University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.

We draw a curtain over the events of the first five
days of flight, wherein the miserable fugitives, contending,
at once, with fatigue, famine, and unrelenting
foes, stole by night, and through darkling by-ways,
along the northern borders of the fair valley,
from which they were thus ignominiously, and, as it
seemed, for ever, expelled. Of the twenty mounted
men, each, like a Red-Cross Knight, in the ancient
days of the order, bore a wounded companion on his
crupper; and Don Amador, himself, on a jaded beast
that had belonged to Marco,—for Fogoso had been
lost or killed in the melée,—thus carried the only
remaining servant of himself and his knight,—the
ancient Baltasar. Other mangled wretches were
borne on the backs of Tlascalans, in rudely constructed
litters.

In this manner, the ruined and melancholy band
pursued its way, by lake-side and hill, over morass
and river, ever pursued and insulted by bodies of
barbarians, and frequently attacked; till, on the evening
of the fifth day, they flung their weary forms to
sleep in the City (as it may be called) of Pyramids,

among those mouldering and cactus-covered mounds,
which the idolatry of a forgotten age reared to the
divinity of the greater and lesser luminaries of heaven,
on the field Micoatl, that is to say, the Plain of
Death. The visiter of San Juan de Teotihuacan still
perceives these gigantic barriers, rising among the
hundreds of smaller mounds—the Houses of the
Stars—which strew the consecrated haunts, and,
perhaps, conceal the sepulchres, of a holozoic people.

At sunrise, the Spaniards arose, ascended the
mountain of Aztaquemacan, at the north-eastern border
of the valley, and prepared, with a joyous expectation,
which had not been diminished even by
the significant and constantly-repeated threats of the
pursuers, to descend into the friendly land of the
Tlascalans, by way of the vale of Otumba. For the
last two days, the name of this valley had been continually
on the lips of the Mexicans, following on the
rear; and their cries, as interpreted by Marina, who
survived the horrors of the Melancholy Night, intimated,
plainly enough, that the work of revenge, so
dreadfully commenced upon the lake, was to be consummated
in the gorges of the mountains. Nevertheless,
the Spaniards, in the alacrity of spirit, which
the prospect of soon ending their sufferings in the
Land of Bread, produced, forgot these menaces, or
regarded them as the idle bravados of impotent fury;
and clambered upwards, with increasing hope, until
they reached the crest of a ridge, and looked down
the slope to the wished-for valley. The sight which
they beheld, will be described in another place. It
remains, now, to return to an individual, whose fate
has long been wrapped in mystery.

At the moment when the Spaniards approached
the highest part of the ravine, by which, alone, they
could pass, in that quarter, from the vale of Tenochtitlan,
there lay, in a wild and savage nook of the
mountain, which went shelving upwards on the right
hand, and at so short a distance, that had a bugle
been winded in the army, it must have reached his

ears,—one who had been a companion in many of
their battles and sufferings. A number of huge rocks,
fallen ages ago, and rolled from some distant pinnacle,
were heaped together on a broad and inclined
shelf, and enclosed a space of ground so regular in
form, and yet so rudely bounded by those sprawling
barriers, that it looked to the imagination not unlike
the interior of some stupendous temple, built by a
barbaric people, and overwhelmed, many ages before,
by some great convulsion. One side was formed by
a cliff, in whose shivered side yawned the entrance
of a black and dismal cavern, while the broken
masses of rock themselves formed the others. Among,
and over these, where they lay in contact with the
cliff, there rushed a torrent, which, in the times of
drought, might have been a meager and chattering
rivulet, making its way, merrily, through gap and
hollow, but which, now, swollen by the summer rains,
came raving and roaring over the rocks, broken by
them into a series of foaming cascades; and, then,
shooting over a corner of the enclosure, and, darting
through the opposite wall, it went, thundering, down
the mountain. A few stunted trees stretched their
withered limbs among these savage masses; and the
noontide sun, peeping down into the nook, and lighting
up a part of the cliff, fell pleasantly on the mosses
and Alpine flowers, which ornamented its shelving
floor, tinting, with momentary rainbows, the mists
that hung over the fall. A sable steed, without bridle
or halter, and much the worse for such primitive
stabling, but yet, to all appearance, the relic of a
once noble war-horse, wandered, at liberty, through
the enclosure, cropping the few plants which bedecked
it, or drinking from the little pools, at the side of
the torrent; while, at the mouth of the cave, at the
foot of a wooden crucifix of the rudest description,
lay sleeping the figure of his master. A stained and
tattered garment of leather, investing his limbs, was
not altogether hidden under a black mantle, which
partly covered his body. The head of the sleeper
lay on his right arm, and this embraced the foot of
the cross, so that the grizzly locks, which fell from
his forehead, rested against, and almost twined
around, the holy wood.

The sunbeam played, unregarded, on his withered
cheeks, and flickered over a heap of rusted armour,
both of man and horse, which lay hard by, shining,
also, with a fierce lustre, upon what appeared a
scarlet surcoat, hung, like a banner, on the point of
a knightly lance, which rested against the side of the
cliff.

Disease, as well as age, had furrowed the cheeks,
and wasted the form of the slumberer; famine seemed
to have been at work, as well as all other privations
incident to a habitation in the desert; and there was,
in his whole appearance, such an air of extreme and
utter misery, as would have moved the pity of any
beholder, Nevertheless, he slept on, regardless of
the roaring fall, and heedless of the fierce sunbeam,
in such tranquillity as augured, at least, a momentary
suspension of suffering.

As the sun stole up to the meridian, another human
creature was suddenly added to the scene. The
browsing war-horse pricked his ears, and snorted, as
if to do the duty of a faithful sentinel, and convey to
his master a note of alarm, as certain dried branches
crackled among the rocks of the wall, and a stone,
loosened as by a footstep, fell, rattling, down their
sides, and buried itself in the pool, at the base of the
fall. But the anchorite, for such the solitude of his
dwelling, the poverty of his raiment, and, more than
all, the little rugged cross which he embraced, caused
him to appear, heard not these sounds; he slept on,
lulled by the accustomed roar of the water-fall; and
the steed was left alone, to watch the approach of
the stranger.

Presently, he was seen dragging himself up the
rocks, by the aid of a drooping bough; and when
he had reached their top, he rested for a moment,
still clinging to the branch, as if worn out with toil,

as was, indeed, made apparent by the youth and feebleness
of his appearance. He cast a haggard and
uninterested eye on the romantic torrent leaping and
foaming at his feet, and seemed to hesitate whether
he should descend into the prison-like enclosure, or
retrace his steps, and retreat as he had come. But,
suddenly, his gaze fell upon the steed, and he started
with surprise at a sight so unexpected. The sagacious
animal whinnied loudly, as if with recognition;
and the youth, devoutly crossing himself, looked, with
an agitation that denoted terror, on the red garment,
the cross, and the human figure that still lay sleeping,
or, perhaps, as he thought, dead, under its holy
shadow. Then, as if resolved, he hastened to descend
from the rugged fragments, and seeking where
he might safely cross the brook, over the stones that
obstructed its bed, he at last stood at the side of the
good steed, which snuffed at him a moment with
joy, and, then, gambolling about a little, fell to cropping
the plants again, satisfied that the comer was a
friend.

The youth stole up tremblingly to the side of the
sleeper, and seemed shocked at his emaciated and
neglected appearance. He stooped as if to awake
him, and then started back, wringing his hands, in
fear and grief. He bent over him again;—a smile
passed like a beam over the countenance of the recluse,
and a murmur escaped his lips, of which the
youth caught only a few broken syllables:

“Though I shed thy blood,” were the words he
distinguished, “yet did I not aim at thee; and, therefore,
hast thou forgiven me, for the sin was the sin
of frenzy. Thou pardonest me, too, Alharef, for thou
art, also, of the angels. It is good to walk with thee
through the seats of bliss.”—

A tear fell upon the cheek of the knight Calavar,
—for it was, indeed, he; but it fell like the spray-drop,
or the gentle dew; and it was not until the hand
of the youth touched his shoulder, that he awoke,
and rose feebly to his feet.

“Whoever thou art,” said the unfortunate devotee,
“thou breakest the only dream of happiness that
hath visited my slumbers, for long and many years,
and callest me from the paradise that filled me with
bliss, to the earth which is the wheel whereon I am
broken—Miserere mei, Deus!”

“Alas, my lord!”—

“Art thou sent back to bid me prepare?” cried
Don Gabriel, starting wildly, at the voice of the intruder.
“Lo! I have flung me off the harness of
war, and devoted me to penance in the wilderness,
giving my body to sleep on the earth and in caves,
drinking of the wild floods, and eating of the tough
roots, with the earth-worm; while I sleep, my heart
is scourged within me; whilst I wake, I pray,—and
I pray that I may sleep for ever. Know, therefore,
Jacinto! thou that dwellest in paradise! that I am
ready, and that I thank heaven, I am called, at last;
for weary has been my life, and long my repentance.”

“Alas, my lord, I live like thyself; and I call upon
thee, that thou mayest continue to live. I thought,
indeed, that thou wert dead, and so thought, and yet
think, thy friends,—who are now in great peril.”

“God snatched me from the hands of the heathen,”
said the knight, “and brought me to this
place, that I might seek for peace. For, oh! my
heart was but filled with scorpions, that stung me
day and night, and my head strewn with coals, ever
burning and tormenting, whilst I sat in the infidel
city, and remembered how he that hath been my son,
was slain by murderers in the streets, because he
loved me! All that loved me have perished, and
(wo betide the hand that struck, and is not yet withered!)
two under mine own steel. Yea, Alharef, thou
art remembered! and, Zayda, thou art not forgotten!
Then came the blow to thee, dear seraph! and thou
wert carried off by the angry spirit of Alharef, who
defied me at the palace-gate, and, in the temple-yard,
raised me to my feet, and bade me think of Zayda.

Verily, I remember her, and my heart is black with
recollection! Then fell the bolt upon my boy,—he
that was matchless in honour and love, peerless in war,
incomparable in truth!—Would that the barbarous
knives had struck my bosom, instead of thine, Amador!
would that thou wert now upon thy gallant bay,
shaking thy lance, and shouting the cry of the Hospital,
and I in thy place, mouldering in the streets of
Mexico! I lay on my couch, whilst thou wert calling
to me for aid; I slept while thou wert dying.—Cursed
be thy foundations, pagan city! ruin fall upon thy
towers, havoc ride howling through thy palaces, and
lamentations come up from thy lakes and gardens!
for he that was the last and first, the loving and beloved,
rots like a dog upon thy pavement!”

“Noble and dear master,” said Jacinto, “in this,
at least, thou art mistaken. My dear lord, thy kinsman,
perished not that day in the streets; for I myself
did watch by his sick couch, and see him, after thou
hadst departed, return in safety to the palace.”

“Dost thou say so?—He died not in the streets?
Praised be God, for this his goodness!” cried Don
Gabriel, falling on his knees. “My sin, then, hath
not been visited on the guileless and true! My son
Amador yet liveth!”

He looked to the page, and now, for the first time,
observed, as far as this could be seen through his
thickly padded garments, that the form of Jacinto
was greatly attenuated; his cheeks were hollow and
colourless, and his countenance altered, as by some
such grief as had been at work in his own bosom.
He seemed, too, to be very feeble. But, if such were
the appearances of sorrow on his visage, they assumed
a yet more striking character of agony and despair,
when the knight's words of joy fell on his ear. His
face grew paler than death, he trembled like a linden
leaf, and his lips scarcely obeyed their function, when
he replied, with a faint and fruitless effort at calmness,—

“I will not deceive my lord; no, heaven be my stay!

I will not deceive my lord. Though my friend,—my
patron,—my protector,—the noble Amador,—fell not
in the streets, but returned to his people, yet is his
fate wrapped in mystery,—in darkness and in fear.
That night, that dreadful night!—O heaven! the causey
covered with men, shrieking and cursing, stabbing
and rending! the lake choked with corses, and with
dying men still contending, and suffocating, each in
the grasp of a drowning foe!—But I think not of
that, I think not of that!—Who lived? who died?
We searched for the body of my lord, but found it
not: he was not with those they led to the pyramid;
his corse floated not among the hundreds, which
befouled the lake: yet did they discover his goodly
war-horse on the water-side,—his surcoat was dragged
from a ditch, among cannon, under whose heavy
bulk lay many bodies, which the Indians strove to
push up with poles—but my lord's body rose not
among them. And yet, he sleeps in the lake,—yes,
he sleeps in the lake! for how could he escape that
night, and I no more by his side?”

As Jacinto spoke, he wept and sobbed bitterly,
giving himself up to despair. But not so the knight:
he listened, somewhat bewildered, to the confused
narration of an event, in which he had shared no
part; but catching the idea, at last, and mingling it
with another, the fruit of his very distempered mind,
he said, quickly, and almost joyously,—

“Dry thy tears; for now I perceive that my son is
not dead, but liveth; and straightway we will go
forth, and seek him!” Jacinto regarded the knight
with a melancholy look. He noticed the incredulity,
and resumed, with much devout emphasis,—“But a
moment since, before thou camest into this den, mine
eyes were opened upon paradise; it was vouchsafed
to me, who must never hope to enjoy such spectacle
again,—no, desdichado de mi! never again, never
again,—to look upon the golden city of God; wherein
I walked, with all those whom, in my life, I had loved,

and who were dead. There saw I, among the saints
and seraphim, my father, who fell in arms at the sack
of Alhama; my mother, who died giving me birth;
together with all the friends of my childhood, who
perished early: there, also, I beheld Alharef and
Zayda, the murdered and the blest,—with all others
that were truly dead. Now thou wilt see, how God
opened mine eyes in this trance; for, though I wept
thee, dear child, as truly believing thou wert deceased,
yet thee I saw not among the blissful, where thou
must have been, hadst thou been discarded from
earth, as I thought thee. And I remember me, too,
and great joy it is to remember, that my son Amador
was not among those saints; for which reason,
heaven makes it manifest to us, that he lives. Now,
therefore, let us go forth from this desert, and seek
him. Though mine eyes are sealed among these
hills, and my feet stumble upon the rocks, yet will
heaven point us out a path to Mexico!”

“Alas! my lord need not seek so far,” said the
page. “The pagans are now alone in the city,
having driven out their enemies, with terrible slaughter.—Never
more will the Spaniards return to it!”

“Ay, now, I remember me!” said the knight,
catching up some of his battered armour, as he
spoke. “This defence, that I had thought for ever
rejected, must I again buckle on. I remember me,
thou spokest of a night of retreat by the causeway,
very dreadful and bloody. Ay! and thou saidst
thou wert at Amador's side!—How was it, that
thou wert taken from him, and didst yet live?”

“My father Abdalla,” said Jacinto, sorrowfully,
“my father, by chance, heard me cry at the ditch,
when my lord, Don Amador, was gone; and he saved
me in his canoe.”

“Thy father? thy father, Abdalla?—I remember
me of Abdalla,” said the knight, touching his brow.
“There is a strange mystery in Abdalla. I am
told—that is, I heard from my poor Marco—that

Abdalla, the Moor, did greatly abhor me, even to the
seeking of my life,”

“He wronged him!” said the page: “whatever
was my father's hatred of my lord, he never sought
to do him a wrong!”

“Strange!” muttered Don Gabriel; “thou acknowledgest
he hated me, then? Wherefore should he,
whom I have not injured, hate me? And wherefore,
after confiding thyself to my good keeping?”

“Let me not deceive my lord,” said Jacinto, sadly,
but firmly: “My father entrusted his child to him he
hated, because he knew him just and honourable;
and my father did receive great wrong, as well as
other unhappy Moors, of my lord, in the Alpujarras”—

The knight dropped the dinted cuishes which he
had snatched up, and, clasping his hands wildly,
exclaimed,—

“Miserere mei, Deus! my sin is inexpiable, and
my torment endless; for, in the Alpujarras, did I slay
him whom I had sworn to love, and deface, with a
murderous sword, the loveliest of thine images!”

“Dear my lord,” said Jacinto, shocked and grieved
at his agitation; “forget this, for thy sin is not what
thou thinkest, and it has been already forgiven thee.
Zayda hath seen, from heaven, the greatness of thy
grief, and she intercedes for thee with our Holy
Mother.”

“She follows me on earth, she comes to me in
visions!” cried Don Gabriel, vehemently. “Rememberest
thou not the night of Cholula? Then stood
she before me, as thou dost; and, with face of snow
and finger of wrath, she reminded me of my malefaction.”

“My lord is deceived—this was no spectre, but a
living woman,” said Jacinto, hurriedly.

The knight stared, aghast.

“If I make it appear to my lord,” continued the
page, “that this was, indeed, no phantom sent to
reproach, but a living creature, haply resembling her

of whom he speaks, and, therefore, easily mistaken,
in the gloom, for one of whom my lord thought, in
his delirious moment,—will it not satisfy my lord,
that he is not persecuted, but forgiven?”

“If thou canst speak aught to remove one atom and
grain from this mountain of misery, which weighs upon
my heart,” said Calavar, earnestly, “I adjure thee
that thou speak it. Many times have I thought that
she whom I slew, stood at my side; but yet had I
hopes, and a partial belief, that these were the visions
of my disease; for my mind is sometimes very sorely
distracted. What I saw at Cholula, was beyond such
explication,—very clearly and vividly represented,
and seen by me when my thoughts were not disordered.”

“Let my lord be content, and know that this was
a living creature, as I have said, and no apparition:
let him do on his armour; and, by-and-by, all shall
be revealed to him.”

“Speak to me now,” said the knight.

“Not now! not now!” interrupted Jacinto; “for,
at this moment, the myriads of vengeful fiends who
seek for the blood of my lord, Don Amador, if he be
yet living, are rushing upon the poor fugitives. Doth
not my lord hear?—Hark!”

“'Tis a trumpet! it blasteth for a charge of horse!”
cried Calavar, as the distant sound came echoing up
the mountain, even over the roar of the fall.—The
ancient war-horse heard the remembered note, and
pricking his ears, neighed loudly and fiercely, running
to a gap in the wall, as if to seek the contest, till
recalled by the voice of his master.

“The infidels are then at hand, and they do battle
with Christians?” exclaimed Don Gabriel, the fire of
chivalry again flashing from his eye, and almost
driving away the thought of Zayda. “Buckle me
these straps, and see that thou art speedy; for this
brooks not delay. God hath called me to this mountain,
that I should be ready to do battle with the
heathen, in defence of the holy cross, which is my

sworn vow; and in the fulfilment of the same, I pray
God that I may die.—Sound again, brave heart!
smite me the godless fast and well; for presently I
shall be with ye, striking for the faith!—Why, how
thou loiterest, young knave! Be speedy, for my
son Amador is with the Christian host; and, this
day, heaven wills that I shall bring him succour.”

“Alas! my lord,” cried the page, “I would that I
could give my life to aid him; but my fingers are
skilless and feeble.”

“Thou art a godly boy, and well do I love thee.
Buckle me as thou canst, and care not to buckle
well; for, in this fight, God will be my armour.
Buckle me, therefore, as thou canst; and, while thou
art thus engaged, give me to know, what good angel
brought thee to be my messenger.”

“I followed my sire,” said the trembling Jacinto,
“with the forces of Mexico, that were sent to join
the mountain bands, and cut off the fugitives; and,
being commanded to rest me on the hill till the battle
was over, I lost myself; which, with my great grief
of heart, caused me to seek some nook wherein I
might die. For truly, now, unless my lord Amador
be living, I care not myself for life.”

“The forces of Mexico! be they many? and these
dogs of the hills, are they in numbers?”

“Countless as the drops of spray which the breeze
flings over us,” said Jacinto, with much perturbation,
“so that nothing, but the goodness of God, can rescue
the Spaniards out of their hands, and conduct
them forth on the path so blocked up by their bodies.
The Mexicans are many thousands in number, and
triumphing still in the thought of their horrid victory
on the lake. They swear that no Spaniard shall
escape them, this day.”

“I swear, myself,” said Calavar, fiercely, “and
heaven will listen to the vow of a Christian, though one
sinful and miserable, that, this day, even they themselves,
the godless pagans, shall be scattered as dust
under our footsteps!—Quick—my war-coat! and now,

my good lance, that hath drunk the blood of the heathen!
Santa Madre de Dios! Señora beatificada! the
infidel shall fall under the cross, and the true believer
rejoice in his slaughter!”

With such exclamations of fervour, the spirit of
youthful days returning, at each blast of the trumpet,
which was still winded at intervals, the knight ceased
doing on his armour, and then, with Jacinto's feeble
assistance, caparisoned his impatient steed. When
this was done, he bade the page to follow him; and,
riding through one of the many gaps in the colossal
wall, began to descend the mountain.