”

“By my faith, I think so, now for the first time!”
exclaimed the neophyte; “for, although unable to see
the drift of such a stratagem, I cannot believe that
the señor Cortes would adopt a course, that seems to
savour so much of injustice, without a very discreet
and politic object.”

Here the discourse of the cavaliers was cut short
by the sudden appearance of Fabueno the secretary.

“What wilt thou, Lorenzo?” said his patron. “Has
Lazaro again refused to tilt with thee? I very much
commend the zeal with which thou pursuest thine
exercises; but thou shouldst remember, that Lazaro
may, sometimes, be weary after a day's march.”

“Señor, 'tis not that,” said the secretary. “But
just now, as Baltasar told me, he saw the page
Jacinto very rudely haled away by one of Cortes's
grooms; and I thought your favour might be glad to
know, for the boy seemed frighted.”

“I will straightway see that no wrong be done
him, even by the general,” said Amador, quickly,
moving toward the door into which he had seen Cortes
enter. “I marvel very much that my good knight
did not protect him.”

“Señor,” said Fabueno, “the knight is in greater
disorder to-day than yesterday. He took no note of
anybody, when we came to this palace; but instantly
concealed himself in some distant chamber, where, a
soldier told me, he was scourging himself.”

“Thou shouldst not talk, with the soldiers, of Calavar,”
said Amador, with a sigh. “Get thee to Marco.
If my kinsman need me, I will presently be with him.”

Thus saying, he discharged the secretary at the
door; and those servants who guarded it, not presuming
to deny admittance to a man of such rank, he was
immediately ushered into the presence of Cortes.