University of Virginia Library

1. BOOK ONE.

1. CHAPTER I.
OUR MOTHER HAS A FORTUNE WAITING US YONDER.

THE Spanish Calendar is simpler than the Aztecan.
In fact, Christian methods, of whatever nature, are
better than heathen.

So, then, by the Spanish Calendar, March, 1519, had
about half spent itself in the valley of Anahuac, which
was as yet untrodden by gold-seeker, with cross-hilted sword
at his side, and on his lips a Catholic oath. Near noon of
one of its fairest days a traveller came descending the western
slope of the Sierra de Ahualco. Since the dawn his
path had been amongst hills and crags; at times traversing
bald rocks that towered to where the winds blew chill, then
dipping into warm valleys, where were grass, flowers, and
streamlets, and sometimes forests of cedar and fir, — labyrinths
in which there reigned a perpetual twilight.

Toilsome as was the way, the traveller, young and strong,
marched lightly. His dress, of the kind prevalent in his
country, was provincial, and with few signs of rank. He
had sandals of buffalo-hide, fitted for climbing rocks and
threading pathless woods; a sort of white tunic, covering
his body from the neck to the knees, leaving bare the arms

from the shoulder; maxtlatl and tilmatli — sash and mantle
— of cotton, blue tinted, and void of ornament; on the
wrist of his left arm he wore a substantial golden bracelet,
and in both ears jewelled pendants; while an ebony band,
encircling his head, kept his straight black locks in place,
and permitted a snow-white bird's-wing for decoration.
There was a shield on his left arm, framed of wood, and
covered with padded cloth, and in the left hand a javelin
barbed with 'itzli; at his back swung a maquahuitl, and a
quiver filled with arrows; an unstrung bow in his right
hand completed his equipments, and served him in lieu
of staff. An ocelot, trudging stealthily behind him, was
his sole companion.

In the course of his journey he came to a crag that sank
bluffly down several hundred feet, commanding a fine prospect.
Though the air was cold, he halted. Away to
the northwest stretched the beautiful valley of Anahuac,
dotted with hamlets and farm-houses, and marked with the
silver tracery of streams. Far across the plain, he caught a
view of the fresh waters of Lake Chalco, and beyond that,
blue in the distance and faintly relieved against the sky, the
royal hill of Chapultepec, with its palaces and cypress forests.
In all the New World there was no scene comparable with
that he looked upon, — none its rival for beauty, none
where the heavens seemed so perfectly melted into earth.
There were the most renowned cities of the Empire; from
that plain went the armies whose marches were all triumphs;
in that air hovered the gods awaiting sacrifices; into that sky
rose the smoke of the inextinguishable fires; there shone
the brightest suns, and lingered the longest summers; and
yonder dwelt that king — in youth a priest, then a warrior,
now the terror of all nations — whose signet on the hand of
a slave could fill the land with rustling of banners.

No traveller, I ween, could look unmoved on the picture;

ours sat down, and gazed with brimful eyes and a beating
heart. For the first time he was beholding the matchless
vale so overhung with loveliness and full of the monuments
of a strange civilization. So rapt was he that he did not
observe the ocelot come and lay its head in his lap, like a
dog seeking caresses. “Come, boy!” he said, at last rousing
himself; “let us on. Our Mother[1] has a fortune waiting
us yonder.”

And they resumed the journey. Half an hour's brisk walk
brought them to the foot of the mountain. Suddenly they
came upon company.

It was on the bank of a considerable stream, which, pouring
in noisy torrent over a rocky bed, appeared to rush with
a song forward into the valley. A clump of giant oaks
shaded a level sward. Under them a crowd of tamanes,[2]
tawny, half-clad, broad-shouldered men, devoured loaves of
cold maize bread. Near the roots of the trees their masters
reclined comfortably on petates, or mats, without which an
Aztec trader's outfit was incomplete. Our traveller understood
at a glance the character of the strangers; so that, as
his road led directly to them, he went on without hesitation.
As he came near, some of them sat up to observe
him.

“A warrior going to the city,” said one.

“Or rather a king's courier,” suggested another.

“Is not that an ocelot at his heels?” asked a third.

“That it is. Bring me my javelin!”

“And mine! And mine!” cried several of them at once,
all springing to their feet.

By the time the young man came up, the whole party
stood ready to give him an armed welcome.

“I am very sorry to have disturbed you,” he said, quietly,
finding himself obliged to stop.

“You seem friendly enough,” answered one of the older
men; “but your comrade there, — what of him?”

The traveller smiled. “See, he is muzzled.”

The party laughed at their own fears. The old merchant,
however, stepped forward to the young stranger.

“I confess you have greatly relieved me. I feared the
brute might set on and wound somebody. Come up, and sit
down with us.”

The traveller was nowise disinclined, being tempted by the
prospect of cheer from the provision-baskets lying around.

“Bring a mat for the warrior,” said the friendly trader.
“Now give him bread and meat.”

From an abundance of bread, fowl, and fruit the wayfarer
helped himself. A running conversation was meantime
maintained.

“My ocelot? The story is simple; for your sakes, good
friends, I wish it were better. I killed his mother, and took
him when a whelp. Now he does me good service hunting.
You should see him in pursuit of an antelope!”

“Then you are not a warrior?”

“To be a warrior,” replied the hunter, modestly, “is to
have been in many battles, and taken many captives. I
have practised arms, and, at times, boasted of skill, — foolishly,
perhaps; yet, I confess, I never marched a day under
the banner of the great king.”

“Ah!” said the old man, quizzically, “I understand you.
You have served some free-trading company like our own.”

“You are shrewd. My father is a merchant. At times
he has travelled with strong trains, and even attacked cities
that have refused him admission to their market.”

“Indeed! He must be of renown. In what province
does he live, my son?”

“In Tihuanco.”

“Tepaja! old Tepaja, of Tihuanco! Are you son of
his?” The good man grasped the young one's hand enthusiastically.
“I knew him well; many years ago we were as
brothers together; we travelled and traded through many
provinces. That was the day of the elder Montezuma, when
the Empire was not as large as now; when, in fact, most
gates were closed against us, because our king was an Aztec,
and we had to storm a town, then turn its square into a
market for the sale of our wares. Sometimes we marched
an army, each of us carrying a thousand slaves; and yet our
tasks were not always easy. I remember once, down on the
bank of the Great River, we were beaten back from a walled
town, and succeeded only after a four days' fight. Ah, but
we made it win! We led three thousand slaves back to
Tenochtitlan, besides five hundred captives, — a present for
the gods.”

So the merchant talked until the hunger of his new acquaintance
was appeased; then he offered a pipe, which was
declined.

“I am fond of a pipe after a good meal; and this one has
been worthy a king. But now I have no leisure for the
luxury; the city to which I am bound is too far ahead of
me.”

“If it is your first visit, you are right. Fail not to be
there before the market closes. Such a sight never gladdened
your dreams!”

“So I have heard my father say.”

“O, it never was as it will be to-night! The roads for
days have been thronged with visitors going up in processions.”

“What is the occasion?”

“Why, to-morrow is the celebration of Quetzal'! Certainly,
my son, you have heard the prophecies concerning
that god.”

“In rumors only. I believe he was to return to Anahuac.”

“Well, the story is long, and you are in a hurry. We
also are going to the city, but will halt our slaves at Iztapalapan
for the night, and cross the causeway before the sun
to-morrow. If you care to keep us company, we will start
at once; on the way I will tell you a few things that may
not be unacceptable.”

“I see,” said the hunter, pleasantly, “I have reason to be
proud of my father's good report. Certainly, I will go a distance
with you at least, and thank you for information. To
speak frankly, I am seeking my fortune.”

The merchant spoke to his companions, and raising a huge
conch-shell to his mouth, blew a blast that started every
slave to his feet. For a few minutes all was commotion.
The mats were rolled up, and, with the provision-baskets,
slung upon broad shoulders; each tamane resumed his load
of wares, and took his place; those armed put themselves,
with their masters, at the head; and at another peal from
the shell all set forward. The column, if such it may be
called, was long, and not without a certain picturesqueness
as it crossed the stream, and entered a tract covered with tall
trees, amongst which the palm was strangely intermingled
with the oak and the cypress. The whole valley, from the
lake to the mountains, was irrigated, and under cultivation.
Full of wonder, the hunter marched beside the merchant.

2. CHAPTER II.
QUETZAL', THE FAIR GOD.

“I WAS speaking about Quetzal', I believe,” said the old
man, when all were fairly on the way. “His real name
was Quetzalcoatl.[3] He was a wonderfully kind god, who, many
ages ago, came into the valley here, and dwelt awhile. The
people were then rude and savage; but he taught them agriculture,
and other arts, of which you will see signs as we get
on. He changed the manners and customs; while he stayed,
famine was unknown; the harvests were abundant, and
happiness universal. Above all, he taught the princes wisdom
in their government. If to-day the Aztec Empire is the
strongest in the world, it is owing to Quetzal'. Where he
came from, or how long he stayed, is not known. The people
and their governors after a time proved ungrateful, and
banished him; they also overthrew his religion, and set up
idols again, and sacrificed men, both of which he had prohibited.
Driven away, he went to Cholula; thence to the
sea-coast, where, it is said, he built him a canoe of serpent-skins,
and departed for Tlapallan, a heaven lying somewhere
toward the rising sun. But before he went, he promised to
return some day, and wrest away the Empire and restore his
own religion. In appearance he was not like our race; his
skin was white, his hair long and wavy and black. He is
said to have been wise as a god, and more beautiful than
men. Such is his history; and, as the prophecy has it, the
time of his return is at hand. The king and Tlalac, the
teotuctli,[4] are looking for him; they expect him every hour,

and, they say, live in continued dread of him. Wishing to
propitiate him, they have called the people together, and celebrate
to-morrow, with sacrifices and combats and more pomp
than was ever seen before, not excepting the time of the king's
coronation.”

The hunter listened closely, and at the conclusion said,
“Thank you, uncle. Tell me now of the combats.”

“Yes. In the days of the first kings it was the custom to
go into the temples, choose the bravest warriors there set
apart for sacrifice, bring them into the tianguez, and make
them do battle in the presence of the people. If they conquered,
they were set free and sent home with presents.”[5]

“With whom did they combat?”

“True enough, my son. The fight was deemed a point of
honor amongst the Aztecs, and the best of them volunteered.
Indeed, those were royal times! Of late, I am sorry to say,
the custom of which I was speaking has been neglected, but
to-morrow it is to be revived. The scene will be very grand.
The king and all the nobles will be there.”

The description excited the listener's fancy, and he said,
with flushed cheeks, “I would not lose the chance for the
world. Can you tell me who of the Aztecs will combat?”

“In the city we could easily find out; but you must
recollect I am going home after a long absence. The shields
of the combatants are always exhibited in the tianguez the
evening before the day of the fight. In that way the public
are notified beforehand of those who take the field. As the
city is full of caciques, you may be assured our champions
will be noble.”

“Thank you again, uncle. And now, as one looking for
service, like myself, is anxious to know with whom to engage,
tell me of the caciques and chiefs.”

“Then you intend entering the army?”

“Well, yes. I am tired of hunting; and though trading
is honorable, I have no taste for it.”

The merchant, as if deliberating, took out a box of snuff
and helped himself; and then he replied, —

“The caciques are very numerous; in no former reign,
probably, were there so many of ability and renown. With
some of them I have personal acquaintance; others I know
only by sight or reputation. You had better mention those
of whom you have been thinking.”

“Well,” said the hunter, “there is Iztlil', the Tezcucan.”[6]

“Do not think of him, I pray you!” And the good man
spoke earnestly. “He is brave as any, and perhaps as skilful,
but proud, haughty, soured, and treacherous. Everybody
fears him. I suppose you have heard of his father.”

“You mean the wise 'Hualpilli?”

“Yes. Upon his death, not long since, Iztlil' denied his
brother's right to the Tezcucan throne. There was a quarrel
which would have ended in blood, had not Montezuma interfered,
and given the city to Cacama, and all the northern
part of the province to Iztlil'. Since that, the latter has
been discontented with the great king. So, I say again, do
not think of him, unless you are careless about honor.”

“Then what of Cacama?[7] Tezcuco is a goodly city.”

“He has courage, but is too effeminate to be a great
warrior. A garden and a soft couch delight him more than
camps, and dancing women better than fighting men. You
might grow rich with him, but not renowned. Look elsewhere.”

“Then there is the lord Cuitlahua.”[8]

“The king's brother, and governor of Iztapalapan!” said
the merchant, promptly. “Some have thought him better

qualified for Chapultepec than Montezuma, but it is not wise
to say so. His people are prosperous, and he has the most
beautiful gardens in the world; unlike Cacama, he cares
nothing for them, when there is a field to be fought. Considering
his influence at court and his love of war, you
would do well to bear shield for him; but, on the other
hand, he is old. Were I in your place, my son, I would
attach myself to some young man.”

“That brings me to Maxtla, the Tesoyucan.”

“I know him only by repute. With scarcely a beard, he
is chief of the king's guard. There was never anything like
his fortune. Listen now, I will tell you a secret which may
be of value to you some time. The king is not as young as
he used to be by quite forty summers.”

The hunter smiled at the caution with which the old man
spoke of the monarch.

“You see,” the speaker continued, “time and palace life
have changed him: he no longer leads the armies; his days
are passed in the temples with the priests, or in the gardens
with his women, of whom there are several hundreds; his
most active amusement now is to cross the lake to his forests,
and kill birds and rabbits by blowing little arrows at them
through a reed. Thus changed, you can very well understand
how he can be amused by songs and wit, and make
favorites of those who best lighten his hours of satiety and
indolence. In that way Maxtla rose, — a marvellous courtier,
but a very common soldier.”

The description amused the young man, but he said gravely,
“You have spoken wisely, uncle, and I am satisfied you know
the men well. Really, I had no intention of entering the
suite of either of them: they are not of my ideal; but there
is a cacique, if reports are to be credited, beyond all exception,
— learned and brave, honored alike by high and low.”

“Ah! you need not name him to me. I know him, as

who does not?” And now the merchant spoke warmly.
“A nobler than Guatamozin,[9] — or, as he is more commonly
called, the 'tzin Guatamo — never dwelt in Anahuac. He
is the people's friend, and the Empire's hope. His valor and
wisdom, — ah, you should see him, my son! Such a face!
His manner is so full of sweet dignity! But I will give you
other evidence.”

He clapped his hands three times, and a soldier sprang
forward at the signal.

“Do you know the 'tzin Guatamo?” asked the merchant.

“I am an humble soldier, my master, and the 'tzin is the
great king's nephew; but I know him. When he was only
a boy, I served under him in Tlascala. He is the best chief
in Anahuac.”

“That will do.”

The man retired.

“So I might call up my tamanes,” the merchant resumed,
“and not one but would speak of him in the same way.”

“Strange!” said the Tihuancan, in a low tone.

“No; if you allude to his popularity, it is not strange: if
you mean the man himself, you are right. The gods seldom
give the qualities that belong to him. He is more learned
than Tlalac or the king; he is generous as becomes a prince;
in action he is a hero. You have probably heard of the
Tlascalan wall in the eastern valley;[10] few warriors ever
passed it and lived; yet he did so when almost a boy. I

myself have seen him send an arrow to the heart of an eagle
in its flight. He has a palace and garden in Iztapalapan; in
one of the halls stand the figures of three kings, two of
Michuaca, and one of the Ottomies. He took them prisoners
in battle, and now they hold torches at his feasts.”

“Enough, enough!” cried the hunter. “I have been dreaming
of him while among the hills. I want no better leader.”

The merchant cast an admiring glance at his beaming
countenance, and said, “You are right; enter his service.”

In such manner the conversation was continued, until the
sun fast declined towards the western mountains. Meantime,
they had passed through several hamlets and considerable
towns. In nearly the whole progress, the way on either
hand had been lined with plantations. Besides the presence
of a busy, thriving population, they everywhere saw evidences
of a cultivation and science, constituting the real
superiority of the Aztecs over their neighbors. The country
was thus preparing the stranger for the city, unrivalled in
splendor and beauty. Casting a look toward the sun, he at
length said, “Uncle, I have much to thank you for, — you
and your friends. But it is growing late, and I must hurry
on, if I would see the tianguez before the market closes.”

“Very well,” returned the old trader. “We will be in
the city to-morrow. The gods go with you!”

Whistling to his ocelot, the adventurer quickened his
pace, and was soon far in the advance.

3. CHAPTER III.
A CHALLENGE.

IN the valley of Anahuac, at the time I write, are four
lakes, — Xaltocan, Chalco, Xochichalco, and Tezcuco.
The latter, besides being the largest, washed the walls of
Tenochtitlan, and was the especial pride of the Aztecs, who,
familiar with its ways as with the city, traversed them all
the days of the year, and even the nights.

“Ho, there!” shouted a voyageur, in a voice that might
have been heard a long distance over the calm expanse of the
lake. “Ho, the canoe!”

The hail was answered.

“Is it Guatamozin?” asked the first speaker.

“Yes.”

“And going to Tenochtitlan?”

“The gods willing, — yes.”

The canoes of the voyageurs — I use that term because
it more nearly expresses the meaning of the word
the Aztecs themselves were wont to apply to persons thus
abroad — were, at the time, about the middle of the little
sea. After the 'tzin's reply, they were soon alongside,
when lashings were applied, and together they swept on
rapidly, for the slaves at the paddles vied in skill and discipline.

“Iztlil', of Tezcuco!” said the 'tzin, lightly. “He is
welcome; but had a messenger asked me where at this hour
he would most likely be found, I should have bade him
search the chinampas, especially those most notable for their
perfume and music.”

The speech was courteous, yet the moment of reply was

allowed to pass. The 'tzin waited until the delay excited
his wonder.

“There is a rumor of a great battle with the Tlascalans,”
he said again, this time with a direct question. “Has my
friend heard of it?”

“The winds that carry rumors seldom come to me,”
answered Iztlil'.

“Couriers from Tlascala pass directly through your capital
—”

The Tezcucan laid his hand on the speaker's shoulder.

“My capital!” he said. “Do you speak of the city of
Tezcuco?”

The 'tzin dashed the hand away, and arose, saying, “Your
meaning is dark in this dimness of stars.”

“Be seated,” said the other.

“If I sit, is it as friend or foe?”

“Hear me; then be yourself the judge.”

The Aztec folded his cloak about him and resumed his
seat, very watchful.

“Montezuma, the king —”

“Beware! The great king is my kinsman, and I am his
faithful subject.”

The Tezcucan continued. “In the valley the king is next
to the gods; yet to his nephew I say I hate him, and will
teach him that my hate is no idleness, like a passing love.
'Tzin, a hundred years ago our races were distinct and independent.
The birds of the woods, the winds of the prairie,
were not more free than the people of Tezcuco. We had our
capital, our temples, our worship, and our gods; we celebrated
our own festivals, our kings commanded their own
armies, our priesthood prescribed their own sacrifices. But
where now are king, country, and gods? Alas! you have
seen the children of 'Hualpilli, of the blood of the Acolhuan,
suppliants of Montezuma, the Aztec.” And, as if overcome

by the recollection, he burst into apostrophe. “I mourn
thee, O Tezcuco, garden of my childhood, palace of my
fathers, inheritance of my right! Against me are thy gates
closed. The stars may come, and as of old garland thy towers
with their rays; but in thy echoing halls and princely
courts never, never shall I be known again!”

The silence that ensued, the 'tzin was the first to break.

“You would have me understand,” he said, “that the king
has done you wrong. Be it so. But, for such cause, why
quarrel with me?”

“Ah, yes!” answered the Tezcucan, in an altered voice.
“Come closer, that the slaves may not hear.”

The Aztec kept his attitude of dignity. Yet lower Iztlil'
dropped his voice.

“The king has a daughter whom he calls Tula, and loves
as the light of his palace.”

The 'tzin started, but held his peace.

“You know her?” continued the Tezcucan.

“Name her not!” said Guatamozin, passionately.

“Why not? I love her, and but for you, O 'tzin, she
would have loved me. You, too, have done me wrong.”

With thoughts dark as the waters he rode, the Aztec
looked long at the light of fire painted on the sky above the
distant city.

“Is Guatamozin turned woman?” asked Iztlil', tauntingly.

“Tula is my cousin. We have lived the lives of brother
and sister. In hall, in garden, on the lake, always together,
I could not help loving her.”

“You mistake me,” said the other. “I seek her for wife,
but you seek her for ambition; in her eyes you see only her
father's throne.”

Then the Aztce's manner changed, and he assumed the
mastery.

“Enough, Tezcucan! I listened calmly while you reviled

the king, and now I have somewhat to say. In your youth
the wise men prophesied evil from you; they said you were
ingrate and blasphemer then: your whole life has but verified
their judgment. Well for your royal father and his
beautiful city had he cut you off as they counselled him
to do. Treason to the king, — defiance to me! By the holy
Sun, for each offence you should answer me shield to shield!
But I recollect that I am neither priest to slay a victim nor
officer to execute the law. I mourn a feud, still more the
blood of countrymen shed by my hand; yet the wrongs
shall not go unavenged or without challenge. To-morrow is
the sacrifice to Quetzal'. There will be combat with the best
captives in the temples; the arena will be in the tianguez;
Tenochtitlan, and all the valley, and all the nobility of the
Empire, will look on. Dare you prove your kingly blood?
I challenge the son of 'Hualpilli to share the danger with
me.”

The cacique was silent, and the 'tzin did not disturb him.
At his order, however, the slaves bent their dusky forms,
and the vessels sped on, like wingless birds.

4. CHAPTER IV.
TENOCHTITLAN AT NIGHT.

THE site of the city of Tenochtitlan was chosen by the
gods. In the southwestern border of Lake Tezcuco, one
morning in 1300, a wandering tribe of Aztecs saw an eagle
perched, with outspread wings, upon a cactus, and holding a
serpent in its talons. At a word from their priests, they took
possession of the marsh, and there stayed their migration
and founded the city: such is the tradition. As men love

to trace their descent back to some storied greatness, nations
delight to associate the gods with their origin.

Originally the Aztecs were barbarous. In their southern
march, they brought with them only their arms and a spirit
of sovereignty. The valley of Anahuac, when they reached
it, was already peopled; in fact, had been so for ages. The
cultivation and progress they found and conquered there reacted
upon them. They grew apace; and as they carried
their shields into neighboring territory, as by intercourse
and commerce they crept from out their shell of barbarism,
as they strengthened in opulence and dominion, they repudiated
the reeds and rushes of which their primal houses were
built, and erected enduring temples and residences of Oriental
splendor.

Under the smiles of the gods, whom countless victims kept
propitiated, the city threw abroad its arms, and, before the
passage of a century, became the emporium of the valley. Its
people climbed the mountains around, and, in pursuit of captives
to grace their festivals, made the conquest of “Mexico.”
Then the kings began to centralize. They made Tenochtitlan
their capital; under their encouragement, the arts grew
and flourished; its market became famous; the nobles and
privileged orders made it their dwelling-place; wealth abounded;
as a consequence, a vast population speedily filled its
walls and extended them as required. At the coming of the
“conquistadores,” it contained sixty thousand houses and
three hundred thousand souls. Its plat testifies to a high
degree of order and regularity, with all the streets running
north and south, and intersected by canals, so as to leave
quadrilateral blocks. An ancient map, exhibiting the city
proper, presents the face of a checker-board, each square,
except those of some of the temples and palaces, being meted
with mathematical certainty.

Such was the city the 'tzin and the cacique were approach

ing. Left of them, half a league distant, lay the towers and
embattled gate of Xoloc. On the horizon behind paled
the fires of Iztapalapan, while those of Tenochtitlan at each
moment threw brighter hues into the sky, and more richly
empurpled the face of the lake. In mid air, high over all
others, like a great torch, blazed the pyre of Huitzil'.[11] Out
on the sea, the course of the voyageurs was occasionally obstructed
by chinampas at anchor, or afloat before the light
wind; nearer the walls, the floating gardens multiplied until
the passage was as if through an archipelago in miniature.
From many of them poured the light of torches; others gave
to the grateful sense the melody of flutes and blended voices;
while over them the radiance from the temples fell softly, revealing
white pavilions, orange-trees, flowering shrubs, and
nameless varieties of the unrivalled tropical vegetation. A
breeze, strong enough to gently ripple the lake, hovered
around the undulating retreats, scattering a largesse of perfume,
and so ministering to the voluptuous floramour of the
locality.

As the voyageurs proceeded, the city, rising to view, underwent
a number of transformations. At first, amidst the
light of its own fires,[12] it looked like a black sea-shore; directly
its towers and turrets became visible, some looming
vaguely and dark, others glowing and purpled, the whole magnified
by the dim duplication below; then it seemed like a
cloud, one half kindled by the sun, the other obscured by
the night. As they swept yet nearer, it changed to the
likeness of a long, ill-defined wall, over which crept a hum
wing-like and strange, — the hum of myriad life.

In silence still they hurried forward. Vessels like their
own, but with lanterns of stained aguave at the prows, seeking
some favorite chinampa, sped by with benisons from the
crews. At length they reached the wall, and, passing through
an interval that formed the outlet of a canal, entered the
city. Instantly the water became waveless; houses encompassed
them; lights gleamed across their way; the hum that
hovered over them while out on the lake realized itself in the
voices of men and the notes of labor.

Yet farther into the city, the light from the temples increased.
From towers, turreted like a Moresco castle, they
heard the night-watchers proclaiming the hour. Canoes,
in flocks, darted by them, decked with garlands, and laden
with the wealth of a merchant, or the trade of a market-man,
or full of revellers singing choruses to the stars or to the fair
denizens of the palaces. Here and there the canal was bordered
with sidewalks of masonry, and sometimes with
steps leading from the water up to a portal, about which
were companies whose flaunting, parti-colored costumes, brilliant
in the mellowed light, had all the appearance of Venetian
masqueraders.

At last the canoes gained the great street that continued
from the causeway at the south through the whole city; then
the Tezcucan touched the 'tzin, and said, —

“The son of 'Hualpilli accepts the challenge, Aztec. In
the tianguez to-morrow.”

Without further speech, the foemen leaped on the landing,
and separated.

5. CHAPTER V.
THE CHILD OF THE TEMPLE.

THERE were two royal palaces in the city; one built by
Axaya', the other by Montezuma, the reigning king,
who naturally preferred his own structure, and so resided
there. It was a low, irregular pile, embracing not only the
king's abode proper, but also quarters for his guard, and edifices
for an armory, an aviary, and a menagerie. Attached
to it was a garden, adorned with the choicest shrubbery and
plants, with fruit and forest trees, with walks strewn with
shells, and fountains of pure water conducted from the reservoir
of Chapultepec.

At night, except when the moon shone, the garden was
lighted with lamps; and, whether in day or night, it was a
favorite lounging-place. During fair evenings, particularly,
its walks, of the whiteness of snow, were thronged by nobles
and courtiers.

Shortly after the arrival of Iztlil' and Guatamozin, a party,
mostly of the sons of provincial governors kept at the palace
as hostages, were gathered in the garden, under a canopy
used to shield a fountain from the noonday sun. The place
was fairly lighted, the air fresh with the breath of flowers,
and delightful with the sound of falling water.

Maxtla, chief of the guard, was there, his juvenility well
hidden under an ostentatious display. That he was “a very
common soldier” in the opinion of the people was of small
moment: he had the king's ear; and that, without wit and
courtierly tact, would have made him what he was, — the
oracle of the party around him.

In the midst of his gossip, Iztlil', the Tezcucan, came sud

denly to the fountain. He coldly surveyed the assembly.
Maxtla alone saluted him.

“Will the prince of Tezcuco be seated?” said the chief.

“The place is pleasant, and the company looks inviting,”
returned Iztlil', grimly.

Since his affair with Guatamozin, he had donned the
uniform of an Aztec chieftain. Over his shoulders was carelessly
flung a crimson tilmatli, — a short, square cloak, fantastically
embroidered with gold, and so sprinkled with
jewels as to flash at every movement; his body was wrapped
closely in an escaupil, or tunic, of cotton lightly quilted,
over which, and around his waist, was a maxtlatl, or sash,
inseparable from the warrior. A casque of silver, thin,
burnished, and topped with plumes, surmounted his head.
His features were gracefully moulded, and he would have
been handsome but that his complexion was deepened by
black, frowning eyebrows. He was excessively arrogant;
though sometimes, when deeply stirred by passion, his
manner rose into the royal. His character I leave to
history.

“I have just come from Iztapalapan,” he said, as he sat
upon the proffered stool. “The lake is calm, the way was
very pleasant, I had the 'tzin Guatamo' for comrade.”

“You were fortunate. The 'tzin is good company,” said
Maxtla.

Iztlil' frowned, and became silent.

“To-morrow,” continued the courtier, upon whom the
discontent, slight as it was, had not been lost, “is the sacrifice
to Quetzal'. I am reminded, gracious prince, that, at a
recent celebration, you put up a thousand cocoa,[13] to be forfeited
if you failed to see the daughter of Mualox, the paba.

If not improper, how runs the wager, and what of the
result?”

The cacique shrugged his broad shoulders.

“The man trembles!” whispered one of the party.

“Well he may! Old Mualox is more than a man.”

Maxtla bowed and laughed. “Mualox is a magician; the
stars deal with him. And my brother will not speak, lest he
may cover the sky of his fortune with clouds.”

“No,” said the Tezcucan, proudly; “the wager was not a
sacrilege to the paba or his god; if it was, the god, not the
man, should be a warrior's fear.”

“Does Maxtla believe Mualox a prophet?” asked Tlahua,
a noble Otompan.

“The gods have power in the sun; why not on earth?”

“You do not like the paba,” observed Iztlil', gloomily.

“Who has seen him, O prince, and thought of love?
And the walls and towers of his dusty temple, — are they
not hung with dread, as the sky on a dark day with clouds?”

The party, however they might dislike the cacique, could
not listen coldly to this conversation. They were mostly of
that mystic race of Azatlan, who, ages before, had descended
into the valley, like an inundation, from the north; the
race whose religion was founded upon credulity; the race
full of chivalry, but horribly governed by a crafty priesthood.
None of them disbelieved in star-dealing. So every eye
fixed on the Tezcucan, every ear drank the musical syllables of
Maxtla. They were startled when the former said abruptly,—

“Comrades, the wrath of the old paba is not to be lightly
provoked; he has gifts not of men. But, as there is nothing
I do not dare, I will tell the story.”

The company now gathered close around the speaker.

“Probably you have all heard,” he began, “that Mualox
keeps in his temple somewhere a child or woman too beautiful
to be mortal. The story may be true; yet it is only a

belief; no eye has seen footprint or shadow of her. A certain
lord in the palace, who goes thrice a week to the shrine
of Quetzal', has faith in the gossip and the paba. He says
the mystery is Quetzal' himself, already returned, and waiting,
concealed in the temple, the ripening of the time when
he is to burst in vengeance on Tenochtitlan. I heard him
talking about it one day, and wagered him a thousand cocoa
that, if there was such a being I would see her before the
next sacrifice to Quetzal'.”

The Tezcucan hesitated.

“Is the believer to boast himself wealthier by the wager?”
said Maxtla, profoundly interested. “A thousand cocoa
would buy a jewel or a slave: surely, O prince, surely
they were worth the winning!”

Iztlil' frowned again, and said bitterly, “A thousand cocoa
I cannot well spare; they do not grow on my hard northern
hills like flowers in Xochimilco. I did my best to save the
wager. Old habit lures me to the great teocallis;[14] for I
am of those who believe that a warrior's worship is meet for
no god but Huitzil'. But, as the girl was supposed to be
down in the cells of the old temple, and none but Mualox
could satisfy me, I began going there, thinking to bargain
humilities for favor. I played my part studiously, if not
well; but no offering of tongue or gold ever won me word
of friendship or smile of confidence. Hopeless and weary, I
at last gave up, and went back to the teocallis. But now
hear my parting with the paba. A short time ago a mystery
was enacted in the temple. At the end, I turned to go
away, determined that it should be my last visit. At the
eastern steps, as I was about descending, I felt a hand
laid on my arm. It was Mualox; and not more terrible
looks Tlalac when he has sacrificed a thousand victims.

There was no blood on his hands; his beard and surplice
were white and stainless; the terror was in his eyes, that
seemed to burn and shoot lightning. You know, good chief,
that I could have crushed him with a blow; yet I trembled.
Looking back now, I cannot explain the awe that seized
me. I remember how my will deserted me, — how another's
came in its stead. With a glance he bound me hand and
foot. While I looked at him, he dilated, until I was covered
by his shadow. He magnified himself into the stature of
a god. `Prince of Tezcuco,' he said, `son of the wise
'Hualpilli, from the sun Quetzal' looks down on the earth.
Alike over land and sea he looks. Before him space melts
into a span, and darkness puts on the glow of day. Did
you think to deceive my god, O prince?' I could not
answer; my tongue was like stone. `Go hence, go hence!'
he cried, waving his hand. `Your presence darkens his
mood. His wrath is on your soul; he has cursed you.
Hence, abandoned of the gods!' So saying, he went
back to the tower again, and my will returned, and I fled.
And now,” said the cacique, turning suddenly and sternly
upon his hearers, “who will deny the magic of Mualox?
How may I be assured that his curse that day spoken was
not indeed a curse from Quetzal'?”

There was neither word nor laugh, — not even a smile.
The gay Maxtla appeared infected with a sombreness of
spirit; and it was not long until the party broke up, and
went each his way.

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE CÛ OF QUETZAL', AND MUALOX, THE PABA.

OVER the city from temple to temple passed the wail of
the watchers, and a quarter of the night was gone.
Few heard the cry without pleasure; for to-morrow was
Quetzal's day, which would bring feasting, music, combat,
crowd, and flowers.

Among others the proclamation of the passing time was
made from a temple in the neighborhood of the Tlateloco
tianguez, or market-place, which had been built by one of the
first kings of Tenochtitlan, and, like all edifices of that date
properly called Cûs, was of but one story, and had but one
tower. At the south its base was washed by a canal; on all
the other sides it was enclosed by stone walls high, probably,
as a man's head. The three sides so walled were bounded
by streets, and faced by houses, some of which were higher
than the Cû itself, and adorned with beautiful porticos.
The canal on the south ran parallel with the Tlacopan causeway,
and intersected the Iztapalapan street at a point nearly
half a mile above the great pyramid.

The antique pile thus formed a square of vast extent. According
to the belief that there were blessings in the orient
rays of the sun, the front was to the east, where a flight of
steps, wide as the whole building, led from the ground to the
azoteas, a paved area constituting the roof, crowned in the
centre by a round tower of wood most quaintly carved with
religious symbols. Entering the door of the tower, the devotee
might at once kneel before the sacred image of Quetzal'.

A circuitous stairway outside the tower conducted to its
summit, where blazed the fire. Another flight of steps about

midway the tower and the western verge of the azoteas descended
into a court-yard, around which, in the shade of a
colonnade, were doors and windows of habitable apartments
and passages leading far into the interior. And there,
shrouded in a perpetual twilight and darkness, once slept,
ate, prayed, and studied or dreamed the members of a fraternity
powerful as the Templars and gloomy as the Fratres
Minores.

The interior was cut into rooms, and long, winding halls,
and countless cellular dens.

Such was the Cû of Quetzal', — stern, sombre, and massive
as in its first days; unchanged in all save the prosperity
of its priesthood and the popularity of its shrine. Time was
when every cell contained its votaries, and kings, returning
from battle, bowed before the altar. But Montezuma had
built a new edifice, and set up there a new idol; and as if a
king could better make a god than custom, the people abandoned
the old ones to desuetude. Up in the ancient cupola,
however, sat the image said to have been carved by Quetzal's
own hand. Still the fair face looked out benignly on its realm
of air; carelessly the winds waved “the plumes of fire” that
decked its awful head; and one stony hand yet grasped a
golden sceptre, while the other held aloft the painted shield,
— symbols of its dominion.[15] But the servitors and surpliced
mystics were gone; the cells were very solitudes; the last
paba lingered to protect the image and its mansion, all unwitting
how, in his faithfulness of love, he himself had assumed
the highest prerogative of a god.

The fire from the urn on the tower flashed a red glow down
over the azoteas, near a corner of which Mualox stood, his
beard white and flowing as his surplice. Thought of days
palmier for himself and more glorious for his temple and god
struggled to his lips.

“Children of Azatlan, ye have strayed from his shrine,

and dust is on his shield. The temple is of his handiwork,
but its chambers are voiceless; the morning comes and falls
asleep on its steps, and no foot disturbs it, no one seeks its
blessings. Where is the hymn of the choir? Where the
prayer? Where the holiness that rested, like a spell, around
the altar? Is the valley fruitless, and are the gardens without
flowers, that he should be without offering or sacrifice?
.... Ah! well ye know that the day is not distant when
he will glister again in the valley; when he will come, not
as of old he departed, the full harvest quick ripening in his
footsteps, but with the power of Mictlan,[16] the owl on his
skirt, and death in his hand. Return, O children, and Tenochtitlan
may yet live!”

In the midst of his pleadings there was a clang of sandalled
feet on the pavement, and two men came near him,
and stopped. One of them wore the hood and long black
gown of a priest; the other the full military garb, — burnished
casque crested with plumes, a fur-trimmed tilmatli,
escaupil, and maxtlatl, and sandals the thongs of which were
embossed with silver. He also carried a javelin, and a
shield with an owl painted on its face. Indeed, one will
travel far before finding, among Christians or unbelievers,
his peer. He was then not more than twenty-five years old,
tall and nobly proportioned, and with a bearing truly royal.
In Spain I have seen eyes as large and lustrous, but none of
such power and variety of expression. His complexion was
merely the brown of the sun. Though very masculine, his
features, especially when the spirit was in repose, were softened
by an expression unusually gentle and attractive.
Such was the 'tzin Guatamo', or, as he is more commonly
known in history, Guatamozin, — the highest, noblest type
of his race, blending in one its genius and heroism, with
but few of its debasements.

“Mualox,” said the priestly stranger.

The paba turned, and knelt, and kissed the pavement.

“O king, pardon your slave! He was dreaming of his
country.”

“No slave of mine, but Quetzal's. Up, Mualox!” said
Montezuma, throwing back the hood that covered his head.
“Holy should be the dust that mingles in your beard!”

And the light from the tower shone full on the face of
him, — the priest of lore profound, and monarch wise of
thought, for whom Heaven was preparing a destiny most
memorable among the melancholy episodes of history.

A slight mustache shaded his upper lip, and thin, dark
beard covered his chin and throat; his nose was straight;
his brows curved archly; his forehead was broad and full,
while he seemed possessed of height and strength. His
neck was round, muscular, and encircled by a collar of
golden wires. His manner was winsome, and he spoke to
the kneeling man in a voice clear, distinct, and sufficiently
emphatic for the king he was.[17]

Mualox arose, and stood with downcast eyes, and hands
crossed over his breast.

“Many a coming of stars it has been,” he said, “since
the old shrine has known the favor of gift from Montezuma.
Gloom of clouds in a vale of firs is not darker than the
mood of Quetzal'; but to the poor paba, your voice, O
king, is welcome as the song of the river in the ear of the
thirsty.”

The king looked up at the fire on the tower.

“Why should the mood of Quetzal' be dark? A new
teocallis holds his image. His priests are proud; and they say
he is happy, and that when he comes from the golden land
his canoe will be full of blessings.”

Mualox sighed, and when he ventured to raise his eyes
to the king's, they were wet with tears.

“O king, have you forgotten that chapter of the teoamoxtli,[18]
in which is written how this Cû was built, and its
first fires lighted, by Quetzal' himself? The new pyramid
may be grand; its towers may be numberless, and its fires
far reaching as the sun itself: but hope not that will satisfy
the god, while his own house is desolate. In the name of
Quetzal', I, his true servant, tell you, never again look for
smile from Tlapallan.”

The paba's speech was bold, and the king frowned; but
in the eyes of the venerable man there was the unaccountable
fascination mentioned by Iztlil'.

“I remember the Mualox of my father's day; surely he
was not as you are!” Then, laying his hand on the 'tzin's
arm, the monarch added, “Did you not say the holy man
had something to tell me?”

Mualox answered, “Even so, O king! Few are the
friends left the paba, now that his religion and god are
mocked; but the 'tzin is faithful. At my bidding he went
to the palace. Will Montezuma go with his servant?”

“Where?”

“Only into the Cû.”

The monarch faltered.

“Dread be from you!” said Mualox. “Think you it is
as hard to be faithful to a king as to a god whom even he
has abandoned?”

Montezuma was touched. “Let us go,” he said to the
'tzin.

7. CHAPTER VII.
THE PROPHECY ON THE WALL.

MUALOX led them into the tower. The light of purpled
lamps filled the sacred place, and played softly
around the idol, before which they bowed. Then he took a
light from the altar, and conducted them to the azoteas, and
down into the court-yard, from whence they entered a hall
leading on into the Cû.

The way was labyrinthine, and both the king and the
'tzin became bewildered; they only knew that they descended
several stairways, and walked a considerable distance;
nevertheless, they submitted themselves entirely to
their guide, who went forward without hesitancy. At last
he stopped; and, by the light which he held up for the purpose,
they saw in a wall an aperture roughly excavated, and
large enough to admit them singly.

“You have read the Holy Book, wise king,” said Mualox.
“Can you not recall its saying that, before the founding of
Tenochtitlan, a Cû was begun, with chambers to lie under
the bed of the lake? Especially, do you not remember
the declaration that, in some of those chambers, besides a
store of wealth so vast as to be beyond the calculation of
men, there were prophecies to be read, written on the walls
by a god?”

“I remember it,” said the king.

“Give me faith, then, and I will show you all you there
read.”

Thereupon the paba stepped into the aperture, saying, —

“Mark! I am now standing under the eastern wall of the
old Cû.”

He passed through, and they followed him, and were
amazed.

“Look around, O king! You are in one of the chambers
mentioned in the Holy Book.”

The light penetrated but a short distance, so that Montezuma
could form no idea of the extent of the apartment.
He would have thought it a great natural cavern but for
the floor smoothly paved with alternate red and gray flags,
and some massive stone blocks rudely piled up in places to
support the roof.

As they proceeded, Mualox said, “On every side of us
there are rooms through which we might go till, in stormy
weather, the waves of the lake can be heard breaking overhead.”

In a short time they again stopped.

“We are nearly there. Son of a king, is your heart
strong?” said Mualox, solemnly.

Montezuma made no answer.

“Many a time,” continued the paba, “your glance has
rested on the tower of the old Cû, then flashed to where, in
prouder state, your pyramids rise. You never thought the
gray pile you smiled at was the humblest of all Quetzal's
works. Can a man, though a king, outdo a god?”

“I never thought so, I never thought so!”

But the mystic did not notice the deprecation.

“See,” he said, speaking louder, “the pride of man says, I
will build upward that the sun may show my power; but
the gods are too great for pride; so the sun shines not on
their especial glories, which as frequently lie in the earth
and sea as in the air and heavens. O mighty king! You
crush the worm under your sandal, never thinking that its
humble life is more wonderful than all your temples and
state. It was the same folly that laughed at the simple tower
of Quetzal', which has mysteries —”

“Mysteries!” said the king.

“I will show you wealth enough to restock the mines
and visited valleys with all their plundered gold and
jewels.”

“You are dreaming, paba.”

“Come, then; let us see!”

They moved past some columns, and came before a great,
arched doorway, through which streamed a brilliance like
day.

“Now, let your souls be strong!”

They entered the door, and for a while were blinded by the
glare, and could see only the floor covered with grains of gold
large as wheat. Moving on, they came to a great stone table,
and stopped.

“You wonder; and so did I, until I was reminded that a
god had been here. Look up, O king! look up, and see the
handiwork of Quetzal'!”

The chamber was broad and square. The obstruction of
many pillars, forming the stay of the roof, was compensated by
their lightness and wonderful carving. Lamps, lit by Mualox
in anticipation of the royal coming, blazed in all quarters.
The ceiling was covered with lattice-work of shining white
and yellow metals, the preciousness of which was palpable to
eyes accustomed like the monarch's. Where the bars crossed
each other, there were fanciful representations of flowers,
wrought in gold, some of them large as shields, and garnished
with jewels that burned with star-like fires. Between the
columns, up and down ran rows of brazen tables, bearing
urns and vases of the royal metals, higher than tall men, and
carved all over with gods in bas-relief, not as hideous caricatures,
but beautiful as love and Grecian skill could make
them. Between the vases and urns there were heaps of
rubies and pearls and brilliants, amongst which looked out
softly the familiar, pale-green lustre of the chalchuites, or

priceless Aztecan diamond.[19] And here and there, like
guardians of the buried beauty and treasure, statues looked
down from tall pedestals, crowned and armed, as became the
kings and demi-gods of a great and martial people. The
monarch was speechless. Again and again he surveyed the
golden chamber. As if seeking an explanation, but too
overwhelmed for words, he turned to Mualox.

“And now does Montezuma believe his servant dreaming?”
said the paba. “Quetzal' directed the discovery of
the chamber. I knew of it, O king, before you were born.
And here is the wealth of which I spoke. If it so confounds
you, how much more will the other mystery! I have dug
up a prophecy; from darkness plucked a treasure richer than
all these. O king, I will give you to read a message from
the gods!”

The monarch's face became bloodless, and it had now not
a trace of scepticism.

“I will show you from Quetzal' himself that the end of
your Empire is at hand, and that every wind of the earth is
full sown with woe to you and yours. The writing is on
the walls. Come!”

And he led the king, followed by Guatamozin, to the
northern corner of the eastern wall, on which, in square
marble panels, bas-relief style, were hierograms and sculptured
pictures of men, executed apparently by the same
hand that chiselled the statues in the room. The ground
of the carvings was coated with coarse gray coral, which
had the effect to bring out the white figures with marvellous
perfection.

“This, O king, is the writing,” said Mualox, “which
begins here, and continues around the walls. I will read,
if you please to hear.”

Montezuma waved his hand, and the paba proceeded.

“This figure is that of the first king of Tenochtitlan; the
others are his followers. The letters record the time of the
march from the north. Observe that the first of the writing
— its commencement — is here in the north.”

After a little while, they moved on to the second panel.

“Here,” said Mualox, “is represented the march of the
king. It was accompanied with battles. See, he stands
with lifted javelin, his foot on the breast of a prostrate foe.
His followers dance and sound shells; the priests sacrifice a
victim. The king has won a great victory.”

They stopped before the third panel.

“And here the monarch is still on the march. He is in
the midst of his warriors; no doubt the crown he is receiving
is that of the ruler of a conquered city.”

This cartoon Montezuma examined closely. The chief, or
king, was distinguished by a crown in all respects like that
then in the palace; the priests, by their long gowns; and the
warriors, by their arms, which, as they were counterparts
of those still in use, sufficiently identified the wanderers.
Greatly was the royal inspector troubled. And as the paba
slowly conducted him from panel to panel, he forgot the
treasure with which the chamber was stored. What he read
was the story of his race, the record of their glory. The
whole eastern wall, he found, when he had passed before it,
given to illustrations of the crusade from Azatlan, the fatherland,
northward so far that corn was gathered in the snow,
and flowers were the wonder of the six weeks' summer.

In front of the first panel on the southern wall Mualox
said, —

“All we have passed is the first era in the history; this is
the beginning of the second; and the first writing on the
western wall will commence a third. Here the king stands
on a rock; a priest points him to an eagle on a cactus, hold

ing a serpent. At last they have reached the place where
Tenochtitlan is to be founded.”

The paba passed on.

“Here,” he said, “are temples and palaces. The king reclines
on a couch; the city has been founded.”

And before another panel, — “Look well to this, O king!
A new character is introduced; here it is before an altar,
offering a sacrifice of fruits and flowers. It is Quetzal'! In
his worship, you recollect, there is no slaughter of victims.
My hands are pure of blood.”

The Quetzal', with its pleasant face, flowing curls, and
simple costume, seemed to have a charm for Montezuma, for
he mused over it a long time. Some distance on, the figure
again appeared, stepping into a canoe, while the people, temples,
and palaces of the city were behind it. Mualox explained,
“See, O king! The fair god is departing from
Tenochtitlan; he has been banished. Saddest of all the
days was that!”

And so, the holy man interpreting, they moved along the
southern wall. Not a scene but was illustrative of some incident
memorable in the Aztecan history. And the reviewers
were struck with the faithfulness of the record not less
than with the beauty of the work.

On the western wall, the first cartoon represented a young
man sweeping the steps of a temple. Montezuma paused before
it amazed, and Guatamozin for the first time cried out,
“It is the king! It is the king!” The likeness was perfect.

After that came a coronation scene. The teotuctli was
placing a panache[20] on Montezuma's head. In the third
cartoon, he was with the army, going to battle. In the

fourth, he was seated, while a man clad in nequen,[21] but
crowned, stood before him.

“You have grown familiar with triumphs, and it is many
summers since, O king,” said Mualox; “but you have not
yet forgotten the gladness of your first conquest. Here is
its record. As we go on, recall the kings who were thus
made to stand before you.”

And counting as they proceeded, Montezuma found that
in every cartoon there was an additional figure crowned
and in nequen. When they came to the one next the last
on the western wall, he said, —

“Show me the meaning of all this: here are thirty
kings.”

“Will the king tell his slave the number of cities he has
conquered?”

He thought awhile, and replied, “Thirty.”

“Then the record is faithful. It started with the first
king of Tenochtitlan; it came down to your coronation;
now, it has numbered your conquests. See you not, O
king? Behind us, all the writing is of the past; this is
Montezuma and Tenochtitlan as they are: the present is
before us! Could the hand that set this chamber and
carved these walls have been a man's? Who but a god six
cycles ago could have foreseen that a son of the son of Axaya'
would carry the rulers of thirty conquered cities in his
train?”

The royal visitor listened breathlessly. He began to comprehend
the writing, and thrill with fast-coming presentiments.
Yet he struggled with his fears.

“Prophecy has to do with the future,” he said; “and you
have shown me nothing that the sculptors and jewellers in

my palace cannot do. Would you have me believe all this
from Quetzal', show me something that is to come.”

Mualox led him to the next scene which represented the
king sitting in state; above him a canopy; his nobles and
the women of his household around him; at his feet the people;
and all were looking at a combat going on between
warriors.

“You have asked for prophecy, — behold!” said Mualox.

“I see nothing,” replied the king.

“Nothing! Is not this the celebration to-morrow? Since
it was ordered, could your sculptors have executed what you
see?”

Back to the monarch's face stole the pallor.

“Look again, O king! You only saw yourself, your people
and warriors. But what is this?”

Walking up, he laid his finger on the representation of a
man landing from a canoe.

“The last we beheld of Quetzal',” he continued, “was on
the southern wall; his back was to Tenochtitlan, which he
was leaving with a curse. All you have heard about his
promise to return is true. He himself has written the very
day, and here it is. Look! While the king, his warriors
and people, are gathered to the combat, Quetzal' steps from
the canoe to the sea-shore.”

The figure in the carving was scarcely two hands high, but
exquisitely wrought. With terror poorly concealed, Montezuma
recognized it.

“And now my promise is redeemed. I said I would
give you to read a message from the sun.”

“Read, Mualox: I cannot.”

The holy man turned to the writing, and said, with a
swelling voice, “Thus writes Quetzal' to Montezuma, the
king! In the last day he will seek to stay my vengeance;

he will call together his people; there will be combat in
Tenochtitlan; but in the midst of the rejoicing I will land
on the sea-shore, and end the days of Azatlan forever.”

“Forever!” said the unhappy monarch. “No, no!
Read the next writing.”

“There is no other; this is the last.”

The eastern, southern, and western walls had been successively
passed, and interpreted. Now the king turned to
the northern wall: it was blank! His eyes flashed, and he
almost shouted, —

“Liar! Quetzal' may come to-morrow, but it will be as
friend. There is no curse!”

The paba humbled himself before the speaker, and said,
slowly and tearfully, “The wise king is blinded by his hope.
When Quetzal' finished this chapter, his task was done; he
had recorded the last day of perfect glory, and ceased to
write because, Azatlan being now to perish, there was nothing
more to record. O unhappy king! that is the curse,
and it needed no writing!”

Montezuma shook with passion.

“Lead me hence, lead me hence!” he cried. “I will
watch; and if Quetzal' comes not on the morrow, — comes
not during the celebration, — I swear to level this temple,
and let the lake into its chambers! And you, paba
though you be, I will drown you like a slave! Lead on!”

Mualox obeyed without a word. Lamp in hand, he led
his visitors from the splendid chamber up to the azoteas of
the ancient house. As they descended the eastern steps, he
knelt, and kissed the pavement.

8. CHAPTER VIII.
A BUSINESS MAN IN TENOCHTITLAN.

XOLI, the Chalcan, was supposed to be the richest citizen,
exclusive of the nobles, in Tenochtitlan. Amongst
other properties, he owned a house on the eastern side of the
Tlateloco tianguez, or market-place; which, whether considered
architecturally, or with reference to the business to
which it was devoted, or as the device of an unassoilzied
heathen, was certainly very remarkable. Its portico had six
great columns of white marble alternating six others of green
porphyry, with a roof guarded by a parapet intricately and
tastefully carved; while cushioned lounges, heavy curtains
festooned and flashing with cochineal, and a fountain of
water pure enough for the draught of a king, all within the
columns, perfected it as a retreat from the sultry summer sun.

The house thus elegantly garnished was not a meson, or a
café, or a theatre, or a broker's office; but rather a combination
of them all, and therefore divided into many apartments;
of which one was for the sale of beverages favorite
among the wealthy and noble Aztecs, — Bacchic inventions,
with pulque for chief staple, since it had the sanction of
antiquity and was mildly intoxicating; another was a restaurant,
where the cuisine was only excelled at the royal
table; indeed, there was a story abroad that the king had
several times borrowed the services of the Chalcan's
artistes; but, whether derived from the master or his
slaves, the shrewd reader will conclude from it, that
the science of advertising was known and practised as
well in Tenochtitlan as in Madrid. Nor were these
all. Under the same roof were rooms for the amusement of

patrons, — for reading, smoking, and games; one in especial
for a play of hazard called totoloque, then very popular, because
a passion of Montezuma's. Finally, as entertainments
not prohibited by the teotuctli, a signal would, at any time,
summon a minstrel, a juggler, or a dancing-girl. Hardly
need I say that the establishment was successful. Always
ringing with music, and of nights always resplendent with
lamps, it was always overflowing with custom.

“So old Tepaja wanted you to be a merchant,” said the
Chalcan, in his full, round voice, as, comfortably seated under
the curtains of his portico, he smoked his pipe, and talked
with our young friend, the Tihuancan.

“Yes. Now that he is old, he thinks war dangerous.”

“You mistake him, boy. He merely thinks with me, that
there is something more real in wealth and many slaves.
As he has grown older, he has grown wiser.”

“As you will. I could not be a merchant.”

“Whom did you think of serving?”

“The 'tzin Guatamo.”[22]

“I know him. He comes to my portico sometimes, but
not to borrow money. You see, I frequently act as broker,
and take deposits from the merchants and securities from
the spendthrift nobles; he, however, has no vices.
When not with the army, he passes the time in study;
though they do say he goes a great deal to the palace to
make love to the princess. And now that I reflect, I doubt
if you can get place with him.”

“Why so?”

“Well, he keeps no idle train, and the time is very quiet.
If he were going to the frontier it would be different.”

“Indeed!”

“You see, boy, he is the bravest man and best fighter in

the army; and the sensible fellows of moderate skill and
ambition have no fancy for the hot place in a fight, which
is generally where he is.”

“The discredit is not to him, by Our Mother!” said
Hualpa, laughing.

The broker stopped to cherish the fire in his pipe, — an
act which the inexperienced consider wholly incompatible
with the profound reflection he certainly indulged. When
next he spoke, it was with smoke wreathing his round face,
as white clouds sometimes wreathe the full moon.

“About an hour ago a fellow came here, and said he had
heard that Iztlil', the Tezcucan, had challenged the 'tzin to go
into the arena with him to-morrow. Not a bad thing for
the god Quetzal', if all I hear be true!”

Again the pipe, and then the continuation.

“You see, when the combat was determined on, there
happened to be in the temples two Othmies and two Tlascalans,
warriors of very great report. As soon as it became
known that, by the king's choice, they were the challengers,
the young fellows about the palace shunned the sport, and
there was danger that the god would find himself without a
champion. To avoid such a disgrace, the 'tzin was coming
here to-night to hang his shield in the portico. If he and
the Tezcucan both take up the fight, it will be a great day
indeed.”

The silence that ensued was broken by the hunter, whom
the gossip had plunged into revery.

“I pray your pardon, Xoli; but you said, I think, that the
lords hang back from the danger. Can any one volunteer?”

“Certainly; any one who is a warrior, and is in time.
Are you of that mind?”

The Chalcan took down the pipe, and looked at him earnestly.

“If I had the arms —”

“But you know nothing about it, — not even how such
combats are conducted!”

The broker was now astonished.

“Listen to me,” he said. “These combats are always in
honor of some one or more of the Aztecan gods, — generally
of Huitzil', god of war. They used to be very simple affairs.
A small platform of stone, of the height of a man,
was put up in the midst of the tianguez, so as to be seen by
the people standing around; and upon it, in pairs, the
champions fought their duels. This, however, was too plain
to suit the tastes of the last Montezuma; and he changed
the ceremony into a spectacle really honorable and great.
Now, the arena is first prepared, — a central space in a great
many rows of seats erected so as to rise one above the other.
At the proper time, the people, the priests, and the soldiers
go in and take possession of their allotted places. Some
time previous, the quarters of the prisoners taken in battle
are examined, and two or more of the best of the warriors
found there are chosen by the king, and put in training for
the occasion. They are treated fairly, and are told that, if
they fight and win, they shall be crowned as heroes, and
returned to their tribes. No need, I think, to tell you how
brave men fight when stimulated by hope of glory and hope
of life. When chosen, their names are published, and their
shields hung up in a portico on the other side of the square
yonder; after which they are understood to be the challengers
of any equal number of warriors who dare become
champions of the god or gods in whose honor the celebration
is had. Think of the approved skill and valor of the
foe; think of the thousands who will be present; think of
your own inexperience in war, and of your youth, your
stature hardly gained, your muscles hardly matured; think
of everything tending to weaken your chances of success, —
and then speak to me.”

Hualpa met the sharp gaze of the Chalcan steadily, and
answered, “I am thought to have some skill with the bow
and maquahuitl. Get me the opportunity, and I will fight.”

And Xoli, who was a sincere friend, reflected awhile.
“There is peril in the undertaking, to be sure; but then
he is resolved to be a warrior, and if he survives, it is glory
at once gained, fortune at once made.” Then he arose, and,
smiling, said aloud, “Let us go to the portico. If the list
be not full, you shall have the arms, — yes, by the Sun! as
the lordly Aztecs swear, — the very best in Tenochtitlan.”

And they lifted the curtains, and stepped into the tianguez.[23]
The light of the fires on the temples was hardly more
in strength than the shine of the moon; so that torches had
to be set up at intervals over the celebrated square. On an
ordinary occasion, with a visitation of forty thousand busy
buyers and sellers, it was a show of merchants and merchantable
staples worthy the chief mart of an empire so
notable; but now, drawn by the double attraction of market
and celebration, the multitude that thronged it was trebly
greater; yet the order was perfect.

An officer, at the head of a patrol, passed them with a
prisoner.

“Ho, Chalcan! If you would see justice done, follow
me.”

“Thanks, thanks, good friend; I have been before the
judges too often already.”

So the preservation of the peace was no mystery.

The friends made way slowly, giving the Tihuancan time
to gratify his curiosity. He found the place like a great
national fair, in which few branches of industry were unrepresented.
There were smiths who worked in the coarser

metals, and jewellers skilful as those of Europe; there were
makers and dealers in furniture, and sandals, and plumaje;
at one place men were disposing of fruits, flowers, and vegetables;
not far away fishermen boasted their stock caught
that day in the fresh waters of Chalco; tables of pastry and
maize bread were set next the quarters of the hunters of
Xilotepec; the armorers, clothiers, and dealers in cotton
were each of them a separate host. In no land where a
science has been taught or a book written have the fine arts
been dishonored; and so in the great market of Tenochtitlan
there were no galleries so rich as those of the painters,
nor was any craft allowed such space for their exhibitions as
the sculptors.

They halted an instant before a porch full of slaves. A
rapid glance at the miserable wretches, and Xoli said, pitilessly,
“Bah! Mictlan has many such. Let us go.”

Farther on they came to a platform on which a band of
mountebanks was performing. Hualpa would have stayed
to witness their tableaux, but Xoli was impatient.

“You see yon barber's shop,” he said; “next to it is the
portico we seek. Come on!”

At last they arrived there, and mixed with the crowd
curious like themselves.

“Ah, boy, you are too late! The list is full.”

The Chalcan spoke regretfully.

Hualpa looked for himself. On a clear white wall, that
fairly glistened with the flood of light pouring upon it, he
counted eight shields, or gages of battle. Over the four to the
left were picture-written, “Othmies,” “Tlascalans.” They
belonged to the challengers, and were battered and stained,
proving that their gathering had been in no field of peace.
The four to the right were of the Aztecs, and all bore devices
except one. A sentinel stood silently beneath them.

“Welcome, Chalcan!” said a citizen, saluting the broker.

“You are in good time to tell us the owners of the shields
here.”

“Of the Aztecs?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said Xoli, slowly and gravely. “The shields I
do not know are few and of little note. At one time or
another I have seen them all pass my portico going to
battle.”

A bystander, listening, whispered to his friends, —

“The braggart! He says nothing of the times the owners
passed his door to get a pinch of his snuff.”

“Or to get drunk on his abominable pulque,” said another.

“Or to get a loan, leaving their palaces in pawn,” said a
third party.

But Xoli went on impressively, —

“Those two to the left belong to a surly Otompan and a
girl-faced Cholulan. They had a quarrel in the king's garden,
and this is the upshot. That other, — surely, O citizens,
you know the shield of Iztlil', the Tezcucan!”

“Yes; but its neighbor?”

“The plain shield! Its owner has a name to win. I can
find you enough such here in the market to equip an army.
Say, soldier, whose gage is that?”

The sentinel shook his head. “A page came not long ago,
and asked me to hang it up by the side of the Tezcucan's.
He said not whom he served.”

“Well, maybe you know the challengers.”

“Two of the shields belong to a father and son of the
tribe of Othmies. In the last battle the son alone slew eight
Cempoallan warriors for us. Tlascalans, whose names I do
not know, own the others.”

“Do you think they will escape?” asked a citizen.

The sentinel smiled grimly, and said, “Not if it be true
that yon plain shield belongs to Guatamo, the 'tzin.”

Directly a patrol, rudely thrusting the citizens aside, came
to relieve the guard. In the confusion, the Chalcan whispered
to his friend, “Let us go back. There is no chance
for you in the arena to-morrow; and this new fellow is sullen;
his tongue would not wag though I promised him drink
from the king's vase.”

Soon after they reached the Chalcan's portico and disappeared
in the building, the cry of the night-watchers arose
from the temples, and the market was closed. The great
crowd vanished; in stall and portico the lights were extinguished;
but at once another scene equally tumultuous
usurped the tianguez. Thousands of half-naked tamanes
rushed into the deserted place, and all night long it resounded,
like a Babel, with clamor of tongues, and notes
of mighty preparation.

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE QUESTIONER OF THE MORNING.

WHEN Montezuma departed from the old Cû for his
palace, it was not to sleep or rest. The revelation
that so disturbed him, that held him wordless on the street,
and made him shrink from his people, wild with the promise
of pomp and combat, would not be shut out by gates and
guards; it clung to his memory, and with him stood by the
fountain, walked in the garden, and laid down on his couch.
Royalty had no medicine for the trouble; he was restless as
a fevered slave, and at times muttered prayers, pronouncing
no name but Quetzal's. When the morning approached, he
called Maxtla, and bade him get ready his canoe: from
Chapultepec, the palace and tomb of his fathers, he would see
the sun rise.

From one of the westerly canals they put out. The lake
was still rocking the night on its bosom, and no light other
than of the stars shone in the east. The gurgling sound of
waters parted by the rushing vessel, and the regular dip of
the paddles, were all that disturbed the brooding of majesty
abroad thus early on Tezcuco.

The canoe struck the white pebbles that strewed the landing
at the princely property just as dawn was dappling the
sky. On the highest point of the hill there was a tower
from which the kings were accustomed to observe the stars.
Thither Montezuma went. Maxtla, who alone dared follow,
spread a mat for him on the tiles; kneeling upon it, and
folding his hands worshipfully upon his breast, he looked
to the east.

And the king was learned; indeed, one more so was
not in all his realm. In his student days, and in his priesthood,
before he was taken from sweeping the temple to be
arch-ruler, he had gained astrological craft, and yet practised
it from habit. The heavens, with their blazonry, were to
him as pictured parchments. He loved the stars for their
sublime mystery, and had faith in them as oracles. He consulted
them always; his armies marched at their bidding;
and they and the gods controlled every movement of his
civil polity. But as he had never before been moved by so
great a trouble, and as the knowledge he now sought directly
concerned his throne and nations, he came to consult and
question the Morning, that intelligence higher and purer
than the stars. If Quetzal' was angered, and would that
day land for vengeance, he naturally supposed the Sun, his
dwelling-place, would give some warning. So he came seeking
the mood of the god from the Sun.

And while he knelt, gradually the gray dawn melted into
purple and gold. The stars went softly out. Long rays,
like radiant spears, shot up and athwart the sky. As the in

dications multiplied, his hopes arose. Farther back he threw
the hood from his brow; the sun seemed coming clear and
cloudless above the mountains, kindling his heart no less
than the air and earth.

A wide territory, wrapped in the dim light, extended beneath
his feet. There slept Tenochtitlan, with her shining
temples and blazing towers, her streets and resistless nationality;
there were the four lakes, with their blue waters, their
shores set with cities, villages and gardens; beyond them
lay eastern Anahuac, the princeliest jewel of the Empire.
What with its harvests, its orchards, and its homesteads, its
forests of oak, sycamore, and cedar, its population busy,
happy, and faithful, contented as tillers of the soil, and brave
as lions in time of need, it was all of Aden he had ever
known or dreamed.

In the southeast, above a long range of mountains, rose
the volcanic peaks poetized by the Aztecs into “The White
Woman”[24] and “The Smoking Hill.”[25] Mythology had
covered them with sanctifying faith, as, in a different age
and more classic clime, it clothed the serene mountain of
Thessaly.

But the king saw little of all this beauty; he observed
nothing but the sun, which was rising a few degrees north
of “The Smoking Hill.” In all the heavens round there
was not a fleck; and already his heart throbbed with delight,
when suddenly a cloud of smoke rushed upward from
the mountain, and commenced gathering darkly about its
white summit. Quick to behold it, he scarcely hushed a cry
of fear, and instinctively waved his hand, as if, by a kingly
gesture, to stay the eruption. Slowly the vapor crept over
the roseate sky, and, breathless and motionless, the seeker
of the god's mood and questioner of the Morning watched
its progress. Across the pathway of the sun it stretched, so

that when the disk wheeled fairly above the mountain-range,
it looked like a ball of blood.

The king was a reader of picture-writing, and skilful in
deducing the meaning of men from cipher and hieroglyph.
Straightway he interpreted the phenomenon as a direful portent;
and because he came looking for omens, the idea that
this was a message sent him expressly from the gods was
but a right royal vanity. He drew the hood over his face
again, and drooped his head disconsolately upon his breast.
His mind filled with a host of gloomy thoughts. The revelation
of Mualox was prophecy here confirmed, — Quetzal'
was coming! Throne, power, people, — all the glories
of his country and Empire, — he saw snatched from
his nerveless grasp, and floating away, like the dust of the
valley.

After a while he arose to depart. One more look he gave
the sun before descending from the roof, and shuddered at
the sight of city, lake, valley, the cloud itself, and the sky
above it, all colored with an ominous crimson.

“Behold!” he said, tremulously, to Maxtla, “to-day we
will sacrifice to Quetzal': how long until Quetzal' sacrifices
to himself?”

The chief cast down his eyes; for he knew how dangerous
it was to look on royalty humbled by fear. Then Montezuma
shaded his face again, and left the proud old hill, with
a sigh for its palaces and the beauty of its great cypress-groves.

10. CHAPTER X.
GOING TO THE COMBAT.

AS the morning advanced, the city grew fully animate.
A festal spirit was abroad, seeking display in masks,
mimes, and processions. Jugglers performed on the street-corners;
dancing-girls, with tambours, and long elf-locks
dressed in flowers, possessed themselves of the smooth sidewalks.
Very plainly, the evil omen of the morning affected
the king more than his people.

The day advanced clear and beautiful. In the eastern
sky the smoke of the volcano still lingered; but the sun
rose above it, and smiled on the valley, like a loving
god.

At length the tambour in the great temple sounded the
signal of assemblage. Its deep tones, penetrating every
recess of the town and rushing across the lake, were heard
in the villages on the distant shores. Then, in steady currents,
the multitudes set forward for the tianguez. The
chinampas were deserted; hovels and palaces gave up their
tenantry; canoes, gay with garlands, were abandoned in the
waveless canals. The women and children came down from
the roofs; from all the temples — all but the old one with
the solitary gray tower and echoless court — poured the
priesthood in processions, headed by chanting choirs, and
interspersed with countless sacred symbols. Many were the
pomps, but that of the warriors surpassed all others. Marching
in columns of thousands, they filled the streets with
flashing arms and gorgeous regalia, roar of attabals and peals
of minstrelsy.

About the same time the royal palanquin stood at the

palace portal, engoldened, jewelled, and surmounted with a
panache of green plumes. Cuitlahua, Cacama, Maxtla, and
the lords of Tlacopan, Tepejaca, and Cholula, with other
nobles from the provinces far and near, were collected about
it in waiting, sporting on their persons the wealth of principalities.
When the monarch came out, they knelt, and
every one of them placed his palm on the ground before
him. On the last stone at the portal he stopped, and raised
his eyes to the sky. A piece of aguave, fluttering like a
leaf, fell so near him that he reached out his hand and
caught it.

“Read it, my lords,” he said, after a moment's study.

The paper contained only the picture of an eagle attacked
by an owl, and passed from hand to hand. Intent on deciphering
the writing, none thought of inquiring whether its
coming was of design or accident.

“What does it mean, my lord Cacama?” asked the monarch,
gravely.

Cacama's eyes dropped as he replied, —

“When we write of you, O king, we paint an eagle;
when we write of the 'tzin Guatamo, we paint an owl.”

“What!” said the lord Cuitlahua, “would the 'tzin attack
his king?”

And the monarch looked from one to the other strangely,
saying only, “The owl is the device on his shield.”

Then he entered the palanquin; whereupon some of the
nobles lifted it on their shoulders, and the company, in
procession, set out for the tianguez. On the way they were
joined by Iztlil', the Tezcucan; and it was remarkable
that of them all, he was the only one silent about the
paper.

The Iztapalapan street, of great width, and on both sides
lined with gardens, palaces, and temples, was not only the
boast of Tenochtitlan; its beauty was told in song and story

throughout the Empire. The signal of assemblage for the
day's great pastime found Xoli and his provincial friend
lounging along the broad pave of the beautiful thoroughfare.
They at once started for the tianguez. The broker was fat,
and it was troublesome for him to keep pace with the hunter;
nevertheless, they overtook a party of tamanes going in the
same direction, and bearing a palanquin richly caparisoned.
The slaves, very sumptuously clad, proceeded slowly and
with downcast eyes, and so steadily that the carriage had
the onward, gliding motion of a boat.

“Lower, — down, boy! See you not the green panache?”
whispered Xoli, half frightened.

Too late. The Chalcan, even as he whispered, touched
the pavement, but Hualpa remained erect: not only that;
he looked boldly into the eyes of the occupants of the palanquin,
— two women, whose beauty shone upon him like a sudden
light. Then he bent his head, and his heart closed upon
the recollection of what he saw so that it never escaped. The
picture was of a girl, almost a woman, laughing; opposite
her, and rather in the shade of the fringed curtain, one older,
though young, and grave and stately; her hair black, her
face oval, her eyes large and lustrous. To her he made his
involuntary obeisance. Afterwards she reminded many a
Spaniard of the dark-eyed hermosura with whom he had
left love-tokens in his native land.

“They are the king's daughters, the princesses Tula
and Nenetzin,” said Xoli, when fairly past the carriage.
“And as you have just come up from the country, listen.
Green is the royal color, and belongs to the king's family;
and wherever met, in the city or on the lake, the people
salute it. Though what they meet be but a green feather in
a slave's hand, they salute. Remember the lesson. By the
way, the gossips say that Guatamozin will marry Tula, the
eldest one.”

“She is very beautiful,” said the hunter, as to himself,
and slackening his steps.

“Are you mad?” cried the broker, seizing his arm.
“Would you bring the patrol upon us? They are not for
such as you. Come on. It may be we can get seats to see
the king and his whole household.”

At the entrance to the arena there was a press which the
police could hardly control. In the midst of it, Xoli pulled
his companion to one side, saying, “The king comes! Let
us under the staging here until he passes.”

They found themselves, then, close by the spears, which,
planted in the ground, upheld the shields of the combatants;
and when the Tihuancan heard the people, as they streamed
in, cheer the champions of the god, he grieved sorely that he
was not one of them.

The heralds then came up, clearing the way; and all thereabout
knelt, and so received the monarch. He stopped to
inspect the shields; for in all his realm there was not one
better versed in its heraldry. A diadem, not unlike the
papal tiara, crowned his head; his tunic and cloak were of
the skins of green humming-birds brilliantly iridescent; a
rope of pearls large as grapes hung, many times doubled, from
his neck down over his breast; his sandals and sandalthongs
were embossed with gold, and besides anklets of
massive gold, cuishes of the same metal guarded his legs from
knee to anklet. Save the transparent, lustrous gray of the
pearls, his dress was of the two colors, green and yellow, and
the effect was indescribably royal; yet all the bravery of his
trappings could not hide from Hualpa, beholding him for the
first time, that, like any common soul, he was suffering from
some trouble of mind.

“So, Cacama,” he said, pleasantly, after a look at the
gages, “your brother has a mind to make peace with the gods.
It is well!”

And thereupon Iztlil' himself stepped out and knelt before
him in battle array, the javelin in his hand, and bow, quiver,
and maquahuitl at his back; and in his homage the floating
feathers of his helm brushed the dust from the royal feet.

“It is well!” repeated the king, smiling. “But, son of
my friend, where are your comrades?”

Tlahua, the Otompan, and the young Cholulan, equipped
like Iztlil', rendered their homage also. Over their heads he
extended his hands, and said, softly, “They who love the
gods, the gods love. Put your trust in them, O my children!
And upon you be their blessing!”

And already he had passed the spears: one gage was forgotten,
one combatant unblessed. Suddenly he looked back.

“Whose shield is that, my lords?”

All eyes rested upon the plain gage, but no one replied.

“Who is he that thus mocks the holy cause of Quetzal'?
Go, Maxtla, and bring him to me!”

Then outspake Iztlil'.

“The shield is Guatamozin's. Last night he challenged
me to this combat, and he is not here. O king, the owl
may be looking for the eagle.”

A moment the sadly serene countenance of the monarch
knit and flushed as from a passing pain; a moment he regarded
the Tezcucan. Then he turned to the shields of the
Othmies and Tlascalans.

“They are a sturdy foe, and I warrant will fight hard,” he
said, quietly. “But such victims are the delight of the gods.
Fail me not, O children!”

When the Tihuancan and his chaperone climbed half-way
to the upper row of seats, in the quarter assigned to the people,
the former was amazed. He looked down on a circular
arena, strewn with white sand from the lake, and large enough
for manœuvring half a thousand men. It was bounded by
a rope, outside of which was a broad margin crowded with

rank on rank of common soldiery, whose shields were arranged
before them like a wall impervious to a glancing
arrow. Back from the arena extended the staging, rising
gradually seat above seat, platform above platform, until the
whole area of the tianguez was occupied.

“Is the king a magician, that he can do this thing in a
single night?” asked Hualpa.

Xoli laughed. “He has done many things much greater.
The timbers you see were wrought long ago, and have been
lying in the temples; the tamanes had only to bring them
out and put them together.”

In the east there was a platform, carpeted, furnished with
lounges, and protected from the sun by a red canopy; broad
passages of entrance separated it from the ruder structure
erected for the commonalty; it was also the highest of the
platforms, so that its occupants could overlook the whole
amphitheatre. This lordlier preparation belonged to the king,
his household and nobles. So, besides his wives and daughters,
under the red canopy sat the three hundred women of
his harem, — soft testimony that Orientalism dwelt not alone
in the sky and palm-trees of the valley.

As remarked, the margin around the arena belonged to the
soldiery; the citizens had seats in the north and south;
while the priesthood, superior to either of them in sanctity
of character, sat aloof in the west, also screened by a canopy.
And, as the celebration was regarded in the light of a religious
exercise, not only did women crowd the place, but
mothers brought their children, that, from the examples of
the arena, they might learn to be warriors.

Upon the appearance of the monarch there was a perfect
calm. Standing awhile by his couch, he looked over the
scene; and not often has royal vision been better filled with
all that constitutes royalty. Opposite him he saw the servitors
of his religion; at his feet were his warriors and people

almost innumerable. When, at last, the minstrels of the
soldiery poured their wild music over the theatre, he thrilled
with the ecstasy of power.

The champions for the god then came in; and as they
strode across to the western side of the arena the air was
filled with plaudits and flying garlands; but hardly was the
welcome ended before there was a great hum and stir, as the
spectators asked each other why the fourth combatant came
not with the others.

“The one with the bright panache, asked you? That is
Iztlil', the Tezcucan,” said Xoli.

“Is he not too fine?”

“No. Only think of the friends the glitter has made him
among the women and children.”

The Chalcan laughed heartily at the cynicism.

“And the broad-shouldered fellow now fixing the thongs
of his shield?”

“The Otompan, — a good warrior. They say he goes to
battle with the will a girl goes to a feast. The other is the
Cholulan; he has his renown to win, and is too young.”

“But he may have other qualities,” suggested Hualpa.
“I have heard it said that, in a battle of arrows, a quick eye
is better than a strong arm.”

The broker yawned. “Well, I like not those Cholulans.
They are proud; they scorn the other nations, even the
Aztecs. Probably it is well they are better priests than
soldiers. Under the red canopy yonder I see his father.”

“Listen, good Xoli. I hear the people talking about the
'tzin? Where can he be?”

Just then within the wall of shields there came a warrior,
who strode swiftly toward the solitary gage. His array was
less splendid than his comrades'; his helm was of plain
leather without ornament; his escaupil was secured by a
simple loop: yet the people knew him, and shouted; and

when he took down the plain shield and fixed it to his arm,
the approbation of the common soldiery arose like a storm.
As they bore such shields to battle, he became, as it were,
their peculiar representative. It was Guatamozin.

And under the royal canopy there was rapid exchange of
whispers and looks; every mind reverted to the paper
dropped so mysteriously into the king's hand at the palace
door; and some there were, acuter than the rest, who saw
corroboration of the meaning given the writing in the fact
that the shield the 'tzin now chose was without the owl, his
usual device. Whether the monarch himself was one of
them might not be said; his face was as impassive as
bronze.

Next, the Othmies and Tlascalans, dignified into common
challengers of the proudest chiefs of Tenochtitlan, were conducted
into the arena.

The Tlascalans were strong men used to battle; and
though, like their companions in danger, at first bewildered
by the sudden introduction to so vast a multitude, they
became quickly inured to the situation. Of the Othmies,
a more promising pair of gladiators never exhibited
before a Roman audience. The father was past the prime of
life, but erect, broad-shouldered, and of unusual dignity;
the son was slighter, and not so tall, but his limbs were
round and beautiful, and he looked as if he might outleap
an antelope. The people were delighted, and cheered the
challengers with scarcely less heartiness than their own
champions. Still, the younger Othmi appeared hesitant,
and, when the clamor somewhat abated, the sire touched
him, and said, —

“Does my boy dream? What voice is in his ear that his
heart is so melted? Awake! the shield is on the arm of
the foe.”

The young man aroused. “I saw the sun on the green

hills of Othmi. But see!” he said, proudly, and with
flashing eyes, “there is no weakness in the dreamer's arm.”
And with the words, he seized a bow at his feet, fitted an
arrow upon the cord, and, drawing full to the head, sent
it cleaving the sunshine far above them. Every eye followed
its flight but his own. “The arm, O chief, is not
stronger than the heart,” he added, carelessly dropping the
bow.

The old warroir gazed at him tenderly; but as that was
no time for the indulgence of affection, he turned to the
Tlascalans, and said, “We must be ready: let us arm.”

Each donned a leathern helm, and wrapped himself in a
quilted escaupil; each buckled the shield on his arm, and
tightened the thongs of his sandals. Their arms lay at
hand.

Such were the preparations for the combat, such the
combatants. And as the foemen faced each other, awaiting
the signal for the mortal strife, I fancy no Christian has
seen anything more beautiful than the theatre. Among the
faces the gaze swam as in a sea; the gleaming of arms and
ornaments was bewildering; while the diversity of colors in
the costumes of the vast audience was without comparison.
With the exception of the arena, the royal platform was
the cynosure. Behind the king, with a shield faced with
silver, stood Maxtla, vigilant against treachery or despair.
The array of nobles about the couch was imperial; and
what with them, and the dark-eyed beauties of his household,
and the canopy tingeing the air and softly undulating
above him, and the mighty congregation of subjects at his
feet, it was with Montezuma like a revival of the glory of
the Hystaspes. Yet the presence of his power but increased
his gloom; in a short time he heard no music and saw no
splendor; everything reminded him of the last picture on
the western wall of the golden chamber.

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE COMBAT.

THE champions for the god drew themselves up in the
west, while their challengers occupied the east of the
arena. This position of parties was the subject of much
speculation with the spectators, who saw it might prove a
point of great importance if the engagement assumed the
form of single combats.

Considering age and appearance, the Tlascalans were adjudged
most dangerous of the challengers, — a palm readily
awarded to the Tezcucan and the 'tzin on their side. The
common opinion held also, that the Cholulan, the youngest
and least experienced of the Aztecs, should have been the
antagonist of the elder Othmi, whose vigor was presumed
to be affected by his age; as it was, that combat belonged to
Tlahua, the Otompan, while the younger Othmi confronted
the Cholulan.

And now the theatre grew profoundly still with expectancy.

“The day grows old. Let the signal be given.” And so
saying, the king waved his hand, and sunk indolently back
upon his couch.

A moment after there was a burst of martial symphony,
and the combat began.

It was opened with arrows; and to determine, if possible,
the comparative skill of the combatants, the spectators
watched the commencement with closest attention. The
younger Othmi sent his missile straight into the shield of
the Cholulan, who, from precipitation probably, was not so
successful. The elder Othmi and his antagonist each planted

his arrow fairly, as did Iztlil' and the Tlascalans. But a
great outcry of applause attended Guatamozin, when his
bolt, flying across the space, buried its barb in the crest of
his adversary. A score of feathers, shorn away, floated
slowly to the sand.

“It was well done; by Our Mother, it was well done!”
murmured Hualpa.

“Wait!” said the Chalcan patronizingly. “Wait till
they come to the maquahuitl!”

Quite a number of arrows were thus interchanged by the
parties without effect, as they were always dexterously intercepted.
The passage was but the preluding skirmish, participated
in by all but the 'tzin, who, after his first shot, stood
a little apart from his comrades, and, resting his long bow
on the ground, watched the trial with apparent indifference.
Like the Chalcan, he seemed to regard it as play; and the
populace after a while fell into the same opinion: there was
not enough danger to fully interest them. So there began to
arise murmurs and cries, which the Cholulan was the first to
observe and interpret. Under an impulse which had relation,
probably, to his first failure, he resolved to avail himself
of the growing feeling. Throwing down his bow, he
seized the maquahuitl at his back, and, without a word to his
friends, started impetuously across the arena. The peril was
great, for every foeman at once turned his arrow against him.

Then the 'tzin stirred himself. “The boy is mad, and will
die if we do not go with him,” he said; and already his
foot was advanced to follow, when the young Othmi sprang
forward from the other side to meet the Cholulan.

The eagerness lest an incident should be lost became
intense; even the king sat up to see the duel. The theatre
rang with cries of encouragement, — none, however, so cheery
as that of the elder Othmi, whose feelings of paternity were,
for the moment, lost in his passion of warrior.

“On, boy! Remember the green hills, and the hammock
by the stream. Strike hard, strike hard!”

The combatants were apparently well matched, being
about equal in height and age; both brandished the maquahuitl,
the deadliest weapon known to their wars. Wielded
by both hands and swung high above the head, its blades
of glass generally clove their way to the life. About midway
the arena the foemen met. At the instant of contact
the Cholulan brought a downward blow, well aimed, at the
head of his antagonist; but the lithe Othmi, though at
full speed, swerved like a bird on the wing. A great
shout attested the appreciation of the audience. The Cholulan
wheeled, with his weapon uplifted for another blow;
the action called his left arm into play, and drew his shield
from its guard. The Othmi saw the advantage. One step
he took nearer, and then, with a sweep of his arm and an
upward stroke, he drove every blade deep into the side of
his enemy. The lifted weapon dropped in its half-finished
circle, the shield flew wildly up, and, with a groan, the victim
fell heavily to the sand, struggled once to rise, fell
back again, and his battles were ended forever. A cry of
anguish went out from under the royal canopy.

“Hark!” cried Xoli. “Did you hear the old Cholulan?
See! They are leading him from the platform!”

Except that cry, however, not a voice was heard; from
rising apprehension as to the result of the combat, or touched
by a passing sympathy for the early death, the multitude was
perfectly hushed.

“That was a brave blow, Xoli; but let him beware now!”
said Hualpa, excitedly.

And in expectation of instant vengeance, all eyes watched
the Othmi. Around the arena he glanced, then back to his
friends. Retreat would forfeit the honor gained: death
was preferable. So he knelt upon the breast of his enemy,

and, setting his shield before him, waited sternly and in
silence the result. And Iztlil' and Tlahua launched their
arrows at him in quick succession, but Guatamozin was as
indifferent as ever.

“What ails the 'tzin?” said Maxtla to the king. “The
Othmi is at his mercy.”

The monarch deigned no reply.

The spirit of the old Othmi rose. On the sand behind
him, prepared for service, was a dart with three points of
copper, and a long cord by which to recover it when once
thrown. Catching the weapon up, and shouting, “I am coming,
I am coming!” he ran to avert or share the danger.
The space to be crossed was inconsiderable, yet such his
animation that, as he ran, he poised the dart, and exposed
his hand above the shield. The 'tzin raised his bow, and
let the arrow fly. It struck right amongst the supple joints
of the veteran's wrist. The unhappy man stopped bewildered;
over the theatre he looked, then at the wound; in
despair he tore the shaft out with his teeth, and rushed on
till he reached the boy.

The outburst of acclamation shook the theatre.

“To have seen such archery, Xoli, were worth all the years
of a hunter's life!” said Hualpa.

The Chalcan smiled like a connoisseur, and replied, “It is
nothing. Wait!”

And now the combat again presented a show of equality.
The advantage, if there was any, was thought to be with the
Aztecs, since the loss of the Cholulan was not to be weighed
against the disability of the Othmi. Thus the populace were
released from apprehension, without any abatement of interest;
indeed, the excitement increased, for there was a
promise of change in the character of the contest; from
quiet archery was growing bloody action.

The Tlascalans, alive to the necessity of supporting their

friends, advanced to where the Cholulan lay, but more cautiously.
When they were come up, the Othmies both arose,
and calmly perfected the front. The astonishment at this
was very great.

“Brave fellow! He is worth ten live Cholulans!” said
Xoli. “But now look, boy! The challengers have advanced
half-way; the Aztecs must meet them.”

The conjecture was speedily verified. Iztlil' had, in fact,
ill brooked the superior skill, or better fortune, of the 'tzin;
the applause of the populace had been worse than wounds to
his jealous heart. Till this time, however, he had restrained
his passion; now the foe were ranged as if challenging attack:
he threw away his useless bow, and laid his hand on his
maquahuitl.

“It is not for an Aztec god that we are fighting, O comrade!”
he cried to Tlahua. “It is for ourselves. Come, let
us show yon king a better war!”

And without waiting, he set on. The Otompan followed,
leaving the 'tzin alone. The call had not been to him, and
as he was fighting for the god, and the Tezcucan for himself,
he merely placed another arrow on his bow, and observed the
attack.

Leaving the Otompan to engage the Othmies, the fierce
Tezcucan assaulted the Tlascalans, an encounter in which
there was no equality; but the eyes of Tenochtitlan were
upon him, and at his back was a hated rival. His antagonists
each sent an arrow to meet him; but, as he skilfully
caught them on his shield, they, too, betook themselves to
the maquahuitl. Right on the kept, until his shield struck
theirs; it was gallantly done, and won a furious outburst
from the people. Again Montezuma sat up, momentarily
animated.

“Ah, my lord Cacama!” he said, “if your brother's love
were but equal to his courage, I would give him an army.”

“All the gods forfend!” replied the jealous prince. “The
viper would recover his fangs.”

The speed with which he went was all that saved Iztlil'
from the blades of the Tlascalans. Striking no blow himself,
he strove to make way between them, and get behind,
so that, facing about to repel his returning onset, their
backs would be to the 'tzin. But they were wary, and did
not yield. As they pushed against him, one, dropping his
more cumbrous weapon, struck him in the breast with a copper
knife. The blow was distinctly seen by the spectators.

Hualpa started from his seat. “He has it; they will
finish him now! No, he recovers. Our Mother, what a
blow!”

The Tezcucan disengaged himself, and, maddened by the
blood that began to flow down his quilted armor, assaulted
furiously. He was strong, quick of eye, and skilful;
the blades of his weapon gleamed in circles around
his head, and resounded against the shields. At length a
desperate blow beat down the guard of one of the Tlascalans;
ere it could be recovered, or Iztlil' avail himself of the advantage,
there came a sharp whirring through the air, and an
arrow from the 'tzin pierced to the warrior's heart. Up he
leaped, dead before he touched the sand. Again Iztlil' heard
the acclamation of his rival. Without a pause, he rushed
upon the surviving Tlascalan, as if to bear him down by
stormy dint.

Meantime, the combat of Tlahua, the Otompan, was not
without its difficulties, since it was not singly with the young
Othmi.

“Mictlan take the old man!” cried the lord Cuitlahua,
bending from his seat. “I thought him done for; but, see!
he defends, the other fights.”

And so it was. The Otompan struck hard, but was distracted
by the tactics of his foemen: if he aimed at the

younger, both their shields warded the blow; if he assaulted
the elder, he was in turn attacked by the younger; and so,
without advantage to either, their strife continued until the
fall of the Tlascalan. Then, inspired by despairing valor,
the boy threw down his maquahuitl, and endeavored to push
aside the Otompan's shield. Once within its guard, the
knife would finish the contest. Tlahua retreated; but the
foe clung to him, — one wrenching at his shield, the other intercepting
his blows, and both carefully avoiding the deadly
archery of the 'tzin, who, seeing the extremity of the danger,
started to the rescue. All the people shouted, “The 'tzin,
the 'tzin!” Xoli burst into ecstasy, and clapped his hands.
“There he goes! Now look for something!”

The rescuer went as a swift wind; but the clamor had
been as a warning to the young Othmi. By a great effort he
tore away the Otompan's shield. In vain the latter struggled.
There was a flash, sharp, vivid, like the sparkle of the sun
upon restless waters. Then his head drooped forward,
and he staggered blindly. Once only the death-stroke was
repeated; and so still was the multitude that the dull sound
of the knife driving home was heard. The 'tzin was too
late.

The prospect for the Aztecs was now gloomy. The Cholulan
and Otompan were dead; the Tezcucan, wounded and
bleeding, was engaged in a doubtful struggle with the Tlascalan;
the 'tzin was the last hope of his party. Upon him
devolved the fight with the Othmies. In the interest thus
excited Iztlil's battle was forgotten.

Twice had the younger Othmi been victor, and still he was
scathless. Instead of the maquahuitl, he was now armed
with the javelin, which, while effective as a dart, was excellent
to repel assault.

From the crowded seats of the theatre not a sound was
heard. At no time had the excitement risen to such a pitch.

Breathless and motionless, the spectators awaited the advance
of the 'tzin. He was, as I have said, a general favorite, beloved
by priest and citizen, and with the wild soldiery an
object of rude idolatry. And if, under the royal canopy
there were eyes that looked not lovingly upon him, there
were lips there murmuring soft words of prayer for his
success.

When within a few steps of the waiting Othmies, he
halted. They glared at him an instant in silence; then the
old chief said tauntingly, and loud enough to be heard above
the noise of the conflict at his side, —

“A woman may wield a bow, and from a distance slay a
warrior; but the maquahuitl is heavy in the hand of the
coward, looking in the face of his foeman.”

The Aztec made no answer; he was familiar with the
wile. Looking at the speaker as if against him he intended
his first attack, with right hand back he swung the heavy
weapon above his shoulder till it sung in quickening circles;
when its force was fully collected, he suddenly hurled it
from him. The old Othmi crouched low behind his shield:
but his was not the form in the 'tzin's eyes; for right in the
centre of the young victor's guard the flying danger struck.
Nor arm nor shield might bar its way. The boy was lifted
sheer above the body of the Otompan, and driven backward
as if shot from a catapult.

Guatamozin advanced no further. A thrust of his javelin
would have disposed of the old Othmi, now unarmed and helpless.
The acclamation of the audience, in which was blent
the shrill voices of women, failed to arouse his passion.

The sturdy chief arose from his crouching; he looked for the
boy to whom he had so lately spoken of home; he saw him
lying outstretched, his face in the sand, and his shield, so
often bound with wreaths and garlands, twain-broken beneath
him; and his will, that in the fight had been tougher than

the gold of his bracelets, gave way; forgetful of all else,
he ran, and, with a great cry, threw himself upon the body.

The Chalcan was as exultant as if the achievement had
been his own. Even the prouder souls under the red canopy
yielded their tardy praise; only the king was silent.

As none now remained of the challengers but the Tlascalan
occupied with Iztlil', — none whom he might in honor engage,
— Guatamozin moved away from the Othmies; and as he
went, once he allowed his glance to wander to the royal platform,
but with thought of love, not wrong.

The attention of the people was again directed to the
combat of the Tezcucan. The death of his comrades nowise
daunted the Tlascalan; he rather struck the harder for
revenge; his shield was racked, the feathers in his crest
torn away, while the blades were red with his blood. Still
it fared but ill with Iztlil' fighting for himself. His wound
in the breast bled freely, and his equipments were in no better
plight than his antagonist's. The struggle was that of
the hewing and hacking which, whether giving or taking,
soon exhausts the strongest frame. At last, faint with loss
of blood, he went down. The Tlascalan attempted to strike
a final blow, but darkness rushed upon him; he staggered,
the blades sunk into the sand, and he rolled beside his
enemy.

With that the combat was done. The challengers might
not behold their “land of bread” again; nevermore for
them was hammock by the stream or echo of tambour
amongst the hills.

And all the multitude arose and gave way to their rejoicing;
they embraced each other, and shouted and sang; the
pabas waved their ensigns, and the soldiers saluted with
voice and pealing shells; and up to the sun ascended the
name of Quetzal' with form and circumstance to soften the
mood of the most demanding god; but all the time the

audience saw only the fortunate hero, standing so calmly before
them, the dead at his feet, and the golden light about him.

And the king was happy as the rest, and talked gayly,
caring little for the living or the dead. The combat was
over, and Quetzal' not come. Mualox was a madman, not
a prophet; the Aztecs had won, and the god was propitiated:
so the questioner of the Morning flattered himself!

“If the Othmi cannot fight, he can serve for sacrifice.
Let him be removed. And the dead — But hold!” he cried,
and his cheeks blanched with mortal pallor. “Who comes
yonder? Look to the arena, — nay, to the people! By
my father's ashes, the paba shall perish! White hairs and
prophet's gifts shall not save him.”

While the king was speaking, Mualox, the keeper of the
temple, rushed within the wall of shields. His dress was
disordered, and he was bareheaded and unsandalled. Over
his shoulders and down his breast flowed his hair and beard,
tangled and unkempt, wavy as a billow and white as the
foam. Excitement flashed from every feature; and far as
his vision ranged, — in every quarter, on every platform, —
in the blood of others he kindled his own unwonted passion.

12. CHAPTER XII.
MUALOX AND HIS WORLD.

MUALOX, after the departure of the king and 'tzin,
ascended the tower of the old Cû, and remained there
all night, stooped beside the sacred fire, sorrowing and dreaming,
hearkening to the voices of the city, or watching the mild-eyed
stars. So the morning found him. He, too, beheld
the coming of the sun, and trembled when the Smoking Hill

sent up its cloud. Then he heaped fresh fagots on the
dying fire, and went down to the court-yard. It was the
hour when in all the other temples worshippers came to pray.

He took a lighted lamp from a table in his cell, and followed
a passage on deeper into the building. The way, like
that to the golden chamber, was intricate and bewildering.
Before a door at the foot of a flight of steps he stopped. A
number of earthen jars and ovens stood near; while from
the room to which the door gave entrance there came a strong,
savory perfume, very grateful to the sense of a hungry man.
Here was the kitchen of the ancient house. The paba
went in.

This was on a level with the water of the canal at the
south base; and when the good man came out, and descended
another stairway, he was in a hall, which, though below the
canal, was dusty and perfectly dry. Down the hall further
he came to a doorway in the floor, or rather an aperture,
which had at one time been covered and hidden by a ponderous
flag-stone yet lying close by. A rope ladder was coiled
up on the stone. Flinging the ladder through the door, he
heard it rattle on the floor beneath; then he stooped, and
called, —

“Tecetl, Tecetl!”

No one replied. He repeated the call.

“Poor child! She is asleep,” he said, in a low voice.
“I will go down without her.”

Leaving the lamp above, he committed himself to the
unsteady rope, like one accustomed to it. Below all was
darkness; but, pushing boldly on, he suddenly flung aside a
curtain which had small silver bells in the fringing; and,
ushered by the tiny ringing, he stepped into a chamber
lighted and full of beauty, — a grotto carven with infinite
labor from the bed-rock of the lake.

And here, in the day mourned by the paba, when the

temple was honored, and its god had worshippers, and
the name of Quetzal' was second to no other, not even
Huitzil's, must have been held the secret conclaves of
the priesthood, — so great were the dimensions of the chamber,
and so far was it below the roll of waters. But now it
might be a place for dwelling, or for thought and dreaming,
or for pleasure, or in which the eaters of the African lotus
might spend their hours and days of semi-consciousness
sounding of a life earthly yet purely spiritual. There were
long aisles for walking, and couches for rest; there were
pictures, flowers, and a fountain; the walls and ceiling
glowed with frescoing; and wherever the eye turned it rested
upon some cunning device intended to instruct, gladden,
comfort, and content. Lamplight streamed into every corner,
ill supplying the perfect sunshine, yet serving its grand purpose.
The effect was more than beautiful. The world above
was counterfeited, so that one ignorant of the original and
dwelling in the counterfeit could have been happy all his
life long. Scarcely is it too much to say of the master who
designed and finished the grotto, that, could he have borrowed
the materials of nature, he had the taste and genius to set a
star with the variety and harmony that mark the setting of
the earth's surface, and of themselves prove its Creator
divine.

In the enchantment of the place there was a peculiarity
indicative of a purpose higher than mere enjoyment, and
that was the total absence of humanity in the host of things
visible. Painted on the ceiling and walls were animals of
almost every kind common to the clime; birds of wondrous
plumage darted hither and thither, twittering and singing;
there, also, were flowers the fairest and most fragrant, and
orange and laurel shrubs, and pines and cedars and oaks, and
other trees of the forest, dwarfed, and arranged for convenient
carriage to the azoteas; in the pictures, moreover, were

the objects most remarkable in the face of nature, — rivers,
woods, plains, mountains, oceans, the heavens in storm and
calm; but nowhere was the picture of man, woman, or child.
In the frescoing were houses and temples, grouped as in
hamlets and cities, or standing alone on a river's bank, or in
the shadow of great trees; but of their habitants and builders
there was not a trace. In fine, the knowledge there
taught was that of a singular book. A mind receiving
impressions, like a child's, would be carried by it far enough
in the progressive education of life to form vivid ideas of the
world, and yet be left in a dream of unintelligence to people
it with fairies, angels, or gods. Almost everything had there
a representation but humanity, the brightest fallen nature.

Mualox entered as one habituated to the chamber. The
air was soft, balmy, and pleasant, and the illumination mellowed,
as if the morning were shut out by curtains of gossamer
tinted with roses and gold. Near the centre of the
room he came to a fountain of water crystal clear and in full
play, the jet shooting from a sculptured stone up almost to
the ceiling. Around it were tables, ottomans, couches, and
things of vertu, such as would have adorned the palace;
there, also, were vases of flowers, culled and growing, and of
such color and perfume as would have been estimable in
Cholula, and musical instrument, and pencils and paints.

It was hardly possible that this conception, so like the
Restful World of Brahma, should be without its angel; for
the atmosphere and all were for a spirit of earth or heaven
softer than man's. And by the fountain it was, — a soul
fresh and pure as the laughing water.

The girl of whom I speak was asleep. Her head lay
upon a cushion; over the face, clear and almost white, shone
a lambent transparency, which might have been the reflection
of the sparkling water. The garments gathered close
about her did not conceal the delicacy and childlike grace

of her form. One foot was exposed, and it was bare, small,
and nearly lost in the tufted mattress of her couch. Under
a profusion of dark hair, covering the cushion like the floss
of silk, lay an arm; a hand, dimpled and soft, rested lightly
on her breast. The slumber was very deep, giving the face
the expression of dreamless repose, with the promise of
health and happiness upon waking.

The paba approached her tenderly, and knelt down. His
face was full of holy affection. He bent his cheek close to
her parted lips, listening to her breathing. He brought the
straying locks back, and laid them across her neck. Now
and then a bird came and lighted on the table, and he waved
his mantle to scare it away. And when the voice of the
fountain seemed, under an increased pulsation of the water,
to grow louder, he looked around, frowning lest it might disturb
her. She slept on, his love about her like a silent prayer
that has found its consummation in perfect peace.

And as he knelt, he became sad and thoughtful. The
events that were to come, and his faith in their coming,
were as actual sorrows. His reflections were like a plea addressed
to his conscience.

“God pardon me, if, after all, I should be mistaken! The
wrong would be so very great as to bar me from the Sun.
Is any vanity like that which makes sorrows for our fellows?
And such is not only the vanity of the warrior, and that of
the ruler of tribes; sometimes it is of the priests who go
into the temples thinking of things that do not pertain to
the gods. What if mine were such?

“The holy Quetzal' knows that I intended to be kind to
the child. I thought my knowledge greater than that of
ordinary mortals; I thought it moved in fields where only
the gods walk, sowing wisdom. The same vanity, taking
words, told me, `Look up! There is no abyss between you
and the gods; they cannot make themselves of the dust,

but you can reach their summit almost a god.' And I
labored, seeking the principles that would accomplish my
dream, if such it were. Heaven forgive me, but I once
thought I had found them! Other men looking out on
creation could see nothing but Wisdom — Wisdom everywhere;
but I looked with a stronger vision, and wherever
there was a trace of infinite Wisdom, there was also for me
an infinite Will.

“Here were the principles, but they were not enough.
Something said to me, `What were the Wisdom and Will
of the gods without subjects?' It was a great idea: I
thought I stood almost upon the summit!

“And I set about building me a world. I took the treasure
of Quetzal', and collected these marvels, and bought me
the labor of art. Weavers, florists, painters, masons, — all
toiled for me. Gold, labor, and time are here, — there is
little beauty without them. Here is my world,” he said
aloud, glancing around the great hall.

“I had my world; next I wanted a subject for my will.
But where to go? Not among men, — alas, they are their
own slaves! One day I stood in the tianguez where a
woman was being sold. A baby in her arms smiled, it
might have been at the sunshine, it might have been
at me. The mother said, `Buy.' A light flashed upon
me — I bought you, my poor child. Men say of the
bud, It will be a rose, and of the plant, It will be a
tree; you were so young then that I said, `It will be a
mind.' And into my world I brought you, thinking, as I
had made it, so I would make a subject. This, I told you,
was your birthplace; and here passed your infancy and
childhood; here you have dwelt. Your cheeks are pale, my
little one, but full and fresh; your breath is sweet as the air
above a garden; and you have grown in beauty, knowing
nothing living but the birds and me. My will has a subject,

O Tecetl, and my heart a child. And judge me,
holy Quetzal', if I have not tried to make her happy! I
have given her knowledge of everything but humanity, and
ignorance of that is happiness. My world has thus far been a
heaven to her; her dreams have been of it; I am its god!”

And yet unwilling to disturb her slumber, Mualox arose,
and walked away.

13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE SEARCH FOR QUETZAL'.

BY and by he returned, and standing by the couch,
passed his hand several times above her face. Silent
as the movements were, she awoke, and threw her arms
around his neck.

“You have been gone a long while,” she said, in a childish
voice. “I waited for you; but the lamps burned down
low, and the shadows, from their hiding among the bushes,
came creeping in upon the fountain, and I slept.”

“I saw you,” he answered, playing with her hair. “I
saw you; I always see you.”

“I tried to paint the fountain,” she went on; “but when
I watched the water to catch its colors, I thought its singing
changed to voices, and, listening to them, they stole my
thoughts away. Then I tried to blend my voice with them,
and sing as they sung; but whenever mine sank low enough,
it seemed sad, while they went on gayer and more ringing
than ever. I can paint the flowers, but not the water; I
can sing with the birds, but not with the fountain. But you
promised to call me, — that you would always call me.”

“I knew you were asleep.”

“But you had only to think to waken me.”

He smiled at this acknowledgment of the power of his
will. Just then a bell sounded faintly through the chamber;
hastening away, he shortly returned with breakfast on a great
shell waiter; there were maize bread and honey, quails and
chocolate, figs and oranges. Placing them on a table, he
rolled up an ottoman for the girl; and, though she talked
much and lightly, the meal was soon over. Then he composed
himself upon the couch, and in the quiet, unbroken
save by Tecetl, forgot the night and its incidents.

His rest was calm; when he awoke, she was sitting by the
basin of the fountain talking to her birds gleefully as a child.
She had given them names, words more of sound pleasant to
the ear than of signification; so she understood the birds,
whose varied cries were to her a language. And they were
fearless and tame, perching on her hand, and courting her
caresses; while she was as artless, with a knowledge as innocent,
and a nature as happy. If Quetzal' was the paba's idol
in religion, she was his idol in affection.

He watched her awhile, then suddenly sat up; though he
said not a word, she flung her birds off, and came to him
smiling.

“You called me, father.”

He laid his hand upon her shoulder, all overflowed with the
dark hair, and said in a low voice, “The time approaches
when Quetzal' is to come from the home of the gods; it may
be he is near. I will send you over the sea and the land
to find him; you shall have wings to carry you into the air;
and you shall fly swifter than the birds you have been talking
to.”

Her smile deepened.

“Have you not told me that Quetzal' is good, and that his
voice is like the fountain's, and that when he speaks it is like
singing? I am ready.”

He kissed her, and nearer the basin rolled the couch, upon

which she sat reclined against a heap of cushions, her hands
clasped over her breast.

“Do not let me be long gone!” she said. “The lamps
will burn low again, and I do not like to have the shadows
come and fold up my flowers.”

The paba took a pearl from the folds of his gown, and laid
it before her; then he sat down, and fixed his eyes upon her
face; she looked at the jewel, and composed herself as for
sleep. Her hands settled upon her bosom, her features grew
impassive, the lips slowly parted; gradually her eyelids
drooped, and the life running in the veins of her cheeks and
forehead went back into her heart. Out of the pearl seemed
to issue a spell that stole upon her spirits gently as an atomy
settles through the still air. Finally, there was a sigh, a sob,
and over the soul of the maiden the will of Mualox became
absolute. He took her hand in his.

“Wings swifter than the winds are yours, Tecetl. Go,”
he said, “search for the god; search the land.”

She moved not, and scarcely breathed.

“Speak,” he continued; “let me know that I am obeyed.”

The will was absolute; she spoke, and though at first the
words came slowly, yet he listened like a prophet waiting for
revelation. She spoke of the land, of its rivers, forests, and
mountains; she spoke of the cities, of their streets and
buildings, and of their people, for whom she knew no name.
She spoke of events transpiring in distant provinces, as well
as in Tenochtitlan. She went into the temples, markets,
and palaces. Wherever men travelled, thither her spirit flew.
When the flight was done, and her broken description ceased,
the holy man sighed.

“Not yet, Tecetl; he is not found. The god is not on
the land. Search the air.”

And still the will was absolute, though the theme of the
seer changed; it was not of the land now, but of the higher

realm; she spoke of the sunshine and the cloud, of the wind
rushing and chill, of the earth far down, and grown so small
that the mountains levelled with the plains.

“Not yet, not yet,” he cried; “the god is not in the air.
Go search the sea!”

In the hollow of his hand he lifted water, and sprinkled
her face; and when he resumed his seat she spoke, not slowly
as before, but fast and free.

“The land is passed; behind me are the cities and lakes,
and the great houses and blue waters, such as I have seen in
my pictures. I am hovering now, father, where there is
nothing before me but waves and distance. White birds go
skimming about careless of the foam; the winds pour upon
me steadily; and in my ear is a sound as of a great voice. I
listen, and it is the sea; or, father, it may be the voice of the
god whom you seek.”

She was silent, as if waiting for an answer.

“The water, is it? Well, well, — whither shall I go now?”

“Follow the shore; it may lead where only gods have
been.”

“Still the waves and the distance, and the land, where it
goes down into the sea sprinkled with shells. Still the deep
voice in my ear, and the wind about me. I hurry on, but it
is all alike, — all water and sound. No! Out of the waves
rises a new land, the sea, a girdle of billows, encircling it
everywhere; yet there are blue clouds ascending from the
fields, and I see palm-trees and temples. May not thy god
dwell here?”

“No. You see but an island. On!”

“Well, well. Behind me fades the island; before me is
nothing but sheen and waves and distance again; far around
runs the line separating the sea and sky. Waste, all waste;
the sea all green, the sky all blue; no life; no god. But
stay!”

“Something moves on the waste: speak, child!”

But for a time she was still.

“Speak!” he said, earnestly. “Speak, Tecetl!”

“They are far off, — far off,” she replied, slowly and in a
doubting way. “They move and live, but I cannot tell
whether they come or go, or what they are. Their course is
unsteady, and, like the flight of birds, now upon the sea,
then in air, a moment seeming of the waves, then of the sky.
They look like white clouds.”

“You are fleeter than birds or clouds, — nearer!” he said,
sternly, the fire in his eyes all alight.

“I go, — I approach them, — I now see them coming. O
father, father! I know not what your god is like, nor what
shape he takes, nor in what manner he travels; but surely
these are his! There are many of them, and as they sweep
along they are a sight to be looked at with trembling.”

“What are they, Tecetl?”

“How can I answer? They are not of the things I have
seen in my pictures, nor heard in my songs. The face of the
sea is whitened by them; the largest leads the way, looking
like a shell, — of them I have heard you speak as coming
from the sea, — a great shell streaked with light and shade,
and hollow, so that the sides rise above the reach of the
waves, — wings —.”

“Nay, what would a god of the air with wings to journey
upon the sea!”

“Above it are clouds, — clouds white as the foam, and such
as a god might choose to waft him on his way. I can see
them sway and toss, but as the shell rushes into the hollow
places, they lift it up, and drive it on.”

A brighter light flashed from his eyes. “It is the canoe,
the canoe!” he exclaimed. “The canoe from Tlapallan!”

“The canoe, father! The waves rush joyously around it;
they lift themselves in its path, and roll on to meet it; then,

as if they knew it to be a god's, in peace make way for its
coming. Upon the temples in my pictures I have seen signs
floating in the air —”

“You mean banners,—banners, child,” he said, tremulously.

“I remember now. Above the foremost canoe, above
its clouds, there is a banner, and it is black —”

“'T is Quetzal's! 'T is Quetzal's!” he muttered.

“It is black, with golden embroidery, and something picture-written
on it, but what I cannot tell.”

“Look in the canoe.”

“I see — O, I know not what to call them.”

“Of what shape are they, child?”

“Yours, father.”

“Go on: they are gods!” he said, and still the naming
of men was unheard in the great chamber.

“There are many of them,” she continued; “their garments
flash and gleam; around one like themselves they are
met; to me he seems the superior god; he is speaking, they
are listening. He is taller than you, father, and has a fair
face, and hair and beard like the hue of his banner. His
garments are the brightest of all.”

“You have described a god; it is Quetzal', the holy, beautiful
Quetzal'!” he said, with rising voice. “Look if his
course be toward the land.”

“Every canoe moves toward the shore.”

“Enough!” he cried. “The writing on the wall is the
god's!” And, rising, he awoke the girl.

As Tecetl awake had no recollection of her journey, or of
what she had seen in its course, she wondered at his trouble
and excitement, and spoke to him, without answer.

“Father, what has Tecetl done that you should be so troubled?”

He put aside her arms, and in silence turned slowly from
the pleasant place, and retraced his steps back through the
halls of the Cû to the court-yard and azoteas.

The weight of the secret did not oppress him; it rested
upon him lightly as the surplice upon his shoulders; for the
humble servant of his god was lifted above his poverty and
trembling, and, vivified by the consciousness of inspiration,
felt more than a warrior's strength. But what should he do?
Where proclaim the revelation? Upon the temple?

“The streets are deserted; the people are in the theatre;
the king is there with all Anahuac,” he muttered. “The
coming of Quetzal' concerns the Empire, and it shall hear the
announcement: so not on the temple, but to the tianguez.
The god speaks to me! To the tianguez!”

In the chapel he exchanged his white surplice for the
regalia of sacrifice. Never before, to his fancy, wore the idol
such seeming of life. Satisfaction played grimly about its
mouth; upon its brow, like a coronet, sat the infinite Will.
From the chapel he descended to the street that led to the
great square. Insensibly, as he hurried on, his steps quickened;
and bareheaded and unsandalled, his white beard and
hair loose and flowing, and his face beaming with excitement,
he looked the very embodiment of direful prophecy.
On the streets he met only slaves. At the theatre the entrance
was blocked by people; soldiery guarded the arena: but
guard and people shrunk at his approach; and thus, without
word or cry, he rushed within the wall of shields, where
were none but the combatants, living and dead.

Midway the arena he halted, his face to the king. Around
ran his wondrous glance, and, regardless of the royalty present,
the people shouted, “The paba, the paba!” and their
many voices shook the theatre. Flinging the white locks
back on his shoulders, he tossed his arms aloft; and the
tumult rose into the welkin, and a calm settled over the
multitude. Montezuma, with the malediction warm on his
lips, bent from his couch to hear his words.

“Woe is Tenochtitlan, the beautiful!” he cried, in the

unmeasured accents of grief. “Woe to homes, and people,
and armies, and king! Why this gathering of dwellers on
the hills and in the valleys? Why the combat of warriors?
Quetzal' is at hand. He comes for vengeance. Woe is
Tenochtitlan, the beautiful! * * * * This, O king, is the
day of the fulfilment of prophecy. From out the sea, wafted
by clouds, even now the canoes of the god are coming. His
power whitens the waves, and the garments of his warriors
gleam with the light of the sky. Woe is Tenochtitlan! This
day is the last of her perfect glory; to-morrow Quetzal' will
glisten on the sea-shore, and her Empire vanish forever.
* * * * People, say farewell to peace! Keepers of the
temples, holy men, go feed the fires, and say the prayer, and
sacrifice the victim! And thou, O king! summon thy strong
men, leaders in battle, and be thy banners counted, and thy
nations marshalled. In vain! Woe is Tenochtitlan! Sitting
in the lake, she shines lustrously as a star; and though
in a valley of gardens, she is like a great tree shadowing in a
desert. But the ravager comes, and the tree shall be felled,
and the star go out darkling forever. The fires shall fade,
the bones of the dead kings be scattered, altars and gods
overthrown, and every temple levelled with the streets. Woe
is Tenochtitlan! Ended, — ended forever is the march of
Azatlan, the mighty!”

His arms fell down, and, without further word, his head
bowed upon his breast, the prophet departed. The spell he
left behind him remained unbroken. As they recovered
from the effects of his bodement, the people left the theatre,
their minds full of indefinite dread. If perchance they
spoke of the scene as they went, it was in whispers, and
rather to sound the depths of each other's alarm. And for
the rest of the day they remained in their houses, brooding
alone, or collected in groups, talking in low voices, wondering
about the prescience of the paba, and looking each moment
for the development of something more terrible.

The king watched the holy man until he disappeared in
the crowded passage; then a deadly paleness overspread his
face, and he sunk almost to the platform. The nobles rushed
around, and bore him to his palanquin, their brave souls
astonished that the warrior and priest and mighty monarch
could be so overcome. They carried him to his palace, and
left him to a solitude full of unkingly superstitions.

Guatamozin, serene amid the confusion, called the tamanes,
and ordered the old Othmi and the dead removed. The Tezcucan
still breathed.

“The reviler of the gods shall be cared for,” he said to
himself. “If he lives, their justice will convict him.”

Before the setting of the sun, the structure in the tianguez
was taken down and restored to the temples, never again to
be used. Yet the market-place remained deserted and vacant;
the whole city seemed plague-smitten.

And the common terror was not without cause, any more
than Mualox was without inspiration. That night the ships
of Cortes, eleven in number, and freighted with the materials
of conquest, from the east of Yucatan, came sweeping down
the bay of Campeachy. Next morning they sailed up the
Rio de Tabasco, beautiful with its pure water and its banks
fringed with mangroves. Tecetl had described the fleet,
the sails of which from afar looked like clouds, while they
did, indeed, whiten the sea.

Next evening a courier sped hotly over the causeway and
up the street, stopping at the gate of the royal palace. He
was taken before the king; and, shortly after, it went flying
over the city how Quetzal' had arrived, in canoes larger than
temples, wafted by clouds, and full of thunder and lightning.
Then sank the monarch's heart; and, though the Spaniard
knew it not, his marvellous conquest was half completed
before his iron shoe smote the shore at San Juan de Ulloa.[26]