University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

In great grief and consternation of mind, the cavaliers
carried the king to his apartments, and added
their own sharp regrets to the tears of his children,
when the surgeon pronounced his wounds mortal.
Even the señor Cortes did not disdain to heave a
sigh over the mangled form of his prisoner; for, in
his death, he perceived his innocence, and remembered
his benefactions; and, in addition, he felt, that,
in the loss of Montezuma, he was deprived of the
strongest bulwark against the animosity of his people.

“I have done this poor infidel king a great wrong,”
he said, with a remorse that might have been real,
and yet, perhaps, was assumed, to effect a purpose
on his followers; “for now, indeed, it is plain, he
could not have been unfaithful to us, or he would not
thus have perished. I call God to witness, that I had
no hand in his death; and I aver to yourselves, noble
cavaliers, that, when I have seemed to treat him with
harshness and injustice, I have done so for the good
of my companions, and the advantage of our king;
for barbarians, being, in some sort, children, are to

be governed by that severity which is wholesome to
infancy. Nevertheless, I do not wholly despair of
his life; for there are some score or two lusty fellows
in the garrison, who have had their skulls cracked,
and are none the worse for the affliction. I trust
much in thy skill, señor boticario,” he continued,
addressing the surgeon; “and I promise thee, if thou
restore Montezuma to his life and wits, I will, on
mine own part, bestow upon thee this golden chain
and crucifix, valued at ninety pesos, besides recommending
thee, likewise, to the gratitude of my brother
captains, and the favourable notice of his majesty,
our king,—whom God preserve ever from the wrath
and impiety of such traitorous subjects as have laid
our Montezuma low! I leave him in thy charge. As
for ourselves, valiant and true friends, it being now
apparent to you, that we have none but ourselves to
look to for safety, and even food, (the want of which
latter would, doubtless, create many loud murmurs,
were it not for the jeopardy of the former,) I must
recommend you to betake you to your horses, and
accompany me in a sally which it is needful now to
make, both for the sake of reconnoitring the dikes,
and gathering food.—What now, Botello!” he cried,
observing the enchanter pressing through the throng;
“what doest thou here?—Thou never madest me a
prophecy of this great mishap!”

“I never cast the horoscope, nor called upon Kalidon-Sadabath,
to discover the fate of any but a Christian
man,” said Botello, gravely; “for what matters
it what is the fate of a soul predoomed to flames,
whether it part with violence, or in peace? I have
sought out the destiny of his people, because I thought,
some day, they should be baptised in the faith; but I
never cast me a spell for the king.”

“Wilt thou adventure thine art in his behalf, and
tell me whether he shall now live or die?”

“It needs no conjuration to discover that,” said
the magician, pointing significantly to the broken
temple. “The king will die, and that before we are

released from our thraldom. But hearken, señor,”
he continued, solemnly, “I have sought out the fate
that concerns us more nearly. Last night, while
others buried their weariness in sleep, and their sorrows
in the dreams of home, I watched in solitude,
with prayers and fasting, working many secret and
godly spells, and conversing with the spirits that
came to the circle.”—

The wounded monarch was forgotten, for an instant,
by the cavaliers, in their eagerness to gather
the revelations of the conjurer; for scepticism, like
pride, was yielding before the increasing difficulties
of their situation, and they grasped at hope and encouragement,
coming from what quarter soever.

“And what have the spirits told thee, then?” demanded
the general, meaningly.—“Doubtless, that,
although there be a cloud about us now, there shall
sunshine soon burst from it; and that, if we depart
from this city, it will only be like the antique battering
ram, pulled back from a wall, that it may presently
return against it with tenfold violence.”

“I have not questioned so far,” replied Botello,
earnestly. “I know, that we must fly. What is to
come after, is in the hands of God, and has not been
revealed. Death lies in store for many, but safety
for some. The celestial aspects are unfavourable,
the conjunctions speak of suffering and blood;—
dreams are dark, Kalidon is moody, and the fiends
prattle in riddles. Day after day, the gloom shall be
thicker, the frowns of fate more menacing, retreat
more hopeless. Never before found I so many black
days clustered over the earth! In all this period,
there is but one shining hour; and if we seize not
that, heaven receive us! for, beyond that, there is
nothing but death.—On the fifth day from this, at
midnight, a path will be opened to us on the causeway;
for then, from the house Alpharg, doth the
moon break the walls of prisons, and light fugitives
to the desert. But after that, I say to thee again,
very noble señor, all is hopelessness, all is wo!—

starvation in the palace, and shrieking sacrifices on
the temple!”

“On the fifth night, then,” said Cortes, gravely,
“if the fates so will it, we must take our departure,
—provided we die not of famine, on the fourth. I
would the devils that thou hast in command, had revealed
thee some earlier hour, or some good means
of coming at meat and drink. Get thee to thy horoscopes
again, thy prayers and thy suffumigations;
and see if thou hast not, by any mischance, over-looked
some favourable moment for to-morrow, or
the day after.”

“It cannot be,” said Botello; “my art has disclosed
me no hope; but, without art, I can see that,
to-morrow, the news of Montezuma's death, (for
surely he is now dying,) will fill the causeways with
mountaineers, and cover the lake with navigators,
all coming to avenge it.”

“I like thy magic better than thy mother wit,”
said Don Hernan, with a frown. “Give me what
diabolical comfort thou canst to the soldiers; but
croak no common-sense alarms into their ears.”

“I have nothing to do with the magic that is diabolic,”
said the offended enchanter. “God is my
stay, and the fiends I curse! If I have fears, I speak
them not, save to those who may handle them for
wise purposes. This, which I have said, will surely
be the fate of to-morrow; and the besiegers will
come, in double numbers, to the walls. What I have
to speak of to-day, may be of as much moment,
though revealed to me neither by star nor spirit.—
The Mexicans are struck with horror, having slain
their king; they hide them in their houses, or they
run, mourning, to the temples; the soldiers are fresh,
and the streets are empty. What hinders, that we
do not gird on our packs, and, aiming for the near
and short dike of Tacuba, which I so lately traversed,
with the king's daughters, make good our retreat this
moment?

“By Santiago!” cried Cortes, quickly, “this is a

soldier's thought, and honoured shalt thou be for conceiving
it. What ho, Sandoval, my friend! get the
troops in readiness. Prepare thy litters for the sick
and wounded;—have all ready at a moment's warning.
In the meanwhile, I will scour the western
streets, and if all promise well, will return to conduct
the retreat in person.”

“We can carry with us,” said Botello, “the wounded
king, and his sons and daughters; and if it chance
we should be followed, we will do as the tiger-hunter
does with the cubs, when the dam pursues him,—
fling a prisoner, ever and anon, on the path, to check
the fury of our persecutors.—The king will be better
than a purse of gold.”

“Ay! now thou art my sage soldier again!” said
the general. “Get thee to the men, and comfort
them. Apothecary, look to the emperor; see that
he have the best litter.—Forget not thy drugs and
potions. And now, Christian cavaliers, and brothers,
be of good heart.—Let us mount horse, and look at
the dike of Tacuba.”

The officers, greatly encouraged at the prospect
of so speedy a release from their sufferings, followed
the general from the apartment. Their elation was
not shared by Don Amador de Leste. He rejoiced,
for his kinsman's sake, that he was about to bear him
from the din and privation of a besieged citadel; but
he remembered that the Moorish boy must be left
behind to perish; and it seemed to him, in addition,
that certain mystic ties, the result of a day's adventure,
which began to bind his thoughts to the pagan
city, were, by the retreat, to be severed at once, and
for ever.

But if his gloom was increased by such reflections,
it was, in part, dispelled, when he reached the chamber
of his kinsman. The delirium had vanished, and
the knight sat on his couch, feeble, indeed, and greatly
dejected, but quite in his senses. He turned an eye
of affection on the youth, and with his trembling hand
grasped Don Amador's.

“I have been as one that slept, dreaming my
dreams,” he said, “while thou hast been fighting the
infidel. Strange visions have beset me; but thanks
be to heaven! they have passed away; and, by-and-by,
I will be able to mount and go forth with thee;
and we will fight, side by side, as we have done
before, among the Mussulmans.”

“Think not of that, my father,” said the novice,
“for thou art very feeble. I would, indeed, thou
hadst but the strength this day, to sit on the saddle;
for we are about to retreat from Tenochtitlan. Nevertheless,
Baltasar shall have thy couch placed on a
litter, which we can secure between two horses.”

“Speakest thou of retreating?” exclaimed Don
Gabriel.

“It is even so, my friend. The numbers, the fury,
and the unabating exertions of the Mexicans, are
greater than we looked for. We have lost many
men, are reduced to great extremities for food, altogether
dispirited, and now left so helpless, by the disaster
of the king, that we have no hope but in flight.”

“Is the king hurt?—and by a Spaniard?”

“Wounded by the stones and arrows of his own
people, and now dying. And, it is thought, we can
depart to best advantage, while the Mexicans are
repenting the impiety that slew him.”

“And we must retreat?”

“If we can;—a matter which we, who are mounted,
are about to determine, by riding to the nearest
causeway. This, dear father, will give Marco and
Baltasar time to prepare thee. I will leave Lazaro
and the secretary to assist them. Presently, we will
return; and when we march, be it unopposed, or yet
through files of the enemy, I swear to thee I will ride
ever at thy side.”

“And my boy?—my loving little page, Jacinto?”
exclaimed the knight, anxiously: “Hath he returned
to us? I have a recollection, that he was stolen away.
'T will be a new sin to me, if he come to harm through
my neglect.”

“Let us think no more of Jacinto,” said the novice
with a sigh. “If he be living, he is now in the hands
of Abdalla, his father, who has deserted from us, and
is supposed to be harboured by the Mexicans. God
is over all—we can do him no good—God will protect
him!”

Don Gabriel eyed his kinsman sorrowfully, saying,

“Evil follows in my path, and overtakes those who
follow after me. Every day open I mine eyes upon
a new grief. I loved this child very well; and, for
my punishment, he is taken from me. I love thee,
also, Amador, whom I may call my son; for faithful
and unwearying art thou; and, belike, the last blow
will fall, when thou art snatched away. Guard well
thy life, for it is the last pillar of my own!”

A few moments of affection, a few words of condolence,
were bestowed upon Don Gabriel; and then
the novice left him, to accompany the cavaliers to the
causeway.

As he was stepping from the palace door into the
court-yard, his arm was caught by the magician,
who, looking into his face with exceeding great solemnity,
said,—

“Ride not thou with the cavaliers to-day, noble
gentleman. Thou art unlucky.”

A faint smile lit the countenance of the youth. It
was soon followed by a sigh.

“This is, indeed, a truth, which no magic could
make more manifest than has the history of much of
my life. I am unfortunate; yet not in affairs of war;
—being now, as you see, almost the only man in this
garrison, who is not, in part, disabled by severe
wounds. Yet why should I not ride with my friends?”

“Because thou wilt bring them trouble, and thyself
misery.—I cannot say, señor,” added Botello, with
grave earnestness, “that thou didst absolutely save
my life, when thou broughtest me succour in the
street; seeing that this is under the influence of a
destiny, well known to me, which man cannot alter.
—It was not possible those savages could slay me.

Nevertheless, my gratitude is as strong, for thy good
will was as great. I promised to read thee thy fortune;
but in the troubles which beset me, I could
not perfect thy horoscope. All I have learned is,
that a heavy storm hangs over thee; and that, if thou
art not discreet, thy last hour is nigh, and will be
miserable. The very night of thy good and noble
service, I dreamed that we were surrounded by all
the assembled Mexicans, making with them a contract
of peace; to which they were about swearing,
when they laid their eyes upon thee, and straightway
were incensed, at the sight, as at the call of a trumpet,
to attack us. Thou knowest, that it was thy rash
attack on the accursed prophetess, which brought
the knaves upon us! Thrice was this vision repeated
to me: twice has it been confirmed—once at the temple,
and, but a moment since, on the roof. Hadst thou
not stood before the king with thy shield, the rage of
the Mexicans would not have destroyed him! Therefore,
go not out, now; for he that brings mischief,
twice, to his friends, will, the third time, be involved
in their ruin!”

The neophyte stared at Botello, who pronounced
these fantastic adjurations with the most solemn emphasis.
His heart was heavy, or their folly would
have amused him.

“Be not alarmed, Botello,” he said, good-humouredly,—“I
will be very discreet. My conscience absolves
me of all agency in the king's hurts; and if I
did, indeed, draw on the attack at the pyramid, as I
am by no means certain, I only put match to the
cannon, which, otherwise, might have been aimed at
us more fatally. I promise thee to be rash no more,
—no, not even though I should again behold the marvellous
prophetess, who, as Montezuma told us, has
risen from his pagan hell.”

The enchanter would have remonstrated further;
but, at this moment, the trumpet gave signal that the
cavaliers were departing, and Don Amador stayed
neither to argue nor console. He commanded the

secretary, whom he found among the throng, to
return to Don Gabriel; and Lorenzo reluctantly obeyed.
Lazaro was already with the knight.

Thus, without personal attendants, Don Amador
mounted, this day, among the cavaliers, prepared to
disprove the enchanter's predictions, or to consummate
his destiny.