University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

The day that followed after the flight of Abdoul-al-Sidi,
beheld the army of Cortes crossing that ridge
which extends like a mighty curtain, between the
great volcano and the rugged Iztaccihuatl; and many
a hardy veteran shivered with cold and discontent,
as sharp gusts, whirling rain and snow from the inhospitable
summits, prepared him for the contrast
of peace and beauty which is unfolded to the traveller,
when he looks down from the mountains to the
verdant valley of Mexico. Even at the present day,
when the axe has destroyed the forest; when the
gardens of flowers—the cultivation of which, with a
degree of passionate affection that distinguished the
Mexicans from other races, seemed to impart a tinge
of poetry to their character, and mellow their rougher
traits with the hues of romance,—when these flower
gardens have vanished from the earth; when the
lakes have receded and diminished, and, with them,
the fair cities that once rose from their waters, leaving
behind them stagnant pools and saline deserts;
even now, under all these disadvantages, the prospect
of this valley is of such peculiar and astonishing
beauty as, perhaps, can be nowhere else equalled
among the haunts of men. The providence of the
Spanish viceroys in constructing a road more direct
and more easy of passage, to the north of the great
mountains, has robbed travellers of the more spirit-stirring
impressions which introduced them to the
spectacle, when pursuing the ancient highway of the
Mexicans. It ascends among gloomy defiles, at the

entrance of which stand, on either hand, like stupendous
towers guarding the gate of some Titan
strong-hold, the two grandest pinnacles of the interior.
It conducts you among crags and ravines, among
clouds and tempests, now sheltering you under a
forest of oaks and pines, now exposing you to the
furious blasts that howl along the ridges. A few dilapidated
hamlets of Indians, if they occasionally
break the solitude, destroy neither the grandeur nor
solemnity of the path. You remember, on this deserted
highway, that you are treading in the steps of
Cortes.

As the army proceeded, Don Amador, alive to
every novelty, took notice that, regularly, at short
distances from each other, not excepting even in the
wildest and loneliest places, there were certain low
and rude but strong cabins of stone built by the wayside,
but without inhabitants. These, he was told, were
the houses that were always constructed by the Mexican
kings on such friendless routes, to shelter the exposed
traveller. He thought such benignant provision
betokened some of the humaner characteristics of civilization,
and longed eagerly to make acquaintance
with those nobler institutions which might be presented
below. This desire was not the less urgent, that the
frozen winds, penetrating his mailed armour, made
him shiver like a coward on the back of his war-horse.
He felt also much concern for his kinsman, who rode
at his side with a visage even wanner and more wobegone
than ordinary. But in the deep and death-like
abstraction that invested his spirits, Don Gabriel
was as insensible to the assaults of the blast, as to the
solicitude of his friend. The page Jacinto, moreover,
caused him no little thought; for the flight of his
father, though this had exposed him neither to the
anger nor inquiries of Don Hernan, (who affected to
treat the desertion of the Moors as an affair of little
consequence, save to themselves,) had left the boy so
dejected and spiritless, that, as he trudged along between
the two cavaliers, he seemed to follow more

with the instinct of a jaded house-dog, than with the
alacrity of a faithful servant. To the pity of his
young master he returned but a forced gratitude, and
to his benevolent counsel that he should ride behind
Lazaro, he rendered the oft-repeated excuse, `Señor
mio, I am afraid of horses; and 'tis better to walk
than ride over these cold hills.'

“There is much wisdom in what thou sayest, as I
begin now to perceive,” said Amador, dismounting
and giving his steed to Lazaro: “'tis better to be
over-warm with marching on foot, than turned into
an icicle on horseback. My father!” he said, gently
and affectionately, to Calavar, “wilt thou not descend,
and warm thyself a little with exercise?” But the
knight only replied with a melancholy and bewildered
stare, which convinced the novice that entreaty
and argument upon this subject, as, at present, upon
all others, would be alike unavailing. Sighing therefore,
and, with a gesture, directing Baltasar to assume
his station at the side of Don Gabriel, he took the
page by the hand, and removing to a little distance
from the group as well as from all other persons, he
walked on, entering into discourse with Jacinto.

“I do not marvel at thee, Jacinto,” he said, “nor
can I altogether censure thee, for grieving thus at the
flight of thy father. Nor will I, as was, last night,
my resolve, reprimand thee for leaving me, contrary
to my bidding, at the chamber of my good knight;
for, besides finding thee in grief enough at present, I
perceive thou wert instigated to this disobedience by
anxiety for thy parent, which would have excused in
thee a greater fault. But let me ask thee, not so
much as a master as a friend, two or three questions.
—First, Jacinto,” he continued, “art thou dissatisfied
with thy service? or with thy master, who loves thee
as well as myself?”

“Service—master!—Senor!” said the boy, confused.

“I demand of thee, art thou discontented with thy
duties, or grieved by any unkindness which has been

manifested to thee by thy master, or by any of us,
who are his followers?”

“I cannot be discontented with my duties,” said
the boy, a little cheerfully, for it was not possible long
to withstand the benevolence of his patron;—“I cannot
be discontented with my duties; for, in truth, it
seems to me, there are none imposed upon me, except
such as are prompted by my own fancies. I am
very skilless in the customs of service, never having
been in service before; yet, señor, I like it so well,
that with such masters, methinks, I could remain a
contented servant to the end of my days. That is,
—that is”—But here the page interrupted himself
abruptly. “As for any unkindness, I own with gratitude,
I have never received from my lord, from my
master, nor from his people, any thing but great favour,
as well as forgiveness for all my faults.”

“Thou answerest well,” said the novice gravely.
“I did not apprehend anybody could treat thee
rudely, except Lazaro, who is a rough fellow in his
ways, and being in some sort a wit, is oft betrayed
into saying sharp things, in order that people may
laugh at them. Nevertheless, Lazaro has a good
heart; for which reason I pardon many of his freedoms;
but, I vow to thee, though he is a brave soldier,
and albeit it is opposed to all my feelings and
principles to degrade a serving-man by blows, nevertheless,
had I found him venting his wit upon thee,
I should have been tempted to strike him even with
the hardest end of my lance.”

“I never had a better friend than Lazaro,” said
the page, with a faint smile; “and I love him well,
for he affects my singing, and praises me more than
anybody else. Then, as for Marco and Baltasar,
though they delight more in cleaning armour than
listening to a lute;—and as for the secretary, señor
Lorenzo, who cares for nothing but tilting with any
one who will take the trouble to unhorse him,—they
are all good-natured to me, and they never scold me.”

“This, then, being the case,” said Amador, “and

allowing thy first and most natural obedience to be
to thy father, rather than to a master, how dost thou
excuse to thyself the intention of deserting the service
of thy friends, without demanding permission, or at
least acquainting us with thy desires.”

“Señor!” exclaimed Jacinto, surprised and embarrassed.

“It is known to me, that such was thy resolution,”
said the cavalier, with gravity; “for it was so confessed
to me, last night, by thy father. But, indeed,
though I cannot avoid expressing my displeasure at
such intention, which seems to me both treacherous
and ungrateful, I led thee aside less to scold thee,
than to give thee intelligence of Abdalla, I myself
being, as I think, the last Christian that beheld him.”

“Oh, señor! and he escaped unharmed?” cried the
boy.

“Verily without either bruise or wound, save that
which was made on his soul, when I reproached him
for deserting thee.”

“I am deserted by all!” exclaimed Jacinto, clasping
his hands.

“For the thousandth time, I tell thee, no!” said his
patron: “And thy father made it apparent to me he
abandoned thee unwillingly; nor would he leave me,
though the pursuers were approaching fast, until he
had exacted of me the very superfluous vow, that I
would give thee a double protection from all wrong
and injustice. Dry thy tears: I have already obtained
of Cortes a promise of full pardon for Abdalla, when
he returns to us, as doubtless he will, at Tenochtitlan.”

“I hope so! I pray he may!” said Jacinto, hurriedly;
“or what, oh! what shall become of us!”

“I will have him sought out, and by-and-by take
thee, and him along, to Cuenza. 'Tis hard by to
Granada.”

The boy remained silent, and Amador continued:—

“Thy father also showed me, that it was thy faithful
love, in remaining by my kinsman during a swoon,
which prevented thee from escaping with him. This,

though it does not remove the fault of thy design,
entirely forces me to pardon it; and indeed, Abdalla
did as much as acknowledge thou wert averse to the
plan.”

“Señor, I was: for though our degradation was
great, I knew not how much greater it might be
among the pagans.”

“Degradation! dost thou talk of degradation! In
good faith, thou surprisest me!”

“Señor,” said the boy, proudly, “though you will
deride such vanity in poor barbarians of the desert,
yet did we ever think ourselves, who had always
been free and unenslaved, debased by servitude. At
least, my father thought so; and I myself, though
speedily solaced by the kindness which was shown
me, could not but sometimes think it had been better
to have perished with my father in the sea, along with
our unhappy people, than to remain as I was,—and as
I am,—a servant in the house of my master!”

“A silly boy art thou, Jacinto,” said Amador,
surveying him with surprise: “for, first, thy office as
the page of a most noble and renowned knight, is such
a one as would be coveted by any grandee's son,
however noble, who aspired to the glory of arms and
knighthood; and I admonish thee, that, had not his
infirmity driven Don Gabriel from Spain entirely
without the knowledge of his servants, thou shouldst
have seen the son of a very proud and lofty nobleman
attending him in the very quality which thou thinkest
so degrading. I did myself, though very nearly
related to him, and though sprung of such blood as
acknowledges none superior, not even in the king that
sits on the throne, enter first into his service in the
same quality of page; and, trust me, I esteemed it
great honour. In the second place, I marvel at thee,
having already confessed that thy service is both
light and pleasant.”

“It is even so, señor,” said the boy, meekly, “and
I am not often so foolish as to repent me. It was not
because I thought so yesternight, but because my

father bade me, that I strove to escape from it; for
he was in danger, or feared he was, and it was my
duty to follow him without repining.”

“I come now to ask thee another question,” said
the neophyte. “By what good fortune was it, that
thou stumbledst upon my kinsman, among the ruins of
that profane pyramid?”

“It was there, señor, that the princes met us.”

“Hah! Oh, then, thou wert plotting with my bold
prince, hah! Faith, a very valiant pagan! and in no
wise resembling the varlets of Cuba. If thou knowest
aught of these men that may concern our leader to
know, it will be thy duty to report the same to him,
Jacinto, and that without delay.”

“Nothing, señor,” said the page, hastily. “I discovered
that my father was to fly with the ambassadors;
that he was to seek them at the pyramid;
and it was there we found my master swooning.”

“Didst thou see aught there that was remarkable,
or in any way inexplicable?”

“I saw my lord fainting, my father and the princes
flying, and the soldiers pursuing and shooting both
with cross-bow and musket.”

“'Tis already,” said the cavalier, turning his eye
askaunt to Don Gabriel, “yet I know not by what
revealment, whispered through the army, that my
kinsman saw a spectre,—some devilish fiend, that, in
the moment of his doubt, struck him to the earth!”

“Ay!” said Jacinto, turning towards the knight,
and eyeing him with a look of horror; “he thought
'twas Zayda, whom he slew so barbarously among
the Alpujarras!”

The cavalier laid his hand upon Jacinto's shoulder,
sternly,—

“What art thou saying?—what art thou thinking?
Hast thou caught some of the silly fabrications of
the soldiers? I warn thee to be guarded, when thou
speakest of thy master.”

“He confessed it to me!” said the page, trembling,
but not at the anger of his patron. “He killed her

with his own hands, when she screened from his
cruel rage her husband Alharef, his vowed and true
friend!”

“Peace!—thou art mad!—'Twas the raving of
his delirium.—There is no such being as Zayda.”

“There is not, but there was,” said Jacinto, mournfully.

“And how knowest thou that?” demanded Amador,
quickly. “Thou speakest as if she had been thy
kinswoman. Art thou indeed a conjuror? There is
no dark and hidden story, with which thou dost not
seem acquainted!”

“She was of my tribe,” said Jacinto, mildly, though
tremulously, returning the steadfast gaze of his patron:
“I have heard my father speak of her, for she
was famous among the mountains. Often has he
repeated to me her sorrowful story,—how she drew
upon herself the anger of her tribe, by preserving
their foe, and how their foe repaid her by—oh heaven!
by murdering her! Often have I heard of
Zayda; but I knew not 'twas Calavar who killed
her!”

“Can this be true?” said Amador, looking blankly
towards his unconscious kinsman. “Is it possible my
father can have stained his soul with so foul, so deadly,
so fearful a crime! And he confessed it to thee? to
thee, a boy so foolish and indiscreet that thou hast
already babbled it to another?”

“I could not help speaking it this time,” said Jacinto,
humbled at the reproach; “but if my lord
will forgive me, I will never speak it more.”

“I do forgive thee, Jacinto, as I hope heaven will
my father. This then is the sin unabsolved, the action
of wrath, the memory of sorrow, that has slain
the peace of my kinsman? May heaven have pity
on him, for it has punished him with a life of misery.
I forgive thee, Jacinto: speak of this no more; think
of it no more; let it be forgotten—now and for ever,
—Amen!—I have but one more question to ask thee;
and this I am, in part, driven to by thy admission of

the most wondrous fact, that Don Gabriel confessed
to thee his secret. Many of thine actions have filled
me with wonder; thy knowledge is, for thy years,
inexplicable; and thou minglest with thy boyish simplicity
the shrewdness of years. Dost thou truly
obtain thy knowledge by the practice of those arts,
which so many allow to be possessed by Botello?”

“Señor!” exclaimed the boy, startled by the abruptness
of the question.

“Art thou, indeed, an enchanter, as Yacub charged
thee to be?—Give me to understand, for it is fitting I
should know.”

The exceeding and earnest gravity with which the
cavalier repeated the question, dispelled as well the
grief as the fears of the page. He cast his eyes to
the earth, but this action did not conceal the humour
that sparkled in them, while he replied,—

“If I were older, and had as much acquaintance
with the people as Botello, I think I could prophesy
as well as he; especially if my lord Don Hernan
would now and then give me a hint or two concerning
his designs and expectations, such as, it has been
whispered, he sometimes vouchsafes to Botello. I
have no crystal-imp like him indeed, but I possess
one consecrated gem that can call me up, at any
time, a thousand visions. It seems to me, too, that I
can recall the dead; for once or twice I have done it,
though very much to my own marvelling.”

“Thou art an enigma,” said Don Amador. “What
thou sayest of Botello, assures me the more of thy
subtle and penetrating observation; what thou sayest
of thyself, seems to me a jest; and yet it hath a singular
accordance, as well with my own foolish fancies
and the charges of that Moorish menial, as with
the events of the two last nights. Either there is,
indeed, something very supernatural in thy knowledge,
or the delirium of my kinsman is a disease
of the blood, which is beginning to assail my own
brain. God preserve me from madness! Hearken
in thine ear, (and fear not to answer me:)—Hadst

thou any thing to do with the raising of the phantom
thou callest Zayda?—or is it the confusion of
my senses, that causes me to suspect thee of the
agency?”

“Senor!” said the boy, in alarm, “you cannot think
I was serious?”

“What didst thou mean, then, by acknowledging
the possession of that consecrated and vision-raising
jewel?”

“I meant,” responded the youth, sadly, “that, being
a gift associated with all the joys of my happiest
days, I never look at it, or pray over it, without being
beset by recollections, which may well be called visions;
for they are representations of things that have
passed away.”

“And the story of Leila?—Pho—'tis an absurdity!
—I have heard that the cold which freezes men to
death, begins by setting them to sleep. Sleep brings
dreams; and dreams are often most vivid and fantastical,
before we have yet been wholly lost in slumber.
Perhaps 'tis this most biting and benumbing
blast, that brings me such phantoms. Art thou not
very cold?”

“Not very, señor: methinks we are descending;
and now the winds are not so frigid as before.”

“I would to heaven, for the sake of us all, that we
were descended yet lower; for night approaches, and
still we are stumbling among these clouds, that seem
to separate us from earth, without yet advancing us
nearer to heaven.”

While the cavalier was yet speaking, there came
from the van of the army, very far in the distance,
a shout of joy, that was caught up by those who
toiled in his neighbourhood, and continued by the
squadrons that brought up the rear, until finally lost
among the echoes of remote cliffs. He pressed forward
with the animation shared by his companions,
and, still leading Jacinto, arrived, at last, at a place
where the mountain dipped downwards with so sudden
and so precipitous a declivity, as to interpose no

obstacle to the vision. The mists were rolling away
from his feet in huge wreaths, which gradually, as
they became thinner, received and transmitted the
rays of an evening sun, and were lighted up with a
golden and crimson radiance, glorious to behold, and
increasing every moment in splendour. As this superb
curtain was parted from before him, as if by
cords that went up to heaven, and surged voluminously
aside, he looked over the heads of those that
thronged the side of the mountain beneath, and
saw, stretching away like a picture touched by the
hands of angels, the fair valley imbosomed among
those romantic hills, whose shadows were stealing
visibly over its western slopes, but leaving all the
eastern portion dyed with the tints of sunset. The
green plains studded with yet greener woodlands;
the little mountains raising their fairy-like crests; the
lovely lakes, now gleaming like floods of molten silver,
where they stretched into the sunshine, and now
vanishing away, in a shadowy expanse, under the
gloom of the growing twilight; the structures that
rose, vaguely and obscurely, here from their verdant
margins, and there from their very bosom, as if floating
on their placid waters, seeming at one time to
present the image of a city crowned with towers
and pinnacles, and then again broken by some agitation
of the element, or confused by some vapour
swimming through the atmosphere, into the mere
fragments and phantasms of edifices,—these, seen in
that uncertain and fading light, and at that misty
and enchanting distance, unfolded such a spectacle of
beauty and peace as plunged the neophyte into a
revery of rapture. The trembling of the page's
hand, a deep sigh that breathed from his lips, recalled
him to consciousness, without however dispelling
his delight.

“By the cross which I worship!” he cried, “it
fills me with amazement, to think that this cursed and
malefactious earth doth contain a spot that is so
much like to paradise! Now do I remember me of the

words of the señor Gomez, that `no man could conceive
of heaven, till he had looked upon the valley of
Mexico,'—an expression which, at that time, I considered
very absurd, and somewhat profane; yet, if
I am not now mistaken, I shall henceforth, doubtless,
when figuring to my imagination the seats of bliss,
begin by thinking of this very prospect.”

“It is truly a fairer sight than any we saw in Florida,
most noble señor,” said a voice hard by.

The cavalier turned, and with not less satisfaction
than surprise, (for the delight of the moment had
greatly warmed his heart,) beheld, in the person of the
speaker, the master of the caravel.

“Oho! señor Capitan!” cried Don Amador,
stretching out his hand to the bowing commander.
“I vow, I am as much rejoiced to see thee, as if we
had been companions together in war. What brings
thee hither to look on these inimitable landscapes?
Art thou come, to disprove thy accounts of the people
of Tenochtitlan? I promise thee, I have heard
certain stories, and seen certain sights, which greatly
shake my faith in thy representations.—What news
dost thou bring me of my kinsman, the admiral?”

“Señor,” said the master, “the stars have a greater
influence over our destinies, than have our desires.
It seems to me, that that very astonishing victory of
the most noble and right valiant señor, Don Hernan,
at Zempoala, did utterly turn the brains of all the
sailors in the fleet: and his excellency the admiral
having declared himself a friend to the conqueror,
they were all straightway seized with such an ambition
to exchange the handspike for the halbert, and
mine own thirteen vagabonds among them, that, in
an hour's time after the news, my good caravel was
as well freed of men as ever I have known her cleared
of rats, after a smoking of brimstone. So, perceiving
the folly of remaining in her alone, and receiving
the assurance from my knaves that, if I went
with them, I should be their captain, and his excellency
consenting to the same, I forthwith armed myself

with these rusty plates, (wherein you may see
some of the dints battered by the red devils of Florida,)
and was converted into a soldier,—the captain
of the smallest company in this goodly army, and
perhaps the most cowardly; for never did I before
hear men grumble with such profane discontent, as
did these same knaves, this very day, at the cold airs
of the mountain. If they will fight, well; if they
will not, and anybody else will, may I die the death
of a mule, if I will not make them; for one hath a
better and stronger command in an army than in a
ship. Last night I came to that great town they call
Cholula, and was confirmed in my command by the
general.—His excellency, the admiral, bade me commend
his love to your worship; and hearing that
you have enlisted his secretary into your service,
sends, by me, a better suit of armour for the youth,
and prays your favour will have him in such keeping,
that he shall be cured of his fit of valour, without the
absolute loss of life, or his right hand, which last
would entirely unfit him for returning to his ancient
duties,—as, by my faith! so would the former. But,
by 'r lady, my thoughts run somewhat a wool-gathering
at this prospect; for I see very clearly, 'tis a rich
land here, that hath such admirable cities; and, I am
told, we shall have blows enow, by and by, with the
varlets in the valley. Nevertheless, I am ready to
wager my soul against a cotton neck-piece, that, if
these infidels have half the spirit of the savages of
Florida, we shall be beaten, and sent to heaven,
Amen!—that is, for the matter of heaven, and not
the beating!”

“I applaud thy resolution, mine ancient friend,”
said the cavalier, “and methinks thou art more vigorous,
both of body and mind, on land than thou wert
at sea. I will, by and by, send the secretary to receive
the armour, and will not forget his excellency's
bidding, as far as is possible. But let us not,
by conversation, distract our thoughts from this most
lovely spectacle; for I perceive it will be soon enveloped

in darkness; and how know we, we shall
ever look upon it again?”

Thus terminating the interview, the neophyte, as
he descended, watched the unchanging yet ever beautiful
picture, till the sun buried himself among the
mountains, and the shadows of night curtained it in
obscurity.