University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

At the earliest dawn, Don Amador arose from his
couch, refreshed, but not reanimated, by slumber.
An oppressive gloom lay at his heart, with the feeling
of physical weight; and without yet yielding to
any definite apprehension, he was conscious of some
presentiment, or vague foreboding of sorrow. The
taper had expired on the pedestal, but an obscure
light, the first beam of morning, guided him to the
bed-side of his kinsman. The form of Baltasar was
added to that of Marco on the floor; and the serving-men
slept as soundly as their master. He bent a
moment over Don Gabriel, and though unable to perceive
his countenance in the gloom, he judged, by
the calmness of his breathing, that the fever had

abated. “Heaven grant that the delirium may have
departed with it!” he muttered to himself, “and that
my poor friend may look upon me rationally once
more! If we are to perish under the knives of these
unwearying barbarians, as now seems to me somewhat
more than possible, better will it be for my
kinsman's soul, that he die with the name of God on
his lips, instead of those of the spirits which torment
him.”

While the cavalier gave way to such thoughts, he
heard very distinctly, though at a great distance,
such sounds as convinced him that `the unwearying
barbarians' were indeed rousing again for another
day of battle. He armed himself with the more haste
that he heard also in the passage, the sound of feet,
as if the garrison had been already summoned, and
were hurrying to the walls.

As he passed from the apartment, he found himself
suddenly in the midst of a group of cavaliers, one of
whom grasped his hand, and pressing it warmly,
whispered in his ear, “I will not forget that I owe
thee the life of Benita!—Come with me, my friend,
and thou shalt see how pride is punished with shame,
and injustice with humiliation.”

“I thought,” said Don Amador, “that we were
about to be attacked, and that my friends were running
to the defence.”

“Such is the case,” said De Morla. “The millions
are again advancing against the palace, and we go
to oppose them, though not to the walls. We have
raised devils, and we run to him we have most
wronged, and most despised, to lay them. In an
instant, you will hear the shrieks of the combatants.
If we find no other way to conquer them than with
our arms, wo betide us all!—for we are worn and
feeble, and we know our fate.”

Several of the cavaliers had lights in their hands;
but the chamber, into which Don Amador followed
them, was lit with a multitude of torches, chiefly of
the knots of resinous wood, burning with a smoky

glare, and scattering around a rich odour. The
scene disclosed to the neophyte, was imposing and
singular. The apartment was very spacious, and,
indeed, lofty, and filled with human beings, most of
them Mexican nobles of the highest rank, and of both
sexes, who stood around their monarch, as in a
solemn audience, leaving a space in front, which was
occupied by the most distinguished of the Spaniards,
among whom was Don Hernan himself. A little platform,
entirely concealed under cushions of the richest
feathers, supported the chair, (it might have been
called, the throne,) on which sat the royal captive,
closely invested by those members of his family who
shared his imprisonment. A king of Cojohuacan, his
brother, stood at his back, and at either side were
two of his children, two sons and two daughters, all
young, and one of them,—a princess,—scarce budding
into womanhood. Their attire, in obedience to
the laws of the court, was plain, and yet richer than
the garments of the nobles. But it was their position
near the king, the general resemblance of their features,
and the anxious eyes which they kept ever bent
on the royal countenance, which pointed them out as
the offspring of Montezuma.

As for Montezuma himself, though he sat on his
chair like an emperor, it was more like a monarch
of statuary than of flesh and blood. The Christian
general stood before him, dictating to the interpreter
Marina, the expressions which he desired to enter the
ear of his prisoner; but, though speaking with as
much respect as earnestness, the Indian ruler seemed
neither to hear nor to see him. His eye was indeed
fixed on Don Hernan, but yet fixed as on vacancy;
and the lip, fallen in a ghastly contortion, the rigid
features, the abstracted stare, the right hand pressed
upon his knee, while the left lay powerless and dead
over the cushions of his chair, as he bent a little forward,
as if wholly unconscious of the presence of his
people and his foes, made it manifest to all, that his

thoughts were absorbed in the contemplation of his
own abasement.

The neophyte heard the words of Don Hernan.

“Tell his royal majesty, the king,” said the general,
with an accent no longer resembling that which
had fixed the barb in the bosom of his prey, “that it
mislikes me to destroy his people, like so many dumb
beasts; and yet to this end am I enforced by their
madness and his supineness. Bid him direct his subjects
to lay down their arms, and assail me no further;
otherwise shall I be constrained to employ those
weapons which God has given me, until this beauteous
island is converted into a charnel-house and
hell, and the broad lake of Tezcuco into the grave of
his whole race!”

The mild and musical voice of Marina repeated
the wish in the language of Anahuac; and all eyes
were bent on the monarch, as she spoke. But not a
muscle moved in the frame or the visage of Montezuma.

“Is the knave turned to stone, that he hears not?”
muttered the chief. “Speak thou, my little Orteguilla.
Repeat what thou hast heard, and see if thine antics
will not arouse the sleeper.”

The youthful page stepped up to the king, seized
his hand, which he strove to raise to his lips, and
looking up in his face, with an innocent air, endeavoured
to engage his attention. This boy had, from
the first days of imprisonment, been a favourite with
Montezunia; and being very arch and cunning, Don
Hernan did not scruple to place him as a spy about
the king, under colour of presenting him as a servant.
In common, Montezuma was greatly diverted with his
boyish tricks, and especially with his blundering efforts
to catch the tongue of Mexico. But there was
no longer left in the bosom of the degraded prince,
a chord to vibrate to merriment. Habit, however,
had not yet lost its hold; and as the boyish voice
stammered out the accustomed tones, he gradually
turned his eyes from the person of the general, and

fixed them on the visage of Orteguilla. But as he
gazed, his brows contracted into a gloomier frown,
he laid his hand on the prattler's shoulder, and no
sooner had the urchin ceased speaking, than he thrust
him sternly, though not violently, away. Then drawing
himself erect, he folded his arms on his bosom,
and without uttering a word, fixed his eyes on the
face of Cortes, and there calmly and sorrowfully
maintained them.

“This is, doubtless, a lethargy,” said the general;
“but it suits not our present occasions to indulge it.
Where is my friend, De Morla? He was wont to
have much influence with this humorous man.”

“I am here,” said De Morla, stepping forward;
“and if you demand it, I will speak to the king;
though with no hopes of persuading him to show us
any kindness.”

As De Morla spoke, Don Amador, who had followed
him to the side of Cortes, observed one of the
princesses turn from her sire, and look eagerly towards
his friend. In this maiden, he doubted not,
he perceived the fair Minnapotzin; and he ceased to
wonder at the passion of his countryman, when he
discovered with his own eyes how little her beauty
had been overrated. Though of but small stature,
her figure, as far as it could be perceived through
the folds of peculiar vestments, was exceedingly
graceful. The cymar was knotted round her bosom
with a modest girdle, and left bare two arms prettily
moulded, on which shone bracelets of gold, fantastically
wrought. Her hair was long, and fell, braided
with strings of the same metal, on her shoulders,
on which also was a necklace of little emeralds alternating
with crystals, and suspending a silver crucifix
of Spanish workmanship. These were her only
decorations. Her skin was rather dark than tawny,
and the tinge of beautifying blood was as visible on
her cheeks as on those of the maids of Andalusia.
Her features were very regular; and two large eyes,
in which a native timidity struggled with affection at

the sight of her Christian lover, rendered her countenance
as engaging as it was lovely. She hung
upon De Morla's accents with an air of the deepest
interest, as he expressed, in imperfect language, the
desires of his general.

As he spoke, the infidel king surveyed him with a
frown,—a notice that he now extended to all the
Christians present, but without deigning to reply. It
was evident that he understood the desires of his
jailor, and equally plain that he had resolved to disregard
them. The angry spot darkened on the brow
of Cartes; and he was about to degrade the captive
with still more violent marks of his displeasure;
when, at this moment, the roar of his artillery, mingled
with the shouts of the besiegers, suddenly shook
the palace to its foundations, and drowned his voice
in the shrieks of the women.

Montezuma started to his feet, and cast a look
upon Cortes, in which horror did not wholly conceal
a touch of ferocious satisfaction. His people were,
indeed, falling under those terrific explosions, like
leaves before the mountain gust; but well he read in
the dismayed visages of the Spaniards, that fate was,
at last, avenging his injuries on the oppressors.

“Speak thou to thy father, my Benita!” cried De
Morla, in her own language, to the terrified princess,
“and let him stay the work of blood; for none but
he has the power. Tell him, we desire peace, repent
the wrongs we have done him, and will redress
them. If he will regain his liberty and his empire,
—if he will save his people, his children, and himself,
from one common and fearful destruction, let him
forget that we have done him wrong, and pronounce
the words of peace.”

The Indian maiden threw herself at the feet of the
king, and bathing his hands with tears, repeated the
charge of the cavalier.

Montezuma gazed upon her with sorrow, and
upon his other children; then looking coldly to Don

Hernan, he said, with a tranquil voice, while Doña
Marina rapidly interpreted his expressions,—

“What will the Teuctli have? He commands a
captive to shield him from the darts of free warriors:
Montezuma is a prisoner. He calls upon me to quiet
a raging people: Montezuma has no people. He
commands me to regain my liberty: the Mexican
that hath been once a slave, can be a freeman no
more. He bids me save my children: I have none!
they are servants in the house of a stranger.—He
that is in bonds, hath no offspring!”

While he spoke, the din increased, as if the yelling
assailants were pressing up to the very walls of the
palace; and many cavaliers, incapable of remaining
longer inactive, and despairing of his assistance,
rushed from the apartment to join in the combat.

“Why does he waste time in words?” cried Cortes.
“At every moment, there are slain a thousand of his
subjects!”

“If there were twenty thousand,” said the captive,
assuming, at last, the dignity that became his name,
and speaking with a stately anger, “and if but one
Christian lay dead among them, Montezuma should
not mourn the loss. Happier would he be, left with
the few and mangled remnants, with his throne on the
grave of the strangers, than, this moment, were he
restored to his millions, with the children of the East
abiding by him in friendship.—Thou callest upon me
to appease my people. Thou knowest that they are
thine. Why should they not listen to thee?”

“Ay, why should they not?” said Don Hernan,
speaking rather to himself, than to Montezuma, and
flinging sarcasms on his own head. “By my conscience,
I know not; for though I was somewhat
conceited, to grasp at the sceptre so early, I think I
may hold it with as much dignity as any infidel, were
he a Turkish sultan.—Hearken, Montezuma; thou
art deceived: thy people are not mine, but thine, and
through thee, as his sworn vassal, the subjects of my
master, the king of Spain. Confirm thy vassallage,

to him, by tribute, be true to thy allegiance, and remain
on thy throne for ever; and, if such be thy desire,
I will straightway withdraw my army from the
empire, so that thou mayest reign according to thine
own barbarous fancies.”

“I trust thee not,” said the king, “for already
hast thou deceived me! I revoke my vows of vassalage;
for he that has no kingdom, cannot be a
king's deputy.—Do thy worst,” continued the monarch,
with increasing boldness, no longer regarding
the furious looks of Don Hernan, and learning, at last,
to deserve the respect of his foes. “Do thy worst:
Thou hast degraded me with chains, and with words
of insult; nothing more canst thou do, but kill! Kill
me, then, if thou wilt; and in Mictlan will I rejoice,
for I know that my betrayers shall follow me! Yes!”
he added, with wild energy, “I know that, at this
moment, your heart is frozen with fear, and your
blood turned to water, seeing that revenge has reached
you, and that your doom is death! The wronger
of the lords of Tenochtitlan has learned to tremble
before its basest herds; and let him tremble,—for the
basest of them shall trample upon his body!”

“Am I menaced by this traitor to his allegiance?”
cried Cortes.

“Señor,” said De Morla, “let us trifle the time
with no more deception. There is no one of our
people, who does not perceive that we can maintain
our post in this city no longer, and that we cannot
even escape from it, without the permission of our
foes. This knows Montezuma, as well as ourselves.
Why incense him, why strive to cajole him further?
Let us tell him the truth, and buy safety by restoring,
at once, what we cannot keep; and what, otherwise,
we must yield up with our lives.”

“Ay, faith,—it cannot be denied: we are even
caught in a net of our own twisting. Tell the knave
what thou wilt. We will leave his accursed island.—
But how soon we may return, to claim the possessions
of our master, thou needst not acquaint him.

But, by my conscience, return we will, and that right
briefly!”

A thousand different expressions agitated the visage
of Montezuma, while listening to the words of De
Morla. Now a flash of joy lit his dusky features;
now doubt covered them with double gloom; and
now he frowned with a dark resolution, as if conceiving
the fate of the Christians, if left to themselves,
still caged in their bloody prison. The memory of
all he had suffered, mingled with the imagination of
all the vengeance he might enjoy, covered his countenance
with a mingled rage and exultation. While
he hesitated, his eye fell upon his children, for all had
thrown themselves at his feet; and he beheld them,
in fancy, paying the penalty of his ferocity. The
stern eye of Cortes was upon him; and he thought
he read, in its meaning lustre, the punishment which
awaited his refusal.

“Will the Teuctli depart from me,” he cried, eagerly,
“if I open a path for him through my incensed
people?”

“I will depart from him,” replied Don Hernan,
“if his people throw down their arms, and disperse.”

“They will listen to me no more!” exclaimed
Montezuma, suddenly clasping his hands, with a look
and accent of despair, “for I am no longer their
monarch. The gods of Anahuac have rejected the
king that has submitted to bonds; a great prophetess
has risen from Mictlan, bearing the will of the deities;
and, by the bloody pool Ezapan, that washes
the wounds of the penitent, the people have heard her
words, and sworn faith to a new ruler, beloved by
heaven, and reverenced by themselves. They have
seen the degradation of Montezuma, and Cuitlahuatzin
is now the king of Mexico!”

“He speaks of the strange priestess we saw at the
temple,” said De Morla. “It is, indeed, said among
all the Mexicans, (but how they have heard of her, I
know not,) that she has been sent by the gods, to dethrone
our prisoner, and destroy the Christians.”

“Thou art deceived,” said Cortes, to the monarch,
without regarding this explanation; “there is no
king, but thyself, acknowledged by thy people; and,
at this moment, they are fighting to rescue thee from
what they falsely consider bondage;—falsely I say,
for thou knowest, thou art my guest, and not my prisoner,—free
to depart whenever thou wilt,—that is,
whenever thou wilt exert thy authority to appease the
insurrection. It is their mad love for thee, that reduces
us to extremity.”

“And thou swearest, then,” cried Montezuma,
catching eagerly at the suggestion and the hope,
“thou swearest, that thou wilt depart from my empire,
if I appease this bloody tumult?”

“I swear, that I will depart from thy city,” said
the crafty Spaniard; “and I swear, that I hope to
depart from thy empire—one day, at least, when I
am its master.” He muttered the last words to
himself.

“Give me my robes—I will speak to my people!”

No sooner was this speech interpreted, than the
Spaniards present uttered exclamations of pleasure;
and some of them running out with the news to their
companions, the court-yard soon rung with their
shouts. Despair; at once, gave place to joy; and even
to many of those who had been most sick of battle,
the relief came, with such revulsions of feeling, that
they seemed loath to lose the opportunity of slaying.

“Quick to your pieces! charge, and have at the
yelling imps!” cried divers voices, “for presently we
shall have no more fighting!”