 | CHAPTER II. Centeola |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
“She loves but knows not whom she loves.”
Let us here revert to such incidents of previous occurrence
connected with the later career of the remarkable maiden,
whom we have indirectly brought to the knowledge of the
reader, as shall serve more fully to introduce her to him,
and explain all that is necessary to be known for a clear
understanding of what is to follow.
The sage Alcoan at first loved his adopted child, the
beauteous Centeola, for her docile and gentle nature, —
then admired her for her extraordinary powers of intellect,
and finally suffered his admiration to rise to a feeling
of profound reverence from his belief in her superadded
gifts of prophecy. And in his high estimate of her
mental powers, at least he did her but the simplest justice.
Her mind flashed like light over every subject presented
for its contemplation, and intuitively detecting and
rejecting all the false in every view, rested only on the
true in forming its conclusions. And all the more unerring
were those conclusions, because they were reached
by the aiding light of a high moral nature. Pure
matters involving moral principle. It needs the corrective
influence of that inner light which is called conscience,
and which has ever been found planted in the human soul,
since the Creator recognized it at the fall of our first
progenitors, by asking them, — Who told thee thou wert
naked? That inner light and acute moral sense, was
possessed to an unusual extent by Centeola. And while
instinctively shrinking from all that was impure, and revolting
from every form of wickedness and wrong, she
was thus enabled clearly to read all the principles of immutable
justice, and foresee what consequences must necessarily
be visited on all flagrant violations of those principles
by the Great and Good Spirit whom she adored;
and what consequently to her nation must be the result of
the vices and sins which prevailed among the people at
large, and especially of the wickedness and idolatries that
predominated in the Imperial City, the fountain head of
every corruption and wrong. And hence she began, as if
acting under some involuntary impulse, to predict, unless
timely repentance and reformation might avert it, the approaching
doom of the nation, in its destruction by some
signal judgment of Heaven, or in its expulsion from the
beloved Azatlan, where it had risen to such prosperity
and power. Alcoan, therefore, believed her a supernaturally
inspired prophetess. But she did not deem herself
so. She was conscious of the exercise only of the
founded on what she deemed to be the logic of events.
Such was the degree of intellectual and moral progress
to which Centeola had attained, and such the position in
which she stood the year before the opening of our tale.
Up to that time her life had flowed on like some clear and
tranquil stream, whose waters no rude winds had ever
been permitted to ruffle. Her employments were mostly
of an intellectual character, varying from the closest exercises
of the mind, to the lighter contemplation of the beauties
and harmonies of nature. Of the cares of life she
knew nothing; for she had been brought up as one of the
daughters of the nobles; and the passions which usually
agitate her sex in early womanhood as yet slumbered undisturbed
in her guileless bosom. This halcyon period of
her life, however, was now about to be brought to a close.
Events were at hand, which were to teach her that she
was a woman, and that from woman's feelings, and woman's
peculiar trials, she was no longer to be exempted.
It was about this time occurred the forest scene between
the young chief Tulozin and Centeola and her companions,
which has been described in the preceding chapter
as making a deep impression on him, and which, notwithstanding
his misgivings about the effect of his intrusion,
was destined, it would seem, to produce a scarcely
less deep impression on her than it had on him.
The next morning after that pantomimic interview in
altered deportment, which plainly showed that much
of her usual tranquility of mind had forsaken her, sent for
her confidential maiden companion, Mitla, who was also of
noble origin, and of a strong and well cultivated intellect.
The summons being soon obeyed, the two fair friends,
hand in hand, took their way out of the village and along
down the banks of the majestic river which on one side
encompassed it. After proceeding some distance in silence,
they came opposite to a deeply wooded island, lying but a
little way out in the stream; when Centeola hesitatingly
paused and said —
“I would, Mitla, that we were in the deepest recesses
of yon beautiful island, where the pensive silence of the
shaded forest might better harmonize with my feelings, at
this time, than this open field and dazzling sunshine, and
also better comport, it may be, with the character of the
subject on which I would commune with thee.”
“Thy wish can easily be gratified, Centeola,” returned
the other. “We have just passed by a canoe moored
to the bank of the stream; and I will return and row it
down to this place; where we will both embark for the
island.”
Receiving a nod of approbation of her suggestion, the
attentive Milta departed on the proposed errand, and in a few
moments more, she appeared with the promised canoe;
when, having taken in her revered friend, she, with a few
to the opposite shore. Both here disembarking, they leisurely
proceeded through the thickly embowering forest
some distance into the interior of the island; when, at a
gesture from Centeola, they seated themselves on a flowery
bank, which was diffusing its delicate perfume over all
around them. It was a beautiful spot, and one that might
well be consecrated as sacred to solitude. The obstructed
rays of the summer sun broke softly down through the
small wavy openings among the breeze-moved foliage above
to the variegated carpet of flowers beneath, and well
was the scene graced by the two lovely maidens who now
occupied it. They both were favored with an unusual
share of personal beauty; but the types of their beauty
were as diverse as were their characters. That of the peculiarly
intellectual Centeola, with a form in every line, and
a face in every lineament, as fair and faultless as that
claimed for Eve in Paradise, was singularly angelic and
etherial; while that of Mitla, the elder and more practical,
was, like her character, of a less poetical, and more
earthy cast.
On a slender branch of a neighboring tree, and in full
view of the maidens, sat a solitary turtle dove, sending
forth, ever and anon, its liquid notes of mournful melody.
“List! Mitla,” said Centeola, after pensively musing
awhile in silence, “list to yon beautiful bird! How soft
and tender its varied notes, and how sweet their low and
melting cadences!”
“I both see and hear it,” responded the other; “but
the sight and sound of that kind of bird is too familiar
to me to cause any particular emotion.”
“So it might have been with me, at another time,
Mitla. But to-day those notes of charming sadness seem
somehow to touch a chord in my bosom which, I feel sure,
was never thus touched before.”
“Why is that so, Centeola?”
“I scarcely know, myself, Mitla. Something unusual
must have happened to me, or some mysterious change
come over me; for I feel as if I was being dragged down
from the bright realms of the intellectual world, where I
have so long reveled, to the grosser things of earth and
sense. Can I have committed some great sin, Mitla that
this should be so?”
“Nay, Centeola is too intelligent to have done that unknowingly,
and too good to have done it knowingly.”
“Then, I will ask thee, Mitla, whether thou believest
one can commit a sin in a dream?”
“Nay — certainly not, dear Centeola; but why askest
thee that singular question?”
“I must tell thee, Mitla. The scene that occurred yesterday
in the forest, when the young stranger so unexpectedly
appeared, and so silently departed, must be fresh
in thy memory?”
“It is so.”
“And thou didst not fail to note how noble his mein and
how bright and kindly his countenance?”
“I did note his looks, Centeola, and thought them to
be in some measure what thou hast-said of them. But
otherwise there was nothing very attractive about him.
His apparel was certainly of the commonest kind.”
“I scarcely noticed his apparel at all, Mitla. It was
his manly and handsome features, and the fine, intelligent
expression that illumined them, that engrossed my attention.
And if these, as thou sayest, were noticed by thee,
how much more should they be by me, on whom his gaze was
so closely riveted, and on whom, to the last, I felt his looks
to be wistfully lingering.”
“It was thy shining beauty, Centeola, that caused
him thus to single thee out. It is so with all men. But
what of the dream at which thou hinted?”
“I did have a dream, last night, Mitla — a dream of
different aspects but all of similar import. I fell asleep,
thinking, with feelings of lively interest and curiosity of
the stranger we had encountered. And it was not long
before I thought he stood before me, in the same forest
where I saw him and under the same circumstances. At
first, it was the exact scene of yesterday acted over again;
but not as yesterday did he mutely depart. He beckoned
me aside, and in gentle and respectful tones, apologized
for his intrusion, and expressing a hope of seeing me
again, bestowed on me a winning smile and departed, leaving
me with a new and strange feeling at work in my bosom.
An interval of time seemed to elapse, and then
the flowery banks of a beautiful river; when he, the
stranger of the former scene, fell in by my side, took my
hand, which I seemed to have no power to withhold, and
said to me something — I knew not what, but felt it was
that which made me very, very happy. This scene also
soon faded away, and another but briefer interval elapsed,
after which I seemed to be surrounded by new and frightful
objects, with strange, fearful sounds, and the wild
commotion of angry multitudes, who were fast closing up
everywhere around me for my destruction; when suddenly
a deliverer appeared in the person of the same young
stranger, but now clothed in the rich garb of a plumed
chief, who snatched me from the impending danger and
bore me off in triumph — a triumph which I felt to be
more mine than his, and which sent such a thrill of joy
and gratitude through my heart, that the sensation instantly
awoke me.”
“It was surely a strange dream — at least a strange
one for Centeola to dream,” observed Mitla thoughtfully,
but without manifesting much surprise.
“It was so,” responded Centeola with an air of innocent
perplexity; “and I would know, Mitla, the interpretation
thereof; for it is that, I suppose that makes me feel so
different to-day and so fills my bosom with that half pleasing,
half painful sadness, to which the plaintive and tender
notes of yon pretty bird seem to give such fitting
expression.”
“Let that bird, then be the interpreter of thy dream,
Centeola,” said the other with a smile significant of more
than she had expressed.
“Of the feelings in me caused by the dream, it may
be a truthful one,” returned Centeola; “but not of the
seeming events of that dream, nor what they foreshadow.
It is of the hidden meaning of these that I would know
thy opinion, good Mitla.”
“It is not for such as I am to instruct one like Centeola
in things of this kind,” said Milta evasively, “I deal
with the facts of the present, not those to exist hereafter.
And as to the shadowy events of dreams, which have no
real existence, I should place on them but little dependence.”
“But, as I reason, Mitla,” persisted the other, “there
can be no events pictured to us in our dreams except such
as have happened, are happening, or are to happen hereafter.
If we believe, then, that they refer neither to the
past nor present, we may look upon them as types of
things to come, which are shown the mind by the great
all-seeing Spirit in aid of its uncertain gropings after the
truths of the future.”
“That,” rejoined Mitla, who, believing she knew the
cause of the dream in question better than the dreamer
herself, seemed still disinclined to yield the point — “that
may possibly sometimes be so; but generally there is a
much more simple explanation of such dreams as thine;
dreams, like thine follow; while impressions made by actual
events, and the dreams that follow them, often act
and react on each other, till the one is greatly deepened
and the other as greatly magnified. Thus we may be led
to attach undue importance to our dreams and delude
ourselves with the idea that they are prophetic of something
of great moment to ourselves or others, when
they are only the counterparts of scenes witnessed in our
waking hours, which have been reproduced and exaggeratated
by a dreaming fancy. Thou hast sometimes seen a
cloud hanging directly overhead, appearing to occupy a
large space and looking formidable. One hour afterwards
it has sunk away to a speck on the horizon and become a
thing of contempt. So, Centeola, may prove what is now
the burden of thy thoughts.”
Centeola now evidently for the first time seemed to
comprehend herself and the character of the feelings that
were agitating her unaccustomed bosom, and, blushing
deeply, she hastily rose and said,
“Thou art wiser than I am, Mitla. Let us hence to
the village.”
For many months after the occurrence of the scene last
described, Centeola passed her time in dreamy seclusion,
being, for a long while, unable — perhaps unwilling, to
throw off the strange, sweet spell by which she had been
so unwittingly enthralled. At length, however it gradually
the opening of another spring, it had nearly ceased to be
felt or remembered, and her thoughts again became concentrated
in trying to fathom the gloom which she and her
foster-father had long seen to be hanging over the future
of their country, and which from her greater gifts of
prophecy or more active fancy, had filled her with especial
bodings and apprehensions. And if such bodings were,
the year before, warranted, much more so were they becoming
now. For by this time, the country became rife
with the rumor that the dreaded barbarian horde, that
had formerly so alarmed the nation, were again making
the most active preparations for an aggressive warfare.
The Imperial City, as arrogant as it was in its fancied
security, and as dead as it had become from its luxurious
habits, its vices and corruptions, had now taken the alarm,
and its rulers had transmitted orders to every tribe to
repair all their fortresses and put themselves in the best
possible state of defence. But while the attention of the
nation generally was only engaged on these material defences,
there were a large number among the best and
wisest of the tribes, who believed that if the nation was
doomed, it was only on account of the great wickedness
of the Imperial City, and that of such of the people as
had been made sharers and abbettors in that central source
of corruption; and that, consequently, if the impending
calamity was to be averted at all, it must be affected no
influential, but hitherto silent class, confessedly stood the
sage Alcoan and his supposed daughter, the wonderfully
talented Centeola, both known far and wide among the
tribes, one as the wisest of Sages and Seers, and the other
as alike remarkable for beauty of person and growing gifts
of prophecy.
But before any action was taken by Alcoan and Centeola
in futherance of their particular views, another incident
occurred in the usual calm life of the latter, which
disturbed her as painfully as the former one had, for the
time pleasingly, and which, with the new insight it gave
her of the aims and true characters of those in authority,
was destined to quicken the movements which she and
Alcoan had in contemplation for effecting the reformations
that might yet, perchance, turn away the wrath of Heaven
from their offending nation.
One day, as has also been intimated in the preceeding
chapter, a delegation from the Imperial City, of unknown
personages made their appearance, in a private, and almost
stealthy manner, at the lodge of Alcoan. They
were two in number; and, though they did not disclose
their names or rank, they were yet evidently high officials
of some kind sent out to forward the secret schemes of
the government.
The elder of these, who was considerably past the middle
age, assumed the office of chief spokesman; but the
expression about the eyes, obviously possessed the
controlling mind. They claimed to have come to consult
the Sage and his daughter on the auguries of the day in
relation to the impending crisis. But when the opinions
and predictions of the two latter had been expressed, they,
instead of heeding them, sought to show them erroneous
and subversive of the policy which the government at the
Imperial City, with the sanction of all its Seers and Sages,
had decided on pursuing. But to all this, Alcoan had,
like Pilate, but one reply —
“What I have spoken, I have spoken. The record of
my words has already been made by the Great and Good
One above, who changes not as men often change from
unworthy motives; nor will he suffer men so to change
with impunity.”
“But,” persisted the others, “it is commendable in
the sight of all the Gods to change from wrong to right.”
“Ay,” returned the sage, “but never from right to
wrong. Alcoan never speaks with a double tongue, and
he shall never have to answer to a double record.”
Centeola, who was also plied in the same manner, after
a still more brief and cold reply, remained resolutely silent;
for, with a keener penetration, she had already perceived
many things, besides the repugnant sentiments they
had advanced, that led her to doubt the motives and characters
of the Imperial visitants, and especially the younger
she instinctively shrank as from the look of a basilisk.
But the conscientious sage and his pure minded daughter
were not to be suffered thus to escape. The hour of
temptation for the one, and of trial for the other, was not
to be spared them.
On pretence of wishing to inspect the fortress-mounds,
which had been erected around this, as well as around the
chief villages of all the tribes, the elder Emissary induced
Alcoan to go out with him for that purpose, leaving
Centeola, to her extreme dismay, alone in the lodge with
the younger. The two former then proceeded to go the
rounds of the works, which, for reasons before given, were
erected in the shape of the full length coil of a monster
serpent, and made to embrace the entire village in its
extended folds. These works consisted of a continuous
rampart thrown up from the surrounding ditch, so as to
form a perpendicularly faced wall without, about a dozen
feet high, everywhere surmounted along the edge of the
counter-scarp by extremely sharp, thickly laid pickets
made to project out horizontally a full half yard over the
wall, and were firmly confined down in their places by an
unbroken line of ponderous beams. And these high and
curiously picketed ramparts, thus enclosing the whole of
the compactly built village, with two massive wooden gates
opening on different sides of the enclosure, completed
this particular one of those remarkable mound-fortresses,
the puzzle and the wonder of the learned world.
After viewing these works awhile, they retired to a seat
under the shading boughs of a neighboring oak, when Alcoan
was again beset by the attending Emissary, and
strongly urged to change his opinions, and begin to make
smoother and more acceptable predictions; and if he
would do so, he was assured that any reward, any post of
honor be might desire, should be his. But finding, at
length, that the Sage was not to be moved by arguments,
nor tempted by bribes, the persistent Emissary was beginning
to resort to menaces, when the conference was suddenly
cut short by an unexpected apparition. Centeola,
with disordered dress, flushed brow, and a countenance
eloquent with indignation, stood mute before them. The
sage gazed at her a moment with a disturbed and inquiring
look, and then hesitatingly asked,
“Is it well with thee, my daughter?”
“Is it not well with all who pass through fiery trials
and come out unscathed, my father?” replied Centeola.
“Ay,” returned the sage, his look of concern changing
to one of triumph, “Ay, and by that token, I may
say it is well with me also. But whither now, my daughter?”
“To some covert,” replied she, with a look of mingled
detestation and resolve — “to some safe covert, where I
passed away to their own place, and the village of the
Feathered Serpents freed from their worse than dubious
visitors.”
So saying she quickly vanished from the sight; when
Alcoan, turning abruptly to the Emissary, bent on him a
gaze of such withering scorn and rebuke as made him
quail before it. Soon mastering his feelings, however
the Sage rose and said to the other,
“Thy brother is alone now. I must return to my
lodge, lest he think the rights of hospitality violated by
my further neglect.”
The Emissary also now rose, and with an abashed look
left the place with the other. A silent walk of a few
minutes brought them back to the lodge they had left an
hour before on the proposed tour of inspection. Here
they found the baffled Emissary, whom they had left with
the fugitive maiden, hurriedly pacing the room with every
manifestation of vexation and chagrin. The two Emissaries
then went aside, held a brief consultation, returned,
announced their intention of departing, and, bidding the
Sage a cold farewell, at once took their way out of the
village.
This visit of the Emissaries of the Imperial City to
Alcoan and his daughter, produced on the latter effects
just the opposite from what was intended and confidently
in different ways, the views, intentions and practice of
their rulers, which betrayed a state of general depravity
among them far more deplorable than had ever before been
imagined. It was also the means of revealing to them
the startling fact that human sacrifices, the crowning abomination
of all, were, instead of being discontinued to be
largely increased. These discoveries, when added to what
they before knew, filled the Sage and his daughter with
fresh bodings and alarms, and soon led them to fix on a
plan for giving a more practical effect to their preachings
and predictions. And in pursuance of this plan, and with
the additional object of absenting themselves from their
village that they might be out of the reach of annoyances
like those lately experienced, they privately left their
home and spent the next two months in successively visiting
all the leading tribes of the nation, acquainting themselves
with the condition of the people and the wrongs
and oppressions under which the latter were found suffering.
They everywhere communed with the wise and good
— everywhere found strong adherents to the cause to
which they had resolved to devote themselves, and everywhere
received assurances of sympathy and support.
And the result of the extended consultation was the determination
that a deputation should be sent to the Imperial
City, at the head of which, it was decided, that none
Alcoan and Centeola, and accordingly the two latter repaired
to their own village and made the preparations for
the contemplated visit to the Imperial City, which eventuated
in their appearance at the place, and in the manner
described in the first chapter.
| CHAPTER II. Centeola | |