University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

A short passage through which they stole, darkly,
for it was not lighted, conducted them to a
chamber, where the guide paused a moment, as if
in doubt and fear. A strong light beamed through
the curtained door. They listened for a time, until
hearing no one stir within, the Indian maiden pulled
the curtain timidly aside, and then beckoned Magdalena
to follow her. It was a spacious apartment,
richly tapestried, and lighted by many such masked
torches as Magdalena had seen in her own chamber.
The hangings were even continued over the
ceiling, so that it resembled a pavilion rather than
the sleeping apartment of a king,—for such it was.
In the centre was suspended a magnificent canopy,
wrought with feathers, overhanging a couch blazing
with gold, and bedecked with the richest spoils
of the parrot and flamingo, with little pedestals both
at the head and foot, on which incense was burning
before golden idols. Upon this lay sleeping
the Indian lady, whom Magdalena had so often
seen during the two first weeks of her durance;
and the infant slept clasping her neck. Magdalena
doubted no longer that she beheld the queen of the
young monarch. But she crept softly after her
guide, and was soon buried again in darkness.
After many turnings and windings, which made
her fancy the palace was a great labyrinth, she suddenly
found herself conducted into the open air, by

a door exceedingly narrow, and concealed by a
mass of trailing vines. But secret as this entrance
appeared, it was not unguarded. A tall savage
with a spear, started up from the bushes, as if to
dispute their right of egress. But a word from his
companion, low as the whisper of a breeze, removed
his opposition. He flung himself upon the earth,
as if to his divinity, and thus remained, until the
maidens had passed.

It was by this time midsummer—for so long a
period had elapsed since the departure from Tezcuco;
but it was the season of the rains, and the
chill winds from the lake penetrated Magdalena to
the heart. The sky was overcast, the grass loaded
with moisture, and every gust shook down a shower
from the trees.

It was very dark, and she knew not well to what
quarter she was bending her steps. But she could
see a line of fires running as it seemed across the
lake, from a point in the city to the right hand, and
lost in the distance or obscurity of the left. This
was, in fact, the northern causeway, or dike of
Tepejacac, the nearest point of which was scarce a
mile distant from the garden. It was occupied by
the troops of Sandoval, who had extended his approach
already within the limits of the water suburb.
Two or three of his brigantines were also perceived
anchored near to the calzada,—at least, their lanterns
were seen shining from their prows.

While Magdalena was yet stealing along after
her guide, her eyes fixed upon this line of fires, she
heard suddenly a great tumult begin among them,
in which the yells of men were faintly distinguished
amid the crash of fire-arms and artillery.
Shocked and frighted as she was, at being thus
made a witness, though afar, of the terrors of human
wrath, she soon began to look upon the conflict
as of good omen for herself. It would certainly

be a more attractive spectacle to any wandering
infidels in the garden than might be furnished by
the obscure figures of herself and companion.

Apparently the Indian maiden thought so too;
for she increased her pace, and instead of skulking
as before, among green-arched and shadowy alleys,
she walked boldly along in a broad exposed path,
that led directly to a corner of the palace. But
from this very corner they saw rushing a tumultuous
throng of barbarians, some of whom ran
directly towards them, though the course of others
was in another direction.

The young guide drew Magdalena into a sheltered
walk, and crept timorously along until she
reached the palace wall, when she sank down, from
fatigue or fear, signing to Magdalena to do the
same thing, and thus remained, until the last of the
barbarians had vanished. The path now seemed
clear, but still the Indian maiden remained cowering
on the earth; and Magdalena, whose impatience
distracted her mind and almost hardened her heart,
perceived that she was sobbing bitterly. She
touched her arm. The guide shrank away, but
seemed to collect her spirits and courage at the
sign. She rose up, and led the way to a broad
door, where an armed Indian stood, holding a flambeau.
He seemed alarmed, though not surprised
at the sight of the pair, and spoke earnestly to the
guide, as if to dissuade her from entering. She
passed him, however, with a word, and the next
moment stopped, in great agitation, before the curtain
of a door. Magdalena looked eagerly to her
to confirm her hopes; but before the maiden could
lift her finger, signing to her to enter, she heard,
from within the apartment, the well known growl
of Befo.

“Juan! dear Juan!” she exclaimed, and darted
through the curtain.

The young man was pacing to and fro, not
bound hand and foot, as her fears had anticipated,
but evidently excited in the most painful degree by
the distant firing. He turned at the sound of her
voice, and threw himself into her arms.

“Sister! for I believe thou art my sister,” he
cried,—“else how could I love thee with a love so
unlike that of man for woman? God be praised
that I have seen thee once again: for it is time thou
wert wrested out of this place. But what is this?
Thou art wasted and thin! very thin: thy hands
burn, thy cheek is hot—Sister, dear sister, thou
art ill!”

“Think of it not,” said Magdalena, with the delight
of a maiden, listening for the first time to the
voice of affection, and caressing him without reserve:
“Oh, Juan, I could die twice over, to hear
you speak so; and I care not if I do die, so you are
but saved; for you have made me very happy.—
You are a prisoner, Juan,—we are both prisoners.
An Indian girl brought me here—she will help you
to escape, for you can speak her language. You
can go to Cortes, and tell him you are the brother
of Magdalena. He will not wrong you then,—no,
he will not dare—Or perhaps we can fly together—
we can fly in a canoe. The maiden will help us,
the good maiden: She is at the door—I will call
her in.”

At this moment, the Indian girl, driven in, immediately
after Magdalena, by some sudden alarm,
stood at a distance, near the door, muffled in her
cloak, and shrinking almost within herself. A
single dim and half expiring torch twinkled in the
apartment; and its light scarcely reaching her, she
remained unobserved, a spectator of every thing,
but of course unable to understand a word of the
conversation.

“Go not, dear Magdalena,” said Juan, folding her

in his arms; “for it may be that we have but a
moment more to share together. Tarry, and hear
what I have to say. I am, as I may say, a prisoner;
yet it seems, if I can believe the young king, more
because I have incurred the wrath of the Mexicans
than his own. Thus it is: the king rescued me
from prison in Tezcuco, first, because I had not
long before given him liberty, to my own great
misfortune, and secondly, because he doubted not,
that the wrongs I have suffered would incense me
to take part with him, and fight against my countrymen;
whereby, as he thinks, he would gain an
invaluable auxiliary. On the day of his coronation,
he presented me to his people, and called me his
brother; nevertheless, they gave me but sour looks,
for bitterly do they hate the sight of a Spaniard. If I
will fight with them and for them, I win their love,—
so he assures me, and so I can well believe; but this
is clearly impossible. I have not fought, and I will
not; and they say, therefore, that the king should
give me up to be sacrificed; and twice already,
after having suffered some severe losses, they have
come turbulently to the palace, to demand me.
For this reason, I dare not appear among them,
unless to be torn to pieces.—Tremble not, fear
not,” he continued, as Magdalena clasped him, as
if to shield him from approaching weapons: “I
have seen thee bold and resolute among roaring
breakers,—else how could I have saved thee, dear
sister?—Heaven pardon Hilario! and heaven pardon
me, my sister, that I imputed his death to thy
warrant!—I have seen thee bold and intrepid.
Now summon back what courage thou hast; and,
if heaven will, I will save thee yet again from destruction.
I can myself escape, but not with
thee—”

“Think not of me, Juan, think not of me,” said
Magdalena, earnestly and fondly. “Thou canst

do nothing to make me so happy, as to tell me how
I can die for thee. Fly, then; pause not a moment,
but fly; and know, that, if I meet thee not again
but in heaven, yet thou wilt leave me in heaven,
even upon earth, knowing that thou art saved, and
that I have ministered somewhat to thy liberation.”

“Be of this heart, Magdalena,” said Juan, “and
rest assured that I will soon return, if I have life,
with such a force as will rescue thee likewise from
thraldom. My plan of escape involves duplicity,
nay, even perfidy; yet are mine ends all pure,
honourable, and humane. I perceive that Guatimozin
is incapable of resisting much longer. His
people are slain by thousands each day, and thousands
must soon perish from want. Cortes has
already his foot upon the island; and house by
house, the city is tumbled into ruins. The poor
king is distracted, and resolved to die, burying
himself and his whole people under the ruins of his
capital. This may be excused in a soldier, and in
men; but the town is thronged with poor women
and children; there are thousands of them—tens
of thousands; and they must perish, if the siege be
longer continued. To save them—to save the king
himself (for thus only can he be saved,) I will break
faith with him; and thus also will I save thee. My
only fear is, that his anger may fall upon thee, when
he finds I have deceived him; yet this he may not
discover. There is one here, with whom, could I
but find speech, I could secure thee a protector.
Magdalena, I have one friend here, who will be
thine. An unfortunate attempt to escape has perhaps
robbed me of her assistance. Yet I spoke of
thee to her, and—But, dear Magdalena, thou art
sick and feeble!—I talk to thee too much. If thou
art alarmed, I will not leave thee: we will await
our fate together.”

“I am sick, Juan, and I know not what is the

matter with me,” said Magdalena, faintly, suffering
the young man to place her upon a seat. “But
who is this of whom you speak? Your friend,
Juan—surely I shall love your friends.”

At this moment, Juan, as he bent over her,
caught sight of the jewels which the Indian maiden
had placed upon her head and neck, and among
others, beheld the star of pearls which had gained
for the daughter of Montezuma the name of Zelahualla,
or the Lady of the Star, and the silver
crucifix.

“Good heaven!” he cried, “do you wear her
jewels, and yet ask me who she is?”

Magdalena started to her feet, and both turning
together, they beheld the Indian princess, shrinking
in the shadow of the room, behind Befo, who
seemed to consider her an old friend, her arms
crossed upon her breast, her head drooping, and
her whole attitude and appearance indicative of a
spirit entirely crushed and broken.

“Zelahualla!” cried Juan, with a voice of delight;
and rushing towards her, he folded her in
his arms, and strove to draw her towards his sister.
“Why didst thou not speak to me, Zelahualla?
Why dost thou turn from me, Zelahualla?”

The maiden sobbed, and strove to disengage
herself from his embrace, saying,

“There is no Zelahualla now—The bright lady
of the east is Zelahualla. Juan and the bright lady
shall go. Why should Juan think there are two?”

In these broken expressions, Magdalena, had
they not been in an unknown tongue, would have
traced the workings of jealous and wounded affection.
They filled Juan with surprise.

“What is this you say to me, Zelahualla?” he
cried, “and what do you mean? Did not Zelahualla
promise she would love my sister?”

“She did,” replied the princess, without abating

her grief: “she will love Juan's sister, and any
one that Juan loves; and she has brought the
bright lady to Juan, and she has given her her
jewels, that Juan may love her more, and forget
Zelahualla,—and the cross of his God, too, that he
may not be sorry.”

“Alas, Zelahualla, what evil-eye has struck thee?
Dost thou think I deceive thee? Wilt thou not believe
this is my sister?”

The princess looked at him doubtfully and
sadly:

“It is all as Juan says: but the king has asked
questions, and the nobles have spoken to him with
the words of captives; and they say, he has spoken
falsely of the bright lady.”

“Wilt thou believe them, and not me?” said
Juan, not without emotion, for he was touched by
the deep and unreproachful sorrow of the young
princess, though greatly surprised to find how her
ear had been abused. “I swear to thee, and may
heaven judge me according to my truth, that, in
this matter, I deceive thee not. There is but one
Zelahualla, and she is the daughter of Montezuma.”

The maiden sank upon his breast, sobbing, but
now with rapture. Then running to Magdalena,
who had surveyed the scene with varying and extraordinary
emotion, she threw herself at her feet,
and embraced her knees.

Magdalena stood like one entranced, until Juan,
raising up the princess, placed her in her arms,
saying,

“Dear sister, give her thy friendship; for there is
no one more pure or noble of spirit, though artless,
than this poor ignorant maiden; and let the cross
again hang on her bosom, for she has confessed her
Redeemer. She will watch thee and guard thee

while I am gone;—nay, she will nurse thee too, for
thou art very ill, and needest kind nurture.”

Magdalena returned the embraces of the Indian
maiden, but it was with a wildness of manner, that
greatly disturbed her brother, and even frighted the
princess. He took her hand,—it was hot and
trembling. He kissed her, and found her lips burning
with fever; and he perceived that excitement
had wrought her indisposition into a degree of
illness that might prove serious.

“Compose thyself, dear Magdalena,” he said.
“All now depends upon thy coolness and courage.
If thou becomest ill, my scheme must needs miscarry—Nay,
I cannot attempt it, until thou art better;
for it seems to me now thou art almost delirious.”

“Delirious, Juan? No, I am not delirious. Yet
I am ill,—very ill, I think. Thou goest alone, dost
thou not? Tarry not a moment.—We will leave
thee,—we will not stay longer, lest the guards
should return and find us.”

“Listen to me, Magdalena,” said Juan, earnestly,
as if he feared lest her senses should wander. “If
I fall into the Spaniards' hands alive, I will come to
this garden in canoes, with a proper force, and enter
it by surprise. If it be possible, I will seize the
person of the king, having previously secured him
such terms from Cortes as shall protect him in person
and in his government, as the vassal of Spain.
This will end the war at once. But in this I may
not succeed, yet be able to liberate both thee and
the princess. Through her address, thou wilt be
enabled to walk often in the garden. Walk therein,
as near to the lake as possible, especially late in
the day, and in the first hours of the evening. The
dog Befo I will leave in a cage: when you are in
fear, give him liberty.—The princess hath often fed
him, and he will guard you well; and his voice, if
I come in the night-time, will show me where to

seek you.—Do you understand me, dear sister?
Struggle but a little against this fever, and perhaps
it may leave you. At all events, the thought of
your suffering will arm me with double strength,
when I return, bringing you relief. Alas, Magdalena,
I am sorry to see you thus!”

“It shall be as you say, Juan,” said Magdalena,
a little incoherently. “I will be governed by this
maiden, and for your sake, I will love her well.
We will walk in the garden, too. Yet think not of
us. If you are safe, we will be content.”

“Farewell, Magdalena, dear Magdalena,” said
Juan. “Walk, if thou art able, even to-morrow;
for in the morning I will essay to depart. At any
rate, be thou sick or well, if thou hearest a bugle
winded in the garden, at any hour, be it morn or
midnight, then be sure that you sally out, and Zelahualla
with you.—Farewell, sister, farewell!—
and farewell, thou, dear princess. When thou
thinkest of me, let the cross be in thy hands and
on thy lips!”

With these words, and having tenderly embraced
them both, Juan led them to the door, and putting
their hands together, he had soon the satisfaction
to hear them step from the passage into the open
air.