University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE KING DEMANDS A SIGN OF MUALOX.

NEXT morning Mualox ascended the tower of his old
Cû. The hour was so early that the stars were still
shining in the east. He fed the fire in the great urn until
it burst into cheery flame; then, spreading his mantle on
the roof, he laid down to woo back the slumber from which
he had been taken. By and by, a man, armed with a javelin,
and clad in cotton mail, came up the steps, and spoke to
the paba.

“Does the servant of his god sleep this morning?”

Mualox arose, and kissed the pavement.

“Montezuma is welcome. The blessing of the gods upon
him!”

“Of all the gods, Mualox?”

“Of all, — even Quetzal's, O king!”

“Arise! Last night I bade you wait me here. I said I
would come with the morning star; yonder it is, and I am
faithful. The time is fittest for my business.”

Mualox arose, and stood before the monarch with bowed
head and crossed hands.

“Montezuma knows his servant.”

“Yet I seek to know him better. Mualox, Mualox, have
you room for a perfect love aside from Quetzal'? What would
you do for me?”

“Ask me rather what I would not do.”

“Hear me, then. Lately you have been a counsellor in
my palace; with my policy and purposes you are acquainted;
you knew of the march to Cholula, and the order to attack
the strangers; you were present when they were resolved
—”

“And opposed them. Witness for me to Quetzal', O king!”

“Yes, you prophesied evil and failure from them, and
for that I seek you now. Tell me, O Mualox, spake you
then as a prophet?”

The paba ventured to look up and study the face of the
questioner as well as he could in the flickering light.

“I know the vulgar have called me a magician,” he said,
slowly; “and sometimes they have spoken of my commerce
with the stars. To say that either report is true, were
wrong to the gods. Regardful of them, I cannot answer
you; but I can say — and its sufficiency depends on your
wisdom — your slave, O king, is warned of your intention.
You come asking a sign; you would have me prove my
power, that it may be seen.”

“By the Sun —”

“Nay, — if my master will permit, — another word.”

“I came to hear you; say on.”

“You spoke of me as a councillor in the palace. How
may we measure the value of honors? By the intent with
which they are given? O king, had you not thought the
poor paba would use his power for the betrayal of his god;
had you not thought he could stand between you and the
wrath —”

“No more, Mualox, no more!” said Montezuma. “I confess
I asked you to the palace that you might befriend me.
Was I wrong to count on your loyalty? Are you not of
Anahuac? And further; I confess I come now seeking a
sign. I command you to show me the future!”

“If you do indeed believe me the beloved of Quetzal' and
his prophet, then are you bold, — even for a king.”

“Until I wrong the gods, why should I fear? I, too, am
a priest.”

“Be wise, O my master! Let the future alone; it is
sown with sorrows to all you love.”

“Have done, paba!” the king exclaimed, angrily. “I am
weary, — by the Sun! I am weary of such words.”

The holy man bowed reverently, and touched the floor
with his palm, saying, —

“Mualox lays his heart at his master's feet. In the time
when his beard was black and his spirit young, he began
the singing of two songs, — one of worship to Quetzal', the
other of love for Montezuma.”

These words he said tremulously; and there was that in
the manner, in the bent form, in the low obeisance, which
soothed the impatience of the king, so that he turned away,
and looked out over the city. And day began to gild the
east; in a short time the sun would claim his own. Still the
monarch thought, still Mualox stood humbly waiting his
pleasure. At length the former approached the fire.

“Mualox,” he said, speaking slowly, “I crossed the lake
the other day, and talked with Guatamozin about the
strangers. He satisfied me they are not teules, and, more, he
urged me to attack them in Cholula.”

“The 'tzin!” exclaimed Mualox, in strong surprise.

Montezuma knew the love of the paba for the young
cacique rested upon his supposed love of Quetzal'; so he
continued, —

“The attack was planned by him; only he would have
sent a hundred thousand warriors to help the citizens. The
order is out; the companies are there; blood will run in the
streets of the holy city to-day. The battle waits on the sun,
and it is nearly up. Mualox,” — his manner became solemn,

— “Mualox, on this day's work bides my peace. The morning
comes: by all your prophet's power, tell me what the
night will bring!”

Sorely was the paba troubled. The king's faith in his
qualities as prophet he saw was absolute, and that it was too
late to deny the character.

“Does Montezuma believe the Sun would tell me what it
withholds from its child?”

“Quetzal', not the Sun, will speak to you.”

“But Quetzal' is your enemy.”

Montezuma laid his hand on the paba's. “I have heard
you speak of love for me; prove it now, and your reward
shall be princely. I will give you a palace, and many slaves,
and riches beyond count.”

Mualox bent his head, and was silent. Enjoyment of a
palace meant abandonment of the old Cû and sacred service.
Just then the wail of a watcher from a distant temple
swept faintly by; he heard the cry, and from his surplice
drew a trumpet, and through it sung with a swelling
voice, —

“Morning is come! Morning is come! To the temples,
O worshippers! Morning is come!”

And the warning hymn, the same that had been heard
from the old tower for so many ages, heard heralding suns
while the city was founding, given now, amid the singer's
sore perplexity, was an assurance to his listening deity that
he was faithful against kingly blandishments as well as
kingly neglect. While the words were being repeated from
the many temples, he stood attentive to them, then he turned,
and said, —

“Montezuma is generous to his slave; but ambition is a
goodly tree gone to dust in my heart; and if it were not, O
king, what are all your treasures to that in the golden chamber?
Nay, keep your offerings, and let me keep the temple.

I hunger after no riches except such as lie in the love of
Quetzal'.”

“Then tell me,” said the monarch, impatiently, — “without
price, tell me his will.”

“I cannot, I am but a man; but this much I can —” He
faltered; the hands crossed upon his breast closed tightly,
and the breast labored painfully.

“I am waiting. Speak! What can you?”

“Will the king trust his servant, and go with him down
into the Cû again?”

“To talk with the Morning, this is the place,” said the
monarch, too well remembering the former introduction to
the mysteries of the ancient house.

“My master mistakes me for a juggling soothsayer; he
thinks I will look into the halls of the Sun through burning
drugs, and the magic of unmeaning words. I have nothing
to do with the Morning; I have no incantations. I am but
the dutiful slave of Quetzal', the god, and Montezuma, the
king.”

The royal listener looked away again, debating with his
fears, which, it is but just to say, were not of harm from
the paba. Men unfamiliar with the custom do not think
lightly of encountering things unnatural; in this instance,
moreover, favor was not to be hoped from the god through
whom the forbidden knowledge was to come. But curiosity
and an uncontrollable interest in the result of the affair in
Cholula overcame his apprehensions.

“I will go with you. I am ready,” he said.

The old man stooped, and touched the roof, and, rising,
said, “I have a little world of my own, O king; and though
without sun and stars, and the grand harmony which only
the gods can give, it has its wonders and beauty, and is to
me a place of perpetual delight. Bide my return a little
while. I will go and prepare the way for you.”

Resuming his mantle, he departed, leaving the king to
study the new-born day. When he came back, the valley
and the sky were full of the glory of the sun full risen.
And they descended to the azoteas, thence to the court-yard.
Taking a lamp hanging in a passage-door, the holy
man, with the utmost reverence, conducted his guest into
the labyrinth. At first, the latter tried to recollect the
course taken, the halls and stairs passed, and the stories
descended; but the thread was too often broken, the light
too dim, the way too intricate. Soon he yielded himself
entirely to his guide, and followed, wondering much at the
massiveness of the building, and the courage necessary to
live there alone. Ignorant of the zeal which had become
the motive of the paba's life, inspiring him with incredible
cunning and industry, and equally without a conception of
the power there is in one idea long awake in the soul and
nursed into mania, it was not singular that, as they went,
the monarch should turn the very walls into witnesses corroborant
of the traditions of the temple and the weird
claims of its keeper.

Passing the kitchen, and descending the last flight of steps,
they came to the trap-door in the passage, beside which lay
the ladder of ropes.

“Be of courage a little longer, O king,” said Mualox,
flinging the ladder through the doorway. “We are almost
there.”

And the paba, leaving the lamp above, committed himself
confidently to the ropes and darkness below. A suspicion
of his madness occurred to the king, whose situation
called for consideration; in fact, he hesitated to
follow farther; twice he was called to; and when, finally,
he did go down, the secret of his courage was an idea that
they were about to emerge from the dusty caverns into
the freer air of day; for, while yet in the passage, he

heard the whistle of a bird, and fancied he detected a fragrance
as of flowers.

“Your hand now, O king, and Mualox will lead you into
his world.”

The motives that constrained the holy man to this step are
not easily divined. Of all the mysteries of the house, that
hall was by him the most cherished; and of all men the king
was the last whom he would have voluntarily chosen as a
participant in its secrets, since he alone had power to break
them up. The necessity must have been very great; possibly
he felt his influence and peculiar character dependent
upon yielding to the pressure; the moment the step was
resolved upon, however, nothing remained but to use the
mysteries for the protection of the abode; and with that
purpose he went to prepare the way.

Much study would most of us have required to know
what was essential to the purpose; not so the paba. He
merely trimmed the lamps already lighted, and lighted and
disposed others. His plan was to overwhelm the visitor by
the first glance; without warning, without time to study
details, to flash upon him a crowd of impossibilities. In the
mass, the generality, the whole together, a god's hand was
to be made apparent to a superstitious fancy.