University of Virginia Library

2. BOOK TWO.

1. CHAPTER I.
WHO ARE THE STRANGERS?

MARCH passed, and April came, and still the strangers,
in their great canoes, lingered on the coast. Montezuma
observed them with becoming prudence; through his lookouts,
he was informed of their progress from the time they left the
Rio de Tabasco.

The constant anxiety to which he was subjected affected
his temper; and, though roused from the torpor into which
he had been plunged by the visit to the golden chamber, and
the subsequent prophecy of Mualox, his melancholy was a
thing of common observation. He renounced his ordinary
amusements, even totoloque, and went no more to the hunting-grounds
on the shore of the lake; in preference, he took
long walks in the gardens, and reclined in the audience-chamber
of his palace; yet more remarkable, conversation
with his councillors and nobles delighted him more
than the dances of his women or the songs of his minstrels.
In truth, the monarch was himself a victim of the
delusions he had perfected for his people. Polytheism had
come to him with the Empire; but he had enlarged upon it,
and covered it with dogmas; and so earnestly, through a
long and glorious reign, had he preached them, that, at last,
he had become his own most zealous convert. In all his
dominions, there was not one whom faith more inclined to
absolute fear of Quetzal' than himself.

One evening he passed from his bath to the dining-hall
for the last meal of the day. Invigorated, and, as was his
custom, attired for the fourth time since morning in fresh
garments, he walked briskly, and even droned a song.

No monarch in Europe fared more sumptuously than
Montezuma. The room devoted to the purpose was spacious,
and, on this occasion, brilliantly lighted. The floor was
spread with figured matting, and the walls hung with beautiful
tapestry; and in the centre of the apartment a luxurious
couch had been rolled for him, it being his habit to
eat reclining; while, to hide him from the curious, a screen
had been contrived, and set up between the couch and principal
door. The viands set down by his steward as the
substantials of the first course were arranged upon the floor
before the couch, and kept warm and smoking by chafing-dishes.
The table, if such it may be called, was supplied by
contributions from the provinces, and furnished, in fact, no
contemptible proof of his authority, and the perfection with
which it was exercised. The ware was of the finest Cholulan
manufacture, and, like his clothes, never used by him but
the once, a royal custom requiring him to present it to his
friends.[1]

When he entered the room, the evening I have mentioned,
there were present only his steward, four or five aged councillors,
whom he was accustomed to address as “uncles,” and
a couple of women, who occupied themselves in preparing
certain wafers and confections which he particularly affected.
He stretched himself comfortably upon the couch, much, I
presume, after the style of the Romans, and at once began
the meal. The ancients moved back several steps, and a
score of boys, noble, yet clad in the inevitable nequen, responding
to a bell, came in and posted themselves to answer
his requests.

Sometimes, by invitation, the councillors were permitted
to share the feast; oftener, however, the only object of their
presence was to afford him the gratification of remark. The
conversation was usually irregular, and hushed and renewed
as he prompted, and not unfrequently extended to the gravest
political and religious subjects. On the evening in question
he spoke to them kindly.

“I feel better this evening, uncles. My good star is rising
above the mists that have clouded it. We ought not to complain
of what we cannot help; still, I have thought that
when the gods retained the power to afflict us with sorrows,
they should have given us some power to correct them.”

One of the old men answered reverentially, “A king
should be too great for sorrows; he should wear his crown
against them as we wear our mantles against the cold winds.”

“A good idea,” said the monarch, smiling; “but you forget
that the crown, instead of protecting, is itself the trouble.
Come nearer, uncles; there is a matter more serious about
which I would hear your minds.”

They obeyed him, and he went on.

“The last courier brought me word that the strangers
were yet on the coast, hovering about the islands. Tell me,
who say you they are, and whence do they come?”

“How may we know more than our wise master?” said
one of them.

“And our thoughts, — do we not borrow them from you,
O king?” added another.

“What! Call you those answers? Nay, uncles, my
fools can better serve me; if they cannot instruct, they can
at least amuse.”

The king spoke bitterly, and looking at one, probably the
oldest of them all, said, —

“Uncle, you are the poorest courtier, but you are discreet
and honest. I want opinions that have in them more wis

dom than flattery. Speak to me truly: who are these
strangers?”

“For your sake, O my good king, I wish I were wise;
for the trouble they have given my poor understanding is
indeed very great. I believe them to be gods, landed from
the Sun.” And the old man went on to fortify his belief
with arguments. In the excited state of his fancy, it was
easy for him to convert the cannon of the Spaniards into
engines of thunder and lightning, and transform their
horses into creatures of Mictlan mightier than men. Right
summarily he also concluded, that none but gods could
traverse the dominions of Haloc,[2] subjecting the variant
winds to their will. Finally, to prove the strangers irresistible,
he referred to the battle of Tabasco, then lately fought
between Cortes and the Indians.

Montezuma heard him in silence, and replied, “Not
badly given, uncle; your friends may profit by your example;
but you have not talked as a warrior. You have forgotten
that we, too, have beaten the lazy Tabascans. That
reference proves as much for my caciques as for your gods.”

He waved his hand, and the first course was removed.
The second consisted for the most part of delicacies in the
preparation of which his artistes delighted; at this time appeared
the choclatl, a rich, frothy beverage served in xicaras,
or small golden goblets. Girls, selected for their rank and
beauty, succeeded the boys. Flocking around him with light
and echoless feet, very graceful, very happy, theirs was indeed
the service that awaits the faithful in Mahomet's Paradise.
To each of his ancients he passed a goblet of choclatl,
then continued his eating and talking.

“Yes. Be they gods or men, I would give a province to
know their intention; that, uncles, would enable me to determine
my policy, — whether to give them war or peace.

As yet, they have asked nothing but the privilege of trading
with us; and, judging them by our nations, I want not better
warrant of friendship. As you know, strangers have
twice before been upon our coast in such canoes, and with
such arms;[3] and in both instances they sought gold, and
getting it they departed. Will these go like them?”

“Has my master forgotten the words of Mualox?”

“To Mictlan with the paba!” said the king, violently.
“He has filled my cities and people with trouble.”

“Yet he is a prophet,” retorted the old councillor, boldly.
“How knew he of the coming of the strangers before it
was known in the palace?”

The flush of the king's face faded.

“It is a mystery, uncle, — a mystery too deep for me.
All the day and night before he was in his Cû; he went not
into the city even.”

“If the wise master will listen to the words of his slave,
he will not again curse the paba, but make him a friend.”

The monarch's lip curled derisively.

“My palace is now a house of prayer and sober life; he
would turn it into a place of revelry.”

All the ancients but the one laughed at the irony; that
one repeated his words.

“A friend; but how?” asked Montezuma.

“Call him from the Cû to the palace; let him stand here
with us; in the councils give him a voice. He can read the
future; make of him an oracle. O king, who like him can
stand between you and Quetzal'?”

For a while Montezuma toyed idly with the xicara. He
also believed in the prophetic gifts of Mualox, and it was
not the first time he had pondered the question of how the
holy man had learned the coming of the strangers; to satisfy

himself as to his means of information, he had even instituted
inquiries outside the palace. And yet it was but one
of several mysteries; behind it, if not superior, were the
golden chamber, its wealth, and the writing on the walls.
They were not to be attributed to the paba: works so wondrous
could not have been done in one lifetime. They were
the handiwork of a god, who had chosen Mualox for his servant
and prophet; such was the judgment of the king.

Nor was that all. The monarch had come to believe that
the strangers on the coast were Quetzal' and his followers,
whom it were vain to resist, if their object was vengeance.
But the human heart is seldom without its suggestion of
hope; and he thought, though resistance was impossible,
might he not propitiate? This policy had occupied his
thoughts, and most likely without result, for the words of
the councillor seemed welcome. Indeed, he could scarcely
fail to recognize the bold idea they conveyed, — nothing
less, in fact, than meeting the god with his own prophet.

“Very well,” he said, in his heart. “I will use the paba.
He shall come and stand between me and the woe.”

Then he arose, took a string of pearls from his neck,
and with his own hand placed it around that of the
ancient.

“Your place is with me, uncle. I will have a chamber
fitted for you here in the palace. Go no more away. Ho,
steward! The supper is done; let the pipes be brought,
and give me music and dance. Bid the minstrels come. A
song of the olden time may make me strong again.”

2. CHAPTER II.
A TEZCUCAN LOVER.

TRACES of the supper speedily disappeared. The screen
was rolled away, and pipes placed in the monarch's
hand for distribution amongst his familiars. Blue vapor
began to ascend to the carved rafters, when the tapestry on
both sides of the room was flung aside, and the sound of
cornets and flutes poured in from an adjoining apartment;
and, as if answering the summons of the music, a company
of dancing-girls entered, and filled the space in front of the
monarch; half nude were they, and flashing with ornaments,
and aerial with gauze and flying ribbons; silver bells tinkled
with each step, and on their heads were wreaths, and in their
hands garlands of flowers. Voluptuous children were they
of the voluptuous valley.

Saluting the monarch, they glided away, and commenced
a dance. With dreamy, half-shut eyes, through the scented
cloud momently deepening around him, he watched them;
and in the sensuous, animated scene was disclosed one of
the enchantments that had weaned him from the martial
love of his youth.

Every movement of the figure had been carefully studied,
and a kind of æsthetic philosophy was blent with its perfect
time and elegance of motion. Slow and stately at first, it
gradually quickened; then, as if to excite the blood and
fancy, it became more mazy and voluptuous; and finally, as
that is the sweetest song that ends with a long decadence, it
was so concluded as to soothe the transports itself had
awakened. Sweeping along, it reached a point, a very
climax of abandon and beauty, in which the dancers appeared

to forget the music and the method of the figure;
then the eyes of the king shone brightly, and the pipe lingered
on his lips forgotten; and then the musicians began,
one by one, to withdraw from the harmony, and the dancers
to vanish singly from the room, until, at last, there was but
one flute to be heard, while but one girl remained. Finally,
she also disappeared, and all grew still again.

And the king sat silent and listless, surrendered to the
enjoyment which was the object of the diversion; yet he
heard the music; yet he saw the lithe and palpitating forms
of the dancers in posture and motion; yet he felt the sweet
influence of their youth and grace and beauty, not as a
passion, but rather a spell full of the suggestions of passion,
when a number of men came noiselessly in, and, kneeling,
saluted him. Their costume was that of priests, and each
of them carried an instrument of music fashioned somewhat
like a Hebrew lyre.

“Ah, my minstrels, my minstrels!” he said, his face
flushing with pleasure. “Welcome in the streets, welcome
in the camp, welcome in the palace, also! What have you
to-night?”

“When last we were admitted to your presence, O king,
you bade us compose hymns to the god Quetzal' —”

“Yes; I remember.”

“We pray you not to think ill of your slaves if we say
that the verses which come unbidden are the best; no song
of the bird's so beautiful as the one it sings when its heart
is full.”

The monarch sat up.

“Nay, I did not command. I know something of the spirit
of poetry. It is not a thing to be driven by the will, like a
canoe by a strong arm; neither is it a slave, to come or go
at a signal. I bid my warriors march; I order the sacrifice;
but the lays of my minstrels have ever been of their

free will. Leave me now. To you are my gardens and palaces.
I warrant the verses you have are good; but go ask
your hearts for better.”

They retired with their faces toward him until hidden
behind the tapestry.

“I love a song, uncles,” continued the king; “I love a
hymn to the gods, and a story of battle chanted in a deep
voice. In the halls of the Sun every soul is a minstrel, and
every tale a song. But let them go; it is well enough. I
promised Itzlil', the Tezcucan, to give him audience to-night.
He comes to the palace but seldom, and he has not asked a
favor since I settled his quarrel with the lord Cacama. Send
one to see if he is now at the door.”

Thereupon he fell to reflecting and smoking; and when
next he spoke, it was from the midst of an aromatic cloud.

“I loved the wise 'Hualpilli; for his sake, I would have
his children happy. He was a lover of peace, and gave
more to policy than to war. It were grievous to let his
city be disturbed by feuds and fighting men; therefore I
gave it to the eldest son. His claim was best; and, besides,
he has the friendly heart to serve me. Still — still, I wish
there had been two Tezcucos.”

“There was but one voice about the judgment in Tezcuco,
O king; the citizens all said it was just.”

“And they would have said the same if I had given them
Iztlil'. I know the knaves, uncle. It was not their applause
I cared for; but, you see, in gaining a servant, I lost one.
Iztlil' is a warrior. Had he the will, he could serve me in
the field as well as his brother in the council. I must attach
him to me. A strong arm is pleasant to lean on; it is better
than a staff.”

Addressing himself to the pipe again, he sat smoking, and
moodily observing the vapor vanish above him. There was
silence until Iztlil' was ushered in.

The cacique was still suffering from his wounds. His step
was feeble, so that his obeisance was stopped by the monarch
himself.

“Let the salutation go, my lord Iztlil'. Your courage has
cost you much. I remember you are the son of my old friend,
and bid you welcome.”

“The Tlascalans are good warriors,” said the Tezcucan,
coldly.

“And for that reason better victims,” added the king,
quickly. “By the Sun, I know not what we would do without
them. Their hills supply our temples.”

“And I, good king — I am but a warrior. My heart is not
softened by things pertaining to religion. Enough for me to
worship the gods.”

“Then you are not a student?”

“I never studied in the academies.”

“I understand,” said the king, with a low laugh. “You
cannot name as many stars as enemies whom you have slain.
No matter. I have places for such scholars. Have you
commanded an army?”

“It pleased you to give me that confidence. I led my
companies within the Tlascalan wall, and came back with
captives.”

“I recollect now. But as most good warriors are modest,
my son, I will not tell you what the chiefs said of your conduct;
you would blush —”

Iztlil' started.

“Content you, content you; your blush would not be for
shame.”

There was a pause, which the king gave to his pipe. Suddenly
he said, “There have been tongues busy with your
fame, my son. I have heard you were greatly dissatisfied
because I gave your father's city to your elder brother. But
I consider that men are never without detractors, and I cannot

forget that you have perilled your life for the gods.
Actions I accept as the proofs of will. If the favor that
brought you here be reasonable, it is yours for the asking. I
have the wish to serve you.”

“I am not surprised that I have enemies,” said Iztlil',
calmly. “I will abuse no one on that account; for I am an
enemy, and can forgive in others what I deem virtue in myself.
But it moves me greatly, O king, that my enemies
should steal into your palace, and, in my absence, wrong me
in your opinion. But pardon me; I did not come to defend
myself —”

“You have taken my words in an evil sense,” interposed
the king, with an impatient gesture.

“Or to conceal the truth,” the Tezcucan continued.
“There is kingly blood in me, and I dare speak as my
father's son. So if they said merely that I was dissatisfied
with your judgment, they said truly.”

Montezuma frowned.

“I intend my words to be respectful, most mighty king.
A common wisdom teaches us to respect the brave man and
dread the coward. And there is not in your garden a flower
as beautiful, nor in your power a privilege as precious, as free
speech; and it would sound ill of one so great and secure as
my father's friend if he permitted in the streets and in the
farmer's hut what he forbade in his palace. I spoke of dissatisfaction;
but think not it was because you gave Tezcuco
to my brother, and to me the bare hills that have scarcely
herbage enough for a wolf-covert. I am less a prince than a
warrior; all places are alike to me; the earth affords me
royal slumber, while no jewelled canopy is equal to the starred
heavens; and as there is a weakness in pleasant memories, I
have none. To such as I am, O king, what matters a barren
hill or a proud palace? I murmured, nay, I did more, because,
in judging my quarrel, you overthrew the independence

of my country. When my father visited you from
across the lake, he was not accustomed to stand before you,
or hide his kingly robes beneath a slave's garb.”

Montezuma half started from his seat. “Holy gods! Is
rebellion so bold?”

“I meant no disrespect, great king. I only sought to
justify myself, and in your royal presence say what I have
thought while fighting under your banner. But, without
more abuse of your patience, I will to my purpose, especially
as I came for peace and friendship.”

“The son of my friend forgets that I have ways to make
peace without treating for it,” said the king.

The Tezcucan smothered an angry reply.

“By service done, I have shown a disposition to serve you,
O king. Very soon every warrior will be needed. A throne
may be laid amid hymns and priestly prayers, yet have no
strength; to endure, it must rest upon the allegiance of love.
Though I have spoken unpleasant words, I came to ask that,
by a simple boon, you give me cause to love. I have reflected
that I, too, am of royal blood, and, as the son of a
king, may lead your armies, and look for alliance in your
house. By marriage, O king, I desire, come good or evil, to
link my fortune to yours.”

Montezuma's countenance was stolid; no eye could have
detected upon it so much as surprise. He quietly asked,
“Which of my daughters has found favor in your eyes?”

“They are all beautiful, but only one of them is fitted for
a warrior's wife.”

“Tula?”

Iztlil' bowed.

“She is dear to me,” said the king, softly, “dearer than a
city; she is holy as a temple, and lovelier than the morning;
her voice is sweet as the summer wind, and her presence as
the summer itself. Have you spoken to her of this thing?”

“I love her, so that her love is nothing to me. Her
feelings are her own, but she is yours; and you are more
powerful to give than she to withhold.”

“Well, well,” said the monarch, after a little thought;
“in my realm there are none of better quality than the children
of 'Hualpilli, — none from whom such demand is as
proper. Yet it is worthy deliberation. It is true, I have
the power to bestow, but there are others who have the right
to be consulted. I study the happiness of my people, and
it were unnatural if I cared less for that of my children.
So leave me now, but take with you, brave prince, the assurance
that I am friendly to your suit. The gods go with
you!”

And Iztlil', after a low obeisance, withdrew; and then the
overture was fully discussed. Montezuma spoke freely, welcoming
the opportunity of securing the bold, free-spoken
cacique, and seeing in the demand only a question of policy.
As might be expected, the ancients made no opposition;
they could see no danger in the alliance, and had no care for
the parties. It was policy.

3. CHAPTER III.
THE BANISHMENT OF GUATAMOZIN.

THE palace of Montezuma was regarded as of very great
sanctity, so that his household, its economy, and the
exact relation its members bore to each other were mysteries
to the public. From the best information, however, it would
seem that he had two lawful and acknowledged wives, the
queens Tecalco and Acatlan,[4] who, with their families, occupied

spacious apartments secure from intrusion. They were
good-looking, middle-aged women, whom the monarch honored
with the highest respect and confidence. By the first
one, he had a son and daughter; by the second, two
daughters.

“Help me, Acatlan! I appeal to your friendship, to
the love you bear your children, — help me in my trouble.”
So the queen Tecalco prayed the queen Acatlan in the palace
the morning after the audience given the Tezcucan by the
king.

The two were sitting in a room furnished with some taste.
Through the great windows, shaded by purple curtains,
streamed the fresh breath of the early day. There were
female slaves around them in waiting; while a boy nearly
grown, at the eastern end of the apartment, was pitching
the golden balls in totoloque. This was prince Io', the
brother of Tula, and son of Tecalco.

“What is the trouble? What can I do?” asked Acatlan.

“Listen to me,” said Tecalco. “The king has just gone.
He came in better mood than usual, and talked pleasantly.
Something had happened; some point of policy had been
gained. Nowadays, you know, he talks and thinks of nothing
but policy; formerly it was all of war. We cannot
deny, Acatlan, that he is much changed. Well, he played
a game with Io', then sat down, saying he had news which
he thought would please me. You will hardly believe it,
but he said that Iztlil', the proud Tezcucan, asked Tula in
marriage last night. Think of it! Tula, my blossom, my
soul! and to that vile cacique!”

“Well, he is brave, and the son of 'Hualpilli,” said
Acatlan.

“What! You!” said Tecalco, despairingly. “Do you,
too, turn against me? I do not like him, and would not if
he were the son of a god. Tula hates him!”

“I will not turn against you, Tecalco. Be calmer, and
tell me what more the king said.”

“I told him I was surprised, but not glad to hear the
news. He frowned, and paced the floor, now here, now
there. I was frightened, but could bear his anger better
than the idea of my Tula, so good, so beautiful, the wife of
the base Tezcucan. He said the marriage must go on; it
was required by policy, and would help quiet the Empire,
which was never so threatened. You will hardly believe I
ventured to tell him that it should not be, as Tula was
already contracted to Guatamozin. I supposed that announcement
would quiet the matter, but it only enraged
him; he spoke bitterly of the 'tzin. I could scarcely believe
my ears. He used to love him. What has happened to
change his feeling?”

Acatlan thrummed her pretty mouth with her fingers, and
thought awhile.

“Yes, I have heard some stories about the 'tzin —”

“Indeed!” said Tecalco, opening her eyes.

“He too has changed, as you may have observed,” continued
Acatlan. “He used to be gay and talkative, fond of
company, and dance; latterly, he stays at home, and when
abroad, mopes, and is silent; while we all know that no
great private or public misfortune has happened him. The
king appears to have noticed it. And, my dear sister,” —
the queen lowered her voice to a confidential whisper, —
“they say the 'tzin aspires to the throne.”

“What! Do you believe it? Does the king?” cried
Tecalco, more in anger than surprise.

“I believe nothing yet, though there are some grounds
for his accusers to go upon. They say he entertains at his
palace near Iztapalapan none but men of the army, and that
while in Tenochtitlan, he studies the favor of the people, and
uses his wealth to win popularity with all classes. Indeed,

Tecalco, somehow the king learned that, on the day of the
celebration of Quetzal', the 'tzin was engaged in a direct
conspiracy against him.”

“It is false, Acatlan, it is false! The king has not a
more faithful subject. I know the 'tzin. He is worth a
thousand of the Tezcucan, who is himself the traitor.” And
the vexed queen beat the floor with her sandalled foot.

“As to that, Tecalco, I know nothing. But what more
from the king?”

“He told me that Tula should never marry the 'tzin; he
would use all his power against it; he would banish him
from the city first. And his rage increased until, finally, he
swore by the gods he would order a banquet, and, in presence
of all the lords of the Empire, publicly betroth Tula and
the Tezcucan. He said he would do anything the safety of
the throne and the gods required of him. He never was so
angry. And that, O Acatlan, my sister, that is my trouble.
How can I save my child from such a horrid betrothal?”

Acatlan shook her head gloomily. “The king brooks defeat
better than opposition. We would not be safe to do
anything openly. I acknowledge myself afraid, and unable
to advise you.”

Tecalco burst into tears, and wrung her hands, overcome
by fear and rage. Io' then left his game, and came to her.
He was not handsome, being too large for his years, and ungraceful;
this tendency to homeliness was increased by the
smallness of his face and head; the features were actually
childish.

“Say no more, mother,” he said, tears standing in his
eyes, as if to prove his sympathy and kindliness. “You
know it would be better to play with the tigers than stir the
king to anger.”

“Ah, Io', what shall I do? I always heard you speak
well of the 'tzin. You loved him once.”

“And I love him yet.”

Tecalco was less pacified than ever.

“What would I not give to know who set the king so
against him! Upon the traitor be the harm there is in a
mother's curse! If my child must be sacrificed, let it be by
a priest, and as a victim to the gods.”

“Do not speak so. Be wise, Tecalco. Recollect such
sorrows belong to our rank.”

“Our rank, Acatlan! I can forget it sooner than that I
am a mother! O, you do not know how long I have
nursed the idea of wedding Tula to the 'tzin! Since their
childhood I have prayed, plotted, and hoped for it. With
what pride I have seen them grow up, — he so brave, generous,
and princely, she so staid and beautiful! I have never
allowed her to think of other destiny: the gods made them
for each other.”

“Mother,” said Io', thoughtfully, “I have heard you say
that Guatamozin was wise. Why not send him word of
what has happened, and put our trust in him?”

The poor queen caught at the suggestion eagerly; for with
a promise of aid, at the same time it relieved her of responsibility,
of all burthens the most dreadful to a woman. And
Acatlan, really desirous of helping her friend, but at a
loss for a plan, and terrified by the idea of the monarch's
wrath incurred, wondered they had not thought of the proposal
sooner, and urged the 'tzin's right to be informed of
the occurrence.

“There must be secrecy, Tecalco. The king must never
know us as traitors: that would be our ruin.”

“There shall be no danger; I can go myself,” said Io'.
“It is long since I was at Iztapalapan, and they say the 'tzin
has such beautiful gardens. I want to see the three kings
who hold torches in his hall; I want to try a bow with
him.”

After some entreaty, Tecalco assented. She required him,
however, to put on a costume less likely to attract attention,
and take some other than a royal canoe across the lake.
Half an hour later, he passed out of a garden gate, and, by
a circuitous route, hurried to the canal in which lay the vessels
of the Iztapalapan watermen. He found one, and was
bargaining with its owner, when a young man walked briskly
up, and stepped into a canoe close by. Something in the
gay dress of the stranger made Io' look at him a second
time, and he was hardly less pleased than surprised at being
addressed, —

“Ho, friend! I am going to your city. Save your cocoa,
and go with me.”

Io' was confused.

“Come on!” the stranger persisted, with a pleasant smile.
“Come on! I want company. You were never so welcome.”

The smile decided the boy. He set one foot in the vessel,
but instantly retreated — an ocelot, crouched in the bottom,
raised its round head, and stared fixedly at him. The
stranger laughed, and reassured him, after which he walked
boldly forward. Then the canoe swung from its mooring,
and in a few minutes, under the impulsion of three strong
slaves, went flying down the canal. Under bridges, through
incoming flotillas, and past the great houses on either hand
they darted, until the city was left behind, and the lake,
colored with the borrowed blue of the sky, spread out rich
and billowy before them. The eyes of the stranger brightened
at the prospect.

“I like this. By Our Mother, I like it!” he said, earnestly.
“We have lakes in Tihuanco on which I have spent
days riding waves and spearing fish; but they were dull to
this. See the stretch of the water! Look yonder at the
villages, and here at the city and Chapultepec! Ah, that

you were born in Tenochtitlan be proud. There is no
grander birthplace this side of the Sun!”

“I am an Aztec,” said Io', moved by the words.

The other smiled, and added, “Why not go further, and
say, `and son of the king?'”

Io' was startled.

“Surprised! Good prince, I am a hunter. From habit, I
observe everything; a track, a tree, a place, once seen is never
forgotten; and since I came to the city, the night before the
combat of Quetzal', the habit has not left me. That day
you were seated under the red canopy, with the princesses
Tula and Nenetzin. So I came to know the king's son.”

“Then you saw the combat?”

“And how brave it was! There never was its match, —
never such archery as the 'tzin's. Then the blow with which
he killed the Othmi! I only regretted that the Tezcucan
escaped. I do not like him; he is envious and spiteful; it
would have been better had he fallen instead of the Otompan.
You know Iztlil'?”

“Not to love him,” said Io'.

“Is he like the 'tzin?”

“Not at all.”

“So I have heard,” said the hunter, shrugging his shoulders.
“But — Down, fellow!” he cried to the ocelot, whose
approaches discomposed the prince. “I was going to say,”
he resumed, with a look which, as an invitation to confidence,
was irresistible, “that there is no reason why you and I
should not be friends. We are both going to see the
'tzin —”

Io' was again much confused.

“I only heard you say so to the waterman on the landing.
If your visit, good prince, was intended as a secret, you are
a careless messenger. But have no fear. I intend entering
the 'tzin's service; that is, if he will take me.”

“Is the 'tzin enlisting men?” asked Io'.

“No. I am merely weary of hunting. My father is a
good merchant whose trading life is too tame for me. I love
excitement. Even hunting deer and chasing wolves are too
tame. I will now try war, and there is but one whom I
care to follow. Together we will see and talk to him.”

“You speak as if you were used to arms.”

“My skill may be counted nothing. I seek the service
more from what I imagine it to be. The march, the camp,
the battle, the taking captives, the perilling life, when it is
but a secondary object, as it must be with every warrior of
true ambition, all have charms for my fancy. Besides, I am
discontented with my condition. I want honor, rank, and
command, — wealth I have. Hence, for me, the army is the
surest road. Beset with trials, and needing a good heart
and arm, yet it travels upward, upward, and that is all I
seek to know.”

The naïveté and enthusiasm of the hunter were new and
charming to the prince, who was impelled to study him once
more. He noticed how exactly the arms were rounded;
that the neck was long, muscular, and widened at the base,
like the trunk of an oak; that the features, excited by the
passing feeling, were noble and good; that the very carriage
of the head was significant of aptitude for brave things,
if not command. Could the better gods have thrown Io' in
such company for self-comparison? Was that the time they
had chosen to wake within him the longings of mind natural
to coming manhood? He felt the inspiration of an
idea new to him. All his life had been passed in the splendid
monotony of his father's palace; he had been permitted
merely to hear of war, and that from a distance; of the
noble passion for arms he knew nothing. Accustomed to
childish wants, with authority to gratify them, ambition for
power had not yet disturbed him. But, as he listened, it

was given him to see the emptiness of his past life, and
understand the advantages he already possessed; he said
to himself, “Am I not master of grade and opportunities,
so coveted by this unknown hunter, and so far above his
reach?” In that moment the contentment which had canopied
his existence, like a calm sky, full of stars and silence
and peace, was taken up, and whirled away; his spirit
strengthened with a rising ambition and a courage royally
descended.

“You are going to study with the 'tzin. I would like to
be your comrade,” he said.

“I accept you, I give you my heart!” replied the
hunter, with beaming face. “We will march, and sleep, and
fight, and practise together. I will be true to you as shield
to the warrior. Hereafter, O prince, when you would speak
of me, call me Hualpa; and if you would make me happy,
say of me, `He is my comrade!'”

The sun stood high in the heavens when they reached
the landing. Mounting a few steps that led from the
water's edge, they found themselves in a garden rich with
flowers, beautiful trees, running streams, and trellised summer-houses,
— the garden of a prince, — of Guatamozin, the
true hero of his country.

4. CHAPTER IV.
GUATAMOZIN AT HOME.

GUATAMOZIN inherited a great fortune, ducal rank,
and an estate near Iztapalapan. Outside the city,
midst a garden that extended for miles around, stood his
palace, built in the prevalent style, one story high, but broad

and wide enough to comfortably accommodate several thousand
men. His retainers, a legion in themselves, inhabited
it for the most part; and whether soldier, artisan, or farmer,
each had his quarters, his exclusive possession as against
every one but the 'tzin.

The garden was almost entirely devoted to the cultivation
of fruits and flowers. Hundreds of slaves, toiling there
constantly under tasteful supervision, made and kept it
beautiful past description. Rivulets of pure water, spanned
by bridges and bordered with flowers, ran through every
part over beds of sand yellow as gold. The paths frequently
led to artificial lagoons, delightful for the coolness
that lingered about them, when the sun looked with his
burning eye down upon the valley; for they were fringed
with willow and sycamore trees, all clad with vines as with
garments; and some were further garnished with little
islands, plumed with palms, and made attractive by kiosks.
Nor were these all. Fountains and cascades filled the air
with sleepy songs; orange-groves rose up, testifying to the
clime they adorned; and in every path small teules, on
pedestals of stone, so mingled religion with the loveliness
that there could be no admiration without worship.

Io' and Hualpa, marvelling at the beauty they beheld,
pursued a path, strewn with white sand, and leading across
the garden, to the palace. A few armed men loitered about
the portal, but allowed them to approach without question.
From the antechamber they sent their names to the 'tzin,
and directly the slave returned with word to Io' to follow
him.

The study into which the prince was presently shown was
furnished with severe plainness. An arm-chair, if such it
may be called, some rude tables and uncushioned benches,
offered small encouragement to idleness.

Sand, glittering like crushed crystal, covered the floor,

and, instead of tapestry, the walls were hung with maps of
the Empire, and provinces the most distant. Several piles
of MSS., — the books of the Aztecs, — with parchment and
writing-materials, lay on a table; and half concealed amongst
them was a harp, such as we have seen in the hands of the
royal minstrels.

“Welcome, Io', welcome!” said the 'tzin, in his full voice.
“You have come at length, after so many promises, —
come last of all my friends. When you were here before,
you were a child, and I a boy like you now. Let us go and
talk it over.” And leading him to a bench by a window,
they sat down.

“I remember the visit,” said Io'. “It was many years
ago. You were studying then, and I find you studying yet.”

A serious thought rose to the 'tzin's mind, and his smile
was clouded.

“You do not understand me, Io'. Shut up in your father's
palace, your life is passing too dreamily. The days with
you are like waves of the lake: one rolls up, and, scarcely
murmuring, breaks on the shore; another succeeds, — that
is all. Hear, and believe me. He who would be wise
must study. There are many who live for themselves, a
few who live for their race. Of the first class, no thought
is required; they eat, sleep, are merry, and die, and have no
hall in heaven: but the second must think, toil, and be
patient; they must know, and, if possible, know everything.
God and ourselves are the only sources of knowledge. I
would not have you despise humanity, but all that is
from ourselves is soon learned. There is but one inexhaustible
fountain of intelligence, and that is Nature, the
God Supreme. See those volumes; they are of men, full
of wisdom, but nothing original; they are borrowed from
the book of deity, — the always-opened book, of which the
sky is one chapter, and earth the other. Very deep are the

lessons of life and heaven there taught. I confess to you,
Io', that I aspire to be of those whose lives are void of selfishness,
who live for others, for their country. Your father's
servant, I would serve him understandingly; to do so, I
must be wise; and I cannot be wise without patient study.”

Io's unpractised mind but half understood the philosophy
to which he listened; but when the 'tzin called himself his
father's servant, Acatlan's words recurred to the boy.

“O 'tzin,” he said, “they are not all like you, so good, so
true. There have been some telling strange stories about you
to the king.”

“About me?”

“They say you want to be king,” — the listener's face
was passive, — “and that on Quetzal's day you were looking
for opportunity to attack my father.” Still there was no sign
of emotion. “Your staying at home, they say, is but a pretence
to cover your designs.”

“And what more, Io'?”

“They say you are taking soldiers into your pay; that
you give money, and practise all manner of arts, to become
popular in Tenochtitlan; and that your delay in entering the
arena on the day of the combat had something to do with
your conspiracy.”

For a moment the noble countenance of the 'tzin was disturbed.

“A lying catalogue! But is that all?”

“No,” — and Io's voice trembled, — “I am a secret messenger
from the queen Tecalco, my mother. She bade me
say to you, that last night Iztlil', the Tezcucan, had audience
with the king, and asked Tula for his wife.”

Guatamozin sprang from his seat more pallid than ever in
battle.

“And what said Montezuma?”

“This morning he came to the queen, my mother, and told

her about it; on your account she objected; but he became
angry, spoke harshly of you, and swore Tula should not wed
with you; he would banish you first.”

Through the silent cell the 'tzin strode gloomily; the blow
weakened him. Mualox was wrong; men cannot make themselves
almost gods; by having many ills, and bearing them
bravely, they can only become heroes. After a long struggle
he resumed his calmness and seat.

“What more from the queen?”

“Only, that as she was helpless, she left everything to
you. She dares not oppose the king.”

“I understand!” exclaimed the 'tzin, starting from the
bench again. “The Tezcucan is my enemy. Crossing the
lake, night before the combat, he told me he loved Tula, and
charged me with designs against the Empire, and cursed the
king and his crown. Next day he fought under my challenge.
The malice of a mean soul cannot be allayed by kindness.
But for me the tamanes would have buried him with
the Tlascalans. I sent him to my house; my slaves tended
him; yet his hate was only sharpened.”

He paced the floor to and fro, speaking vehemently.

“The ingrate charges me with aspiring to the throne. Judge
me, holy gods! Judge how willingly I would lay down my
life to keep the crown where it is! He says my palace has
been open to men of the army. It was always so, — I am a
warrior. I have consulted them about the Empire, but
always as a subject, never for its ill. Such charges I
laugh at; but that I sought to slay the king is too horrible
for endurance. On the day of the combat, about the time of
the assemblage, I went to the Cû of Quetzal' for blessing. I
saw no smoke or other sign of fire upon the tower. Mualox
was gone, and I trembled lest the fire should be dead. I
climbed up, and found only a few living embers. There
were no fagots on the roof, nor in the court-yard; the shrine

was abandoned, Mualox old. The desolation appealed to
me. The god seemed to claim my service. I broke my
spear and shield, and flung the fragments into the urn, then
hastened to the palace, loaded some tamanes with wood, and
went back to the Cû. I was not too late there; but, hurrying
to the tianguez, I found myself almost dishonored. So was
I kept from the arena; that service to the god is now helping
my enemy as proof that I was waiting on a housetop to murder
my king and kinsman! Alas! I have only slaves to bear
witness to the holy work that kept me on the temple. Much
I fear the gods are making the king blind for his ruin and
the ruin of us all. He believes the strangers on the coast
are from the Sun, when they are but men. Instead of war
against them, he is thinking of embassies and presents. Now,
more than ever, he needs the support of friends; but he divides
his family against itself, and confers favors on enemies.
I see the danger. Unfriendly gods are moving against us,
not in the strangers, but in our own divisions. Remember
the prophecy of Mualox, `The race of Azatlan is ended forever.'”

The speaker stopped his walking, and his voice became
low and tremulous.

“Yet I love him; he has been kind; he gave me command;
through his graciousness I have dwelt unmolested in
this palace of my father. I am bound to him by love and law.
As he has been my friend, I will be his; when his peril is
greatest, I will be truest. Nothing but ill from him to Anahuac
can make me his enemy. So, so, — let it pass. I trust
the future to the gods.”

Then, as if seeking to rid himself of the bitter subject, he
turned to Io'. “Did not some one come with you?”

The boy told what he knew of Hualpa.

“I take him to be no common fellow; he has some proud
ideas. I think you would like him.”

“I will try your hunter, Io'. And if he is what you say
of him, I will accept his service.”

And they went immediately to the antechamber, where
Hualpa saluted the 'tzin. The latter surveyed his fine person
approvingly, and said, “I am told you wish to enter my service.
Were you ever in battle?”

The hunter told his story with his wonted modesty.

“Well, the chase is a good school for warriors. It trains
the thews, teaches patience and endurance, and sharpens the
spirit's edge. Let us to the garden. A hand to retain
skill must continue its practice; like a good memory, it is
the better for exercise. Come, and I will show you how I
keep prepared for every emergency of combat.” And so saying,
the 'tzin led the visitors out.

They went to the garden, followed by the retainers lounging
at the door. A short walk brought them to a space surrounded
by a copse of orange-trees, strewn with sand, and
broad enough for a mock battle; a few benches about the
margin afforded accommodation to spectators; a stone house
at the northern end served for armory, and was full of arms
and armor. A glance assured the visitors that the place had
been prepared expressly for training. Some score or more
of warriors, in the military livery of the 'tzin, already occupied
a portion of the field. Upon his appearance they
quitted their games, and closed around him with respectful
salutations.

“How now, my good Chinantlan!” he said, pleasantly.
“Did I not award you a prize yesterday? There are few in
the valley who can excel you in launching the spear.”

“The plume is mine no longer,” replied the warrior. “I
was beaten last night. The winner, however, is a countryman.”

“A countryman! You Chinantlans seem born to the
spear. Where is the man?”

The victor stepped forward, and drew up before the master,
who regarded his brawny limbs, sinewy neck, and
bold eyes with undisguised admiration; so an artist would
regard a picture or a statue. Above the fellow's helm floated
a plume of scarlet feathers, the trophy of his superior skill.

“Get your spear,” said the 'tzin. “I bring you a competitor.”

The spear was brought, an ugly weapon in any hand. The
head was of copper, and the shaft sixteen feet long. The
rough Chinantlan handled it with a loving grip.

“Have you such in Tihuanco?” asked Guatamozin.

Hualpa balanced the weapon and laughed.

“We have only javelins, — mere reeds to this. Unless
to hold an enemy at bay, I hardly know its use. Certainly,
it is not for casting.”

“Set the mark, men. We will give the stranger a lesson.
Set it to the farthest throw.”

A pine picket was then set up a hundred feet away, presenting
a target of the height and breadth of a man, to
which a shield was bolted breast-high from the sand.

“Now give the Chinantlan room!”

The wearer of the plume took his place; advancing one
foot, he lifted the spear above his head with the right hand,
poised it a moment, then hurled it from him, and struck the
picket a palm's breadth below the shield.

“Out, out!” cried the 'tzin. “Bring me the spear; I
have a mind to wear the plume myself.”

When it was brought him, he cast it lightly as a child
would toss a weed; yet the point drove clanging through the
brazen base of the shield, and into the picket behind. Amid
the applause of the sturdy warriors he said to Hualpa, —

“Get ready; the hunter must do something for the honor
of his native hills.”

“I cannot use a spear in competition with Guatamozin,”

said Hualpa, with brightening eyes; “but if he will have
brought a javelin, a good comely weapon, I will show him
my practice.”

A slender-shafted missile, about half the length of the
spear, was produced from the armory, and examined carefully.

“See, good 'tzin, it is not true. Let me have another.”

The next one was to his satisfaction.

“Now,” he said, “set the target thrice a hundred feet
away. If the dainty living of Xoli have not weakened my
arm, I will at least strike yon shield.”

The bystanders looked at each other wonderingly, and the
'tzin was pleased. He had not lost a word or a motion of
Hualpa's. The feat undertaken was difficult and but seldom
achieved successfully; but the aspirant was confident, and
he manifested the will to which all achievable things are
possible.

The target was reset, and the Tihuancan took the stand.
Resting the shaft on the palm of his left hand, he placed the
fingers of his right against the butt, and drew the graceful
weapon arm-length backward. It described an arc in the
air, and to the astonishment of all fell in the shield a little
left of the centre.

“Tell me, Hualpa,” said Guatamozin, “are there more
hunters in Tihuanco who can do such a deed? I will have
you bring them to me.”

The Tihuancan lowered his eyes. “I grieve to say, good
'tzin, that I know of none. I excelled them all. But I can
promise that in my native province there are hundreds braver
than I, ready to serve you to the death.”

“Well, it is enough. I intended to try you further, and
with other weapons, but not now. He who can so wield a
javelin must know to bend a bow and strike with a maquahuitl.
I accept your service. Let us to the palace.”

Hualpa thrilled with delight. Already he felt himself in
the warrior's path, with a glory won. All his dreams were
about to be realized. In respectful silence he followed Guatamozin,
and as they reached the portal steps, Io' touched his
arm:

“Remember our compact on the lake,” he whispered.

The hunter put his arm lovingly about the prince, and so
they entered the house. And that day Fate wove a brotherhood
of three hearts which was broken only by death.

5. CHAPTER V.
NIGHT AT THE CHALCAN'S.

THE same day, in the evening, Xoli lay on a lounge by
the fountain under his portico. His position gave
him the range of the rooms, which glowed like day, and
resounded with life. He could even distinguish the occupations
of some of his guests. In fair view a group was listening
to a minstrel; beyond them he occasionally caught
sight of girls dancing; and every moment peals of laughter
floated out from the chambers of play. A number of persons,
whose arms and attire published them of the nobler
class, sat around the Chalcan in the screen of the curtains,
conversing, or listlessly gazing out on the square.

Gradually Xoli's revery became more dreamy; sleep stole
upon his senses, and shut out the lullaby of the fountain,
and drowned the influence of his cuisine. His patrons after
a while disappeared, and the watchers on the temples told the
passing time without awakening him. Very happy was the
Chalcan.

The slumber was yet strong upon him, when an old man

and a girl came to the portico. The former, decrepit and
ragged, seated himself on the step. Scanty hair hung in
white locks over his face; and grasping a staff, he rested his
head wearily upon his hands, and talked to himself.

The girl approached the Chalcan with the muffled tread of
fear. She was clad in the usual dress of her class, — a
white chemise, with several skirts short and embroidered, over
which, after being crossed at the throat, a red scarf dropped
its tasseled ends nearly to her heels. The neatness of the
garments more than offset their cheapness. Above her forehead,
in the fillet that held the mass of black hair off her face,
leaving it fully exposed, there was the gleam of a common
jewel; otherwise she was without ornament. In all beauty
there is — nay, must be — an idea; so that a countenance
to be handsome even, must in some way at sight quicken a
sentiment or stir a memory in the beholder. It was so here.
To look at the old man's guardian was to know that she had
a sorrow to tell, and to pity her before it was told; to be
sure that under her tremulous anxiety there was a darksome
story and an extraordinary purpose, the signs of which, too
fine for the materialism of words, but plain to the sympathetic
inner consciousness, lurked in the corners of her
mouth, looked from her great black eyes, and blent with
every action.

Gliding over the marble, she stopped behind the sleeper,
and spoke, without awakening him; her voice was too
like the murmur of the fountain. Frightened at the
words, low as they were, she hesitated; but a look at
the old man reassured her, and she called again. Xoli
started.

“How now, mistress!” he said, angrily, reaching for her
hand.

“I want to see Xoli, the Chalcan,” she replied, escaping
his touch.

“What have you to do with him?”

He sat up, and looked at her in wonder.

“What have you to do with him?” he repeated, in a
kindlier tone.

Her face kindled with a sudden intelligence. “Xoli!
The gods be praised! And their blessing on you, if you
will do a kind deed for a countryman!”

“Well! But what beggar is that? Came he with
you?”

“It is of him I would speak. Hear me!” she asked,
drawing near him again. “He is poor, but a Chalcan. If
you have memory of the city of your birth, be merciful to
his child.”

“His child! Who? Nay, it is a beggar's tale! Ho,
fellow! How many times have I driven you away already!
How dare you return!”

Slowly the old man raised his head from his staff, and
turned his face to the speaker; there was no light there: he
was blind!

“By the holy fires, no trick this! Say on, girl. He is a
Chalcan, you said.”

“A countryman of yours,” — and her tears fell fast. “A
hut is standing where the causeway leads from Chalco to
Iztapalapan; it is my father's. He was happy under its
roof; for, though blind and poor, he could hear my mother's
voice, which was the kindliest thing on earth to him. But
Our Mother called her on the coming of a bright morning,
and since then he has asked for bread, when I had not a
tuna[5] to give him. O Xoli! did you but know what it
is to ask for bread, when there is none! I am his child,
and can think of but one way to quiet his cry.” And she
paused, looking in his face for encouragement.

“Tell me your name, girl; tell me your name, then

go on,” he said, with a trembling lip, for his soul was
clever.

At that instant the old man moaned querulously, “Yeteve,
Yeteve!”

She went, and clasped his neck, and spoke to him soothingly.
Xoli's eyes became humid; down in the depths of
his heart an emotion grew strangely warm.

“Yeteve, Yeteve!” he repeated, musingly, thinking the
syllables soft and pretty. “Come; stand here again,
Yeteve,” said he, aloud, when the dotard was pacified.
“He wants bread, you say: how would you supply him?”

“You are rich. You want many slaves; and the law
permits the poor to sell themselves.[6] I would be your
slave, — asking no price, except that you give the beggar
bread.”

“A slave! Sell yourself!” he cried, in dismay. “A
slave! Why, you are beautiful, Yeteve, and have not bethought
yourself that some day the gods may want you for
a victim.”

She was silent.

“What can you do? Dance? Sing? Can you weave soft
veils and embroider golden flowers, like ladies in the palaces?
If you can, no slave in Anahuac will be so peerless;
the lords will bid more cocoa than you can carry; you will
be rich.”

“If so, then can I do all you have said.”

And she ran, and embraced the old man, saying, “Patience,
patience! In a little while we will have bread, and be
rich. Yes,” she continued, returning to the Chalcan, “they
taught me in the teocallis, where they would have had me as
priestess.”

“It is good to be a priestess, Yeteve; you should have
stayed there.”

“But I did so love the little hut by the causeway. And
I loved the beggar, and they let me go.”

“And now you wish to sell yourself? I want slaves, but
not such as you, Yeteve. I want those who can work, —
slaves whom the lash will hurt, but not kill. Besides, you
are worth more cocoa than I can spare. Keep back your
tears. I will do better than buy you myself. I will sell
you, and to-night. Here in my house you shall dance for
the bidders. I know them all. He shall be brave and rich
and clever who buys, — clever and brave, and the owner of
a palace, full of bread for the beggar, and love for Yeteve.”

Clapping his hands, a slave appeared at the door.

“Take you beggar, and give him to eat. Lead him, — he
is blind. Come, child, follow me.”

He summoned his servants, and bade them publish the
sale in every apartment; then he led the girl to the hall
used for the exhibition of his own dancing-girls. It was
roomy and finely lighted; the floor was of polished marble;
a blue drop-curtain extended across the northern end, in
front of which were rows of stools, handsomely cushioned,
for spectators. Music, measured for the dance, greeted the
poor priestess, and had a magical effect upon her; her eyes
brightened, a smile played about her mouth. Never was
the chamber of the rich Chalcan graced by a creature fairer
or more devoted.

“A priestess of the dance needs no teaching from me,” said
Xoli, patting her flushed cheek. “Get ready; they are coming.
Beware of the marble; and when I clap my hands, begin.”

She looked around the hall once; not a point escaped
her. Springing to the great curtain, and throwing her robe
away, she stood before it in her simple attire; and no studied
effect of art could have been more beautiful; motionless and
lovely, against the relief of the blue background, she seemed
actually spirituelle.

Upon the announcement of the auction, the patrons of the
house hurried to the scene. Voluntary renunciation of
freedom was common enough among the poorer classes in
Tenochtitlan, but a transaction of the kind under the auspices
of the rich broker was a novelty; so that curiosity and
expectation ran high. The nobles, as they arrived, occupied
the space in front of the curtain, or seated themselves,
marvelling at the expression of her countenance.

The music had not ceased; and the bidders being gathered,
Xoli, smiling with satisfaction, stepped forward to give
the signal, when an uproar of merriment announced the
arrival of a party of the younger dignitaries of the court, —
amongst them Iztlil', the Tezcucan, and Maxtla, chief of the
guard, the former showing signs of quick recovery from his
wounds, the latter superbly attired.

“Hold! What have we here?” cried the Tezcucan, surveying
the girl. “Has this son of Chalco been robbing the
palace?”

“The temples, my lord Iztlil'! He has robbed the temples!
By all the gods, it is the priestess Yeteve!” answered
Maxtla, amazed. “Say, Chalcan, what does priestess of the
Blessed Lady in such unhallowed den?”

The broker explained.

“Good, good!” shouted the new-comers.

“Begin, Xoli! A thousand cocoa for the priestess, —
millions of bread for the beggar!” This from Maxtla.

“Only a thousand?” said Iztlil', scornfully. “Only a
thousand? Five thousand to begin with, more after she
dances.”

Xoli gave the signal, and the soul of the Chalcan girl
broke forth in motion. Dancing had been her rôle in the
religious rites of the temple; many a time the pabas around
the altar, allured by her matchless grace, had turned from
the bleeding heart indifferent to its auguration. And she

had always danced moved by no warmer impulse than duty;
so that the prompting of the spirit in the presence of a
strange auditory free to express itself, like that she now
faced, came to her for the first time. The dance chosen was
one of the wild, quick, pulsating figures wont to be given in
thanksgiving for favorable tokens from the deity. The steps
were irregular and difficult; a great variety of posturing was
required; the head, arms, and feet had each their parts, all
to be rendered in harmony. At the commencement she was
frightened by the ecstasy that possessed her; suddenly the
crowd vanished, and she saw only the beggar, and him
wanting bread. Then her form became divinely gifted; she
bounded as if winged; advanced and retreated, a moment
swaying like a reed, the next whirling like a leaf in a circling
wind. The expression of her countenance throughout was
so full of soul, so intense, rapt, and beautiful, that the
lords were spell-bound. When the figure was ended, there
was an outburst of voices, some bidding, others applauding;
though most of the spectators were silent from pity and
admiration.

Of the competitors the loudest was Iztlil'. In his excitement,
he would have sacrificed his province to become the
owner of the girl. Maxtla opposed him.

“Five thousand cocoa! Hear, Chalcan!” shouted the
Tezcucan.

“A thousand better!” answered Maxtla, laughing at the
cacique's rage.

“By all the gods, I will have her! Put me down a
thousand quills of gold!”

“A thousand quills above him! Not bread, but riches
for the beggar!” replied Maxtla, half in derision.

“Two thousand, — only two thousand quills! More,
noble lords! She is worth a palace!” sung Xoli, trembling
with excitement; for in such large bids he saw an extraordinary

loan. Just then, under the parted curtain of the
principal doorway, he beheld one dear to every lover of
Tenochtitlan; he stopped. All eyes turned in that direction,
and a general exclamation followed, — “The 'tzin, the 'tzin!”

Guatamozin was in full military garb, and armed. As he
lingered by the door to comprehend the scene, what with his
height, brassy helm, and embossed shield, he looked like a
Greek returned from Troy.

“Yeteve, the priestess!” he said. “Impossible!”

He strode to the front.

“How?” he said, placing his hand on her head. “Has
Yeteve flown the temple to become a slave?”

Up to this time, it would seem that, in the fixedness of
her purpose, she had been blind to all but the beggar, and
deaf to everything but the music. Now she knelt at the
feet of the noble Aztec, sobbing broken-heartedly. The
spectators were moved with sympathy, — all save one.

“Who stays the sale? By all the gods, Chalcan, you shall
proceed!”

Scarcely had the words been spoken, or the duller faculties
understood them, before Guatamozin confronted the
speaker, his javelin drawn, and his shield in readiness.
Naturally his countenance was womanly gentle; but the
transition of feeling was mighty, and those looking upon him
then shrank with dread; it was as if their calm blue lake
had in an instant darkened with storm. Face to face he
stood with the Tezcucan, the latter unprepared for combat,
but in nowise daunted. In their angry attitude a seer
might have read the destiny of Anahuac.

One thrust of the javelin would have sent the traitor to
Mictlan; the Empire, as well as the wrongs of the lover,
called for it; but before the veterans, recovering from their
panic, could rush between the foemen, all the 'tzin's calmness
returned.

“Xoli,” he said, “a priestess belongs to the temple, and
cannot be sold; such is the law. The sale would have sent
your heart, and that of her purchaser, to the Blessed
Lady. Remove the girl. I will see that she is taken
to a place of safety. Here is gold; give the beggar what he
wants, and keep him until to-morrow. — And, my lords and
brethren,” he added, turning to the company, “I did not
think to behave so unseemly. It is only against the enemies
of our country that we should turn our arms. Blood is
sacred, and accursed is his hand who sheds that of a countryman
in petty quarrel. I pray you, forget all that has
passed.” And with a low obeisance to them, he walked
away, taking with him the possibility of further rencounter.

He had just arrived from his palace at Iztapalapan.

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE CHINAMPA.

BETWEEN Tula, the child of Tecalco, and Nenetzin,
daughter and child of Acatlan, there existed a sisterly
affection. The same sports had engaged them, and they had
been, and yet were, inseparable. Their mothers, themselves
friends, encouraged the intimacy; and so their past lives had
vanished, like two summer clouds borne away by a soft south
wind.

The evening after Iztlil's overture of marriage was deepening
over lake Tezcuco; the breeze became murmurous and
like a breath, and all the heavens filled with starlight. Cloudless
must be the morrow to such a night!

So thought the princess Tula. Won by the beauty of the
evening, she had flown from the city to her chinampa, which

was lying anchored in a quarter of the lake east of the causeway
to Tepejaca, beyond the noise of the town, and where
no sound less agreeable than the plash of light waves could
disturb her dreams.

A retreat more delightful would be a task for fancy.
The artisan who knitted the timbers of the chinampa had
doubtless been a lover of the luxuriant, and built as only a
lover can build. The waves of the lake had not been overlooked
in his plan; he had measured their height, and the
depth and width of their troughs, when the weather was calm
and the water gentle. So he knew both what rocking they
would make, and what rocking would be pleasantest to a
delicate soul; for, as there were such souls, there were also
such artisans in Tenochtitlan.

Viewed from a distance, the chinampa looked like an island
of flowers. Except where the canopy of a white pavilion
rose from the midst of the green beauty, it was covered to
the water's edge with blooming shrubbery, which, this evening,
was luminous with the light of lamps. The radiance,
glinting through the foliage, tinted the atmosphere above it
with mellow rays, and seemed the visible presence of enchantment.

The humid night breeze blew softly under the raised walls
of the pavilion, within which, in a hammock that swung to
and fro regularly as the chinampa obeyed the waves, lay
Tula and Nenetzin.

They were both beautiful, but different in their beauty.
Tula's face was round and of a transparent olive complexion,
without being fair; her eyes were hazel, large, clear, and full
of melancholy earnestness; masses of black hair, evenly
parted, fell over her temples, and were gathered behind in a
simple knot; with a tall, full form, her presence and manner
were grave and very queenly. Whereas, Nenetzin's
eyes, though dark, were bright with the light of laughter;

her voice was low and sweet, and her manner that of a
hoyden. One was the noble woman, the other a jocund
child.

“It is late, Tula; our father may want us. Let us return.”

“Be patient a little longer. The 'tzin will come for us;
he promised to, and you know he never forgets.”

“Patience, sister! Ah! you may say it, you who know;
but how am I to practise it, — I, who have only a hope?”

“What do you mean, Nenetzin?”

The girl leaned back, and struck a suspended hoop, in
which was perched a large parrot. The touch, though light,
interrupted the pendulous motion of the bird, and it pecked
at her hand, uttering a gruff scream of rage.

“You spoke of something I know, and you hope. What
do you mean, child?”

Nenetzin withdrew her hand from the perch, looked in
the questioner's face, then crept up to win her embrace.

“O Tula, I know you are learned and thoughtful. Often
after the banquet, when the hall was cleared, and the music
begun, have I seen you stand apart, silent, while all others
danced or laughed. See, your eyes are on me now, but more
in thought than love. O, indeed, you are wise! Tell me,
did you ever think of me as a woman?”

The smile deepened on the lips, and burned in the eyes of
the queenly auditor.

“No, never as a woman,” continued Nenetzin. “Listen
to me, Tula. The other night I was asleep in your arms, —
I felt them in love around me, — and I dreamed so strangely.”

“Of what?” asked Tula, seeing she hesitated.

“I dreamed there entered at the palace door a being with
a countenance white like snow, while its hair and beard were
yellow, like the silk of the maize; its eyes were blue, like
the deep water of the lake, but bright, so bright that they
terrified while they charmed me. Thinking of it now, O

Tula, it was a man, though it looked like a god. He entered
at the palace door, and came into the great chamber where
our father sat with his chiefs; but he came not barefooted
and in nequen; he spoke as he were master, and our father
a slave. Looking and listening, a feeling thrilled me, —
thrilled warm and deep, and was a sense of joy, like a blessing
of Tlalac. Since then, though I have acted as a girl, I
have felt as a woman.”

“Very strange, indeed, Nenetzin!” said Tula, playfully.
“But you forget: I asked you what I know, and you only
hope?”

“I will explain directly; but as you are wise, first tell me
what that feeling was.”

“Nay, I can tell you whence the water flows, but I cannot
tell you what it is.”

“Well, since then I have had a hope —”

“Well?”

“A hope of seeing the white face and blue eyes.”

“I begin to understand you, Nenetzin. But go on: what
is it I know?”

“What I dreamed, — a great warrior, who loves you.
You will see him to-night, and then, O Tula, — then
you may tell of the feeling that thrilled me so in my
dream.”

And with a blush and a laugh, she laid her face in Tula's
bosom.

Both were silent awhile, Nenetzin with her face hidden,
and Tula looking wistfully up at the parrot swinging lazily
in the perch. The dream was singular, and made an impression
on the mind of the one as it had on the heart of
the other.

“Look up, O Nenetzin!” said Tula, after a while. “Look
up, and I will tell you something that has seemed as strange
to me as the dream to you.”

The girl raised her head.

“Did you ever see Mualox, the old paba of Quetzal'?
No? Well, he is said to be a prophet; a look of his will
make a warrior tremble. He is the friend of Guatamozin,
who always goes to his shrine to worship the god. I went
there once to make an offering. I climbed the steps, went
in where the image is, laid my gift on the altar, and turned
to depart, when a man came and stood by the door, wearing
a surplice, and with long, flowing white beard. He looked
at me, then bowed, and kissed the pavement at my feet. I
shrank away. `Fear not, O Tula!' he said. `I bow to
you, not for what you are, but for what you shall be. You
shall be queen in your father's palace!' With that he arose,
and left me to descend.”

“Said he so? How did he know you were Tula, the
king's daughter?”

“That is part of the mystery. I never saw him before;
nor, until I told the story to the 'tzin, did I know the paba.
Now, O sister, can the believer of a dream refuse to believe
a priest and prophet?”

“A queen! You a queen! I will kiss you now, and
pray for you then.” And they threw their arms lovingly
around each other.

Then the bird above them awoke, and, with a fluttering
of its scarlet wings, cried, “Guatamo! Guatamo!” — taught
it by the patient love of Tula.

“O, what a time that will be!” Nenetzin went on, with
sparkling eyes. “What a garden we will make of Anahuac!
How happy we shall be! None but the brave and beautiful
shall come around us; for you will be queen, my
Tula.”

“Yes; and Nenetzin shall have a lord, he whom she
loves best, for she will be as peerless as I am powerful,”
answered Tula, humoring the mood. “Whom will she

take? Let us decide now, — there are so many to choose
from. What says she to Cacama, lord of Tezcuco?”

The girl made no answer.

“There is the lord of Chinantla, once a king, who has
already asked our father for a wife.”

Still Nenetzin was silent.

“Neither of them! Then there are left but the lord of
Tlacopan, and Iztlil', the Tezcucan.”

At the mention of the last name, a strong expression of
disgust burst from Nenetzin.

“A tiger from the museum first! It could be taught to
love me. No, none of them for me; none, Tula, if you
let me have my way, but the white face and blue eyes I saw
in my dream.”

“You are mad, Nenetzin. That was a god, not a man.”

“All the better, Tula! The god will forgive me for loving
him.”

Before Tula spoke again, Guatamozin stepped within the
pavilion. Nenetzin was noisy in expressing her gladness,
while the elder sister betrayed no feeling by words; only
her smile and the glow of her eyes intensified.

The 'tzin sat down by the hammock, and with his strong
hand staying its oscillation, talked lightly. As yet Tula
knew nothing of the proposal of the Tezcucan, or of the favor
the king had given it; but the ken of love is as acute as an
angel's; sorrow of the cherished heart cannot be hidden
from it; so in his very jests she detected a trouble; but,
thinking it had relation to the condition of the Empire, she
asked nothing, while he, loath to disturb her happiness, counselled
darkly of his own soul.

After a while, as Nenetzin prayed to return to the city,
they left the pavilion; and, following a little path through
the teeming shrubbery, and under the boughs of orange-trees,
overarched like an arbor, they came to the 'tzin's

canoe. The keeper of the chinampa was there with great
bundles of flowers. Tula and Nenetzin entered the vessel;
then was the time for the slave; so he threw in the bundles
until they were nearly buried under them, — his gifts of
love and allegiance. When the rowers pushed off, he knelt
with his face to the earth.

Gliding homeward through the dusk, Guatamozin told the
story of Yeteve; and Tula, moved by the girl's devotion,
consented to take her into service, — at least, until the temple
claimed its own.

7. CHAPTER VII.
COURT GOSSIP.

“A PINCH of your snuff, Xoli! To be out thus early
dulls a nice brain, which nothing clarifies like snuff.
By the way, it is very strange that when one wants a good
article of any kind, he can only get it at the palace or of
you. So, a pinch, my fat fellow!”

“I can commend my snuff,” said the Chalcan, bowing
very low, “only a little less than the good taste of the most
noble Maxtla.”

While speaking, — the scene being in his pulque room, —
he uncovered a gilded jar sitting upon the counter.

“Help yourself; it is good to sneeze.”

Maxtla snuffed the scented drug freely, then rushed to the
door, and through eyes misty with tears of pleasure looked
at the sun rising over the mountains. A fit of sneezing
seized him, at the end of which, a slave stood by his elbow
with a ewer of water and a napkin. He bathed his face.
Altogether, it was apparent that sneezing had been reduced
to an Aztec science.

“Elegant! By the Sun, I feel inspired!”

“No doubt,” responded the Chalcan. “Such ought to be
the effect of tobacco and rose-leaves, moistened with dew.
But tell me; that tilmatli you are wearing is quite royal, —
is it from the king?”

The young chief raised the folds of the mantle of plumaje,
which he was sporting for the first time. “From the king?
No; my tailor has just finished it.”

“Certainly, my lord. How dull I was! You are preparing
for the banquet at the palace to-morrow night.”

“You recollect the two thousand quills of gold I bid for
your priestess the other evening,” said Maxtla, paying no
attention to the remark. “I concluded to change the investment;
they are all in that collar and loop.”

Xoli examined the loop.

“A chalchuite! What jeweller in the city could sell you
one so rich?”

“Not one. I bought it of Cacama. It is a crown jewel
of Tezcuco.”

“You were lucky, my lord. But, if you will allow me,
what became of the priestess? Saw you ever such dancing?”

“You are late inquiring, Chalcan. The beggar was fast
by starvation that night; but you were nearer death. The
story was told the king, — ah! you turn pale. Well you
may, — and he swore, by the fires of the temple, if the girl
had been sold he would have flayed alive both buyer and
seller. Hereafter we had both better look more closely to
the law.”

“But she moved my pity as it was never moved before;
moreover, she told me they had discharged her from the temple.”

“No matter; the peril is over, and our hearts are our own.
Yesterday I saw her in the train of the princess Tula. The

'tzin cared for her. But speaking of the princess, — the banquet
to-morrow night will be spicy.”

The Chalcan dropped the precious loop. Gossip that concerned
the court was one of his special weaknesses.

“You know,” continued Maxtla, “that the 'tzin has
always been a favorite of the king's —”

“As he always deserved to be.”

“Not so fast, Chalcan! Keep your praise. You ought
to know that nothing is so fickle as fortune; that what
was most popular yesterday may be most unpopular to-day.
Hear me out. You also know that Iztlil', the Tezcucan, was
down in the royal estimation quite as much as the 'tzin was
up; on which account, more than anything else, he lost his
father's city.”

Xoli rested his elbow on the counter, and listened eagerly.

“It has been agreed on all sides for years,” continued
Maxtla, in his modulated voice, “that the 'tzin and Tula
were to be married upon her coming of age. No one else
has presumed to pay her court, lest it might be an interference.
Now, the whole thing is at an end. Iztlil', not the
'tzin, is the fortunate man.”

“Iztlil'! And to-morrow night!”

“The palace was alive last evening as with a swarming
of bees. Some were indignant, — all astonished. In fact,
Xoli, I believe the 'tzin had as many friends as the king.
Several courtiers openly defended him, notwithstanding his
fall, — something that, to my knowledge, never happened
before. The upshot was, that a herald went in state to Iztapalapan
with a decree prohibiting the 'tzin from visiting
Tenochtitlan, under any pretence, until the further pleasure
of the king is made known to him.”

“Banished, banished! But that the noble Maxtla told
me, I could not believe what I hear.”

“Certainly. The affair is mysterious, as were the means

by which the result was brought about. Look you, Chalcan:
the 'tzin loved the princess, and was contracted to her, and
now comes this banishment just the day before the valley
is called to witness her betrothal to the Tezcucan. Certainly,
it would ill become the 'tzin to be a guest at such a
banquet.”

“I understand,” said Xoli, with a cunning smile. “It
was to save his pride that he was banished.”

“If to be a Chalcan is to be so stupid, I thank the gods
for making me what I am!” cried Maxtla, impatiently. “What
cares the great king for the pride of the enemy he would humble?
The banishment is a penalty, — it is ruin.”

There was a pause, during which the Chalcan hung his
head.

“Ah, Xoli! The king has changed; he used to be a
warrior, loving warriors as the eagle loves its young. Now
— alas! I dare not speak. Time was when no envioushearted
knave could have made him believe that Guatamozin
was hatching treason in his garden at Iztapalapan. Now,
surrounded by mewling priests, he sits in the depths of his
palace, and trembles, and, like a credulous child, believes
everything. `Woe is Tenochtitlan!' said Mualox; and
the days strengthen the prophecy. But enough, — more
than enough! Hist, Chalcan! What I have said and
you listened to — yea, the mere listening — would suffice,
if told in the right ears, to send us both straightway to the
tigers. I have paid you for your snuff, and the divine
sneeze. In retailing, recollect, I am not the manufacturer.
Farewell.”

“Stay a moment, most noble chief, — but a moment,” said
the Chalcan. “I have invented a drink which I desire you
to inaugurate. If I may be counted a judge, it is fit for a
god.”

“A judge! You? Where is the man who would deny

you that excellence? Your days have been spent in the practice;
nay, your whole life has been one long, long drink.
Make haste. I will wager pulque is chief in the compound.”

The broker went out, and directly returned, bearing on a
waiter a Cholulan goblet full of cool liquor, exquisitely
colored with the rich blood of the cactus apple. Maxtla
sipped, drank, then swore the drink was without a rival.

“Look you, Chalcan. They say we are indebted to our
heroes, our minstrels, and our priests, and I believe so; but
hereafter I shall go farther in the faith. This drink is worth
a victory, is pleasant as a song, and has all the virtues of a
prayer. Do not laugh. I am in earnest. You shall be
canonized with the best of them. To show that I am no
vain boaster, you shall come to the banquet to-morrow, and
the king shall thank you. Put on your best tilmatli, and
above all else, beware that the vase holding this liquor is not
empty when I call for it. Farewell!”

8. CHAPTER VIII.
GUATAMOZIN AND MUALOX.

UP the steps of the old Cû of Quetzal', early in the
evening of the banquet, went Guatamozin unattended.
As the royal interdiction rested upon his coming to the capital,
he was muffled in a priestly garb, which hid his face
and person, but could not all disguise the stately bearing
that so distinguished him. Climbing the steps slowly, and
without halting at the top to note the signs of the city, all
astir with life, he crossed the azoteas, entered the chamber
most sanctified by the presence of the god, and before the
image bowed awhile in prayer. Soon Mualox came in.

“Ask anything that is not evil, O best beloved of Quetzal',
and it shall be granted,” said the paba, solemnly, laying
a hand upon the visitor's shoulder. “I knew you were coming;
I saw you on the lake. Arise, my son.”

Guatamozin stood up, and flung back his hood.

“The house is holy, Mualox, and I have come to speak
of the things of life that have little to do with religion.”

“That is not possible. Everything has to do with life,
which has all to do with heaven. Speak out. This presence
will keep you wise; if your thoughts be of wrong, it
is not likely you will give them speech in the very ear of
Quetzal'.”

Slowly the 'tzin then said, —

“Thanks, father. In what I have to say, I will be
brief, and endeavor not to forget the presence. You love me,
and I am come for counsel. You know how often those
most discreet in the affairs of others are foolish in what concerns
themselves. Long time ago you taught me the importance
of knowledge; how it was the divine secret of happiness,
and stronger than a spear to win victories, and better
in danger than a shield seven times quilted. Now I have
come to say that my habits of study have brought evil upon
me; out of the solitude in which I was toiling to lay up a
great knowledge, a misfortune has arisen, father to my ruin.
My stay at home has been misconstrued. Enemies have
said I loved books less than power; they charge that in the
quiet of my gardens I have been taking council of my ambition,
which nothing satisfies but the throne; and so they
have estranged from me the love of the king. Here against
his order, forbidden the city,” — and as he spoke he raised
his head proudly, — “forbidden the city, behold me, paba, a
banished man!”

Mualox smiled, and grim satisfaction was in the smile.

“If you seek sympathy,” he said, “the errand is fruitless.

I have no sorrow for what you call your misfortune.”

“Let me understand you, father.”

“I repeat, I have no sorrow for you. Why should I? I
see you as you should see yourself. You confirm the lessons
of which you complain. Not vainly that you wrought
in solitude for knowledge, which, while I knew it would
make you a mark for even kingly envy, I also intended
should make you superior to misfortunes and kings. Understand
you now? What matters that you are maligned?
What is banishment? They only liken you the more to
Quetzal', whose coming triumph, — heed me well, O 'tzin, —
whose coming triumph shall be your triumph.”

The look and voice of the holy man were those of one
with authority.

“For this time,” he continued, “and others like it,
yet to come, I thought to arm your soul with a strong
intelligence. Your life is to be a battle against evil; fail not
yourself in the beginning. Success will be equal to your
wisdom and courage. But your story was not all told.”

The 'tzin's face flushed, and he replied, with some faltering,
—

“You have known and encouraged the love I bear the
princess Tula, and counted on it as the means of some great
fortune in store for me. Yet, in part at least, I am banished
on that account. O Mualox, the banquet which the
king holds to-night is to make public the betrothal of Tula
to Iztlil', the Tezcucan!”

“Well, what do you intend?”

“Nothing. Had the trouble been a friend's, I might have
advised him; but being my own, I have no confidence in
myself. I repose on your discretion and friendship.”

Mualox softened his manner, and said, pleasantly at first,
“O 'tzin, is humanity all frailty? Must chief and philosopher

bow to the passion, like a slave or a dealer in wares?”
Suddenly he became serious; his eyes shone full of the
magnetism he used so often and so well. “Can Guatamozin
find nothing higher to occupy his mind than a trouble born
of a silly love? Unmanned by such a trifle? Arouse!
Ponder the mightier interests in peril! What is a woman,
with all a lover's gild about her, to the nation?”

“The nation?” repeated the 'tzin, slowly.

The paba looked reverently up to the idol. “I have withdrawn
from the world, I live but for Quetzal' and Anahuac.
O, generously has the god repaid me! He has given me to
look out upon the future; all that is to come affecting my
country he has shown me.” Turning to the 'tzin again, he
said with emphasis, “I could tell marvels, — let this content
you: words cannot paint the danger impending over our
country, over Anahuac, the beautiful and beloved; her existence,
and the glory and power that make her so worthy love
like ours, are linked to your action. Your fate, O 'tzin, and
hers, and that of the many nations, are one and the same.
Accept the words as a prophecy; wear them in memory; and
when, as now, you are moved by a trifling fear or anger,
they should and will keep you from shame and folly.”

Both then became silent. The paba might have been
observing the events of the future, as, one by one, they rose
and passed before his abstracted vision. Certain it was, with
the thoughts of the warrior there mixed an ambition no
longer selfish, but all his country's.

Mualox finally concluded. “The future belongs to
the gods; only the present is ours. Of that let us think.
Admit your troubles worthy vengeance: dare you tell me
what you thought of doing? My son, why are you here?”

“Does my father seek to mortify me?”

“Would the 'tzin have me encourage folly, if not worse?
And that in the presence of my god and his?”

“Speak plainly, Mualox.”

“So I will. Obey the king. Go not to the palace to-night.
If the thought of giving the woman to another is so hard,
could you endure the sight? Think: if present, what could
you do to prevent the betrothal?”

A savage anger flashed from the 'tzin's face, and he
answered, “What could I? Slay the Tezcucan on the step
of the throne, though I died!”

“It would come to that. And Anahuac! What then
of her?” said Mualox, in a voice of exceeding sorrow.

The love the warrior bore his country at that moment
surpassed all others, and his rage passed away.

“True, most true! If it should be as you say, that my
destiny —”

“If! O 'tzin, if you live! If Anahuac lives! If there
are gods! —”

“Enough, Mualox! I know what you would say. Content
you; I give you all faith. The wrong that tortures
me is not altogether that the woman is to be given to another;
her memory I could pluck from my heart as a feather from
my helm. If that were all, I could curse the fate, and submit;
but there is more: for the sake of a cowardly policy I
have been put to shame; treachery and treason have been
crowned, loyalty and blood disgraced. Hear me, father!
After the decree of interdiction was served upon me, I ventured
to send a messenger to the king, and he was spurned
from the palace. Next went the lord Cuitlahua, uncle of
mine, and true lover of Anahuac; he was forbidden the mention
of my name. I am not withdrawn from the world; my
pride will not down at a word; so wronged, I cannot reason;
therefore I am here.”

“And the coming is a breach of duty; the risk is great.
Return to Iztapalapan before the midnight is out. And I, —
but you do not know, my son, what a fortune has befallen

me.” The paba smiled faintly. “I have been promoted to
the palace; I am a councillor at the royal table.”

“A councillor! You, father?”

The good man's face grew serious again. “I accepted
the appointment, thinking good might result. But, alas!
the hope was vain. Montezuma, once so wise, is past counsel.
He will take no guidance. And what a vanity! O
'tzin, the asking me to the palace was itself a crime, since it
was to make me a weapon in his hand with which to resist
the holy Quetzal.' As though I could not see the design!”

He laughed scornfully, and then said, “But be not detained,
my son. What I can, I will do for you; at the
council-table, and elsewhere, as opportunity may offer, I will
exert my influence for your restoration to the city and palace.
Go now. Farewell; peace be with you. To-morrow I will
send you tidings.”

Thereupon he went out of the tower, and down into the
temple.

9. CHAPTER IX.
A KING'S BANQUET.

AT last the evening of the royal banquet arrived, — theme
of incessant talk and object of preparation for two days
and a night, out of the capital no less than in it; for all the
nobler classes within a convenient radius of the lake had
been bidden, and, with them, people of distinction, such as
successful artists, artisans, and merchants.

It is not to be supposed that a king of Montezuma's subtlety
in matters governmental could overlook the importance
of the social element, or neglect it. Education imports a
society; more yet, academies, such as were in Tenochtitlan

for the culture of women, always import a refined and
cultivated society. And such there was in the beautiful
valley.

My picture of the entertainment will be feeble, I know,
and I give it rather as a suggestion of the reality, which was
gorgeous enough to be interesting to any nursling even of
the court of His Most Catholic Majesty; for, though heathen
in religion, Montezuma was not altogether barbarian in taste;
and, sooth to say, no monarch in Christendom better understood
the influence of kingliness splendidly maintained.
About it, moreover, was all that makes chivalry adorable, —
the dance, the feast, the wassail; brave men, fair women,
and the majesty of royalty in state amidst its most absolute
proofs of power.

On such occasions it was the custom of the great king to
throw open the palace, with all its accompaniments, for
the delight of his guests, admitting them freely to aviary,
menagerie, and garden, the latter itself spacious enough for
the recreation of thirty thousand persons.

The house, it must be remembered, formed a vast square,
with patios or court-yards in the interior, around which the
rooms were ranged. The part devoted to domestic uses was
magnificently furnished. Another very considerable portion
was necessary to the state and high duties of the monarch;
such were offices for his functionaries, quarters for his guards,
and chambers for the safe deposit of the archives of the Empire,
consisting of maps, laws, decrees and proclamations,
accounts and reports financial and military, and the accumulated
trophies of campaigns and conquests innumerable.
When we consider the regard in which the king was held by
his people, amounting almost to worship, and their curiosity
to see all that pertained to his establishment, an idea may be
formed of what the palace and its appurtenances were as
accessaries to one of his entertainments.

Passing from the endless succession of rooms, the visitor
might go into the garden, where the walks were freshly
strewn with shells, the shrubbery studded with colored
lamps, the fountains all at play, and the air loaded with
the perfume of flowers, which were an Aztec passion, and
seemed everywhere a part of everything.

And all this convenience and splendor was not wasted
upon an inappreciative horde, — ferocious Caribs or simple
children of Hispaniola. At such times the order requiring
the wearing of nequen was suspended; so that in the matter
of costume there were no limits upon the guest, except such
as were prescribed by his taste or condition. In the animated
current that swept from room to room and from
house to garden might be seen citizens in plain attire, and
warriors arrayed in regalia which permitted all dazzling
colors, and pabas hooded, surpliced, and gowned, brooding
darkly even there, and stoled minstrels, with their harps, and
pages, gay as butterflies, while over all was the beauty of the
presence of lovely women.

Yet, withal, the presence of Montezuma was more attractive
than the calm night in the garden; neither stars, nor
perfumed summer airs, nor singing fountains, nor walks
strewn with shells, nor chant of minstrels could keep the
guests from the great hall where he sat in state; so that it was
alike the centre of all coming and all going. There the aged
and sedate whiled away the hours in conversation; the young
danced, laughed, and were happy; and in the common joyousness
none exceeded the beauties of the harem, transiently
released from the jealous thraldom that made the palace their
prison.

From the house-tops, or from the dykes, or out on the
water, the common people of the capital, in vast multitudes,
witnessed the coming of the guests across the lake. The
rivalry of the great lords and families was at all times extravagant

in the matter of pomp and show; a king's banquet,
however, seemed its special opportunity, and the lake its
particular field of display. The king Cacama, for example,
left his city in a canoe of exquisite workmanship, pranked
with pennons, ribbons, and garlands; behind him, or at his
right and left, constantly ploying and deploying, attended a
flotilla of hundreds of canoes only a little less rich in decoration
than his own, and timed in every movement, even that
of the paddles, by the music of conch-shells and tambours;
yet princely as the turn-out was, it did not exceed that of
the lord Cuitlahua, governor of Iztapalapan. And if others
were inferior to them in extravagance, nevertheless they
helped clothe the beloved sea with a beauty and interest
scarcely to be imagined by people who never witnessed or
read of the grand Venetian pageants.

Arrived at the capital, the younger warriors proceeded to
the palace afoot; while the matrons and maids, and the older
and more dignified lords, were borne thither in palanquins.
By evening the whole were assembled.

About the second quarter of the night two men came up
the great street to the palace, and made their way through
the palanquins stationed there in waiting. They were
guests; so their garbs bespoke them. One wore the gown
and carried the harp of a minstrel; very white locks escaped
from his hood, and a staff was required to assist his
enfeebled steps. The other was younger, and with consistent
vanity sported a military costume. To say the truth, his extremely
warlike demeanor lost nothing by the flash of a dauntless
eye and a step that made the pave ring again.

An official received them at the door, and, by request, conducted
them to the garden.

“This is indeed royal!” the warrior said to the minstrel.
“It bewilders me. Be yours the lead.”

“I know the walks as a deer his paths, or a bird the

brake that shelters its mate. Come,” and the voice was
strangely firm for one so aged, — “come, let us see the
company.”

Now and then they passed ladies, escorted by gallants, and
frequently there were pauses to send second looks after the
handsome soldier, and words of pity for his feeble companion.
By and by, coming to an intersection of the walk they were
pursuing, they were hailed, — “Stay, minstrel, and give us a
song.”

By the door of a summer-house they saw, upon stopping,
a girl whose beauty was worthy the tribute she sought.
The elder sat down upon a bench and replied, —

“A song is gentle medicine for sorrows. Have you such?
You are very young.”

Her look of sympathy gave place to one of surprise.

“I would I were assured that minstrelsy is your proper
calling.”

“You doubt it! Here is my harp: a soldier is known
by his shield.”

“But I have heard your voice before,” she persisted.

“The children of Tenochtitlan, and many who are old
now, have heard me sing.”

“But I am a Chalcan.”

“I have sung in Chalco.”

“May I ask your name?”

“There are many streets in the city, and on each they call
me differently.”

The girl was still perplexed.

“Minstrels have patrons,” she said, directly, “who —”

“Nay, child, this soldier here is all the friend I
have.”

Some one then threw aside the vine that draped the door.
While the minstrel looked to see who the intruder was, his
inquisitor gazed at the soldier, who, on his part, saw neither

of them; he was making an obeisance so very low that his
face and hand both touched the ground.

“Does the minstrel intend to sing, Yeteve?” asked Nenetzin,
stepping into the light that flooded the walk.

The old man bent forward on his seat.

“Heaven's best blessing on the child of the king! It
should be a nobler hand than mine that strikes a string to
one so beautiful.”

The comely princess replied, her face beaming with pleasure,
“Verily, minstrel, much familiarity with song has given
you courtly speech.”

“I have courtly friends, and only borrow their words.
This place is fair, but to my dull fancy it seems that a maiden
would prefer the great hall, unless she has a grief to indulge.”

“O, I have a great grief,” she returned; “though I do
borrow it as you your words.”

“Then you love some one who is unhappy. I understand.
Is this child in your service?” he asked, looking at Yeteve.

“Call it mine. She loves me well enough to serve me.”

The minstrel struck the strings of his harp softly, as if
commencing a mournful story.

“I have a friend,” he said, “a prince and warrior, whose
presence here is banned. He sits in his palace to-night, and
is visited by thoughts such as make men old in their youth.
He has seen much of life, and won fame, but is fast finding
that glory does not sweeten misfortune, and that of all
things, ingratitude is the most bitter. His heart is set upon
a noble woman; and now, when his love is strongest, he is
separated from her, and may not say farewell. O, it is not
in the ear of a true woman that lover so unhappy could
breathe his story in vain. What would the princess Nenetzin
do, if she knew a service of hers might soothe his great
grief?”

Nenetzin's eyes were dewy with tears.

“Good minstrel, I know the story; it is the 'tzin's.
Are you a friend of his?”

“His true friend. I bring his farewell to Tula.”

“I will serve him.” And, stepping to the old man, she
laid her hand on his. “Tell me what to do, and what you
would have.”

“Only a moment's speech with her.”

“With Tula?”

“A moment to say the farewell he cannot. Go to the
palace, and tell her what I seek. I will follow directly.
Tell her she may know me in the throng by these locks,
whose whiteness will prove my sincerity and devotion.
And further, I will twine my harp with a branch of this
vine; its leaves will mark me, and at the same time tell her
that his love is green as in the day a king's smile sunned it
into ripeness. Be quick. The moment comes when she
cannot in honor listen to the message I am to speak.”

He bent over his harp again, and Nenetzin and Yeteve
hurried away.

10. CHAPTER X.
THE 'TZIN'S LOVE.

THE minstrel stayed a while to dress his harp with the
vine.

“A woman would have done it better; they have a special
cunning for such things; yet it will serve the purpose.
Now let us on!” he said, when the task was finished.

To the palace they then turned their steps. As they approached
it, the walk became more crowded with guests.
Several times the minstrel was petitioned to stay and sing,
but he excused himself. He proceeded, looking steadily at

the ground, as is the custom of the very aged. Amongst
others, they met Maxtla, gay in his trappings as a parrot from
the Great River.

“Good minstrel,” he said, “in your wanderings through
the garden, have you seen Iztlil', the Tezcucan?”

“I have not seen the Tezcucan. I should look for him
in the great hall, where his bride is, rather than in the garden,
dreaming of his bridal.”

“Well said, uncle! I infer your harp is not carried for
show; you can sing! I will try you after a while.”

When he was gone, the minstrel spoke bitterly, —

“Beware of the thing known in the great house yonder
as policy. A week ago the lord Maxtla would have scorned
to be seen hunting the Tezcucan, whom he hates.”

They came to a portal above which, in a niche of the
wall, sat the teotl[7] of the house, grimly claiming attention
and worship. Under the portal, past the guard on duty
there, through many apartments full of objects of wonder
to the stranger, they proceeded, and, at last, with a current
of guests slowly moving in the same direction, reached the
hall dominated by the king, where the minstrel thought to
find the princess Tula.

“O my friend, I pray you, let me stay here a moment,”
said the warrior, abashed by dread of the sudden introduction
to the royal presence. The singer heard not, but
went on.

Standing by the door, the young stranger looked down a
hall of great depth eastwardly, broken by two rows of pillars
supporting vast oaken girders, upon which rested rafters
of red cedar. The walls were divided into panels, with
borders broad and intricately arabesqued. A massive bracket
in the centre of each panel held the image of a deity,
the duplicate of the idol in the proper sanctuary; and from

the feet of the image radiated long arms of wood, well
carved, crooked upward at the elbows, and ending with
shapely hands, clasping lanterns of aguave which emitted
lights of every tint. In the central space, between the rows
of pillars, immense chandeliers dropped from the rafters, so
covered with lamps that they looked like pyramids aglow.
And arms, and images, and chandeliers, and even the huge
pillars, were wreathed in garlands of cedar boughs and
flowers, from which the air drew a redolence as of morning
in a garden.

Through all these splendors, the gaze of the visitor sped
to the further end of the hall, and there stayed as charmed.
He saw a stage, bright with crimson carpeting, rising three
steps above the floor, and extending from wall to wall; and
on that, covered with green plumaje, a dais, on which, in a
chair or throne glittering with burnished gold, the king sat.
Above him spread a canopy fashioned like a broad sunshade,
the staff resting on the floor behind the throne, sustained by
two full-armed warriors, who, while motionless as statues,
were yet vigilant as sentinels. Around the dais, their costumes
and personal decorations sharing the monarch's splendor,
were collected his queens, and their children, and all
who might claim connection with the royal family. The
light shone about them as the noonday, so full that all that
portion of the hall seemed bursting with sunshine. Never
satin richer than the emerald cloth of the canopy, inwoven,
as it was, with feathers of humming-birds! Never sheen
of stars, to the eyes of the wondering stranger, sharper than
the glinting of the jewels with which it was fringed!

And the king appeared in happier mood than common,
though the deep, serious look which always accompanies a
great care came often to his face. He had intervals of
silence also; yet his shrewdest guests were not permitted to
see that he did not enjoy their enjoyment.

His queens were seated at his left, Tecalco deeply troubled,
sometimes tearful, and Acatlan cold and distant; for, in
thought of her own child, the beautiful Nenetzin, she trembled
before the remorseless policy.

And Tula, next to the king the recipient of attention, sat
in front of her mother, never more queenly, never so unhappy.
Compliments came to her, and congratulations, given in
courtly style; minstrels extolled her grace and beauty, and
the prowess and martial qualities of the high-born Tezcucan;
and priest and warrior laid their homage at her feet. Yet her
demeanor was not that of the glad young bride; she never
smiled, and her eyes, commonly so lustrous, were dim and
hopeless; her thoughts were with her heart, across the lake
with the banished 'tzin.

As may be conjectured, it was no easy game to steal her
from place so conspicuous; nevertheless, Nenetzin awaited the
opportunity.

It happened that Maxtla was quite as anxious to get the
monarch's ear for the benefit of his friend, the Chalcan, —
in fact, for the introduction of the latter's newly invented
drink. Experience taught the chief when the felicitous
moment arrived. He had then but to say the word: a page
was sent, the liquor brought. Montezuma sipped, smiled,
quaffed deeper, and was delighted.

“There is nothing like it!” he said. “Bring goblets for
my friends, and fill up again!”

All the lordly personages about him had then to follow
his example, — to drink and approve. At the end, Xoli was
summoned.

Nenetzin saw the chance, and said, “O Tula, such a song
as we have heard! It was sweeter than that of the bird
that wakes us in the morning, sweeter than all the flutes
in the hall.”

“And the singer, — who was he?”

Neither Nenetzin nor Yeteve could tell his name.

“He charmed us so,” said the former, “that we thought
only of taking you to hear him. Come, go with us. There
never was such music or musician.”

And the three came down from the platform unobserved
by the king. When the minstrel's message was delivered,
then was shown how well the Tezcucan had spoken when he
said of the royal children, “They are all beautiful, but only
one is fitted to be a warrior's wife.”

“Let us see the man,” said Tula. “How may we know
him, Nenetzin?”

And they went about eagerly looking for the singer with
the gray locks and the vine-wreathed harp. They found him
at last about midway the hall, leaning on his staff, a solitary
amidst the throng. No one thought of asking him for a
song; he was too old, too like one come from a tomb with
unfashionable stories.

“Father,” said Tula, “we claim your service. You look
weary, yet you must know the ancient chants, which, though
I would not like to say it everywhere, please me best. Will
you sing?”

He raised his head, and looked at her: she started.
Something she saw in his eyes that had escaped her friends.

“A song from me!” he replied, as if astonished. “No,
it cannot be. I have known some gentle hearts, and studied
them to remember; but long since they went to dust. You
do not know me. Imagining you discerned of what I was
thinking, you were moved; you only pitied me, here so
desolate.”

As he talked, she recovered her composure.

“Will you sing for me, father?” she again asked.

“O willingly! My memory is not so good as it used to
be; yet one song, at least, I will give you from the numberless
ills that crowd it.”

He looked slowly and tremulously around at the guests
who had followed her, or stopped, as they were passing, to
hear the conversation.

“As you say,” he then continued, “I am old and feeble,
and it is wearisome to stand here; besides, my theme will
be sad, and such as should be heard in quiet. Time was
when my harp had honor, — to me it seems but yesterday;
but now — enough! Here it were not well that my voice
should be heard.”

She caught his meaning, and her whole face kindled; but
Nenetzin spoke first.

“O yes; let us to the garden!”

The minstrel bowed reverently. As they started, a woman,
who had been listening, said, “Surely, the noble Tula
is not going! The man is a dotard; he cannot sing; he is
palsied.”

But they proceeded, and through the crowd and out of the
hall guided the trembling minstrel. Coming to a passage
that seemed to be deserted, they turned into it, and Nenetzin,
at Tula's request, went back to the king. Then a change
came over the good man; his stooping left him, his step became
firm, and, placing himself in front, he said, in a deep,
strong voice, —

“It is mine to lead now. I remember these halls. Once
again, O Tula, let me lead you here, as I have a thousand
times in childhood.”

And to a chamber overlooking the garden, by the hand he
led her, followed by Yeteve, sobbing like a child. A dim
light from the lamps without disclosed the walls hung with
trophies captured in wars with the surrounding tribes and
nations. Where the rays were strongest, he stopped, and removed
the hood, and said, earnestly, —

“Against the king's command, and loving you better than
life, O Tula, Guatamozin has come to say farewell.”

There was a great silence; each heard the beating of the
other's heart.

“You have passed from me,” he continued, “and I send
my grief after you. I look into your face, and see fade our
youth, our hopes, and our love, and all the past that bore it
relation. The days of pleasantness are ended; the spring
that fed the running brook is dry. O Tula, dear one, the
bird that made us such sweet music is songless forever!”

Her anguish was too deep for the comfort of words or
tears. Closer he clasped her hand.

“O, that power should be so faithless! Here are banners
that I have taken. Yonder is a shield of a king of Michuaca
whom I slew. I well remember the day. Montezuma led
the army; the fight was hard, the peril great; and after I
struck the blow, he said I had saved his life, and vowed me
boundless love and a splendid reward. What a passion the
field of fighting men was! And yet there was another always
greater. I had dwelt in the palace, and learned that
in the smile of the noble Tula there was to my life what the
sunshine is to the flower.”

He faltered, then continued brokenly, —

“He had honors, palaces, provinces, and crowns to bestow;
but witness, O gods, whose sacred duty it is to punish ingratitude,
— witness that I cared more to call Tula wife than
for all the multitude of his princeliest gifts!”

And now fast ran the tears of the princess, through sorrow
rising to full womanhood, while the murky chamber echoed
with the sobs of Yeteve. If the ghost of the barbarian king
yet cared for the shield he died defending, if it were there
present, seeing and hearing, its revenge was perfect.

“If Guatamozin — so dear to me now, so dear always —
will overlook the womanly selfishness that could find a pleasure
in his grief, I will prove that he has not loved unworthily.
You have asked nothing of me, nor urged any counsel, and I

thank you for the moderation. I thank you, also, that you
have spoken as if this sorrow were not yours more than mine.
Most of all, O 'tzin, I thank you for not accusing me. Need
I say how I hate the Tezcucan? or that I am given away
against my will? I am to go as a price, as so much cocoa,
in purchase of the fealty of a wretch who would league with
Mictlan to humble my father. I am a weak woman, without
tribes or banner, and therefore the wrong is put upon
me. But have I no power?” And, trembling with the
strong purpose, she laid her hand upon his breast. “Wife
will I never be except of Guatamozin. I am the daughter
of a king. My father, at least, should know me. He may
sell me, but, thank the holy gods, I am the keeper of my own
life. And what would life be with the base Tezcucan for my
master? Royal power in a palace of pearl and gold would
not make it worth the keeping. O 'tzin, you never threw a
worthless leaf upon the lake more carelessly than I would
then fling this poor body there!”

Closer to his heart he pressed the hand on his breast.

“To you, to you, O Tula, be the one blessing greater than
all others which the gods keep back in the Sun! So only
can you be rewarded. I take your words as an oath. Keep
them, only keep them, and I will win for you all that can be
won by man. What a time is coming —”

Just then a joyous cry and a burst of laughter from the
garden interrupted his passionate speech, and recalled him to
himself and the present, — to the present, which was not to
be satisfied with lovers' rhapsodies. And so he said, when
next he spoke, —

“You have anwered my most jealous wish. Go back
now; make no objection to the Tezcucan: the betrothal
is not the bridal. The king and Iztlil' cannot abide together
in peace. I know them.”

And sinking his voice, he added, “Your hand is on my

heart, and by its beating you cannot fail to know how full it
is of love. Take my blessing to strengthen you. Farewell.
I will return to my gardens and dreams.”

“To dreams! And with such a storm coming upon Anahuac!”
said Tula. “No, no; to dream is mine.”

Up, clear to his vision, rose the destiny prophesied for
him by Mualox. As he pondered it, she said, tearfully, —

“I love my father, and he is blind or mad. Now is his
peril greatest, now most he needs friendship and help. O
'tzin, leave him not, — I conjure you by his past kindness!
Remember I am his child.”

Thereupon he dropped her hand, and walked the floor,
while the banners and the shields upon the walls, and the
mute glory they perpetuated, whispered of the wrong and
shame he was enduring. When he answered, she knew
how great the struggle had been, and that the end was
scarcely a victory.

“You have asked that of me, my beloved, which is a
sore trial,” he said. “I will not deny that the great love I
bore your father is disturbed by bitterness. Think how excessive
my injury is, — I who revered as a son, and have already
put myself in death's way for him. In the halls, and
out in the gardens, my name has been a jest to-night. And
how the Tezcucan has exulted! It is hard for the sufferer to
love his wrong-doer, — O so hard! But this I will, and as an
oath take the promise: as long as the king acts for Anahuac,
not imperilling her safety or glory, so long will I uphold him;
this, O Tula, from love of country, and nothing more!”

And as the future was veiled against the woman and dutiful
child, she replied simply, “I accept the oath. Now
lead me hence.”

He took her hand again, and said, “In peril of life I
came to say farewell forever; but I will leave a kiss upon
your forehead, and plant its memory in your heart, and
some day come again to claim you mine.”

And he put his arm around her, and left the kiss on her
forehead, and, as the ancient he entered, conducted the unhappy
princess from the chamber of banners back to the
hall of betrothal.

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE CHANT.

“IF you have there anything for laughter, Maxtla, I bid
you welcome,” said the king, his guests around him.

And the young chief knelt on the step before the throne,
and answered with mock solemnity, “Your servant, O king,
knows your great love of minstrelsy, and how it delights
you to make rich the keeper of a harp who sings a good
song well. I have taken one who bears him like a noble
singer, and has age to warrant his experience.”

“Call you that the man?” asked the king, pointing to
Guatamozin.

“He is the man.”

The monarch laughed, and all the guests listening laughed.

Now, minstrels were common on all festive occasions; indeed,
an Aztec banquet was no more perfect without them
than without guests: but it was seldom the royal halls were
graced by one so very aged; so that the bent form and gray
locks, that at other places and times would have insured
safety and respect, now excited derision. The men thought
his presence there presumptuous, the women laughed at him
as a dotard. In brief, the 'tzin's peril was very great.

He seemed, however, the picture of aged innocence, and
stood before the throne, his head bowed, his face shaded by
the hood, leaning humbly on his staff, and clasping the harp
close to his breast, the vines yet about it. So well did he

observe his disguise, that none there, save Tula and Yeteve,
might dream that the hood and dark gown concealed the
boldest warrior in Tenochtitlan. The face of the priestess
was turned away; but the princess sat a calm witness of the
scene; either she had too much pride to betray her solicitude,
or a confidence in his address so absolute that she felt
none.

“He is none of ours,” said the king, when he had several
times scanned the minstrel. “If the palace ever knew
him, it was in the days of Axaya', from whose tomb he
seems to have come.”

“As I came in from the garden, I met him going out,”
said Maxtla, in explanation. “I could not bear that my
master should lose such a promise of song. Besides, I have
heard the veterans in service often say that the ancient
chants were the best, and I thought it a good time to test the
boast.”

The gray courtiers frowned, and the king laughed again.

“My minstrel here represented that old time so well,”
continued Maxtla, “that at first I was full of reverence;
therefore I besought him to come, and before you, O king,
sing the chants that used to charm your mighty father. I
thought it no dishonor for him to compete with the singers
now in favor, they giving us something of the present time.
He declined in courtliest style; saying that, though his voice
was good, he was too old, and might shame the ancient minstrelsy;
and that, from what he had heard, my master delighted
only in things of modern invention. A javelin in
the hand of a sentinel ended the argument, and he finally
consented. Wherefore, O king, I claim him captive, to
whom, if it be your royal pleasure, I offer liberty, if he will
sing in competition before this noble company.”

What sport could be more royal than such poetic contest,
— the old reign against the new? Montezuma welcomed
the idea.

“The condition is reasonable,” he said. “Is there a minstrel
in the valley to call it otherwise?”

In a tone scarcely audible, though all were silent that they
might hear, the 'tzin answered, —

“Obedience was the first lesson of every minstrel of the
old time; but as the master we served loved us as his children,
we never had occasion to sing for the purchase of our
liberty. And more, — the capture of a harmless singer, though
he were not aged as your poor slave, O king, was not
deemed so brave a deed as to be rewarded by our master's
smile.”

The speech, though feebly spoken, struck both the king
and his chief.

“Well done, uncle!” said the former, laughing. “And
since you have tongue so sharp, we remove the condition —”

“Thanks, many thanks, most mighty king! May the
gods mete you nothing but good! I will depart.” And the
'tzin stooped till his harp struck the floor.

The monarch waved his hand. “Stay. I merely spoke
of the condition that made your liberty depend upon your
song. Go, some of you, and call my singers.” A courtier
hurried away, then the king added, “It shall be well for
him who best strikes the strings. I promise a prize that
shall raise him above trouble, and make his life what a poet's
ought to be.”

Guatamozin advanced, and knelt on the step from which
Maxtla had risen, and said, his voice sounding tremulous
with age and infirmity, —

“If the great king will deign to heed his servant again, —
I am old and weak. There was a time when I would have
rejoiced to hear a prize so princely offered in such a trial. But
that was many, many summers ago. And this afternoon, in
my hut by the lake-shore, when I took my harp, all covered
with dust, from the shelf where it had so long lain untouched

and neglected, and wreathed it with this fresh vine, thinking
a gay dress might give it the appearance of use, and myself
a deceitful likeness to the minstrel I once was, alas! I did
not think of my trembling hand and my shattered memory,
or of trial like this. I only knew that a singer, however
humble, was privileged at your banquet, and that the privilege
was a custom of the monarchs now in their halls in the
Sun, — true, kingly men, who, at time like this, would have
put gold in my hand, and bade me arise, and go in peace.
Is Montezuma more careless of his glory? Will he compel
my song, and dishonor my gray hair, that I may go abroad
in Tenochtitlan and tell the story? In pity, O king, suffer
me to depart.”

The courtiers murmured, and even Maxtla relented, but
the king said, “Good uncle, you excite my curiosity the
more. If your common speech have in it such a vein of
poetry, what must the poetry be? And then, does not your
obstinacy outmeasure my cruelty? Get ready, I hold the
fortune. Win it, and I am no king if it be not yours.”

The interest of the bystanders now exceeded their pity.
It was novel to find one refusing reward so rich, when the
followers of his art were accustomed to gratify an audience,
even one listener, upon request.

And, seeing that escape from the trial was impossible, the
'tzin arose, resolved to act boldly. Minstrelsy, as practised
by the Aztecs, it must be remembered, was not singing so
much as a form of chanting, accompanied by rythmical
touches of the lyre or harp, — of all kinds of choral music the
most primitive. This he had practised, but in the solitude
of his study. The people present knew the 'tzin Guatamo,
supposed to be in his palace across the lake, as soldier,
scholar, and prince, but not as poet or singer of heroic tales.
So that confident minstrelsy was now but another, if not a
surer, disguise. And the eyes of the princess Tula shining

upon him calmly and steadily, he said, his voice this time
trembling with suppressed wrath, —

“Be it so, O king! Let the singers come, — let them
come. Your slave will fancy himself before the great Axaya',
or your father, not less royal. He will forget his age, and
put his trust in the god whose story he will sing.”

Then other amusements were abandoned, and, intelligence
of the trial flying far and fast, lords and ladies, soldiers
and priests crowded about the throne and filled the hall.
That any power of song could belong to one so old and
unknown was incredible.

“He is a provincial, — the musician of one of the hamlets,”
said a courtier, derisively.

“Yes,” sneered another, “he will tell how the flood came,
and drowned the harvest in his neighborhood.”

“Or,” ventured a third, “how a ravenous vulture once
descended from the hills, and carried off his pet rabbit.”

By and by the royal minstrels came, — sleek, comely men,
wearing long stoles fringed with gold, and having harps inlaid
with pearl, and strung with silver wires. With scarce
a glance at their humble competitor, they ranged themselves
before the monarch.

The trial began. One after another, the favorites were
called upon. The first sang of love, the next of his mistress,
the third of Lake Tezcuco, the fourth of Montezuma,
his power, wisdom, and glory. Before all were through,
the patience of the king and crowd was exhausted. The
pabas wanted something touching religion, the soldiers something
heroic and resounding with war; and all waited for
the stranger, as men listening to a story wait for the laughter
it may chance to excite. How were they surprised! Before
the womanly tones of the last singer ceased, the old
man dropped his staff, and, lifting his harp against his breast,
struck its chords, and in a voice clear and vibratory as the

blast of a shell, a voice that filled the whole hall, and
startled maid and king alike, began his chant.

The singer rested a moment; then, looking in the eyes of
the king, with a rising voice, he continued, —

At that name Montezuma started. The minstrel noted
well the sign.

And now the priests were glad, — the singer sung of
Heaven; and the warriors were aroused, — his voice was
like a battle-cry, and the theme was the proud tradition of
the conquering march of their fathers from the distant
North. Sitting with clasped hands and drooped head, the
king followed the chant, like one listening to an oracle.
Yet stronger grew the minstrel's voice, —

At this point the excitement of the audience rose into
interruption: they clapped their hands and stamped; some
shouted. As the strong voice rolled the grand story on,
even the king's dread of the god disappeared; and had the
'tzin concluded then, the prize had certainly been his. But
when the silence was restored, he resumed the attitude so
proper to his disguise, and, sinking his voice and changing
the measure of the chant, solemnly proceeded, —

Slowly the 'tzin repeated the last sentence, and under his
gaze the monarch's face changed visibly.

The improvisation, if such it was, now wrought its full
effect upon Montezuma, who saw the recital coming nearer
and nearer to the dread mysteries of the golden chamber in
the old Cû. At the beginning of the last sentence, the
blood left his face, and he leaned forward as if to check the
speech, at the same time some master influence held him
wordless. His look was that of one seeing a vision. The
vagaries of a mind shaken by days and nights of trouble
are wonderful; sometimes they are fearful. How easy for
his distempered fancy to change the minstrel, with his white
locks and venerable countenance, into a servant of Quetzal',
sent by the god to confirm the interpretation and prophecies
of his other servant Mualox. At the last word, he arose,
and, with an imperial gesture, cried, —

“Peace — enough!”

Then his utterance failed him, — another vision seemed

to fix his gaze. The audience, thrilling with fear, turned to
see what he saw, and heard a commotion, which, from the
further end of the hall, drew slowly near the throne, and
ceased not until Mualox, in his sacrificial robes, knelt upon
the step in the minstrel's place. Montezuma dropped into
his throne, and, covering his eyes with his hands, said
faintly, —

“Evil betides me, father, evil betides me! But I am a
king. Speak what you can!”

Mualox prostrated himself until his white hair covered
his master's feet.

“Again, O king, your servant comes speaking for his
god.”

“For the god, Mualox?”

The hall became silent as a tomb.

“I come,” the holy man continued, “to tell the king that
Quetzal' has landed, this time on the sea-shore in Cempoalla.
At set of sun his power was collected on the beach. Summon
all your wisdom, — the end is at hand.”

All present and hearing listened awe-struck. Of the warriors,
not one, however battle-tried, but trembled with undefined
terror. And who may accuse them? The weakness
was from fear of a supposed god; their heathen souls, after
the manner of the Christian, asked, Who may war against
Heaven?

“Rise, Mualox! You love me; I have no better servant,”
said the king, with dignity, but so sadly that even the prophet's
heart was touched. “It is not for me to say if your
news be good or evil. All things, even my Empire, are in the
care of the gods. To-morrow I will hold a council to determine
how this visit may be best met.” With a mighty effort
he freed his spirit of the influence of the untimely visitation,
and said, with a show of unconcern, “Leave the
morrow to whom it belongs, my children. Let us now to

the ceremony which was to crown the night. Come forward,
son of 'Hualpilli! Room for the lord Iztlil', my friends!”

Tula looked down, and the queen Tecalco bowed her face
upon the shoulder of the queen Acatlan; and immediately,
all differences lost in loving loyalty, the caciques and chiefs
gathered before him, — a nobility as true and chivalric as ever
fought beneath an infidel banner.

And they waited, but the Tezcucan came not.

“Go, Maxtla. Seek the lord Iztlil', and bring him to my
presence.”

Through the palace and through the gardens they sought
the recreant lover. And the silence of the waiting in the
great hall was painful. Guest looked in the face of guest,
mute, yet asking much. The prince Cacama whispered to
the prince Cuitlahua, “It is a happy interference of the
gods!”

Tecalco wept on, but not from sorrow, and the eyes of the
devoted princess were lustrous for the first time; hope had
come back to the darkened soul.

And the monarch said little, and erelong retired. A great
portion of the company, despite his injuction, speedily followed
his example, leaving the younger guests, with what humor
they could command, to continue the revel till morning.

Next day at noon couriers from Cempoalla confirmed the
announcement of Mualox. Cortes had indeed landed; and
that Good Friday was the last of the perfect glory of Anahuac.

Poor king! Not long now until I may sing for thee the
lamentation of the Gothic Roderick, whose story is but little
less melancholy than thine.