University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

Are the refinements and delicate sensibilities of
the spirit confined to the highborn and polished?
They are undoubtedly the offspring of nature: Education
supplies their place only by the substitutes
of affectation. Though poverty may crush, though
wretchedness and evil habits may corrupt and extinguish
them, yet they throb in the breasts of the
lowly, during the days of youth, and are not always
banished even by the rigours of manhood.
They dwell under the painted lodge of the barbarian,
and they burn even in the heart of the benighted
heathen.

Let us fancy the moonlight streaming over the
lake of Tezcuco. The moon is in her first quarter,
and the evening-star, almost her rival in lustre and
magnitude, precedes her in the blue paths of the
west. The golden radiance of sunset trembles no
more on the mountain peaks; but the thin vapours
floating through the zenith, are yet gleaming faintly
with the last expiring glories of day. The birds
are at rest in the garden of Mexico,—all save the
little madrugadores, that yet chirp merrily in the
trees, and the centzontli, who leaves her ravishing
melody, to mock them with their own music, made
yet more musical. The breeze sleeps among the
boughs, or it stirs only through the poplar leaves,
and its rustling sound is mingled with the hum of a
thousand nocturnal insects. In such a night, one

forgets that man is not an angel. We see not the
frown of malevolence in the sky; we hear not the
step of the betrayer on the grass; nor does the dewdrop,
falling from the leaf, admonish us of the tears
that are streaming, hard by, in sorrow. In such a
night, the feelings of the kind are kindest, the
thoughts of the pure, purest; youth gathers about it
the mantle of hope, and hope whispers in the voice
of affection. At such a time, it is good to look into
the hearts of the youthful, and forget the excitements
of years. A draught from the waters of Clitorius
was fabled to extinguish the thirst for
wine.[1] He who can creep into the bosoms of the
young, and drink of the fountain of innocent affections,
will turn with loathing from the impure and
maddening currents, that convert the human family
into a race of moral Bacchanals.

Can we think that among the worshippers of
the ferocious Mexitli, and the fierce invaders of
his people, there were none with natures worthy of
a better belief, and a nobler cause? Destiny had
thrown together two, at least, whose spirits were
but little tainted with the evil of their place and
their day,—in whom, perhaps, feeling rather than
reason, had set a talisman that left them incorruptible.
A good heart is to man what the galvanic bar
of the philosopher was to the ship's copper-sheathing.
It gives this protection, at least, that, through
the whole voyage of life, it preserves the integrity
of the vessel. The barnacle and the remora will
indeed deaden its course, but the metal remains
clean and bright: the billows of the world waste
their corrosive powers only on the protector. Morality
itself is two-fold; it is of the head, and of the
heart. The first belongs to the philosopher, the

second to the poet. The one is an abstraction of
reason; the other an exhortation of passion. The
morality of the head is the only one that is just;
but it is loveliest and best when the heart enforces
its precepts. With good hearts, Juan Lerma and
the princess of Mexico, moved among the corruptions
of superstition, uncorrupted; and preserved
to themselves, unabated and unsullied, the pure
and gentle feelings, which nature had showered
upon them at their birth.

The moon, falling aslant upon the garden, lighted
the countenances of the young Spanish exile and
the orphan child of Montezuma, as they rested upon
the summit of a little artificial mound, ornamented
with carved stone seats and rude statuary, constructed
for the purpose of overlooking the walls.
The visage of the Christian was illumined by
pensive smiles, and his lips breathed gently and
fervently the accents that were sweetest to the ears
of the Indian maiden. But did he discourse of
worldly affection and passion to one so ignorant
and artless? A nobler spirit animated the youth.
He spoke of the faith of Christians, and laboured
with more than the zeal, though not perhaps with
the wisdom of the missionary, to impress its divine
truths upon the mind of his hearer. If his arguments
were somewhat less cogent and logical than
might have been spoken, it must be remembered
that his religion was like that which will perhaps
belong to the majority of Christians to the end of
the world,—a faith of the heart, which the head has
not been accustomed to canvass.

He directed her eyes to the moon, to the evening
star, and to those other celestial wanderers, by
which the heart of man was `secretly enticed,' even
before the days of the perfect man of Uz.

“They are the little bright heroes that hang down
from the house of Ometeuctli, king of the city of

heaven,” said the poor infidel,—“all save Meztli,” (the
moon) “who is the king of night, brother of Tonatricli,”
(the sun) “god of the burning day. This is
what they say of the two gods: There were men on
the earth, but wicked: the ancient gods, the sons
of Ipalnemoani killed them. Then Ometeuctli sent
forth from the city of heaven his sons, who descended
to Mictlan,—the dark hell,—by the road
that leads between the Fighting Mountains, and the
Eight Deserts,—and stole the bones of men, that
Mictlanteuctli had heaped up in his cavern. The
sons of Ometeuctli sprinkled the bones with their
blood; and these men lived again, and the sons of
Ometeuctli were their rulers and fathers. But the
earth was dark,—it was night over the world, and
the only light was the fire which they kindled and
kept burning in the vale of Teotihuacan. The sons
of Ometeuctli pitied the men they had revived; and,
to give them light, they burned themselves in the
fire. Ometeuctli, their father, then placed them in
the sky,—Tonatricli the first born, to be the sun,
Meztli to be the moon, and the others to be stars.
So they hang in heaven, turned to fire: and men
built pyramids to them, on the place of burning,
Micoatl, the Field of Death.[2] They are very good
gods, for they shine upon us.”

“Forget these idle fables,” said Juan, with a
gentleness much more judicious than any zeal
could have been. “Forget, too, Mexitli, Painalton,
Quetzalcoatl, Centeotl, and the thousand vain
beings of imagination, with which your priests have
peopled the world. Think only of the great Teotl,
whom you have called Ipalnemoani,—the great
God, the only God,—for there is no other than He,

and the rest are but fables. Yonder moon and
stars are not divinities, but great globes like this
on which we live; and to worship them is a sin—
it angers Ipalnemoani, who is the only God,—the
Creator,—whom all men worship, though under
different names. Worship but Ipalnemoani, and
in mode as I will tell thee, and thou art already
almost a Christian.”

“But is not Christ another god of the Spaniards?”
said the maiden, doubtfully.

“The Son of God, a portion of God, and God
himself,” replied the Christian, lanching at once
into all the theological metaphysics with which he
was acquainted, and succeeding in confounding the
mind of the poor barbarian, without being very sensible
of the confusion of his own. But if he could
not teach her how to distinguish between categories,
not reducible to order and consistency by the poor
aids of human language, he was able to interest her
in the fate and character of the divine Redeemer,
by no other means than that of relating his history.
And it is this, to which men must chiefly look for
instruction, belief, and renovation, without reference
to dogmas and creeds; for here all find the unanimity
of belief and feeling, which entitles them to
the claims of fraternity.

When Juan had excited her sympathy in the
character of the Messiah, he began to discourse
upon the object and the ends of his mission. But
unfortunately the doctrine of original sin, with
which he set out, had in it something extremely
repugnant to the rude ideas of the child of nature.
It inferred a native wickedness in all, to be banished
only by belief; and it seemed at once to place her
in an humble and degraded light, in the eyes of the
young Christian.

“What has Zelahualla done,” she said, with

maidenly pride, “that the king's brother should
make her out wicked?”

At this application of the doctrine, Juan was
somewhat staggered in his own belief. He looked
at the mild eyes of the catechumen, beaming as
from a spirit without stain and without guile, and
he said to himself, `How can this be? for she has
known no sin?' His imagination wandered among
the moral and religious precepts stored in his
memory, and settled at last with the triumph of a
controversialist, as well as the satisfaction of a
Christian, upon the first rules of the decalogue,—
broken in ignorance, and therefore he doubted not,
easily atoned. He told her that the worship of
false gods was a sin, and homage shown to idols
of wood and stone a deep iniquity; and these being
common to all benighted people, he satisfied himself,
and perhaps her, that they were unanswerable
proofs of the existence of natural depravity. But
a stronger light was thrown upon the maiden's
mind, when he showed its effects in the scene of
bloodshed, commenced long since in the days of
her sire, and now about to be terminated in a war
of massacre.

“He of whom I speak,” he said, “came into the
world, in order that these things should cease. He
offers men peace and good-will; and when men
acknowledge him and follow his commands, peace
and good-will will reign over the whole world.
Think not, because my countrymen are sometimes
unjust, and often cruel, that our divine Leader is
the less divine. These are the wickednesses of
their nature, not yet removed by full or just belief;
for the belief of some is insufficient, of others perverted,
and some, though they profess it, have no
belief at all. Know, then, that our religion, justly
considered, and with a pure mind not selfish, has
its great element in affection. It teaches love of

heaven, and, equally love of man. It denounces
the wrong-doer, who is as a fire, burning away the
cords that bind men together in happiness; and it
exalts the good man, who unites his fellows in affection.
It punishes vicious deeds and forbids evil
thoughts; for with these, there can be no happiness
and peace. This it does upon earth; and it prepares
for the world beyond the grave, in which no
human passion or infirmity can disturb the perfect
purity and enjoyment, of which the immortal spirit
is capable.”

Thus he conversed, and thus, guided by the native
bias of his mind, dwelt upon that feature of our
heavenly faith, of which it requires no aid of enthusiasm
to perceive the amiableness and beauty.
“Peace and good-will to all!”[3] There is a charm
in the holy sentence, at once the watchword and
synopsis of religion, that thrills to the hearts even
of those, who, to obtain the base immortality of
renown, are willing to exchange it for the warcry
of the barbarian, the Vœ victis! of a hero.

Thus far, then, the heart of the Indian maiden
was softened, and tears,—not of penitence, for it
never entered her mind that she had anything to
repent,—tears of gentle and pleasurable emotion
stole into her eyes, as she listened to tenets explained
by one so revered and beloved.

“The religion that my lord loves, is good; and
Zelahualla shall know no other.”

“God be praised for this then,” said Juan, fervently;

“for now is the desire of my heart fulfilled,
mine errand accomplished; and I will die, when I
am called, cheerfully; knowing that thou wilt follow
me to heaven. Now do I perceive that heaven
works good in our misfortunes. The miseries
that I have lamented,—the hatred of Don Hernan,
the malice of my foes, my downfall, my condemnation,—what
were they but the steps which have led
me to effect thy conversion and salvation? God be
praised for all things! and God grant that the seeds
of the true faith, now sown in thy heart, may grow
and flourish, till transplanted into paradise!”

Thus saying, Juan fell upon his knees, and invoked
blessings upon the proselyte, who knelt beside
him, confirmed greatly in her new creed by the
evident pleasure her conversion, if it could be so
called, had given him.

“Know now, Zelahualla,” he said, as he raised
her from the ground, and folded her in an embrace
that had more of the gentle affection of a brother,
than the ardent passion of a lover, “that now thou
art dearer to me than all the world beside. While
thou wert a worshipper of idols, I wept for thee;
now that thou art a Christian, I love thee; and
through this storm of war, that is gathering around
thee, I will remain to protect thee, and, if need be,
to perish by thy side.”

“What my lord is, that will I be,” said the young
princess, with such looks of confiding affection as
belong to the unsophisticated child of nature—
“Yes, Zelahualla will be a Christian,—Juan's
Christian,”—for she had been long since instructed
to pronounce the name of her young friend—“and
she will think of none but him—”

She paused suddently, and disengaged herself
from the arms of the Castilian, who, looking round,
beheld almost at his side, surveying him with manifest
satisfaction, the young king of Mexico. The

gorgeous mantles of state were upon his shoulders,
the golden sandals and copilli, or crown, bedecked
his feet and head; and though no sceptre-bearers
or other noble attendants followed at his heels, his
appearance was not without dignity, and even majesty.

He stepped forward, and taking the princess by
the hand, said to Juan,

“The Centzontli is the king's sister;—thus said I,
when Montezuma lived no more; for the Spaniards
have killed the sons of the king, and who remains
to be her brother? It is enough—the Eagle of the
east is the king's brother.—The king will speak
with his brother.”

At this signal, the maiden stooped humbly over
Guatimozin's hand, kissed it with mingled love and
respect, and immediately stole from the mound.

“My brother beheld me among my people,” said
Guatimozin, as soon as she was gone. “What
thinks he of the warriors of Mexico?”

“They are numerous as the sands and leaves.
But hear the words of him who knows the Spaniards
as well as the Mexicans. Before a blow is struck,
speak good things to Cortes. Acknowledge thyself
the vassal of Spain, and rule for ever.”

“Is my brother yet a Spaniard? and does he
tell me this thing?”

“If I anger thee, yet must I speak! for I speak
with the heart of one grateful to thyself and
friendly to the race of Montezuma. As a true
Spaniard, I should counsel thee to resist; for resistance
would excuse rapacity. How wilt thou
fight upon this island, with thine enemies round
about thee? They will sit down and sleep, while
the king perishes with hunger.”

“The houses are garners,” replied Guatimozin,
proudly: “There is food provided for many days;

and how shall the big ships see the peasant's canoe,
when it brings corn in the night-time?”

“The lake is broad, but thou knowest not of all
the craft and skill of thy foes. Think then of
this: Can a man drink the water of the salt lake
and canals? Are the pipes of Chapoltepec under
the mountains? The Spaniards will tear them up
from the causeways; and the warriors will despair
for drink.”

“Is Guatimozin a fool?” exclaimed the royal
barbarian, with a laugh. “The rains have begun
to fall; and for seven[4] months, the sky will be my
fountain. Is not Malintzin mad, that he should
besiege me at this season? He is not a god!”

“Were it for thrice seven months,” said Juan,
“be assured that Cortes will still remain by thy
city, awaiting its downfall.”

“And what shall be done by the warriors of
Mexico? Will they look from the island, and
wring their hands, till he departs? For every
grain of corn in the garners of Tenochtitlan, there
is an arrow in the quivers of the warriors. Count
the bones that lie in the ditches of Tacuba,—number
the bearded skulls that are piled on the Huitzompan,
the trophies gathered from the Spaniards in
the night of their flight,—there are not so many
living men in the camp of Malintzin, as perished
that night when we drove them from Mexico.”

“Dost thou hold, then, for nothing the two hundred
thousand Tlascalans, Tezcucans, Chalquese,
Totonacs, and other tribes, that follow with
Cortes?”

“There are but three roads to Mexico—Can they
hurt me from the shores?”

“The ships are fourteen more; and by and by,
there will be no canoe that swims the lake, but will

bear the soldiers of Don Hernan. Think not resistance
can do aught but protract the fate of thine
empire, and incense the miseries of its subjects.
Its history is written. Heaven is angry with your
gods and with your acts. The blood of human
sacrifices, detestable in the eyes of divinity, calls
for revenge. Alas, thou didst this day condemn a
poor Spaniard to the altar, and thus stain thine
installation with cruelty! God will punish the
Mexicans for this.”

The eyes of Guatimozin flashed in the moonlight
with indignation.

“Is not the prisoner,” he cried, “the prey of the
victor? The Spaniard burns the captive in the
shoulder, and makes him a slave. Which is cruel?
The prisoner and the felon we give to the gods—it
is good. Did the Eagle ever behold a Mexican
chain men to a stake, and burn them with fire?
Yet he saw Malintzin burn the Chief of Nauhtlan
and the fifteen warriors, in the palace-yard, in a
great fire made with Mexican bows and arrows!
Which, then, is cruel?”

“This act I will not defend,” said Juan, “and it
was my presumption in censuring it, that made
Cortes my enemy. But, prince, let us speak of
these things no more, for our arguments shake not
each other's minds. Let me speak of myself, for
it is just thou shouldst know my resolve. I am
thy friend, but I will not lift my hand against my
countrymen.”

The countenance of the king darkened:

“Is not the Great Eagle brave? He fears his
enemies!”

“I fear nothing,” said Juan, with conscious
dignity, “else would I speak no words to lose
thy favour. I will be thy prisoner, thy sacrifice, if
thou wilt.—I lament the fate that is coming upon
thee, but I cannot fight in thy cause.”

Guatimozin eyed him earnestly, as if to read his
soul; and then said, a little softly,

“The Great Eagle knows all things: he shall
rest in the palace all day, and at night, speak wise
things to the king.”

“Neither in this can I aid thee,” replied Juan,
resolutely. “What I know of religion and moral
duties,—nay, all that I know of civilized arts, that
are not military,—this much I am free to communicate;
but nothing more. I can no more help
thee to fight with my knowledge, than with my
arm.”

This was a declaration of principles somewhat
above the powers of the infidel to appreciate, and
it filled him, as Juan saw, with serious displeasure.
He took him by the arm, and spoke sternly and
even menacingly:

“The faith of a Christian is not that of a Mexican.
The Indian kills his foes and the foes of his
friend: the Christian forgets his friend, when his
friend is in trouble.”

Juan was stung by the reproach, and replied with
emphasis:

“The king took me from the prison-house of
Tezcuco: the block was in waiting for me. Who
talked to me of prisons and of blocks, before Olin
came to the garden?”

Guatimozin grasped his hand, and spoke with
impetuosity,—

“I have said the thing that was false, and my
brother does not forget his friend. He did a good
deed to Olin; why should he turn his face from
Guatimozin? Was Olin in greater distress than the
king, beset by enemies who cannot be counted?
My brother has looked in the face of the Centzontli,
my sister.—The princes of the city, and the kings
of the tribes, have said, each one, `Give me the
daughter of Montezuma, and I will die for Mexico.'

But the king thought of his brother. Thus it shall
be: the Great Eagle shall take the princess for his
wife, and be a Mexican; and then, when Guatimozin
entreats him to strike his foe, he will call upon
his god of the cross,—the Mexitli of the Spaniards,
—and strike with all his force. Is it not so?”

“Prince!” said Juan, sadly, “even this cannot
be. According to our thoughts, there are sins of
the deepest turpitude in acts which your customs
cause you to esteem virtues. The Spaniard may
change his country, but he cannot become the foe
of his countrymen. What wouldst thou think of
one of thine own people,—thy friend, thy subject—
whom thou shouldst find among the Spaniards, and
aiming his weapon against thee?”

“There are many thousands of them,” said Guatimozin,
giving way to passion. “Malintzin fights
with weapons more destructive than the big thunder-pipes.
He goes among the serfs that pay tribute,
and he says, `Pay no more—Is it not better
to be free?' Thus he seduces them. But my brother
shall think of this again. And now he shall
eat and sleep.”

So saying, and perhaps thinking it unwise to
pursue his designs at the present moment, he drew
Juan from the mound, and was leading him towards
the palace, when the sound of voices and footsteps
came from the bottom of the garden, accompanied
by the fierce barking of Befo, who was still confined
in the cage.

“Now do I remember me,” said Juan, with a
feeling of shame, “that I have suffered the noble
animal—”

But his words were cut short by an unexpected
circumstance. No sooner had his voice sounded,
than a wild cry burst from a neighbouring copse,
and a female figure, pursued by Mexican warriors,

rushed forwards, calling upon him by name, and
by a title that had never before blessed his ears.

“Juan! Juan! my brother! oh, my brother!”

It was Magdalena,—her hair disordered and
drooping in the damp air of evening, her face, as
far as it could be seen in the imperfect light, pale
and distracted. No sooner did her eyes behold
him than she redoubled her speed, and throwing
herself upon his neck, she cried, with transports of
emotion, while the pursuers gathered round in no
little amazement.

“Oh, Juan! my brother! pardon me and forgive
me; for I am your sister,—yes, your sister, your
own sister,—and I have come to die with you!”

Confounded as much by the strange declaration
as by her presence, Juan endeavoured gently to
disengage himself from her embrace, but all in vain.
She clasped his neck with tenfold strength, weeping
and exclaiming he scarce knew what; and, though
much affected, he began to think that sorrow and
passion had turned her brain. What therefore was
his surprise, when he gathered from her incoherent
exclamations, that Camarga, the masking stranger,
who had, on three several occasions, betrayed such
an unaccountable desire to take his life, had, even
with his dying lips, pronounced them brother and
sister. His heart thrilled at the thought; for his
affection for the singular being whose destiny of
mourning was so like his own, had ever been great,
though chilled and pained by the belief of her unworthiness.
He pursued the idea with a thousand
questions, the answers to which provoked his curiosity,
while they damped his hope. Was Camarga
their father? and was he dead? What did he say?
What,—no more than this—`He was her brother?'
No more? And no one alive to confirm the story?
“Alas,” he said, his thoughts reverting to what he

remembered of his childhood; “this fancy has
made me as distracted as thyself. Camarga was a
dreamer—an evident madman. My father died at
Isabela in the island; for was not I at his side?
This cannot be, Magdalena;—deceive thyself no
longer.”

“Speak not to me of deceit, my brother—for my
brother thou art,” said Magdalena, vehemently.
“Can my heart deceive me? Is it not the work of
heaven, seen in our whole life? Heaven kept thee—
yes, Juan, while heaven punished me the sin of neglected
vows with the torments of unavailing affection—it
kept thee from loving me as much, because
thou wert my brother. Yes, this it is! The
angels spoke with the lips of that man, who
now lies dead on the lake-side! But what of that,
Juan? We will go to Cortes—I can win thy forgiveness.
Alas, alas! I could have saved thee before,
but thou madest me mad. Why didst thou
treat me so, Juan? I was innocent—indeed I was;
and Hilario's recantation—oh believe me, I knew
not of his murder, till it was accomplished! Villafana
killed him from fear, for Hilario had discovered
how he scuttled the ship; and thus it was that Hilario
gained Villafana to corroborate the falsehoods
he spoke of me. I can make all clear to thee, indeed
I can.—But now, dear Juan, cast me not off
again,—for you are my brother. We will go to
Cortes,—he will pardon thee. We will find out the
friends of Camarga, and it must needs be that we
shall discover all. And then I will go to a convent
again,—and then I care not what befalls me; for I
shall have a brother in the world left to love me.”

While Magdalena was pouring forth these wild
expressions, for a time almost unconscious of her
situation in the heart of the pagan city, and in the
presence of so many barbarians, Guatimozin, who
had looked on with an astonishment that was soon

converted into the darkest displeasure, turned to
the capturers of Magdalena, who had ceased their
pursuit the moment they beheld the king, and flung
themselves reverently at his feet. The Lord of
Death, who made the like prostration, had assumed
an erect posture, in virtue of his high rank. But
his looks wandered from the king to the Christian
pair, whose endearments he watched with exceeding
great satisfaction, and indeed with exultation.

“What is this that I see?” said the king, in a
low but stern voice; “and who hath brought this
woman to my garden?”

Masquazateuctli bent his head to the earth, replying
with the complacency of one who has achieved
a happy exploit,—

“The king made the Great Eagle of the East his
brother; he took him to the hill of Chapoltepec that
his people might know him, and do him honour.
Shall not Masquazateuctli do a good thing to the
king's brother? He was sorry because of his loneliness
in the king's garden, and the Maiden of the
East was afar in Tezcuco. I thought of this, and
I crept to the gates of Tezcuco: and I said, `I will
take a prisoner for the king, and perhaps I shall
find a maiden with white brows; which will gladden
the heart of the king's brother.' Mexitli was with
me. But I killed the man that came with her, for I
saw she was that daughter of a god, with eyes like
the full moon, of whom the king had spoken, when
he came from Tezcuco alone, and my heart was
very joyful. The Eagle is glad—he will not ask
the king for the daughter of Montezuma!”

Guatimozin muttered a fierce interjection betwixt
his teeth, but replied with dignity,

“The Lord of Death should have spoken this to
the king; but if he be angry, he remembers that
Masquazateuctli was Montezuma's soldier. By and

by, I will speak with him in the palace.—I have
said.”

The Lord of Death, thus dismissed, and not a
little mortified at such insufficient thanks, beckoned
to his followers and departed.

Guatimozin strode up to the Christians, and touching
Juan on the shoulder, said, with a stern voice,

“What shall the king say of his brother, to the
daughter of Montezuma?”

The colour rushed into Juan's cheeks; but he
replied immediately, and even firmly,

“That he brings her his sister, to whom, for his
own sake, he prays her to be kind and gentle.”

“Does my brother tell me this?” said the king,
starting. “The Great Eagle said he was alone in
the world, with none of his kin remaining.”

“And so I thought, until this hour,” said Juan,
not without embarrassment: “and now must I tell
the king, that though I call this maiden my sister,
and pray heaven she may prove so, yet neither she
nor I have aught upon which to found our belief,
but the words of one whom the Lord of Death killed,
when he seized her.”

Guatimozin intently eyed the maiden, who watched
with painful interest the changes of his countenance
and Juan's, for she understood not a word of
their speech; and then said,

“Let it be so: Guatimozin will think of this. The
Spanish lady is welcome—the Eagle shall speak
with her a little, and then give her up to the women,
that they may be good to her.—The king's house
is very spacious.”

He then turned gravely away, signing to the outcast
pair to follow him.

They were suffered to be alone together for a
brief hour, in which Magdalena, rejecting impetuously
and passionately all Juan's doubts, poured
out all the secrets of a life full of unhappiness, but

not of crime; and Juan himself, forgetting the
weakness of all her claims of consanguinity, melted
into belief, and learned to call her his sister. There
were indeed certain circumstances of mystery about
his birth, which might have often disturbed his
thoughts, had he been of an imaginative turn. The
man whom he had called and esteemed his father,
had died a violent death in the islands, while Juan
was yet very young. He could recollect little of
him that was agreeable to remember; and all that
had afterwards come to his ears, only served to
chill his curiosity; all persons, who had not forgotten
him, representing the elder Lerma as a most
depraved and infamous man. No one knew whence
he had come, or if he had any relatives left in the
world; and Juan remembered well, that the planters
had, on several occasions, when the unnatural
parent, if parent he was, had maltreated and abandoned
him, taken him away from Lerma, and comforted
Juan with the assurance that the villain had
undoubtedly stolen him from some one. It is, however,
very certain that Juan never seriously thought
of doubting that this man was his parent; nor
would he have recalled such trivial circumstances
to his mind, had he not been staggered by the impetuosity
of Magdalena, and by his own feelings of
affection, into a credulity almost as ample as her
own. That he should desire also to find a relative
in one, who, considered without reference to the
weakness shown only in her love for him, was of
a soul as stainless as it was noble, is not to be
doubted; and such love he could be rejoiced to return.
In truth, his reasons for admitting her claims
were as flimsy as hers for making them, as he came
to discover, when left to examine them in solitude.
They made, however, a deep and lasting impression
upon his mind. Perhaps the impression would
have been still deeper, had the two been permitted
to remain longer together; but before Magdalena
had yet been able to speak with composure,
there came a train of maidens, bearing chaplets of
flowers, and rich ornaments of feathers, giving Juan
to understand, that it was the king's will his companion
should now leave him.

Magdalena turned pale, when this command was
announced to her by Juan, and seemed at first as if
resolved never to be parted from him more. But
being persuaded by Juan that she had nothing to
fear—that the king was his friend—that they should
certainly meet again,—she at last consented. She
strode to the door—she listened to his words of
farewell, and she sobbed upon his breast; and then
departed with the happy but delusive hope of seeing
him again on the morrow.

It was the last night of peace that ever darkened
over the Mexico of the pagans.