University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VII.
SCENE IN A PAVILION.

The midnight chimes, slowly and heavily tolling
from the Cathedral Tower, which had so suddenly broken
the slumbers of the young Spanish cavalier, had
also penetrated the interior of the pavilion in the Place
d'Armes, and struck upon the ears of an individual
who occupied it. He was writing over a little ebony
escritoire, on which were scattered letters just finished
but not yet folded; despatches, unsealed, directed to
the minister of state, and an open packet or two, with
the royal arms of Spain impressed upon the broken
wax. Near them lay a bunch of massive keys, stained

with dark spots of crimson, and by the side of them
a naked sword of great finish and of the finest temper,
with diamonds set thickly on the hilt. On the
floor of the tent, which was overlaid with a Turkish
mat of great softness and brilliancy of colours, was
negligently strewn the imposing apparel of a soldier:
here a casque glittering through a cloud of sable
plumes, there a pair of spurs lying upon a steel corslet,
which seemed as pliant as the cloth of gold with
which it was lined. In a corner were the magnificent
trappings of a warhorse; the gorgeous Andalusian
saddle covered with blue cloth, worked in with silver
thread, the housings a leopard's hide, the bridle plated
with silver, and ornamented with chains of exquisite
workmanship in the same metal. An Egyptian ottoman,
with a pillow of swan's-down, completed its furniture.

The pavilion itself was of the most elegant and
tasteful description. Though its outside reflected the
moonbeams from a surface of spotless white, the interior
was hung with sky-blue tapestry, on which was
represented, in needlework, the first interview between
Fernando Cortes and the Emperor Montezuma. From
the centre of the tent a purple canopy was suspended,
by silken cords, above a spacious arm-chair, covered
with a lion's skin and crowned with a coronet. Before
it, as if a footstool for his master, whose right
foot rested upon his neck, slumbered a beautiful Cuban
bloodhound. All around, from the roof down to the
thick carpet, hung azure tapestry, thus constituting
within it a cabinet as retired and private as if it were
buried in the recesses of a palace. It was, however,
visibly so much less in dimensions than the broad and
lofty canvass pavilion itself, that it was apparent there
were other apartments within it, either appropriated
as private chambers or anterooms; and certain cords
at intervals of the hangings seemed to have been
placed there for the purpose of drawing them aside;
nay, in the rear of the apartment, they were in one
place slightly raised, as if some person had passed

through and neglected to drop the folds again quite
over the aperture. The whole interior wore that air
of luxurious ease and warlike repose which characterized
the Spanish gentleman and soldier of that day,
whose sumptuous pavilions were redeemed from the
softer elegances of a lady's boudoir only by the presence
of the knightly arms and insignia of war, that
held the place of her lute and embroidery-frame.
Like the voluptuous Persian princes of an earlier
time, whose tents vied in splendour with the fairy palaces
of their poets, and who made war a medium for
the display of luxury and magnificence, the conquerors
of the New World, dazzled by the wealth which
the rich mines of Mexico poured out at their feet,
decked themselves profusely in gold and jewels; all
parts of their armour glittered with precious stones;
their war-chargers scarcely moved under the costly
weight of silver that loaded their trappings; while
their tents were marked by a commensurate splendour
and grandeur.

But, as the empire of the Americas gradually departed
from the sceptre of Spain, their luxury proportionally
decreased; yet at this time, and in the display
of this pavilion itself, sufficient traces remained
of this former state of enervating luxury to convey
some idea of what it had been in the more palmy
days of Spanish power, and, it may also be said, affored
the key to its rapid downfall.

The first stroke of the deep-mouthed bell caused the
occupant of the tent to pause in his task. With his
pen suspended above the paper, and with his head
slightly turned in a listening attitude, he numbered the
strokes, as slowly and solemnly they broke, one after
another, upon the stillness of night. A lamp, hanging
by a chain from the canopy, and diffusing around a
soft and equal light, revealed his features as he lifted
his head. They were those of a man about forty-two
years of age, and of a noble and commanding outline.
The forehead was broad and massive, and shaded by
dark hair, sprinkled with gray, which also, in thick,

short curls, clung about his neck. His brow was
strongly marked with intellect, but ungovernable passions
had mingled with it their stormy aspect. His
eyes were of a hazel colour, and vivid in their glances
as light, yet pleasing in their expression; while above
them projected thick eyebrows, which had been arched
in childhood, before passion got control, but which
impatience of temper had now bent into a stern and
habitual frown. His nose was well-shaped, but of that
peculiarly aquiline form which is remarked in men of
resolute spirits and cruel natures. His lips were full
and firm, but around the mouth there seemed to slumber,
ready to awake on the least occasion, a voluptuous,
if not licentious passion, that gave to the whole
features a decided character, which was not a little
strengthened by the round, feminine fulness of the chin
and throat, and the speaking fire of the intensely brilliant
eye. A short mustache, that darkened his upper
lip, qualified this trait, in some degree, to the eye of a
superficial observer; but to one in the habit of studying
the faces of men from the instinctive expression of
their features, rather than from their exterior form and
accidental aspect, it was plainly the distinguishing
mark of the man. This soft though guilty attribute
of his nature spread over his countenance a peculiar
tenderness, that seemed to derive its birth from the
heart, and was replete with danger to the unsuspecting,
and fatal to those who trusted in it. It gave an
aspect of mildness to his countenance, and seemed to
be twin-born with gentleness, yet knowing no higher
origin than that libertine passion, which, on the face
of man, is too often mistaken for the virtue to which
it bears outward semblance. It is thus that the most
evil men sometimes wear faces of the most fascinating
mildness of expression; the lingering beams of the
glorious beauty that Vice, ere she fell, once shared
with her sister Virtue, still shining around her, and
which the clouds of guilt cannot altogether obscure.
A smile, whether to man or woman, from such a mouth
as that of the individual described, was infinitely more
dangerous than the knitting of his stern brows.

His complexion was a ruddy brown, and his face
full and fleshy, yet not too much so to be handsome,
which it must have been, in an eminent degree, in his
youth. His stature was large, and his person manly
and full, though not too heavy; for it had scarcely
parted with any of the elegance and lightness of more
vigorous manhood. He was attired in a black velvet
surcoat or long doublet, which descended to his thighs,
and had been girded at the waist by a belt of white
leather (in which hung the scabbard to the sword that
lay on the table); but the belt was unbuckled, and lay
across an arm of the chair. This doublet was carelessly
left open at the neck, and displayed within ruffles
of the finest lace, which also fringed the wrists,
and showed the straps of deer's hide which had fastened
the corslet within it across the breast. The collar
was wide, and lay back flat upon his shoulder, displaying
a broad edge of gold lace running down along the
front, and also ornamenting the cuffs. On the breast
of the surcoat was a richly-marked cross-gules, surmounted
with the fleur-de-lis, the sign of the order of
the Knights of Calatrava, and around it sparkled several
military stars; while, appended to a broad collar,
composed of golden links or rings, curiously interwoven
one with the other, hung a single ruby, of great
size and marvellous brilliancy, cut in the shape of the
Cross of Calvary. He wore an underdress made of
buff-coloured buckskin, such as are worn at the present
day by officers of rank, which relieved, while they
harmonized with, the sable hue of his coat, and gave a
certain air of military elegance and finish to his costume.
They were open at the knee, with the points
loosely hanging, and his feet were thrust into Indian
slippers: the negligence and déshabille of his whole
apparel altogether suited the hour of the night and
the privacy of his apartment.

As he numbered the last stroke which proclaimed
midnight, he started hastily to his feet:

“Twelve! midnight!” he said, in a tone of surprise.
“Time hath flown, or these provincial clocks
do note its passage with false tongues. Ho! without!”

The curtain in front of him was instantly drawn
aside, a gigantic Ethiopian appeared at the entrance,
and, making a salutation so low as to touch the border
of his vest, waited to be addressed.

“Hath not Don Henrique yet appeared, Sulem?”

“No, cadi,” he answered, in the shrill voice of a
boy, that sounded most strange and unnatural, coming
from one of his stature, and was singularly unpleasant
to the ear.

“No intelligence of him?”

“Muley Garcilaso hath come to speech under the
skill of the chirurgeon,” answered the Moor, indirectly.

“What said he?” demanded the Spaniard, as if accustomed
to his Oriental method of communicating his
ideas.

“That the young cadi fell in the fray, and that his
body was borne off the ground.”

“Slain, said he?”

“He knoweth not.”

“Be it so or not, these rebellious bourgeois shall
answer for their last evening's work, if I stain every
hearthstone with the blood of its own household. Is
all quiet in the town?”

“Silence hath become your slave, and bound the
city in her chains.”

“This is well! Seal and direct these despatches.
They convey to his majesty intelligence of our success.”

The Moor approached the table, and, kneeling on
one knee, began to fold and seal the packets with an
adroitness and neatness that showed it was no new
employment in which he was engaged.

The appearance of this extraordinary private secretary
was as striking as the task he was assigned was
unusual to personages of his complexion and race.
His stature was truly colossal, while his movements,

instead of being unwieldy, like his frame, were remarkable
for a certain cat like stillness and activity,
that produced the same sensation in an observer as is
caused by the gliding and stealthy motion of the huge
anaconda, as he suddenly uncoils his vast length and
moves swiftly over the ground to gorge his unsuspecting
prey. His skin was of the blackest Ethiopian
dye, and his shining black hair fell in a mass, composed
of innumerable crisp tresses, to his shoulders.
It grew within an inch of his eyebrows, leaving a low,
simious forehead, that was far more deficient in the
lines of intelligence than the broad front-head of the
hound recumbent beside him. But there was a sparkling
light in his coal-black eyes, and a quickness in
their motions, that gave indication of cunning and cruelty,
attributes which do not often exist to a great extent
in men of mean intellect. Satan, without the angelic
intellect he possesses, would be Satan no longer.

The remaining features were characteristic of his
race: the broad, flat nose, with its thin, transparent
nostrils; the full, projecting lips, and abruptly retreating
chin. His lips were singularly flexible, and, from
their constant motion, he seemed to be habitually in
soliloquy with himself, or unconsciously giving his
thoughts the shape of words with his mouth; and so
expressive was this language without a voice, that an
observer could plainly read the operations of a mind
which was ever thus betraying itself.

The usual character of his face was that of cautious
observation; of seeing without appearing to see.
Above all, there was a softness in his eye like a woman's,
and he was without beard on lip or cheek. His
hands, as he plied his task, appeared delicate and soft;
they were well-shaped, extremely small for his size,
and remarkable for long, oval nails, which looked like
pearls in whiteness and beauty. The fingers glittered
with massive gold rings set with topaz and carbuncles,
and on each wrist was a bracelet of polished brass,
with magic Arabic characters graven upon them.
Upon his head was an ample Oriental turban of the

whitest linen, and upon his feet he wore laced boots of
red morocco leather, highly ornamented with fringes
and embroidery. His legs were buried in Turkish
trousers of scarlet silk, of the most voluminous fullness,
confined at the waist by a belt, over which was
folded a yellow sash, the ends of it descending to his
knees. The sleeves of his shirt were long and wide,
not gathered at the wrists, and over it was a vest of
crimson cloth, elegantly embroidered; above this, and
over all, was worn a haick, or loose gown of green
cloth, something shorter than the vest. In his belt
was stuck a brace of small but superb Venetian pistols,
and at his side swung a ponderous cimeter, with
an iron hilt and scabbard, that, unlike the rest of his
costume, seemed worn more for use than personal
adornment.

“This pacquet to the king would better please him
if it bore another seal beneath his own,” he said, without
looking up, impressing, as he spoke, a letter with
the royal signet of Spain. There was a meaning hidden
in the under-tones in which he said this that caused
the Count of Osma, who was, meanwhile, pacing the
tent lost in thought, to stop and survey him fixedly.

“What mean you, Sulem?” he inquired, after a moment's
survey of his face.

“The signet of the captured province, your excellency,”
he replied, melting, with an indifferent air, as
he spoke, the wax in the flame of a taper that burned
in a cruse of olive-oil before him.

“Ha! thou sayest well? Wherefore is not the seal
of the city with these keys?” he asked, as if for the
first time aware of its absence, pointing sternly to
those signs of submission upon the escritoire.

“I put the question to Muley Garcilaso when I
went on board.”

“True, thou hast said thou didst commune with
him when he came to himself. What said he?”

“That the Don Henrique took it in safe keeping,”
answered the Moor, carelessly, but with observant
eyes watching the effect of his words.

“Don Henrique! By the red cross! I'll warrant as
much. He hath ever a meddling with that concerns
not himself. It were not a wide guess to make
him the cause of this onslaught upon Garcilaso and
my brave men-at-arms. He hath kissed a citizen's
daughter, and a round dozen of veterans have to shed
their blood to pay for it. Would he had been safe under
a cardinal's red hood ere I took the tutelage of
him on this madcap expedition.”

“There may be deep cunning hid beneath his light
folly, cadi,” said the Moor, cautiously lifting his quick
eyes to his face.

“Speak out.”

“Canst thou not divine his hidden purpose in coming
hither with us?”

“Thou meanest my daughter! No, no! she would
not have tolled him out of the Moro. He careth not
the finger of his glove for the girl; and, by Dian! the
wench hath as little liking for him in return! They
have quarrelled like very brother and sister all the
passage. Had he not a brother that chanced to come
into the world a little before him, I should have made
my will control hers. As it is, I leave it to time and
Cupid.”

“It is not Lalla Estelle,” said the Ethiopian, with
deeper meaning.

“Then, in Mohammed's name, out with it, Moor!”

“As a spy.”

“On what—on whom?”

“On thee and thy government.”

“Your proofs.”

“Himself.”

“Hath he told thee so?”

“In his eye, when fixed on thee—in every look and
motion.”

“Hath he said it?”

“Not in speech, cadi.”

“Thou art a fool, Sulem. Because thy own countenance
is an open book for men to read thy thoughts
in, thou deemest every man's to be the same. Thou

art at fault this time, with all thy subtle knowledge.
If I believed this of Don Henrique, he might perish
ere I would draw blade to rescue or avenge him. But
he hath come as no spy; it is an idle freak, and because
he likes to rove the world better than to wear a
monk's gown. Nay, Sulem, if I thought other motives
than love of adventure brought him hither, I
would hunt him out of every bower and boudoir in the
province, and cast him into the deepest dungeon it
contains.”

“None here, methinks, is so deep as those of Osma,”
said the Moor, maliciously.

“To me this!” demanded the count, approaching him
a step in a menacing manner.

The victim of his wrath crossed his hands on his
breast, and sunk his head upon them deprecatingly.

“It is well thou art so useful to me, Sulem, or thy
head were, ere this, rolling on the ground. I know
that evil and hatred are the moving springs of thy soul;
and that, if thou open thy mouth to speak, bitterness and
biting words come forth naturally. Beware again how
thou hintest at what none know save thee and me, lest
I should take it into my head to become the sole possessor
of the secret. Beware! Don Henrique must
be looked after. Hatred alone towards him, and which
thou bearest to all men, hath cast this film of suspicion
over thy vision. He must be found. As a Spanish
knight, I owe this to my honour. If he come to harm,
it were as much as my spurs are worth. I will tomorrow
demand an explanation with the weapon's
point at the naked throats of these traitorous councillors,
who alone have stirred the city up to this massacre.
Quick with these despatches, and see that they
are, by the dawn, in the hands of the captain of the
brigantine, and command him that he make sail forthwith
for Spain. He hath my private orders already.”

The Moor busied himself with the pacquets, while
the Condé paced the floor of the tent with a perplexed
air, for some time uncertain what course to adopt in

reference to the citizens who had committed so gross
an outrage upon the mission he had despatched to the
council-chamber. But a man of his stern and hostile
spirit had not room for indecision at such a time. Independent
of the indignation that inflamed his bosom
at the slaughter of his garde du corps, he had a private
insult to avenge, remembering the reception he
had met with three years previously in the very square
and on the selfsame spot on which his pavilion was now
pitched. As he thought of this, and summed together
the aggravation and divers causes of offence, both recent
and by-gone, his soul burned, and he determined,
at sunrise, to make an example of several of the chief
citizens, by putting them to death in the Place d'Armes.
If it should also appear that Don Henrique had been
slain in the affray, he resolved, for certain reasons,
which, it will be plain hereafter, had more to do with
his own standing and interest with the Cortes and with
his monarch, when his death should be known to them,
than with any regard for the young Castilian, to convert
the town into a heap of ashes in retribution thereof.
Such was the revengeful and merciless determination
he had formed in his own mind, when the shrill,
unpleasant voice of the Ethiopian startled him from
his meditations, as, rising from his knee, he informed
him that the despatches were sealed and directed.

“See to them when I have done with thee,” he replied;
and then, in a voice that partook of the stern
and savage nature of his recent decision, he said, “Now
take your pen and write as I shall dictate.”

He then, in a few brief words, every letter of which
breathed conflagration and blood, dictated an order,
which this confidential secretary took down with extraordinary
rapidity. It was addressed to the several
captains of his army, and was thus worded:

“Make sealed copies of this,” he added, as it was
completed, “and despatch them by safe bearers to the
different officers in the square, and to those commanding
at the outposts and guardhouses.”

“If Don Henrique appear in the meanwhile—”

“The order will be countermanded.”

“And,” continued the Moor, significantly, “those
chief citizens you spoke of will instead—?”

“Thou art ever awake to bloodshed! Fear me not,
Sulem. I will give them to the tender mercies of thy
cimeter; for the slaughter of my men-at-arms must
be atoned for by their lives.”

The countenance of the Moor lighted up, and his
lips moved with the silent expression of his satisfaction,
while, half drawing his weapon from the sheath, he addressed
congratulatory words to it, as if it had been a
sentient being. He speedily completed the copies of the
order, and, with a low obeisance, laid them at the feet
of his master.

“Give them to my pages without, and bid them say
to those to whom they may bear them, to see that they
break not the seal until they hear a gun fired at the
dawn of day. If by any chance this purpose should
get wind, the bourgeois may have time to arm themselves,
and give us trouble. Depart!”