University of Virginia Library

3. BOOK THREE.

1. CHAPTER I.
THE FIRST COMBAT.

THE 'tzin's companion the night of the banquet, as the
reader has no doubt anticipated, was Hualpa, the Tihuancan.
To an adventure of his, more luckless than his
friend's, I now turn.

It will be remembered that the 'tzin left him at the door
of the great hall. In a strange scene, without a guide, it was
natural for him to be ill at ease; light-hearted and fearless,
however, he strolled leisurely about, at one place stopping to
hear a minstrel, at another to observe a dance, and all the
time half confused by the maze and splendor of all he beheld.
In such awe stood he of the monarch, that he gave the
throne a wide margin, contented from a distance to view the
accustomed interchanges of courtesy between the guests and
their master. Finding, at last, that he could not break
through the bashfulness acquired in his solitary life among
the hills, and imitate the ease and nonchalance of those
born, as it were, to the lordliness of the hour, he left the
house, and once more sought the retiracy of the gardens.
Out of doors, beneath the stars, with the fresh air in his
nostrils, he felt at home again, the whilom hunter, ready for
any emprise.

As to the walk he should follow he had no choice, for in
every direction he heard laughter, music, and conversation;
everywhere were flowers and the glow of lamps. Merest

chance put him in a path that led to the neighborhood of
the museum.

Since the night shut in, — be it said in a whisper, — a
memory of wonderful brightness had taken possession of his
mind. Nenetzin's face, as he saw it laughing in the door of
the kiosk when Yeteve called the 'tzin for a song, he thought
outshone the lamplight, the flowers, and everything most
beautiful about his path; her eyes were as stars, rivalling the
insensate ones in the mead above him. He remembered
them, too, as all the brighter for the tears through which
they had looked down, — alas! not on him, but upon his reverend
comrade. If Hualpa was not in love, he was, at least,
borrowing wings for a flight of that kind.

Indulging the delicious revery, he came upon some nobles,
conversing, and quite blocking up the way, though going in
his direction. He hesitated; but, considering that, as a
guest, the freedom of the garden belonged equally to him,
he proceeded, and became a listener.

“People call him a warrior. They know nothing of what
makes a warrior; they mistake good fortune, or what the
traders in the tianguez call luck, for skill. Take his conduct
at the combat of Quetzal' as an example; say he threw his
arrows well: yet it was a cowardly war. How much braver
to grasp the maquahuitl, and rush to blows! That requires
manhood, strength, skill. To stand back, and kill with a
chance arrow, — a woman could do as much.”

The 'tzin was the subject of discussion, and the voice
that of Iztlil', the Tezcucan. Hualpa moved closer to the
party.

“I thought his course in that combat good,” said a stranger;
“it gave him opportunities not otherwise to be had.
That he did not join the assault cannot be urged against his
courage. Had you, my lord Iztlil', fallen like the Otompan,
he would have been left alone to fight the challengers. A

fool would have seen the risk; a coward would not have
courted it.”

“That argument,” replied Iztlil', “is crediting him with
too much shrewdness. By the gods, he never doubted the
result, — not he! He knew the Tlascalans would never
pass my shield; he knew the victory was mine, two against
me as there were. A prince of Tezcuco was never conquered!”

The spirit of the hunter was fast rising; yet he followed,
listening.

“And, my friends,” the Tezcucan continued, “who better
judged the conduct of the combatants that day than the
king? See the result. To-night I take from the faint heart
his bride, the woman he has loved from boyhood. Then this
banquet. In whose honor is it? What does it celebrate?
There is a prize to be awarded, — the prize of courage and
skill; and who gets it? And further, of the nobles and
chiefs of the valley, but one is absent, — he whose prudence
exceeds his valor.”

In such strain the Tezcucan proceeded. And Hualpa, fully
aroused, pushed through the company to the speaker, but so
quietly that those who observed him asked no questions.
Assured that the 'tzin must have friends present, he waited
for some one to take up his cause. His own impulse was
restrained by his great dread of the king, whose gardens he
knew were not fighting-grounds at any time or in any quarrel.
But, as the boastful prince continued, the resolve to
punish him took definite form with the Tihuancan, — to
such degree had his admiration for the 'tzin already risen!
Gradually the auditors dropped behind or disappeared;
finally but one remained, — a middle-aged, portly noble,
whose demeanor was not of the kind to shake the resolution
taken.

Hualpa made his first advance close by the eastern gate of

the garden, to which point he held himself in check lest
the want of arms should prove an apology for refusing the
fight.

“Will the lord Iztlil' stop?” he said, laying his hand on
the Tezcucan's arm.

“I do not know you,” was the answer.

The sleek courtier also stopped, and stared broadly.

“You do not know me! I will mend my fortune in that
respect,” returned the hunter, mildly. “I have heard what
you said so ungraciously of my friend and comrade,” — the
last word he emphasized strongly, — “Guatamozin.” Then
he repeated the offensive words as correctly as if he had been
a practised herald, and concluded, “Now, you know the 'tzin
cannot be here to-night; you also know the reason; but, for
him and in his place, I say, prince though you are, you have
basely slandered an absent enemy.”

“Who are you?” asked the Tezcucan, surprised.

“The comrade of Guatamozin, here to take up his quarrel.”

“You challenge me?” said Iztlil', in disdain.

“Does a prince of Tezcuco, son of 'Hualpilli, require a
blow? Take it then.”

The blow was given.

“See! Do I not bring you princely blood?” And, in his
turn, Hualpa laughed scornfully.

The Tezcucan was almost choked with rage. “This to
me, — to me, — a prince and warrior!” he cried.

A danger not considered by the rash hunter now offered
itself. An outcry would bring down the guard; and, in
the event of his arrest, the united representations of Iztlil'
and his friend would be sufficient to have him sent forthwith
to the tigers. The pride of the prince saved him.

“Have a care, — 't is an assassin! I will call the guard at
the gate!” said the courtier, alarmed.

“Call them not, call them not! I am equal to my own
revenge. O, for a spear or knife, — anything to kill!”

“Will you hear me, — a word?” the hunter said. “I am
without arms also; but they can be had.”

“The arms, the arms!” cried Iztlil', passionately.

“We can make the sentinels at the gate clever by a few
quills of gold; and here are enough to satisfy them.” Hualpa
produced a handful of the money. “Let us try them.
Outside the gate the street is clear.”

The courtier protested, but the prince was determined.

“The arms! Pledge my province and palaces, — everything
for a maquahuitl now.”

They went to the gate and obtained the use of two of the
weapons and as many shields. Then the party passed into
the street, which they found deserted. To avoid the great
thoroughfare to Iztapalapan, they turned to the north, and
kept on as far as the corner of the garden wall.

“Stay we here,” said the courtier. “Short time is all you
want, lord Iztlil'. The feathers on the hawk's wings are not
full-fledged.”

The man spoke confidently; and it must be confessed that
the Tezcucan's reputation and experience justified the assurance.
One advantage the hunter had which his enemies
both overlooked, — a surpassing composure. From a temple
near by a red light flared broadly over the place, redeeming
it from what would otherwise have been vague starlight; by
its aid they might have seen his countenance without a trace
of excitement or passion. One wish, and but one, he had, —
that Guatamozin could witness the trial.

The impatience of the Tezcucan permitted but few preliminaries.

“The gods of Mictlan require no prayers. Stand out!”
he said.

“Strike!” answered Hualpa.

Up rose the glassy blades of the Tezcucan, flashing in the
light; quick and strong the blow, yet it clove but the
empty air. “For the 'tzin!” shouted the hunter, striking
back before the other was half recovered. The shield was
dashed aside; a groan acknowledged a wound in the breast,
and Iztlil' staggered; another blow stretched him on the
pavement. A stream of blood, black in the night, stole
slowly out over the flags. The fight was over. The victor
dropped the bladed end of his weapon, and surveyed his foe,
with astonishment, then pity.

“Your friend is hurt; help him!” he said, turning to the
courtier; but he was alone, — the craven had run. For
one fresh from the hills, this was indeed a dilemma! A
duel and a death in sight of the royal palace! A chill
tingled through his veins. He thought rapidly of the alarm,
the arrest, the king's wrath, and himself given to glut the
monsters in the menagerie. Up rose, also, the many fastnesses
amid the cedared glades of Tihuanco. Could he but
reach them! The slaves of Montezuma, to please a whim,
might pursue and capture a quail or an eagle; but there he
could laugh at pursuit, while in Tenochtitlan he was nowhere
safe.

Sight of the flowing blood brought him out of the panic.
He raised the Tezcucan's arm, and tore the rich vestments
from his breast. The wound was a glancing one; it might
not be fatal after all; to save him were worth the trial. Taking
off his own maxtlatl, he wound it tightly round the body
and over the cut. Across the street there was a small, open
house; lifting the wounded man gently as possible, he carried
him thither, and laid him in a darkened passage. Where
else to convey him he knew not; that was all he could do.
Now for flight, — for Tihuanco. Tireless and swift of foot
shall they be who catch him on the way!

He started for the lake, intending to cross in a canoe rather

than by the causeway; already a square was put behind,
when it occurred to him that the Tezcucan might have slaves
and a palanquin waiting before the palace door. He began,
also, to reproach himself for the baseness of the desertion.
How would the 'tzin have acted? When the same Tezcucan
lay with the dead in the arena, who nursed him back to life?

If Hualpa had wished his patron's presence at the beginning
of the combat, now, flying from imaginary dangers, —
flying, like a startled coward, from his very victory, — much
did he thank the gods that he was alone and unseen. In a
kind of alcove, or resting-place for weary walkers, with
which, by the way, the thoroughfares of Tenochtitlan were
well provided, he sat down, recalled his wonted courage, and
determined on a course more manly, whatever the risk.

Then he retraced his steps, and went boldly to the portal
of the palace, where he found the Tezcucan's palanquin.
The slaves in charge followed him without objection.

“Take your master to his own palace. Be quick!” he
said to them, when the wounded man was transferred to the
carriage.

“It is in Tecuba,” said one of them.

“To Tecuba then.”

He did more; he accompanied the slaves. Along the
street, across the causeway, which never seemed of such
weary length, they proceeded. On the road the Tezcucan
revived. He said little, and was passive in his enemy's
hands. From Tecuba the latter hastened back to Tenochtitlan,
and reached the portico of Xoli, the Chalcan, just as
day broke over the valley.

And such was the hunter's first emprise as a warrior.

2. CHAPTER II.
THE SECOND COMBAT.

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

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

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

Pass we his impatience while waiting an opportunity to

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Arise!” the king said, kindly.

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

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

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

Meantime there was commotion in many quarters.

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

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

Montezuma regarded him attentively.

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are you?”

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

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

“He is my friend and master, O king.”

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

Hualpa faltered not.

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

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

“And you carried him to Tecuba?”

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

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

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

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

“Speak! I give you liberty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Montezuma stood up.

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

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

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

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

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

“No, you are free.”

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

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

3. CHAPTER III.
THE PORTRAIT.

NEXT day, after the removal of the noon comfitures,
and when the princess Tula had gone to the hammock
for the usual siesta, Nenetzin rushed into her apartment unusually
excited.

“O, I have something so strange to tell you, — something
so strange!” she cried, throwing herself upon the hammock.

Her face was bright and very beautiful. Tula looked at
her a moment, then put her lips lovingly to the smooth forehead.

“By the Sun! as our royal father sometimes swears, my
sister seems in earnest.”

“Indeed I am; and you will go with me, will you not?”

“Ah! you want to take me to the garden to see the dead
tiger, or, perhaps, the warrior who slew it, or — now I have
it — you have seen another minstrel.”

Tula expected the girl to laugh, but was surprised to see
her eyes fill with tears. She changed her manner instantly,
and bade the slave who had been sitting by the hammock
fanning her, to retire. Then she said, —

“You jest so much, Nenetzin, that I do not know when
you are serious. I love you: now tell me what has happened.”

The answer was given in a low voice.

“You will think me foolish, and so I am, but I cannot
help it. Do you recollect the dream I told you the night on
the chinampa?”

“The night Yeteve came to us? I recollect.”

“You know I saw a man come and sit down in our father's

palace, — a stranger with blue eyes and fair face, and hair and
beard like the silk of the ripening maize. I told you I loved
him, and would have none but him; and you laughed at me,
and said he was the god Quetzal'. O Tula, the dream has
come back to me many times since; so often that it seems,
when I am awake, to have been a reality. I am childish,
you think, and very weak; you may even pity me; but I
have grown to look upon the blue-eyed as something lovable
and great, and thought of him is a part of my mind; so
much so that it is useless for me to say he is not, or that I
am loving a shadow. And now, O dear Tula, now comes the
strange part of my story. Yesterday, you know, a courier
from Cempoalla brought our father some pictures of the
strangers lately landed from the sea. This morning I heard
there were portraits among them, and could not resist a
curiosity to see them; so I went, and almost the first one I
came to, — do not laugh, — almost the first one I came to
was the picture of him who comes to me so often in my
dreams. I looked and trembled. There indeed he was; there
were the blue eyes, the yellow hair, the white face, even the
dress, shining as silver, and the plumed crest. I did not stay
to look at anything else, but hurried here, scarcely knowing
whether to be glad or afraid. I thought if you went with
me I would not be afraid. Go you must; we will look at the
portrait together.” And she hid her face, sobbing like a child.

“It is too wonderful for belief. I will go,” said Tula.

She arose, and the slave brought and threw over her
shoulders the long white scarf so invariably a part of an
Aztec woman's costume. Then the sisters took their way to
the chamber where the pictures were kept, — the same into
which Hualpa had been led the night before. The king was
elsewhere giving audience, and his clerks and attendants
were with him. So the two were allowed to indulge their
curiosity undisturbed.

Nenetzin went to a pile of manuscripts lying on the floor.
The elder sister was startled by the first picture exposed; for
she recognized the handiwork, long since familiar to her, of
the 'tzin. Nor was she less surprised by the subject, which
was a horse, apparently a nobler instrument for a god's revenge
than man himself.

Next she saw pictured a horse, its rider mounted, and in
Christian armor, and bearing shield, lance, and sword. Then
came a cannon, the gunner by the carriage, his match lighted,
while a volume of flame and smoke was bursting from the
throat of the piece. A portrait followed; she lifted it up,
and trembled to see the hero of Nenetzin's dream!

“Did I not tell you so, O Tula?” said the girl, in a
whisper.

“The face is pleasant and noble,” the other answered,
thoughtfully; “but I am afraid. There is evil in the smile,
evil in the blue eyes.”

The rest of the manuscripts they left untouched. The one
absorbed them; but with what different feelings! Nenetzin
was a-flutter with pleasure, restrained by awe. Impressed
by the singularity of the vision, as thus realized, a passionate
wish to see the man or god, whichever he was, and hear his
voice, may be called her nearest semblance to reflection.
Like a lover in the presence of the beloved, she was glad and
contented, and asked nothing of the future. But with Tula,
older and wiser, it was different. She was conscious of the
novelty of the incident; at the same time a presentiment, a
gloomy foreboding, filled her soul. In slumber we sometimes
see spectres, and they sit by us and smile; yet we shrink,
and cannot keep down anticipations of ill. So Tula was affected
by what she beheld.

She laid the portrait softly down, and turned to Nenetzin,
who had now no need to deprecate her laugh.

“The ways of the gods are most strange. Something tells
me this is their work. I am afraid; let us go.”

And they retired, and the rest of the day, swinging in the
hammock, they talked of the dream and the portrait, and
wondered what would come of them.

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE TRIAL.

HUALPA'S adventure in the garden made a great stir
in the palace and the city. Profound was the
astonishment, therefore, when it became known that the
savior of the king and the murderer of the Tezcucan were
one and the same person, and that, in the latter character, he
was to be taken into court and tried for his life, Montezuma
himself acting as accuser. Though universally discredited,
the story had the effect of drawing an immense attendance
at the trial.

“Ho, Chalcan! Fly not your friends in that way!”

So the broker was saluted by some men nobly dressed,
whom he was about passing on the great street. He stopped,
and bowed very low.

“A pleasant day, my lords! Your invitation honors me;
the will of his patrons should always be law to the poor
keeper of a portico. I am hurrying to the trial.”

“Then stay with us. We also have a curiosity to see the
assassin.”

“My good lord speaks harshly. The boy, whom I love as
a son, cannot be what you call him.”

The noble laughed. “Take it not ill, Chalcan. So much
do I honor the hand that slew the base Tezcucan that I care

not whether it was in fair fight or by vantage taken. But
what do you know about the king being accuser to-day?”

“So he told the boy.”

“Incredible!”

“I will not quarrel with my lord on that account,” rejoined
the broker. “A more generous master than Montezuma
never lived. Are not the people always complaining of
his liberality? At the last banquet, for inventing a simple
drink, did he not give me, his humblest slave, a goblet fit
for another king?”

“And what is your drink, though ever so excellent, to the
saving his life? Is not that your argument, Chalcan?”

“Yes, my lord, and at such peril! Ah, you should have
seen the ocelot when taken from the tank! The keepers
told me it was the largest and fiercest in the museum.”

Then Xoli proceeded to edify his noble audience with all
the gossip pertaining to the adventure; and as his object was
to take into court some friends for the luckless hunter more
influential than himself, he succeeded admirably. Every few
steps there were such expressions as, “It would be pitiful
if so brave a fellow should die!” “If I were king, by the
Sun, I would enrich him from the possessions of the Tezcucan!”
And as they showed no disposition to interrupt him,
his pleading lasted to the house of justice, where the company
arrived not any too soon to procure comfortable seats.

The court-house stood at the left of the street, a little retired
from the regular line of buildings. The visitors had
first to pass through a spacious hall, which brought them to
a court-yard cemented under foot, and on all sides bounded
with beautiful houses. Then, on the right, they saw the entrance
to the chamber of justice, grotesquely called the Tribunal
of God,[2] in which, for ages, had been administered a
code, vindictive, but not without equity. The great door

was richly carved; the windows high and broad, and lined
with fluted marble; while a projecting cornice, tastefully finished,
gave airiness and beauty to the venerable structure.

The party entered the room with profoundest reverence.
On a dais sat the judge; in front of him was the stool bearing
the skull with the emerald crown and gay plumes. Turning
from the plain tapestry along the walls, the spectators
failed not to admire the jewels that blazed with almost starry
splendor from the centre of the canopy above him.

The broker, not being of the class of privileged nobles,
found a seat with difficulty. To his comfort, however, he
was placed by the side of an acquaintance.

“You should have come earlier, Chalcan; the judge has
twice used the arrow this morning.”

“Indeed!”

“Once against a boy too much given to pulque,— a drunkard.
With the other doubtless you were acquainted.”

“Was he noble?”

“He had good blood, at least, being the son of a Tetzmellocan,
who died immensely rich. The witnesses said the
fellow squandered his father's estate almost as soon as it came
to him.”

“Better had he been born a thief,”[3] said Xoli, coolly.

Suddenly, four heralds, with silver maces, entered the
court-room, announcing the monarch. The people fell upon
their knees, and so remained until he was seated before the
dais. Then they arose, and, with staring eyes, devoured the
beauty of his costume, and the mysterious sanction of manner,
office, power, and custom, which the lovers of royalty
throughout the world have delighted to sum up in the one
word, — majesty. The hum of voices filled the chamber.
Then, by another door, in charge of officers, Hualpa appeared,

and was led to the dais opposite the king. Before
an Aztecan court there was no ceremony. The highest and
the lowliest stood upon a level: such, at least, was the beautiful
theory.

So intense was the curiosity to see the prisoner that the
spectators pressed upon each other, for the moment mindless
of the monarch's presence.

“A handsome fellow!” said an old cacique, approvingly.

“Only a boy, my lord!” suggested the critic.

“And not fierce-looking, either.”

“Yes —”

“No —”

“He might kill, but in fair fight: so I judge him.”

And that became the opinion amongst the nobles.

“Your friend seems confident, Xoli. I like him,” remarked
the Chalcan's acquaintance.

“Hush! The king accuses.”

“The king, said you!” And the good man, representing
the commonalty, was frozen into silence.

In another quarter, one asked, “Does he not wear the
'tzin's livery?”

The person interrogated covered his mouth with both
hands, then drew to the other's ear, and whispered, —

“Yes, he 's a 'tzin's man, and that, they say, is his
crime.”

The sharp voice of the executive officer of the court rang
out, and there was stillness almost breathless. Up rose the
clerk, a learned man, keeper of the records, and read the indictment;
that done, he laid the portrait of the accused on
the table before the judge; then the trial began.

The judge, playing carelessly with the fatal arrow, said, —
“Hualpa, son of Tepaja, the Tihuancan, stand up, and answer.”

And the prisoner arose, and saluted court and king, and

answered, “It is true, that on the night of the banquet, I
fought the Tezcucan; by favor of the gods, I defeated, without
slaying him. He is here in person to acquit me.”

“Bring the witness,” said the judge.

Some of the officers retired; during their absence a solemn
hush prevailed; directly they returned, carrying a palanquin.
Right before the dais they set it down, and drew
aside the curtains. Then slowly the Tezcucan came forth, —
weak, but unconquered. At the judge he looked, and at the
king, and all the fire of his haughty soul burned in the glance.
Borrowing strength from his pride, he raised his head high,
and said, scornfully, —

“The power of my father's friend is exceeding great; he
speaks, and all things obey him. I am sick and suffering;
but he bade me come, and I am here. What new shame
awaits me?”

Montezuma answered, never more a king than then:
“'Hualpilli was wise; his son is foolish; for the memory of
the one I spare the other. The keeper of this sacred place
will answer why you are brought here. Look that he pardons
you lightly as I have.”

Then the judge said, “Prince of Tezcuco, you are here by
my order. There stands one charged with your murder.
Would you have had him suffer the penalty? You have
dared be insolent. See, O prince, that before to-morrow you
pay the treasurer ten thousand quills of gold. See to it.”
And, returning the portrait to the clerk, he added, “Let the
accused go acquit.”

“Ah! said I not so, said I not so?” muttered the Chalcan,
rubbing his hands joyfully, and disturbing the attentive people
about him.

“Hist, hist!” they said, impatiently. “What more?
hearken!”

Hualpa was kneeling before the monarch.

“Most mighty king,” he said, “if what I have done be
worthy reward, grant me the discharge of this fine.”

“How!” said Montezuma, amazed. “The Tezcucan is
your enemy!”

“Yet he fought me fairly, and is a warrior.”

The eyes of the king sought those of Iztlil'.

“What says the son of 'Hualpilli?”

The latter raised his head with a flash of the old pride.
“He is a slave of Guatamozin's: I scorn the intercession.
I am yet a prince of Tezcuco.”

Then the monarch went forward, and sat by the judge.
Not a sound was heard, till he spoke.

“Arise, and come near,” he said to Hualpa. “I will do
what becomes me.”

His voice was low and tremulous with feeling, and over
his face came the peculiar suffusion of sadness afterwards its
habitual expression. The hunter kissed the floor at his feet,
and remained kneeling. Then he continued, —

“Son of the Tihuancan, I acknowledge I owe my life to
you, and I call all to hear the acknowledgment. If the people
have thought this prosecution part of my gratitude, — if
they have marvelled at my appearing as your accuser, much
have they wronged me. I thought of reward higher than
they could have asked for you; but I also thought to try
you. A slave is not fit to be a chief, nor is every chief fit
to be a king. I thought to try you: I am satisfied. When
your fame goes abroad, as it will; when the minstrels sing
your valor; when Tenochtitlan talks of the merchant's son,
who, in the garden, slew the tiger, and saved the life of
Montezuma, — let them also tell how Montezuma rewarded
him; let them say I made him noble.”

Thereupon he arose, and transferred the panache from
his head to Hualpa's. Those close by looked at the gift,
and saw, for the first time, that it was not the crown,

but the crest of a chief or cacique. Then they knew
that the trial was merely to make more public the honors
designed.

“Let them say further,” he continued, “that with my own
hand I made him a warrior of the highest grade.” And, bending
over the adventurer, he clasped around his neck the collar
of the supreme military order of the realm.[4] “Nor is
that all. Rank, without competence, is a vexation and
shame. At the foot of Chapultepec, on the shore of the
lake, lie an estate and a palace of which I have been
proud. Let it be said, finally, that I gave them to enrich
him and his forever.” He paused, and turned coldly to
the Tezcucan. “But as to the son of 'Hualpilli, his fine
must stand; such pride must be punished. He shall pay
the gold, or forfeit his province.” Then, outstretching
toward the audience both his arms, he said, so as to be
heard throughout the chamber, “Now, O my children,
justice has been done!”

The words were simple; but the manner, royal as a king's
and patriarchal as a pontiff's, brought every listener to his
knees.

“Stand up, my lord Hualpa! Take your place in my
train. I will return to the palace.”

With that he passed out.

And soon there was but one person remaining, — Iztlil', the
Tezcucan. Brought from Tlacopan by officers of the court,
too weak to walk, without slaves to help him, at sight of the
deserted hall his countenance became haggard, the light in
his hollow eyes came and went, and his broad breast heaved
passionately; in that long, slow look he measured the depth
of his fall.

“O Tezcuco, Tezcuco, city of my fathers!” he cried aloud.
“This is the last wrong to the last of thy race of kings.”

A little after he was upon a bench exhausted, his head
covered by his mantle. Then a hand was laid upon his
shoulder; he looked up and saw Hualpa.

“How now! Has the base-born come to enjoy his triumph?
I cannot strike. Laugh and revile me; but remember,
mine is the blood of kings. The gods loved my
father, and will not abandon his son. In their names I curse
you!”

“Tezcucan, you are proud to foolishness,” said the hunter,
calmly. “I came to serve you. Within an hour I have become
master of slaves —”

“And were yourself a slave!”

“Well, I won my freedom; I slew a beast and conquered
a — But, prince, my slaves are at the door. Command them
to Tlacopan.”

“Play courtier to those who have influence; lean your
ambition upon one who can advance it. I am undone.”

“I am not a courtier. The service I offer you springs
from a warrior's motive. I propose it, not to a man of
power, but to a prince whose courage is superior to his
fortune.”

For a moment the Tezcucan studied the glowing face;
then his brows relaxed, and, sighing like a woman, and like
a woman overcome by the unexpected gentleness, he bowed
his head, and covered his face with his hands, that he might
not be accused of tears.

“Let me call the slaves, O prince,” said Hualpa.

Thrice he clapped his hands, whereat four tattooed tamanes
stalked into the chamber with a palanquin. Iztlil' took seat
in the carriage, and was being borne away, when he called
the hunter.

“A word,” he said, in a voice from which all passion was

gone. “Though my enemy, you have been generous, and remembered
my misfortunes when all others forsook me. Take
with you this mark. I do not ask you to wear it, for the
time is nearly come when the son of 'Hualpilli will be proscribed
throughout the valley; but keep it in witness that I,
the son of a king, acknowledged your right and fitness to be
a noble. Farewell.”

Hualpa could not refuse a present so delicately given; extending
his hand, he received a bracelet of gold, set with an
Aztec diamond of immense value. He clasped it upon his
arm, and followed the carriage into the street.