University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

The feelings of Juan Lerma were throughout,
strange, bewildering and overwhelming; and he
gazed upon the three combats, each fought and
finished in an inconceivably short space of time, in
a species of trance or stupefaction. Great, and
doubtless just, as was his detestation of Guzman,
there was something both noble and afflicting
in the courage with which the unfortunate man
bore himself in the midst of savage foes, who, if
they awarded him a shout of approbation for every
valiant blow, yet screamed with a more cordial delight,
at every wound inflicted by an antagonist.
Even while Juan doubted not that Guzman's skill
and fortitude would insure him a full triumph, and
final liberation, he could not but be struck with
horror, at beholding a Christian man bound to a
stone, and baited like a muzzled bear. How much
more overpowering, then, were his feelings, when
he perceived, from the complexion given to events
by the last contest, that it must end, and perhaps
soon, in the destruction of the prisoner.

His emotions became indeed irresistible, when
he looked up at the third shout of the multitude,—
for he had closed his eyes with dread, while Guzman
despatched his third foe,—and saw him, bleeding
at three different wounds, and staggering with
dizziness, extend his macana, now almost reduced
by the fracture of the blades, to a mere bludgeon,

towards the king, and exclaim, bitterly and despairingly,

“King of Mexico, if thou knowest either honour
or God, give me a fresh sword!”

His words ran through Juan's spirit like sharp
knives, and he was seized with a faintiness, so that
he could scarce maintain himself on his feet. But
while his brain whirled and his eyes swam, he beheld
a fourth warrior spring upon the mound, and,
yelling as he rose, dart, without a moment's pause,
against the captive.

It was now apparent to all, and to none more
than the miserable victim himself, that his situation
was become wholly desperate. His skill could
avail him nothing, while he was so insufficiently
armed; his strength was wasting away with his
blood; his courage could not long maintain itself
against all hope; and even the pride that uplifted
him so far above his barbarous antagonists, only
exasperated him into frenzy, when he perceived,
that, despised as they were, he was in their power,
and must soon expire under their blows. His rage
was like that of the gallant puma, knotted in the
lazo of a hunter, and torn to pieces by dogs, which,
were he at liberty, would be but as grass and dust
under the might of his talons.

Hopeless of any relief from the king, and maddened
by the exulting shouts with which the infidels
hailed every symptom of his defeat, he turned
furiously upon his new opponent; but not until the
Mexican, more skilful or more lucky than his predecessors,
had struck him a violent blow upon the
side, which he followed up, at intervals, with others,
while running round the stone, in imitation of his
less fortunate countryman. His success was rewarded
by the spectators with screams of delight,
which he re-echoed with his own wild outcries.

Yet Guzman was not altogether subdued.

Wretched as was his weapon, he handled it with
some effect, and struck his assailant two or three
such blows as would have ended the combat, had
they been inflicted by a better. With one, he
staggered the pagan; with a second, he struck him
down to his knee; and with a third, he snapped off
the last blade of obsidian, upon the scales of the
Indian helmet, and now brandished a harmless
wooden wand.

At that moment, a Spanish sword, thrown by an
unseen hand, fell at his feet,—but fell in vain.
Badly aimed, it struck short upon the stone, and
rolled back to the mound; and the infidel, recovering
his feet, though still staggering, uttered his
war-cry, and raised his macana, to strike down
the defenceless Christian.

Human nature could withstand the scene of
butchery no longer. Juan Lerma forgot that the
captive was his foe and destroyer, and the unprincipled
oppressor of all he held dear. He saw a
man of his own country and faith cruelly assassinated
before his eyes, among thousands of pitiless
and rejoicing barbarians. He thought not of the
impossibility of affording him any real relief, nor of
the fate to himself that must follow an attempt so
full of folly. His brain burned, his eyes flamed as
if in sockets of fire; and obeying an impulse that
converted him for a moment into a madman, he
rushed through the few nobles who separated him
from the mound, and in an instant was at the side
of the victim.

To snatch up the weapon he had so vainly
cast, to spurn the exhausted warrior from his
prey, and to cut the thong that bound Guzman to
the stone, were all the work of a second. Almost
before the idea had entered the mind of the Mexicans,
that the combat was interrupted, so lightning-like
were his motions, he had leaped with Guzman

from the platform, and, grasping his hand, made
his way over the narrow and unoccupied portion of
the square, which led to the garden. Even then,
the Mexicans stood for awhile dumb with surprise
and consternation; for the act was so unexpected,
so entirely inexplicable upon any of their principles
of action, that they scarce knew if it might not
be their Mexitli himself, who thus snatched a victim
from the stone of battle.

It has been already mentioned, that the garden
wall had, in this quarter, fallen down, and that its
place was supplied only by a fence of shrubs and
brambles. Its ruins choked the ditch, and gave a
passage, which had been formerly effected by a
wooden bridge, now buried under the heavy fragments.
A single plank spanned over the only gap
that was too wide to be passed, except by a bold
leap. It was a knowledge of these circumstances,
that, in the very tempest of his impulses, determined
the course of Juan Lerma, and decided every
step he now took to secure life to his wretched
companion. He had breathed but a word into Guzman's
ear, but it was enough to communicate
strength to his heart, and agility to his limbs; and
wonderfully adapting his resolutions and movements
to those of his guide, he ran with him over
the square and across the canal, with such speed,
that he rather aided than retarded the steps of his
preserver.—They had crossed the plank before the
yells of pursuit burst from the astounded assembly,
and Juan, striking it now into the ditch with his
foot, dragged Guzman through the brambles, exclaiming,

“Quick! quick! If we can but reach the palace,
we are saved.”

“Is it thou, indeed, Juan Lerma?” cried Guzman,
with a voice singularly wild and piteous, but struggling

onward.—“Now then thou canst kill me thyself,
since thou wouldst not be avenged by infidels.”

“Quick! quick! they are following us! they are
crossing the ditch!—But fifty paces more!”

“Ten will serve me—and ten words will make
up my reckoning—that is, here: the rest hereafter.
Stop, fool,—I am dying.”

“Courage! courage!” exclaimed Juan, endeavouring,
but in vain, to drag further the wretch, for
whom his rash humanity seemed to have purchased
only the right of expiring in a Christian's arms.
“Courage, and move on,—we are close followed.”

“Hark,—listen, and speak not,” said Guzman,
sinking to the earth, for his wounds were mortal,
and the exertions of flight caused them to throw
out blood with tenfold violence—He was indeed
upon the verge of dissolution: “Listen, listen!”
he cried, gasping for breath, yet struggling to speak
with such extraordinary eagerness, that it seemed
as if he held life and salvation to depend upon his
giving utterance to what was in his mind. “Listen,
Juan Lerma, for I am a snake and a devil. I hated
thee for—But, brief, brief, brief! First, Cortes—
Hah! they come!—Drag me into a bush, that I
may speak and die. No—here—There is no time
—Listen. Saints, give me powers of speech! or
devils—either! A little reparation—Why not? I
belied thee to Cortes—Hark! hark!” he almost
screamed, in the fear that he might not be understood,
for he was conscious of the incoherency of
his expressions; “hark! hark!—Bleeding to death
—Concerning—Cortes—his wife—Doña Catalina—
jealousy, jealousy!—Poisoned his ear. Understand
me! understand me!”

Wild as were his words and confused as was
the mind of Juan, yet with these broken expressions,
the dying cavalier threw a sudden and terrific
light upon the understanding of the outcast.

“Good heaven!” he cried, “my benefactress!
my noble lady! Oh villain, how couldst thou?—”

“More—more!” murmured Guzman, with impatient,
yet vain ardour. “I know all—Thy father—
thy sister—Camarga—killed—Aha! Magdalena—
the princess—”

“Ay! the princess?” echoed Juan, imploringly:
“the princess? the princess?”

But all he could hear, in reply to his frantic demand,
was “Garci, Garci—” and this name was
immediately lost in the roaring shouts of the infidels,
who now surrounded the pair.

Had Guzman been able to continue the flight at
half the speed with which he had begun it, it is
certain they would have reached the palace, considerably
in advance of the pursuers; though it is
not certain, that would have proved a city of refuge.
But his strength failed almost immediately after
entering the garden, of which as soon as he became
sensible, he began to make his disclosures; and
perhaps the haste into which he was driven by the
almost instant appearance of the Mexicans, thronging
over the broken wall, served as much as the
distractions and agonies of death, to make them
confused and insufficient. The first word—the
name of the lady Catalina,—revealing at once the
dreadful delusion, which had converted his best
friend into his deadliest enemy, so excited and unsettled
Juan's mind, that, in his eagerness to learn
still more of the fatal secret, he almost forgot the
presence of so many Mexicans, rushing upon him
with yells of fury. It was in vain, when they had
reached him, that he brandished his sword, and
assumed an attitude of defence, calling loudly
upon the king. He was thrown down and overpowered,—nay,
he was severely wounded, and
handled altogether so roughly, that it seemed as if
the enraged Mexicans were resolved to drag him

to the sacrifice, from which he had rescued Guzman,
if not to murder him on the spot; some
calling out to kill him, and others roaring, `The
Temalacatl! the Temalacatl!' Their cries were
not even stilled when the nobles who waited about
the person of the king, drove them away with rods,
and Guatimozin himself stalked up to the prisoner.
The frown which Juan's rash, and, as he esteemed
it, impious act, had brought upon his visage, darkened
into one still sterner, when having laid his
hand upon the Christian's shoulder, to signify that
his person was sacred, the expression of protection
was answered only by cries of the most mutinous
character.

“We will have the blood of the Spaniard,” they
screamed. “What said Azcamatzin? It is true—
this is a bear we have, that embraces us, and tears
open our hearts. He struck the Lord of Death—he
takes the victim from Mexitli: he shall be a victim
himself—he shall die on the stone!”

It was in vain that Guatimozin employed threats,
menaces, and entreaties to allay their passions. Sufferings
of a nature and extent so horrible that we
have scarce dared to hint at them, had already
made them sullen and refractory; and misery and
wrath are no observers of allegiance or decorum.
The unhappy monarch, now such less in power
than in name, feigned to yield to their clamour, for
he perceived he could no longer openly save. He
commanded Juan to be bound with cords, and carried
into a remote corner of the palace, promising,
that, when he had recovered a little of his strength
and spirits, he should be given up to them, to die
on the Temalacatl.

It was perhaps fortunate for Juan, that he was
dragged away too suddenly to behold the fate of his
rival, who was now in the hands of the priests, apparently
reviving—a circumstance hailed with such

shouts of joy, that Juan was himself almost forgotten.
The infidels carried Don Francisco again
from the garden, and hurried him towards the little
temple. But before they had passed the square, he
expired in their arms—happy only in this, that he
fell not by the knives of the priests.

Before the day was over, the citizens were called
upon again to resist the Spaniards who had now
resumed the offensive, and who continued their approaches
with such fierce, determined, and incessant
efforts, that they employed the whole time, as
well as the whole thoughts, of the besieged.