University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

Juan Lerma, or Castillejo—for such we must
now call him—yet lay in confinement. His cell
was in a quarter of the palace remote from the
royal apartments; and without being altogether
exposed to the cannon-shots, with which the attack
was begun, was yet so nigh the garden-wall as to
make its luckless inhabitant an auditor of all the
fearful yells and outcries, with which the besieged
and assailants contended for possession of the
breaches. He was still bound, and some dozen or
more dark-browed pagans kept watch at his doors,
one of which led into a broad passage, and the
other he knew not whither. They were designed
rather to protect him from the fury of the warriors,
now concentrated in the garden and palace,
than to guard against escape, which the wounds
he had received in the defence of Guzman, had
but ill fitted him to attempt. All that Guatimozin
could do to prolong an existence, now almost
insufferably wretched, he did; and at the
very moment of the assault, while taking measures
to effect his own retreat from an empire now utterly
demolished, and a post no longer tenable, he
gave hasty instructions to the Ottomi, Techeechee,
to secure the escape of his friend. It will be presently
seen in what manner fortune defeated this plan,
as well as all others now devised by the fallen
monarch.

It was with a listlessness amounting almost to
apathy, that Juan listened to the first discharges of
the cannon and the roar of hostile voices. Such
sounds had been awakened for several days in
succession, and each day they were nearer and
louder. If they promised him deliverance, they
promised little else; for, having reflected upon the
eventful enterprise of the causeway, and digested
at leisure and in gloom, many of those details
which had almost escaped his notice, in the heat
and hurry of contention, he saw but little reason to
anticipate from his countrymen, any other reception
than such as might be vouchsafed to a condemned
criminal and avowed renegade. He remembered,
that he had been struck down by a Spaniard, while
in the very act of giving life to the Captain-General;
and he had a vague suspicion, that the blow was
struck by the Barba-Roxa. If Gaspar (of whose
death he was entirely ignorant), had met him with
such vindictive ferocity, what else could be expected
from men who had never looked upon him with
friendship? Yet fear for himself made the lightest
weight in his load of suffering: his thoughts dwelt
upon the captive princess, and not less often, though
with perhaps less gnawing anxiety, upon his equally
captive sister.

Such were the reflections that darkened his
mind during the first hours of conflict, and
made him almost indifferent to his fate. Yet, notwithstanding
his gloom, there arose a circumstance
at last, which gave such an appalling character to
his confinement, as prevented his remaining any
longer indifferent to his situation. He became
suddenly aware that volleys of smoke were beginning
to roll into the apartment, and perceived, at the
same time, that his guards, driven away by fear, or
by an uncontrollable desire to mingle in the conflict,
as was more probable, had fled from the doors,

after satisfying themselves that he was secured in
such a manner as to prevent his flying in their absence.
He was indeed bound, or rather swathed,
hand and foot, with robes of cotton, so as to be incapable
of rising from the couch on which he lay:
and it was his consciousness of the miserable helplessness
of his condition, left to perish, as it seemed,
in a burning palace, without the power of ralsing
a finger in self-preservation, that stung him out
of his lethargy.

The smoke was now rolling into the room, in
denser masses than before, accompanied by the
stifling odour of burning feathers, which entered so
largely into the decorations of the palace; and he
began to apprehend lest he should be suffocated
outright, even before the flames had extended to
his prison. He called aloud for relief; but his voice
was unheeded in the din that shook the palace
walls; he struggled to release his limbs, or to rise
to his feet, but in vain; and even the poor expedient
of rolling over the floor, availed him but little,
so much were his muscles cramped by the barbarous
bonds. To crown the horror of the scene, a
gush of heated air shook the curtains of the door
opposite to that which communicated with the passage,
and was almost instantly followed by another,
whirling smoke and flames.

But even in this extremity, hope was brought to
his ears, in the sound of a voice not heard for many
days, but not yet forgotten. From among the very
flames that came flashing into the chamber, consuming
the door-curtains, and darting upon the little
canopy that surmounted his couch, he could distinguish
the eager and clamorous howlings of Befo;
as if this faithful friend were seeking him in his
imprisonment. He answered with a shout, which
was responded to not only by the joyful bark of the
dog, but by the wild cry of a woman; and in the

next instant, Magdalena, preceded by Befo, rushed
through the flames into his dungeon.

“I have come to save you, my brother!” she
cried, with accents wildly vehement and incoherent.
“We will fly where never man shall see us more.
Kiss me, Juan; and then look upon me no more,
for I have made a vow to my soul.—Oh, my brother!
my brother!” And she flung herself upon
his body, and strove, but in vain, to raise him from
the floor.

Had the agitation of his mind permitted, Juan
must have noticed, and been shocked by, the alteration
in her appearance. Her whole figure was
miserably wasted, and she grasped him with a
strength feebler than a child's. Her countenance
was hollow, ghastly pale, and mottled only by such
touches of colour as indicate a spirit consuming
equally with the body. Add to this, that her garments
were scorched, and even in parts burned,
by the flames through which she had made her
way; and we may understand how much she differed
from the beautiful and majestic creature, that
had been deemed at Tezcuco, almost a being of
another world.

“Cut my bonds, Magdalena,” said Juan, eagerly,
“or I must die in thine arms.”

“Let it be so, Juan—We will die together,”
cried Magdalena, with a voice of transport, as if
the prospect of such a climax to an unhappy fate
filled her mind with actual delight. “Oh yes, Juan,
so we will die, so we will die!” And she flung her
arms about his neck, with tremulous fervour,
smothering his voice of remonstrance and entreaty,
until recalled to her wits by a loud howl from Befo.
This faithful animal, limping yet with pain, but acting
as if he understood the inability of Magdalena to
give his master relief, now lifted up his voice, whining
for further assistance; and in a few seconds the

cry of another human being was heard, approaching
with answering shouts, through the passage.
But before they were yet heard, Magdalena sprang
to her feet, and wrung her hands wildly, staring
upon Juan as if upon a basilisk.

“Sister! sister! will you see me perish?” cried
Juan. “Slip me but these knotted robes from my
hands and feet, and I will save thy life. Befo! what
Befo! canst thou not rive them to tatters with thy
fangs?”

“I will free you, Juan,—yes, I will free you,”
said Magdalena, flinging herself upon her knees,
and essaying with better zeal than wisdom to loose
the knotted folds; “Yes, Juan, I will free you, and
then bid you farewell—Yes, farewell, farewell—a
lasting farewell.”

But while she was muttering thus, and striving
confusedly with the knots, a better assistance arrived
in the person of the old Ottomi, who rushed
in, yelling, “Fly! fly! The king waits for his brother,”
and cut the garments asunder with his macana.

Juan rose to his feet; but so long had he endured
this benumbing bondage, that he was scarce able
either to stand or move. There was no time,
however, for hesitation. The flames were already
devouring his couch, and darting over the cedar
rafters of the ceiling. Befo whined and ran to the
door, as if inviting his master to follow; and Techeechee
did not cease to exhort him to hasten.
Besides all this, there were now heard the cries of
men and clashing of arms, as if the battle were
raging even in the palace, and approaching the
place of imprisonment.

“Magdalena, dear Magdalena—”

She flung herself into his arms, and embracing
him, as if never to part from him more, she yet uttered,
with wild sobbings,

“Farewell, Juan, farewell; farewell, my brother—
we will never see each other more!”

“What meanest thou, my sister? Hold me by
the arm—Tarry not, or we shall perish.”

“I cannot go, Juan—I will remain, Juan—I must
die, Juan, I must die. Weep for me, pray for me,
remember me—Now go, now go! Go, Juan, go!”

It is impossible to express the mingled tenderness
and vehemence with which she uttered these
words. Poignant grief darkened in her eyes, in
which glimmered the light of the most passionate
love; and all the while she shed floods of tears.
Unable to comprehend an agitation so extraordinary,
and valedictions which he thought little short
of insanity, he grasped her by the hand, and endeavoured
to draw her after him. She resisted
even with screams, until, utterly confounded, and
somewhat incensed by opposition so unreasonable
and inopportune, he turned again to remonstrate,
and perhaps rebuke. But the reproach was
banished from his lips, before they had given it utterance.
She again flung her arms around his
neck, and muttered with tones that went to his
heart,

“I cannot go with you, Juan—Oh my brother!
pardon me, my brother, and do not curse me. Bid
me farewell, Juan, bid me farewell for ever—I love
you Juan, I love you too much!—Now I can live
no more, Juan, I can live no more—Farewell!
farewell! farewell!” And flinging from his arms,
as if from a serpent that had suddenly stung her
to the heart, she uttered another shriek, and fled
through the burning door by which she had entered.

Juan remained fixed to the spot, as if struck by
a thunderbolt; and before he could banish the words
of the thrice-unhappy victim of passion from his
ears, there rushed into the chamber, with furious
shouts, a rabble of Spanish soldiers, blood-stained,

and begrimed with smoke and cinders, the leader
of whom struck the Ottomi dead with a single
thrust of his spear, while the others rushed upon
Juan, some crying out to kill, and others to spare
him.

“Hands off!” cried Najara, throwing himself betwixt
them and Juan. “Remember orders—the
general's orders!—The king, señor Juan? Where
is the king?”

“Unhand me, villains!” cried Juan, endeavouring
to shake off the soldiers who held him fast,
while Befo attempted vainly to give him assistance:—“Kill
me, if you will, but save my sister,
my poor sister—Quick! for the love of heaven,
quick!” he cried, observing some dart towards the
door through which she had vanished: “Cortes
will reward you—save her! save her!”

“Follow them, Bernal, man,” cried Najara to the
historian, who had just plucked his spear from the
body of Techeechee—“What dost thou with slaying
gray-headed Indians? Follow La Monjonaza,—
five-hundred crowns,—ay, by my troth, and call
them five thousand—to him that recovers her
alive! Ah, señor Juan! your dog has more brains
than yourself. But for his howling, you must e'en
have roasted, man. Come along, come along—Be
of good heart; there is no fear now of either axe or
rope.”

With such words as these, he drew Juan from
the chamber, and supporting his tottering steps between
himself and another, and bidding the rest of
the party to surround them, so as to guard against
any outbursting of rage from their excited companions,
he bore him from the scene of bloodshed
and conflagration.