University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

“Yesterday, when thou wert sleeping,” said the
Zegri, “or lay as one that slept—”

“That day, then,” muttered Amador, “is a blank
in my existence! and very grievous it is, to think
that so great a space of so short a period as life,
should be lost in a stony lethargy.—It seems to me,
that that blow thou gavest me, was somewhat rounder
than was needful.—Nevertheless, I am not angry, but
grateful.”

“Yesterday was a day of comparative peace,”

continued the Zegri. “The Spaniards shut themselves
in their citadel, preparing for the greater exploit
of to-day. It was evident to the dullest of the
nobles, that Don Hernan had cast an evil eye on the
temple.”

“Did he so?” cried the cavalier. “It was the
thought of a good Christian: and, methinks, my
countrymen had not been judged with so many of
these present torments, if they had sooner torn down
that stronghold of the devil, which is detestable in the
eye of heaven.”

“To-day, they marched against it,” said Abdalla,
“with all their force, both of Spaniards and Tlascalans;
and, I will say for them, that they marched
well, fought boldly, and revenged their own heavy
losses, in the blood of many barbarians, as well on
the pyramid as in the temple-yard and the streets.
They came against us, with four such turrets, moving
on wheels,—”

“Is it possible,” cried Amador, “that the general
was not sufficiently warned of the inefficacy of those
engines, by the doleful fate of the manta, that day,
when it was my mishap to be vanquished?—I shall
remember the death of the ship-master, Gomez, to the
end of my life.—Twice or thrice, did I long to be
with him among the fire-worshippers, who must be
a very strange people. But the Mexicans are very
valiant.”

“Of a truth, they are,” said the Zegri. “I will
not detain my lord with the account of the battle in
the streets, wherein the mantas were again, in great
part, destroyed; nor will I relate, with what suffering
the Castilians won their way to the Wall of Serpents,
and the temple-yard. It was here, that I beheld my
lord's kinsman, the knight of Calavar, unhorsed, and
in the hands of the infidel—”

“Accursed assassin!” cried the neophyte, springing
to his feet, “and hast thou kept me in bonds,
that my knight should perish thus, without succour?”

“The foe of Granada did not perish, and he was

not without succour,” said the Zegri, loftily. “When
his steed, slipping on the polished stones, with which
that yard is paved, fell to the earth, and many savage
hands were fastened on his body, there was a friend
hard by, who raised both the knight and charger, and
preserved them from destruction.”

“Give me the name of that most noble friend,”
cried Don Amador, ardently,—“for, I swear, I will
reckon this act to him, in my gratitude, as the salvation
of my own life. Tell me, what true Christian
was he?”

“One,” said Abdalla, calmly, “who hated him as
the slayer of his people, but remembered that he
repented his evil acts with misery and distraction,—
one, who abhorred him for these deeds of sin, and
yet loved him, because he was, like his kinsman, the
protector of childhood and feebleness.”

“I doubt not, that thou wert the man,” said the
cavalier, faltering, “and, therefore, I return thee my
thanks. But I would have thee know, that, whatever
blood was improperly shed by my kinsman, was
shed by accident and not design; for, no man is
more incapable of cruelty than the noble knight, Don
Gabriel. But, this shows me, that thou art really of
lofty blood; for none but a magnanimous soul can
render justice to a hated enemy.”

“Why should I dwell upon the conflict in the
yard?” continued the Moor, hastily. “Through the
flames of the many chapels, that filled it,—with
shouts and the roar of muskets,—the Christians, ever
victorious, and yet ever conquered even by victory,
rushed against the steps of the pyramid, disregarding
the stones tumbled on them from the terraces, the
darts flung down from the little barbicans or niches
in the wall, and the flaming logs shot down, endwise,
from the steps. Terrace after terrace, stair after
stair, were won; and the Christians stood; at last, on
the summit, fighting hand to hand with the four thousand
nobles who defended it. My lord cannot think,
that even these numbers of naked men could long

withstand a thousand Christians, robed in iron, and
infuriated by desperation. Score after score were
slain, and tumbled from the top; the flames burst
from the altar of Mexitli,—the priest died in the
sanctuary, the Tlatoani at the downfallen urns; and,
in an hour's time, the Spaniards were masters of the
pyramid.”

“Thanks be to heaven, which fought with them!”
cried Amador, devoutly. “And thus may the infidel
fall!”

“Does not my lord pity the wretches, who die for
their country?” said the Zegri, reproachfully. “This
is not a war of heaven against hell, but of tyranny
against freedom.—I did see some sights, this day,
upon the pyramid, which caused me to remember
those noble Roman generals, who, in ancient times,
were wont to devote themselves to death, for the good
of the state. At the very moment when the condition
of the Mexicans was most dreadful, when, despairing
of the usefulness of longer resistance, they rushed
frantically upon the Spanish spears, transfixing themselves
by their own act, or flung themselves from the
pyramid, to be dashed to pieces below,—at this moment,
I beheld, with mine own eyes, two very young
and noble Tlatoani, to whom I had myself just shown
a means of escape, rush upon Don Hernan, who
fought very valiantly throughout the day. They
cast away their arms, flung themselves at his feet,
as if to supplicate for mercy; and having thus thrown
the general off his guard, they seized him, on a sudden,
in their arms, and hurried him to the edge of
the terrace. From that dizzy brink they strove to
drag him, willing, themselves, to die dreadfully, so
that the great enemy of Tenochtitlan should fall with
them. But the strength of boys yielded to the iron
grasp of the Christian; and, flinging them from him
like drops of water, or gouts of blood from his
wounded hand, he beheld them fall miserably to the
earth,—dead, but not yet avenged.”

“Thanks be to God again!” cried the cavalier,

warming with excitement; “for, though these youths
met their death very bravely, they were guilty of a
most vile treachery; for which, death was but a just
punishment. And so, my true and excellent friends
did win this battle? By heaven! it galls me to the
marrow, to think that I lie here idle, while such
things are doing around me!”

“They won the temple top,” said Abdalla, with a
laugh of scorn, “that they might look down from that
height, and behold themselves surrounded by an hundred
thousand men, who were busy slaying their
Tlascalan slaves, and waiting for the masters. Very
plainly did I hear their cries of despair at that sight;
and these were goodly music. For myself, I escaped,
as did some few others, by dropping from terrace to
terrace, upon the dead bodies, which, being tumbled,
in great numbers, from the top, lay, in some places,
in such heaps along the galleries, as greatly to lessen
the dangers of a fall. Well were the Mexicans
revenged for this slaughter,” continued the Moor,
his eyes glittering with ferocious transport, “when
the Spaniards descended, to cut their way to the quarters,
encumbered with captive priests, and such provisions
as they had gathered in the chapels. How
many fell in the squares and streets, how many were
suffocated in the canals,—how few were able to
pierce through the myriads that invested the palace,
(for, all this time, had there been thousands assailing
the weak garrison, and tearing down the court-yard
wall)—why should I speak of these? It is enough,
that the gain of the pyramid,—lost as soon as
gained,—cost them irreparable wo; and that the
wounded fugitives (for the Mexican glass drank of
the blood of all,) now lie in their desolate house, their
court-walls prostrate, the buttresses of their palace
cracked by fire, their steeds unfed and starving, their
ammunition expended—hopeless and helpless, calling
to the leaders who cannot relieve, the saints who will
not hear, and waiting only for death. Death then!
for it cometh; death! for it is inevitable; death! for

it is just; and death! for it repays the wrongs of
Granada!”

As the triumphing Moor concluded his fiery oration,
the cavalier, whose excitement was raised to the last
pitch, and whose indignation and remorse were alike
kindled by a full knowledge of the condition of his
countrymen, cried aloud,—

“Hark thee, sir Moor! with these friends, thus
reduced to extremity and despairing, it is needful I
should straightway join myself, to endure what they
endure, to suffer as they suffer, to die as they die. I
refuse to save my life, when the forfeit of it to an
honourable purpose, may relieve them of their distresses.
I repent me of the gage which I gave thee,
I revoke my promise of captivity, and am, therefore,
free to make my escape; which I hereby attempt,—
peacefully if I can,—but warning thee, if thou oppose,
it shall be at the peril of thy life!”

So saying, the cavalier snatched up the sword from
the table, and sprang towards the door. So quickly,
indeed, did he act, and so much did he take his jailer
by surprise, that he had nearly arrived at the curtain,
before Abdalla had time to intercept him. His brain
was in a ferment of passion, and the various excitements
of the evening had inflamed him again into
fever; so, that, in the fury of the moment, when the
Zegri leaped before him, endeavouring to catch him
in his arms, he forgot every thing but his purpose,
and the necessity of escaping. He caught the Moor
by the throat, and struggling violently, raised the
crimson steel to strike. The life of Abdalla seemed
not to have a moment's purchase,—the weapon was
already descending on his naked head, when,—at
that very instant,—the curtain was drawn from the
door, and dimly, but yet beyond all shadow of doubt,
in the light of the torch, the cavalier beheld the pale
visage of the maid of Almeria, shining over the
shoulders of the Moor.

The sword fell from his hand, and his whole frame
shook, as, with wild eyes, he returned the gaze of the

vision. The Zegri, amazed, yet not doubting that
this sudden change was the mere revolution of delirium,
took instant advantage of it, snatched the leathern
strap from the lute of Jacinto; and when the
curtain, falling again, had concealed the spectral
countenance, the arms of the cavalier were bound
tightly behind him. This was a superfluous caution.
His strength had been supplied by fury, and the
instant that this had subsided, the exhaustion of two
days' illness returned; and had not his spirits been
otherwise unmanned, he would now have been as a
boy in the hands of Abdalla.

The Moor conducted him to the couch, on which
he suffered himself to be placed without opposition,
and without speaking a word. His whole faculties
seemed lost in a sudden and profound stupor; and
Abdalla began to fear that, in his prisoner, he had
found, in more respects than one, a true representative
of his kinsman, Don Gabriel.