University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
THE PUBLIC OPINION MAKES WAY.

IN the tianguez, one market-day, there was an immense
crowd, yet trade was dull; indeed, comparatively nothing
in that way was being done, although the display of commodities
was rich and tempting.

“Holy gods, what is to become of us?” cried a Cholulan
merchant.

“You! You are rich. Dulness of the market cannot
hurt you. But I, — I am going to ruin.”

The second speaker was a slave-dealer. Only the day before,
he had, at great cost, driven into the city a large train
of his “stock” from the wilderness beyond the Great River.

“Tell me, my friend,” said a third party, addressing the
slave-dealer, though in hearing of the whole company,
“heard you ever of a slave owning a slave?”

“Not I.”

“Heard you ever of a man going into the market to buy
a slave, when he was looking to become one himself?”

“Never.”

“You have it then, — the reason nobody has been to your
exhibition.”

The bystanders appeared to assent to the proposition, which
all understood but the dealer in men, who begged an explanation.

“Yes, yes. You have just come home. I had forgotten.
A bad time to be abroad. But listen, friend.” The
speaker quietly took his pipe from his mouth, and knocked
the ashes out of the bowl. “We belong to Malinche; you
know who he is.”

“I am not so certain,” the dealer replied, gravely. “The
most I can say is, I have heard of him.”

“O, he is a god —”

“With all a man's wants and appetites,” interposed one.

“Yes, I was about to say that. For instance, day before
yesterday he sent down the king's order for three thousand
escaupiles. What need —”

“They were for his Tlascalans.”

“O, possibly. For whom were the cargoes of cotton cloth
delivered yesterday?”

“His women,” answered the other, quickly.

“And the two thousand sandals?”

“For his soldiers?”

“And the gold of which the market was cleaned last
week? And the gold now being hunted in Tustepec and
Chinantla? And the tribute being levied so harshly in all
the provinces, — for whom are they?”

“For Malinche himself.”

“Yes, the god Malinche. Slave of a slave! My friend,”
said the chief speaker to the slave-dealer, “there is no such
relation known to the law, and for that reason we cannot

buy of you. Better go back with all you have, and let the
wilderness have its own again.”

“But the goods of which you spoke; certainly they were
paid for,” said the dealer, turning pale.

“No. There is nothing left of the royal revenue. Even
the treasure which the last king amassed, and walled up in
the old palace, has been given to Malinche. The empire is
like a man in one respect, at least, — when beggared, it cannot
pay.”

“And the king?”

“He is Malinche's, too.”

“Yes,” added the bystander; “for nowadays we never
see his signet, except in the hands of one of the strangers.”

The dealer in men drew a long breath, something as near
a sigh as could come from one of his habits, and said, “I remember
Mualox and his prophecy; and, hearing these things,
I know not what to think.”

“We have yet one hope,” said the chief spokesman, as if
desirous of concluding the conversation.

“And that?”

“Is the 'tzin Guatamo.”

“What luck, Pepite?”

“Bad, very bad.”

The questioner was the wife of the man questioned, who
had just returned from the market. Throwing aside his empty
baskets, he sat down in the shade of a bridge spanning one
of the canals, and, locking his hands across his bare knees,
looked gloomily in the water. His canoe, with others, was
close at hand.

The wife, without seeming to notice his dejection, busied
herself setting out their dinner, which was humble as themselves,
being of boiled maize, tuna figs, and tecuitlatl, or
cheese of the lake. When the man began to eat, he began

to talk, — a peculiarity in which he was not altogether singular.

“Bad luck, very bad,” he repeated. “I took my baskets
to the old stand. The flowers were fresh and sweet, gathered,
you know, only last night. The market was full of people,
many of whom I knew to be rich enough to buy at two
prices; they came, and looked, and said, `They are very
nice, Pepite, very nice,' but did not offer to buy. By and
by the sun went up, and stood overhead, and still no purchaser,
not even an offer. It was very discouraging, I tell
you; and it would have been much more so, if I had not
pretty soon noticed that the market-people around me, fruiterers
and florists, were doing no better than I. Then I
walked about to see my friends; and in the porticos and
booths as elsewhere in the square, — no trade; plenty
of people, but no trade. The jewellers had covered their
fronts with flowers, — I never saw richer, — you should have
been there! — and crowds stood about breathing the sweet
perfume; but as to purchasing, they did nothing of the sort.
In fact, may the mitlou[1] of our little house fly away to-night,
if, in the whole day, I saw an instance of trade, or so
much as a cocoa-bean pass from one hand to another!”

“It has been so many days now, only not quite so bad,
Pepite,” the wife said, struggling to talk cheerfully. “What
did they say was the cause? Did any one speak of that?”

“O yes, everybody. Nothing else was talked. `What
is the use of working? Why buy or sell? We have no
longer a king or country. We are all slaves now. We
belong to Malinche. Afterwhile, because we are poor,
he will take us off to some of his farms, like that one he
has down in Oajaca, and set us to working, and keep the
fruits, while he gives us the pains. No, we do not want

anything; the less we have, the lighter will be our going
down.' That is the way the talk went all day.”

For the first time the woman threw off her pretence
of cheerfulness, and was still, absorbed in listening and
thinking.

“Belong to Malinche! We? And our little ones at
home? Not while the gods live!” she said, confidently.

“Why not? You forget. Malinche is himself a god.”

A doubt shook the strong faith of the wife; and soon,
gloomy and hopeless as Pepite, she sat down by him, and
partook of the humble fare.

“The nation is dying. Let us elect another king,” said
an old cacique to a crowd of nobles, of whom he was the
centre, in the pulque chamber of the Chalcan. Bold words,
which, half a year before, would have been punished on the
spot; now, they were heard in silence, if not with approbation.
“A king has no right to survive his glory,” the
veteran continued; “and how may one describe his shame
and guilt, when, from fear of death, he suffers an enemy to
use him, and turn his power against his people!”

He stopped, and for a time the hush was threatening;
then there was clapping of hands, and voices cried out, —
“Good, good!”

“May the gods forgive me, and witness that the speech
was from love of country, not hatred of Montezuma,” said
the cacique, deferentially.

“Whom would you have in his place? Name him,”
shouted an auditor.

“Montezuma, — if he will come back to us.”

“He will not; he has already refused. Another, — give
us another!”

“Be it so!” said the veteran, with decision. “My life

is forfeit for what I have said. The cell that holds the king
Cacama and the good lord Cuitlahua yawns for me also. I
will speak.” Quaffing a bowl of pulque, he added, “Of all
Anahuac, O my brothers, who, with the fewest years, is
wisest of head and bravest of heart, and therefore fittest to
be king in time like this?”

The question was of the kind that addresses itself peculiarly
to individual preferences, — the kind which has afflicted
the world with its saddest and greatest wars; yet,
strange to say, the company, as with one voice, and instantly,
answered, —

“The 'tzin, the 'tzin. Guatamo, the 'tzin!”

In the evening time three pabas clomb the stairs by which
the top of the turret of Huitzil' on the teocallis was reached
from the azoteas. Arrived at the top, they found there the
night-watcher, who recognized the teotuctli, and knelt to
him.

“Arise, and get you down now,” the arch-priest said;
“we would be alone awhile.”

On a pedestal of stone, or rather of many stones, rested
the brazier, or urn, that held the sacred fire. In it crackled
the consuming fagots, while over it, with unsteady brilliancy,
leaped the flames which, for so many leagues away,
were as a beacon in the valley. The three stopped in the
shadow of the urn, and might have studied the city, or
those subjects greater and more fascinating, — mysteries
now, to-night, forever, — Space, and its children, the Stars;
but it was not to indulge a common passion or uncertain
speculations that Tlalac had brought from their temples
and altars his companions, the high-priests of Cholula and
Tezcuco. And there for a long time they remained, the
grave and holy servants of the gods of the New World,
talking earnestly, on what subject and with what conclusion
we may gather.

“He is of us no longer,” said Tlalac, impressively. “He
has abandoned his people; to a stranger he has surrendered
himself, his throne and power; he spends his days learning,
from a new priesthood, a new creed, and the things that pertain
to a god of whom everything is unknown to us, except
that he is the enemy of our gods. I bore his desertion
patiently, as we always bear with those we love. By permission,
as you heard, he came one day to worship Huitzil';
the permission was on condition that there should be no
sacrifices. Worship without sacrifice, my brethren! Can
such thing be? When he came, he was offered rescue; the
preparations were detailed to him; he knew they could not
fail; the nobles begged him to accept the offer; I warned
him against refusal; yet, of choice, he went back to Malinche.
Then patience almost forsook me. Next, as you
also know, came the unpardonable sin. In the chamber below
— the chamber sanctified by the presence of the mighty
Huitzil' — I will give you to see, if you wish, a profanation
the like of which came never to the most wicked dream of
the most wicked Aztec, — an altar to the new and unknown
God. And to-morrow, if you have the curiosity, I will give
you to see the further sight, — a service, mixed of singing
and prayer, by priests of the strange God, at the same time,
and side by side with the worship of our gods, — all with
the assent — nay, by order — of Montezuma. Witness these
crimes once, and your patience will go quickly, whereas
mine went slowly; but it is gone, and in its stead lives
only the purpose to do what the gods command.”

“Let us obey the gods!” said the reverend high-priest of
Cholula.

“Let us obey the gods!” echoed his holy brother of
Tezcuco.

“Hear me, then,” said Tlalac, with increased fervor. “I
will give their command. `Raise up a new king, and save

yourselves, by saving our worship in the land!' so the gods
say. And I am ready.”

“But the law,” said the Tezcucan.

“By the law,” answered Tlalac, “there can be kings only
in the order of election.”

“And so?”

“Montezuma — must — DIE!”

Tlalac said these terrible words slowly, but firmly.

“And who will be the instrument?” they asked.

“Let us trust the gods,” he answered. “For love of
them men go down to death every day; and of the many
lovers, doubt not some one will be found to do their bidding.”

And so it was agreed.

And so, slowly but surely, the Public Opinion made its
way, permeating all classes, — laborers, merchants, warriors,
and priests.