University of Virginia Library

CONCLUSION.

Of the secondary characters of this history, enough
has been already narrated. Our respect, however,
for the memory of the magician, Botello, requires
that we should mention two circumstances in relation
to his fate, and his chief and most mystical familiar.
His unexpected death, instead of destroying
his credit among those who survived the Noche Triste,
gave him additional claims to respect, even in the
grave; for when it was remembered, that the arrows
which slew so many Spaniards, were adorned with
the feathers of eagles, as well as other birds of prey,
they perceived, in his fate, only a confirmation of the
juggling subtlety of the fiends that `palter with us in
a double sense.' “Truly,” said they, “Botello was
borne out of danger on the wings of eagles, as he
prophesied, albeit he was borne to heaven.” In after
days, when Mexico had become the prey of the invader,
the lake was dragged for the bones of the Christians
who had fallen with him in the nocturnal retreat,
which were then deposited, with many religious ceremonies,
in ground consecrated for the purpose. In
the last ditch, at the very spot where Botello had
fallen, a fortunate fisherman hooked up the magic
Crystal, the prison of Kalidon-Sadabath; who, greatly
to the horror of the finder, began instantly, as of old,
to dance, and curvet, and perform other diabolical
antics, in his hands. No other conjurer in the army
having the skill to interpret the motions of this mysterious
imp, his crystal habitation was transmitted,
along with divers Mexican rarities, to the shelves of
the Escurial, where it was long viewed with wonder
and respect, as an instrument contrived by the hands,
and devoted to its unearthly uses by the skill, of the
celebrated Cornelius Agrippa. A philosopher, who
was thought, as was Feyjoó in later days, by his
countrymen, to have too little consideration for vulgar

prejudices, asserted, after attentive examination,
that the marvellous crystal was nothing more than a
piece of glass, hollowed by the maker into many singular
cavities, wherein was deposited a coloured drop
of some volatile liquor, which being, at any time, expanded
by the heat of the breath, or of the hand, would
instantly dart about, and assume the most fantastic
shapes, according to the sinuous vacuities through
which it happened to be impelled. This explanation
was received with incredulity; but, nevertheless,
Kalidon of the Crystal was treated with neglect, and,
in course of time, entirely forgotten. We surmise,
however, and the conjecture is not without argument,
that the Enchanted Crystal, presented, half a century
afterwards, by the angel Uriel to the famous English
conjurer, Doctor Dee, was no other than this identical
stone, filched by the angelic thief from its dusty
repository, and given to him who best knew how to
put it to its proper uses.

Late in the autumn of the following year, the señor
Don Amador de Leste sat watching the sunset of a
peaceful day, from a little bower, on a lawn in front
of his castle Del Alcornoque. A clump of aged oaks
flung their branches over a low, square, and mouldering
tower,—the work of the Moorish masters of
Spain many a long year back, and a fragment, as it
seemed, of some ancient bath or fountain; for a body
of pure water still made its way through the disjointed
stones, and fell bubbling into a little basin beneath.

The scene, as beheld from this spot, was one of
enchanting beauty and repose. The fountain was,
perhaps, midway on the slope of a long hill, a few
rods in advance of the castle, (with which it was,
indeed, connected by a somewhat neglected walk of
orange trees,) whose irregular turrets and frowning
battlements rose among groups of cork-trees, while
a broken forest of these, extended behind, up to and

over the crest of the hill. In front, the little valley,
wherein was embosomed the silvery Jucar, was
bounded now by sharp cliffs and jutting promontories,
and now by green lawns, which ran sweeping
upwards to the hill-tops on the opposite side. A hazy,
smoky atmosphere, warmed into lustre by the sinking
luminary, while it mellowed all objects into beauty,
did not conceal from the eye the flocks of sheep
which dotted the distant slopes, the cattle standing at
the river-side, and the groups of peasantry, who adding
their songs to the lowing of the heards and the
cawing of a flight of crows, urged forward the burthened
ass from the vine-tree. A monastery rose in
the forest, a little village glimmered pleasantly on the
river bank, under the shadow of a cliff; and over the
ridges, which shut in the valley to the south, was
seen the dim outline of those sierras of Morena, from
which might be traced the peaks of the Alpujarras.

Over this fair prospect, the young cavalier looked
with pride, for it was the inheritance handed down
to him by a long line of ancestors,—not snatched
away by violence from vanquished Moors, but reclaimed
from them by a bold knight, whose genealogical
tree had been rooted in those hills, before Tarik,
the Arab, had yet looked upon the Pillars of Hercules.
He gazed on it also with joy, for he had
learned to love peace; and this seemed the chosen
abode of tranquillity.

“It doth indeed appear to me, now,” he muttered,
“as if my past life were a foolish dream. There is
a rapture in this quiet nook, a happiness in this prospect
of loveliness and content, entirely beyond any
pleasure which I ever experienced in my days of
tumult and fame. What can there be, to add a further
charm to this paradise?”

Perhaps he muttered this interrogatory in the spirit
of an improver and adorner of nature.—It was
answered by the fall of a gentle footstep. He looked
behind him, and beheld, standing at his back, pausing
a moment with patient and yet dignified affection,

the fair figure of a woman, who had no sooner caught
his eye, than she smiled, and pointed to a female attendant,
who bore in her arms, hard by, a sleeping
infant. A cross of rubies glittered on the lady's
breast.

“If thou didst apprehend, Leila!” said the cavalier,
with eyes of joy, “that I reckoned this hill-side
a paradise, without thinking of thyself and my young
Gabriel, thou didst most grievously wrong me; for
I protest to thee, I never cease thinking of ye.”

“Never?” murmured the mild voice of the Moorish
lady: “Heaven be praised!—But, sometimes,
when thou lookest upon the sports of our little brother
Rosario, it seems to me, thou dost forget us.”

“I vow to thee, my honoured and beloved lady,”
said the hidalgo, earnestly, “and, if thou wilt believe
me the rather for that, I swear by the bright eyes
of my young boy, that, since I discovered thou wert
alive, and, especially, since thou hast been mine own
Zayda, I have come to look with new eyes upon
those things, which were the joys of my youth. Let
us sit down upon this mossy stone; and, while we
gaze a little upon Rosario, who, thou seest, is hacking
the wooden Turk's-head on the knoll—Thou
knowest, he did so gash my young plantations of
olive-trees, that I was enforced to allow him this
block, for his recreation—While we thus regard
him, (for, of a truth, he is a most gallant boy, and of
soldierly bearing,) I will discourse to thee in such
manner, as to convince thee that I have utterly
weeded from my bosom the foul plants of ambition,
and that I am equally solicitous to cleanse the breast
of my brother.—Hah! by my faith, what now?—
Seest thou yonder ill-looking, lurking knave? I doubt
me, he has been robbing my vineyard.—May I die,
but the young varlet doth advance his sword against
him! Well done, sir Hector!—And he knows not
I am near, to give him aidance!—What ho, sirrah
Rosario! put up thy sword—This is no robber.”

“It is a pilgrim—some poor pilgrim,” exclaimed

the lady:—“Rosario gives him his hand, and leads
him towards us.”

It was even as the fair Doña had said. The youth
Rosario, who had, at first, advanced valiantly towards
the stranger, as if to question his right to walk
so near the castle, was now seen to sink his weapon,
speak a word or two to the comer, and then give
him his hand, as if to conduct him to the cavalier.

As they approached, Don Amador could perceive
that the stranger had robed his figure in a cloak of
the humblest texture; he was barefooted; he held a
staff in his hand; and his great slouched hat was
adorned with scallop-shells. He seemed a palmer,
who had performed a long and painful pilgrimage;
for, though obviously a young man, his frame was
wasted, his beard long and haggard, and his cheeks
were very thin and pale.

“By my faith,” said Don Amador, “this palmer
hath speedily won the heart of my brother; for, thou
seest, Rosario doth look into his face, as though he
had got him the hand of some great knight from
Judea.—I welcome you with peace and good-will,
señor pilgrim; and my gates are open to you.—Art
thou from Compostella or Loretto? Or, perhaps, thou
comest even from the Holy Land?”

While the cavalier spoke, the Moorish lady surveyed
the features of the pilgrim with a surprise
and agitation which drew the attention of Don Amador;
but before he could speak, the pilgrim replied:

“Not from the Holy Land, but from a land accurst,—from
death and the grave, from the depths
of the heathen lake and the maws of Mexicans—”

At these words, the lady screamed, and Don Amador
himself started aghast, as he listened to the voice
of the speaker.

“In the name of God, amen!” he cried, recoiling
a step; “I know thy voice, and I saw thee perish!”

“Pardon me, noble patron!” said the pilgrim, hastily;
“I spoke but in figures; and therein I spoke not
amiss, since I perceived that my noble lord looked

upon me as one that was dead. Alas, señor, I live—I
am your honour's poor ward and secretary, Fabueno.”

“Fabueno!” cried the cavalier, recovering himself
a little: “If thou livest, thou liest; for Lorenzo
is dead!”

“Hast thou been lying, then, thou knave?” cried
Rosario, with much indignation. “I will knock the
cockles from thy cap; for thou saidst, thou hadst
fought with the great Cortes, among the Indians!”

“Alas, señor!” cried Lorenzo, “will you still think
me dead? Have sorrow and misery so changed
me, that your noble goodness cannot see, in this
broken frame and this withered visage, your poor
follower, Fabueno?”

“By my troth, I am amazed! This hand is flesh
and blood; this darkened brow and weeping eye—
Pho! Look upon him, Zayda!—Thou livest, then?—
God be praised! And thou sheddest tears, too?
Never believe me, but I am rejoiced to see thee;
and thou shalt dwell with me, till thy dying day—
Heaven be thanked!—By what miracle wert thou
revived, after being both killed and drowned? I'faith,
thou didst greatly shock my lady.—'Tis wondrous,
how soon she knew thee!”

“Knew me?” exclaimed the secretary, gazing with
a bewildered eye upon the lady.

“Why, dost thou forget,” cried the cavalier, catching
the hand of Leila, over whose brow a faint colour
rose at the remembrance,—“dost thou forget my
dear and beloved page, Jacinto?”

“Alas, madam,” said Lorenzo, bending to the
earth, “nothing but my confusion could have made
me so blind; and this is more wondrous, too, since
his excellency, Don Hernan, had made me acquainted
with the happiness of my lord.”

“Speakest thou of Don Hernan?” cried the cavalier.
“By my troth, I have an hundred thousand
questions to ask thee; and I know not which to
demand first. But thine own reappearance is so
marvellous, that I must first question thee of that;

and, afterward, thou shalt speak to me of Don Hernan.
How wert thou fished up?”

“Fished up, señor!” said Lorenzo, sadly; “I know
not well what your favour means. At that moment
of distraction and horror,” he went on, with a shudder,
“when I called to you for succour—”

“I heard you,” said Amador, “and I ran to your
assistance,—but, heaven forgive me! I cursed the act
afterwards, when I discovered that it had lost me my
poor Jacinto. Ah, señora mia! was there ever so
dreadful a night?”—

“When I called,” continued Fabueno, “I was then
beset by the infidels. The princess—the poor princess,
was slain in my arms, and my horse speared
under me, so that we fell to the earth. Señor, I know
not well what happened to me, then, for my mind
fled from me: I only remember, that, as they flung
me into a canoe, there came a cavalier, the valiant
Don Francisco de Saucedo, as I found by his voice,
to my assistance, shouting aloud. I think, he was
slain on the spot; for I heard a plunging in the water,
as if his horse had fallen into the lake.”

“It was he, then,” said Don Amador, “whom I
saw sink so miserably into the flood! Heaven give
him rest!—I thought it was thyself.”

“Señor,” continued the secretary, “I will not
weary you, now, with all the particulars of my
sorrow. When heaven restored me my reason, I
found myself lying in a wicker den,—a cage of victims,—in
the temple yard, under the pyramid; and I
knew that I was saved, only to be made a sacrifice.”

“Heaven forefend!” cried Amador, while Zayda
grew white with horror.

“I tell you the truth, señor,” said Fabueno, trembling
in every limb. “There were more than thirty
such cages around me, and in every one a wounded
Spaniard, as I could both hear and see; and every
day, there was one dragged out by the priests, and
immolated.—I could hear their yells from the temple
top.—Señor, these things drove me into a delirium,

which must have lasted long; for when I came again
to my wits, I looked out, and saw that the cages
were empty—all but one. Then, I beheld the priests
come to mine own dungeon, and debate over me. I
tried to pray—but, in my fear, I swooned. When I
looked forth again, they were dragging away my
fellow-prisoner.—I knew that I should die upon the
morrow.—That night, I fell into a frenzy, and with
my teeth (for my arms were bound behind me,) I
gnawed away the wooden bars of my cage. Heaven
helped me! God gave me strength! and St. James, to
whom I cried, sharpened my teeth as though they
were edged with iron! So, by this miracle, I escaped;
and, bound as I was, and beaten to the earth by a
tempest which raved over the lake, I made my way,
I know not how, by a causeway that lies to the
north, until I had reached the shore of the lake. I
hid me, by day, in groves and in marshes, and when
the night came, I journeyed onward, though I knew
not whither. What sufferings I endured from hunger
and thirst, I will not weary you by recounting. Mine
arms were still bound behind me; and when it was
my good fortune to find a field of green maize, I
could only seize upon the ears, like a beast, with my
teeth. I strove, by rolling upon the earth, and rubbing
against trees, to get rid of the thongs, but all in
vain. This maddened me; and I thought that heaven
had deserted me. But the good St. James showed
me, one day, a place where the Indians had made a
fire. I rekindled it with my breath, and when it
began to blaze, I prayed and held my arms in the
flames, until the green withes, wherewith I was
bound, were burned asunder.”—

“Good heaven!” cried Amador, starting from the
stone on which he had seated himself, while Zayda
bent forward, as if to snatch the poor youth from the
flames, which still burned in her imagination;—“didst
thou suffer all this horrible combustion? Or, perhaps,
heaven vouchsafed thee a miracle, and scorched

away the cords, without suffering the fire to do thee
harm?”

“Had I been there,” said Rosario, doughtily, “I
would have cut the thongs with my sword; and,
then, I would have killed the bitter pagans that
wronged thee!”

“The miracle whereby I escaped from the cage,
was more than my sins deserved,” said the secretary,
bending his head upon his bosom, and speaking with
an agitated voice. “Heaven took not the pangs
from the fire, but it gave me strength to bear them.
I am here again, restored to my native land, and
among Christian men—but mine arms are withered.”

“Were they hacked off at the shoulders,” cried
Amador, ardently, “ay, and thy legs into the bargain,
yet will I so entertain thee here in my castle, that
thou shalt cease to lament them.”

“Nay,” said the youth, looking with gratitude on
the cavalier, “'tis not so bad as that, as my lord may
see; for, though I may never more bear sword, yet
I can carry the pilgrim's staff—ay, and I can raise
them to my cheek, to brush away my thanks.—I
have yet strength enough left to wield a pen; and, if
my noble patron”—

“Speak no more of this, good Lorenzo,” said the
Moorish lady, quickly and kindly. “My lord hath
told thee thou art welcome; and I say to thee also,
thou art very welcome.”

“By my troth, I say so too,” cried Rosario. “But
after all, thou wilt be but pitiful, if thou hast not
strength left to handle a sword. I hoped you should
teach me a little; for old Baltasar is grum and crusty.”

“Peace, Hector! what art thou talking about?”
said Don Amador.—“Think no more of thy misfortune,
Lorenzo; but give me to know the rest of thy
adventures.”

“They are spoken in a word,” said the secretary.
“When mine arms were freed, though so dreadfully
scorched, I could travel with more peace of mind.
I doubted not, that all the Christians had been slain

on the lake; yet, I thought, if I could but reach the
sea-coast, I might be, sometime, snatched out of the
hands of the barbarians. Nevertheless, this hope deserted
me, when I perceived that the land was covered
with people; and, one day, finding a cave among
the mountains, hard by to a water-fall, with a wooden
cross stuck up at the mouth—”

“Surely,” said Zayda, “this was the cavern, wherein
I found my lord, Don Gabriel.”

“I doubt it not, noble lady,” said Fabueno, “but
this I knew not then. I thought it was a retreat provided
for me by the good St. James, who willed that
there I should pass my life, under the shadow of that
little crucifix. So there did I hide me, and, feeding
upon roots and such living creatures as I could entrap,
I remained in my hermitage a full year; until,
one day, I heard a trumpet sounding at the bottom
of the mountain; and running out in wonder, I beheld—thanks
be to heaven! I beheld a company of
Spanish soldiers marching up the hill. By these men,
I was carried to Mexico, which was now fallen—”

“Fallen, say'st thou?” cried Amador. “Is the
infidel city fallen?”

“Not the city only, but the empire,” replied Fabueno;
“and Cortes is now the lord of the great
valley.”

“Thou shalt tell me of its fate; but first thou must
rest and eat.—I remember me now of the words of
Cortes.”

“His excellency,” said Lorenzo, “commanded me
to bear to your favour this little jewel, in token that
he has made good a certain vaunt which he made
you in Tlascala—the same being an emerald from
the crown of Quauhtimotzin, the king.”—

“Hah! my valiant ambassador at Tlascala? Hath
he been the emperor?”

“And to your noble lady, he craves permission to
present this chain of gold, the manufacture of Mexican
artists, since Mexico has become a Spanish city.”

“It is enough,” said the cavalier; “I perceive that
his genius is triumphant. I would that I might bear
this news to his father, Don Martin, as I did the relation
of his disasters. But come; let us retire. Why
hast thou on these palmer weeds?”

“I vowed to St.James, on the mountains of Mexico,
in my great misery, that, if his good favour and protection
should ever bless mine eyes with the sight of
Christian man, I would make a pilgrimage, barefoot,
to his holy shrine at Compostella. This it has been
my good fortune already to accomplish, our ship
having been driven, by a storm, into a port of Gallicia.
Not thinking this penance enough for my sins,
I resolved to continue my pains, and neither doff my
pilgrim's cap, nor do on my shoes, until I had reached
your favour's castle of the Cork-tree.”

“I welcome thee to it, again, and for thy life; and
I congratulate thee, that thou art relieved of the love
of war; wherein, thou wilt find, I have somewhat
preceded thee. Enter, and be at peace.—When thou
art rested a little, I shall desire of thee to speak,—for
very impatient am I to know,—what circumstances
of marvel and renown, of romance and chivalry,
have distinguished the last days of Tenochtitlan.”