University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
THE SECOND COMBAT.

IT is hardly worth while to detail the debate between
Hualpa and Xoli; enough to know that the latter, anticipating
pursuit, hid the son of his friend in a closet attached
to his restaurant.

That day, and many others, the police went up and down,
ferreting for the assassin of the noble Iztlil'. Few premises
escaped their search. The Chalcan's, amongst others, was
examined, but without discovery. Thus safely concealed, the
hunter throve on the cuisine, and for the loss of liberty was
consoled by the gossip and wordy wisdom of his accessory,
and, by what was better, the gratitude of Guatamozin. In
such manner two weeks passed away, the longest and most
wearisome of his existence. How sick at heart he grew in
his luxurious imprisonment; how he pined for the old hills
and woodlands; how he longed once more to go down the
shaded vales free-footed and fearless, stalking deer or following
his ocelot. Ah, what is ambition gratified to freedom
lost!

Unused to the confinement, it became irksome to him, and
at length intolerable. “When,” he asked himself, “is this to
end? Will the king ever withdraw his huntsmen? Through
whom am I to look or hope for pardon?” He sighed, paced
the narrow closet, and determined that night to walk out and
see if his old friends the stars were still in their places, and
take a draught of the fresh air, to his remembrance sweeter
than the new beverage of the Chalcan. And when the night
came he was true to his resolution.

Pass we his impatience while waiting an opportunity to

leave the house unobserved; his attempts unsuccessfully repeated;
his vexation at the “noble patrons” who lounged
in the apartments and talked so long over their goblets. At
a late hour he made good his exit. In the tianguez, which
was the first to receive him, booths and porticos were closed
for the night; lights were everywhere extinguished, except
on the towers of the temples. As morning would end his
furlough and drive him back to the hated captivity, he resolved
to make the most of the night; he would visit the
lake, he would stroll through the streets. By the gods! he
would play freeman to the full.

In his situation, all places were alike perilous, — houses,
streets, temples, and palaces. As, for that reason, one direction
was good as another, he started up the Iztapalapan street
from the tianguez. Passengers met him now and then;
otherwise the great thoroughfare was unusually quiet. Sauntering
along in excellent imitation of careless enjoyment, he
strove to feel cheerful; but, in spite of his efforts, he became
lonesome, while his dread of the patrols kept him uneasy.
Such freedom, he ascertained, was not all his fancy colored
it; yet it was not so bad as his prison. On he went. Sometimes
on a step, or in the shade of a portico, he would
sit and gaze at the houses as if they were old friends
basking in the moonlight; at the bridges he would also stop,
and, leaning over the balustrades, watch the waveless water
in the canal below, and envy the watermen asleep in their
open canoes. The result was a feeling of recklessness,
sharpened by a yearning for something to do, some place
to visit, some person to see; in short, a thousand wishes,
so vague, however, that they amounted to nothing.

In this mood he thought of Nenetzin, who, in the tedium
of his imprisonment, had become to him a constant dream, —
a vision by which his fancy was amused and his impatience
soothed; a vision that faded not with the morning, but at

noon was sweet as at night. With the thought came another,
— the idea of an adventure excusable only in a lover.

“The garden!” he said, stopping and thinking. “The
garden! It is the king's; so is the street. It is guarded;
so is the city. I will be in danger; but that is around me
everywhere. By the gods! I will go to the garden, and
look at the house in which she sleeps.”

Invade the gardens of the great king at midnight! The
project would have terrified the Chalcan; the 'tzin would
have forbade it; at any other time, the adventurer himself
would rather have gone unarmed into the den of a tiger.
The gardens were chosen places sacred to royalty; otherwise
they would have been without walls and without sentinels
at the gates. In the event of detection and arrest, the
intrusion at such a time would be without excuse; death
was the penalty.

But the venture was agreeable to the mood he was in; he
welcomed it as a relief from loneliness, as a rescue from his
tormenting void of purpose; if he saw the dangers, they
were viewed in the charm of his gentle passion, — griffins
and goblins masked by Love, the enchanter. He started at
once; and now that he had an object before him, there was
no more loitering under porticos or on the bridges. As the
squares were put behind him, he repeated over and over, as
a magical exorcism, “I will look at the house in which she
sleeps, — the house in which she sleeps.”

Once in his progress, he turned aside from the great street,
and went up a footway bordering a canal. At the next street,
however, he crossed a bridge, and proceeded to the north
again. Almost before he was aware of it, he reached the
corner of the royal garden, always to be remembered by him
as the place of his combat with the Tezcucan. But so intent
was he upon his present project he scarcely gave it a second
look.

The wall was but little higher than his head, and covered
with snowy stucco; and where, over the coping, motionless
in the moonshine, a palm-tree lifted its graceful head, he
boldly climbed, and entered the sacred enclosure. Drawing
his mantle close about him, he stole toward the palace,
selecting the narrow walks most protected by overhanging
shrubbery.

A man's instinct is a good counsellor in danger; often
it is the only counsellor. Gliding through the shadows,
cautiously as if hunting, he seemed to hear a recurrent
whisper, —

“Have a care, O hunter! This is not one of thy
familiar places. The gardens of the great king have other
guardians than the stars. Death awaits thee at every gate.”

But as often came the reply, “Nenetzin, — I will see
the house in which she sleeps.”

He held on toward the palace, never stopping until the
top, here and there crowned with low turrets, rose above
the highest trees. Then he listened intently, but heard not
a sound of life from the princely pile. He sought next
a retreat, where, secure from observation, he might sit in
the pleasant air, and give wings to his lover's fancy. At
last he found one, a little retired from the central walk, and
not far from a tank, which had once been, if it were not now,
the basin of a fountain. Upon a bench, well shaded by a
clump of flowering bushes, he stretched himself at ease, and
was soon absorbed.

The course of his thought, in keeping with his youth, was
to the future. Most of the time, however, he had no distinct
idea; revery, like an evening mist, settled upon him. Sometimes
he lay with closed eyes, shutting himself in, as it
were, from the world; then he stared vacantly at the stars,
or into those blue places in the mighty vault too deep for
stars; but most he loved to look at the white walls of the

palace. And for the time he was happy; his soul may be
said to have been singing a silent song to the unconscious
Nenetzin.

Once or twice he was disturbed by a noise, like the
suppressed cry of a child; but he attributed it to some
of the restless animals in the museum at the farther side
of the garden. Half the night was gone; so the watchers
on the temples proclaimed; and still he stayed, — still
dreamed.

About that time, however, he was startled by footsteps
coming apparently from the palace. He sat up, ready for
action. The appearance of a man alone and unarmed
allayed his apprehension for the moment. Up the walk,
directly by the hiding-place, the stranger came. As he
passed slowly on, the intruder thrilled at beholding, not
a guard or an officer, but Montezuma in person! As far
as the tank the monarch walked; there he stopped, put his
hands behind him, and loooked moodily down into the pool.

Garden, palace, Nenetzin,— everything but the motionless
figure by the tank faded from Hualpa's mind. Fear came
upon him; and no wonder: there, almost within reach, at
midnight, unattended, stood what was to him the positive
realization of power, ruler of the Empire, dispenser of richest
gifts, keeper of life and death! Guilty, and tremulously
apprehensive that he had been discovered, Hualpa looked
each instant to be dragged from his hiding.

The space around the tank was clear, and strewn with
shells perfectly white in the moonlight. While the adventurer
sat fixed to his seat, watching the king, watching, also,
a chance of escape, he saw something come from the shrubbery,
move stealthily out into the walk, then crouch down.
Now, as I have shown, he was brave; but this tested all his
courage. Out further crept the object, moving with the
stillness of a spirit. Scarcely could he persuade himself at

first that it was not an illusion begotten of his fears; but its
form and movements, the very stillness of its advance, at
last identified it. In all his hunter's experience, he had
never seen an ocelot so large. The screams he had heard
were now explained, — the monster had escaped from the
menagerie!

I cannot say the recognition wrought a subsidence of
Hualpa's fears. He felt instinctively for his arms, — he had
nothing but a knife of brittle itzli. Then he thought of the
stories he had heard of the ferocity of the royal tigers,
and of unhappy wretches flung, by way of punishment,
into their dens. He shuddered, and turned to the king,
who still gazed thoughtfully over the wall of the tank.

Holy Huitzil'! the ocelot was creeping upon the monarch!
The flash of understanding that revealed the fact to
Hualpa was like the lightning. Breathlessly he noticed the
course the brute was taking; there could be no doubt.
Another flash, and he understood the monarch's peril, —
alone, unarmed, before the guards at the gates or in the
palace could come, the struggle would be over; child of
the Sun though he was, there remained for him but one
hope of rescue.

As, in common with provincials generally, he cherished a
reverence for the monarch hardly secondary to that he felt
for the gods, the Tihuancan was inexpressibly shocked to
see him subject to such a danger. An impulse aside from
native chivalry urged him to confront the ocelot; but under
the circumstances, — and he recounted them rapidly, — he
feared the king more than the brute. Brief time was there
for consideration; each moment the peril increased. He
thought of the 'tzin, then of Nenetzin.

“Now or never!” he said. “If the gods do but help me,
I will prove myself!”

And he unlooped the mantle, and wound it about his left

arm; the knife, poor as it was, he took from his maxtlatl;
then he was ready. Ah, if he only had a javelin!

To place himself between the king and his enemy was
what he next set about. Experience had taught him how
much such animals are governed by curiosity, and upon that
he proceeded to act. On his hands and knees he crept out
into the walk. The moment he became exposed, the ocelot
stopped, raised its round head, and watched him with a
gaze as intent as his own. The advance was slow and
stealthy; when the point was almost gained, the king
turned about.

“Speak not, stir not, O king!” he cried, without stopping.
“I will save you, — no other can.”

From creeping man the monarch looked to crouching
beast, and comprehended the situation.

Forward went Hualpa, now the chief object of attraction
to the monster. At last he was directly in front of it.

“Call the guard and fly! It is coming now!”

And through the garden rang the call. Verily, the hunter
had become the king!

A moment after the ocelot lowered its head, and leaped.
The Tihuancan had barely time to put himself in posture
to receive the attack, his left arm serving as shield; upon
his knee, he struck with the knife. The blood flew, and
there was a howl so loud that the shouts of the monarch
were drowned. The mantle was rent to ribbons; and
through the feathers, cloth, and flesh, the long fangs
craunched to the bone, — but not without return. This
time the knife, better directed, was driven to the heart,
where it snapped short off, and remained. The clenched
jaws relaxed. Rushing suddenly in, Hualpa contrived to
push the fainting brute into the tank. He saw it sink, saw
the pool subside to its calm, then turned to Montezuma,
who, though calling lustily for the guard, had stayed to

the end. Kneeling upon the stained shells, he laid the
broken knife at the monarch's feet, and waited for him
to speak.

“Arise!” the king said, kindly.

The hunter stood up, splashed with blood, the fragments
of his tilmatli clinging in shreds to his arm, his tunic
torn, the hair fallen over his face, — a most uncourtierlike
figure.

“You are hurt,” said the king, directly. “I was once
thought skilful with medicines. Let me see.”

He found the wounds, and untying his own sash, rich with
embroidery, wrapped it in many folds around the bleeding
arm.

Meantime there was commotion in many quarters.

“Evil take the careless watchers!” he said, sternly, noticing
the rising clamor. “Had I trusted them, — but are
you not of the guard?”

“I am the great king's slave, — his poorest slave, but not
of his guard.”

Montezuma regarded him attentively.

“It cannot be; an assassin would not have interfered
with the ocelot. Take up the knife, and follow me.”

Hualpa obeyed. On the way they met a number of the
guard running in great perplexity; but without a word to
them, the monarch walked on, and into the palace. In a
room where there were tables and seats, books and writing
materials, maps on the walls and piles of them on the floor,
he stopped, and seated himself.

“You know what truth is, and how the gods punish falsehood,”
he began; then, abruptly, “How came you in the
garden?”

Hualpa fell on his knees, laid his palm on the floor,
and answered without looking up, for such he knew to be
a courtly custom.

“Who may deceive the wise king Montezuma? I will
answer as to the gods: the gardens are famous in song and
story, and I was tempted to see them, and climbed the wall.
When you came to the fountain, I was close by; and while
waiting a chance to escape, I saw the ocelot creeping upon
you; and — and — the great king is too generous to deny
his slave the pardon he risked his life for.”

“Who are you?”

“I am from the province of Tihuanco. My name is
Hualpa.”

“Hualpa, Hualpa,” repeated the king, slowly. “You
serve Guatamozin.”

“He is my friend and master, O king.”

Montezuma started. “Holy gods, what madness! My
people have sought you far and wide to feed you to the
tiger in the tank.”

Hualpa faltered not.

“O king, I know I am charged with the murder of
Iztlil', the Tezcucan. Will it please you to hear my
story?”

And taking the assent, he gave the particulars of the combat,
not omitting the cause. “I did not murder him,” he
concluded. “If he is dead, I slew him in fair fight,
shield to shield, as a warrior may, with honor, slay a foeman.”

“And you carried him to Tecuba?”

“Before the judges, if you choose, I will make the account
good.”

“Be it so!” the monarch said, emphatically. “Two days
hence, in the court, I will accuse you. Have there your witnesses:
it is a matter of life and death. Now, what of
your master, the 'tzin?”

The question was dangerous, and Hualpa trembled, but
resolved to be bold.

“If it be not too presumptuous, most mighty king, — if
a slave may seem to judge his master's judgment by the offer
of a word —”

“Speak! I give you liberty.”

“I wish to say,” continued Hualpa, “that in the court
there are many noble courtiers who would die for you, O
king; but, of them all, there is not one who so loves you, or
whose love could be made so profitable, being backed by
skill, courage, and wisdom, as the generous prince whom you
call my master. In his banishment he has chosen to serve
you; for the night the strangers landed in Cempoalla, he left
his palace in Iztapalapan, and entered their camp in the
train of the governor of Cotastlan. Yesterday a courier,
whom you rewarded richly for his speed in coming, brought
you portraits of the strangers, and pictures of their arms and
camp; that courier was Guatamozin, and his was the hand
that wrought the artist's work. O, much as your faculties
become a king, you have been deceived: he is not a traitor.”

“Who told you such a fine minstrel's tale?”

“The gods judge me, O king, if, without your leave, I had
so much as dared kiss the dust at your feet. What you
have graciously permitted me to tell I heard from the 'tzin
himself.”

Montezuma sat a long time silent, then asked, “Did
your master speak of the strangers, or of the things he
saw?”

“The noble 'tzin regards me kindly, and therefore spoke
with freedom. He said, mourning much that he could not
be at your last council to declare his opinion, that you were
mistaken.”

The speaker's face was cast down, so that he could not see
the frown with which the plain words were received, and he
continued, —

“`They are not teules,'[1] so the 'tzin said, `but men, as
you and I are; they eat, sleep, drink, like us; nor is that
all, — they die like us; for in the night,' he said, `I was in
their camp, and saw them, by torchlight, bury the body of
one that day dead.' And then he asked, `Is that a practice
among the gods?' Your slave, O king, is not learned as a
paba, and therefore believed him.”

Montezuma stood up.

“Not teules! How thinks he they should be dealt with?”

“He says that, as they are men, they are also invaders,
with whom an Aztec cannot treat. Nothing for them but
war!”

To and fro the monarch walked. After which he returned
to Hualpa and said, —

“Go home now. To-morrow I will send you a tilmatli
for the one you wear. Look to your wounds, and recollect
the trial. As you love life, have there your proof. I will be
your accuser.”

“As the great king is merciful to his children, the gods
will be merciful to him. I will give myself to the guards,”
said the hunter, to whom anything was preferable to the
closet in the restaurant.

“No, you are free.”

Hualpa kissed the floor, and arose, and hurried from the
palace to the house of Xoli on the tianguez. The effect of
his appearance upon that worthy, and the effect of the story
afterwards, may be imagined. Attention to the wounds, a
bath, and sound slumber put the adventurer in a better condition
by the next noon.

And from that night he thought more than ever of glory
and Nenetzin.