University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

The extraordinary and exciting events which
took place in the prison, that night which Juan
Lerma esteemed the last he should spend upon
earth, had reduced to exhaustion a body already
enfeebled by inaction, and a mind almost consumed
by care. Hence, when, having struggled for a
time with the restlessness and delirium which, in
such cases, usher in sleep with a thousand phantasms—apparitions
both of sight and sound,—he at
last fell asleep, his slumbers were profound and
dreamless. The loud alarums, which drove the
executioners of Villafana from the Hall of Audience,
made no impression on his ear; and even the yells,
that accompanied the attack on his dreary abode,
were equally unheard. The guards were routed,
the doors were forced, and he was lifted to his feet
by unknown hands, almost before he had opened
his eyes; and even voices, that, at another time,
would have attracted his attention, and words that
would have inspired him with the joy of deliverance,
were all lost upon him. Nay, such was the stupor
which oppressed his mind, that he was dragged
from the dungeon, and hurried rapidly along
through a host of infidels to the water-side, before
he was convinced that all was not really a dream.
Then, indeed, the bustle, the din of shrieks and
Indian drums, mingled with the sounds of trumpets
and fire-arms, the howl of winds and the plash of

waves, though they recalled him to his wits, yet
left him confounded, and, for a while, incapable of
understanding and appreciating his situation. In
this condition, he was deposited in a canoe of some
magnitude, which instantly putting off from the
shore, under the impulse of thirty paddles, he soon
found himself darting over the lake at a speed
which promised soon to remove from his eyes, and
perhaps for ever, the scene of his late humiliation
and suffering.

The darkness of the night was almost palpable,
and, save the few torches that could be seen hurrying
through the alarmed city, no other light illuminated
the scene, until the moment when the four
brigantines, fired by the assailants, burst up in a
ruddy blaze. At this sight, a shout of triumph burst
from his capturers, and altering the course of the
canoe, it seemed as if they were about to rush into
the thick of the conflict.

As they approached the burning ships, Juan was
able in the increasing glare, to examine the figures
of his companions, and beheld the dark visages and
half-naked bodies of thirty or more barbarians,
each, besides his paddle, having a weighty battle-axe
dangling from his wrist, and a broad buckler
of some unknown material hung over his back.
Two men sat by him, one on each side, and he
soon discovered that these, whom he had thought
mere guards for his safe-keeping, were no other
than the Ottomi Techeechee and the young prince
of Mexico, the latter now freed from his disguise.

“Guatimozin,” said he, no longer doubting the
purpose for which he had been snatched from the
prison, and resolved at once to express his disapprobation,
“dost thou think to make me a renegade
to my countrymen? I swear to thee—”

“Peace, and fear not,” replied the royal chief.
“Thou shalt have very sweet vengeance.”

“I ask it not, I seek it not; and surely I will not
accept it, when it makes me the traitor I have been
so falsely called. Am I thy prisoner?”

“My friend,” replied Guatimozin, quickly, starting
up, seizing a paddle from the hands of the
nearest rower, and himself urging the canoe towards
the nearest vessel, which was, by this time,
so close at hand, that Juan could clearly perceive
the figures, and almost the faces, of the Spaniards
on board, contending, and, as it seemed, not unsuccessfully,
both with the flames and the assailants.
A great herd of Mexicans was seen fighting hand
to hand with the Christians; but it was manifest,
from the cheery cries, with which the latter responded
to the yells of the former, and from the frequent
plunges in the water, as of men leaping or cast
overboard, that, in this brigantine at least, the battle
went not with the pagans. This Guatimozin remarked
as clearly as Juan, and as he struck the water
more impetuously with his paddle, he shouted
aloud, “Be strong, men of Mexico, be strong!”

All this passed in the space of an instant. A
loud cry, the rush of other canoes against the ship,
and the frantic exertions of the combatants already
on board to maintain their places, made it apparent
that the voice of the prince was not unknown or
unregarded. Still, the Spaniards fought well and
fiercely, and their cries of “God and St. James!
Honour and Spain!” kindled its natural enthusiasm
in the breast of the young islander. Forgetting his
late wrongs and oppressions, and the mournful
truth, that, at this moment, the Christians were
more his enemies than the Mexicans, he determined,
if possible, to make his escape. Watching his opportunity,
and perceiving that many ropes, sundered
by the flames, were hanging over the sides of the
vessel in the water, he chose a moment, when the
canoe was within but ten or twelve fathoms of her,

and but few of those savages who had leaped overboard
were swimming near, he rose to his feet, and
shouting aloud, “Help for an escaping captive! and
good courage to all!” he plunged boldly into the lake.

To one, who, like Juan, had rolled in his childhood
among the breakers on the northern coast of
Cuba, and to whom it was as easy a diversion to
dive for conches in such depths as would have tried
the wind of a pearl-diver, as to gather limpets and
periwinkles from the beach, it was no great exploit
to leap among the puny billows of Tezcuco, and
swim to an anchored vessel, even when the path
was obstructed by enemies, themselves not unfamiliar
with the water. His escape was so sudden
and unexpected, and the prince, Techeechee, and
the rowers, were so occupied with the scene of
combat into which they were hurrying, that it is
possible it would not have been noticed, had it not
been for his exclamation. Then, perceiving him in
the water, all were seized with confusion and fury,
some striking at him with their paddles, some leaping
over in pursuit, and all so confounded and divided
in action, that the canoe was on the very
point of being overset. In this period of confusion,
they soon lost sight of him; for it was not possible
to distinguish him among the mass of infidels that
were swimming about in all directions.

The cry of Juan was perhaps not heard by his
fellow-Christians in the brigantine; but there was
one friend aboard, and that a brute one, whose ears
were far quicker to detect his call, and whose heart
was much prompter to obey. This was the dog
Befo, who, having been taken from the prison on
the day of the trial, and afterwards been refused
admission, he so annoyed the guards by his whining
and howling, and indeed all in the palace, likewise,
that they were glad to send him aboard a vessel, to
have him out of the way, until after the time of execution,

when, it was apprehended, from his remarkable
affection for the prisoner, he might give
additional trouble. His services were turned to
good account by the sailors, during the attack; for,
being instantly loosed, he sprang upon barbarian
after barbarian, tumbling them into the water, or
among the Spaniards, who despatched them. His
appearance, fiercer than that of the largest beasts
of prey in Mexico, and his savage bark, not less
frightful than the yell of the jaguar or the puma,
were perhaps still more effectual than his fangs;
for at the sight and sound, the Mexicans, climbing
over the bulwarks, recoiled, and with screams of
dismay, jumped into the water, and swam again
to the nearest canoes.

In the midst of the conflict, Befo heard the cry of
his master, and loosing a barbarian whom he had
caught by the throat, he sprang to the side of the
vessel, thrust his paws and nose over the gunwale,
and looked eagerly into the lake, whining all the
time, and barking, as if to attract Juan's notice.
He then ran to the after-deck, where were several
sailors busily engaged in knotting a rope that seemed
to pass to the shore, or to another brigantine
nearer to the lake-side; and flinging himself over the
railing here as before, he looked out and whined
loudly again. As he peered thus into the darkness,
a faint groan, as of one strangling in the water,
came to his ears; and the next moment, he sprang,
with a wild howl, into the flood.

That groan came from Juan Lerma, who, that
instant, was struck a violent blow, he knew not by
whom or with what, which, for a time, deprived
him of all sensation, and left him drowning in the
lake.