Loe raamatut: «The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins», lehekülg 11

CHAPTER XI
THE CHANT

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

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

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

“He is the man.”

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

He seemed, however, the picture of aged innocence, and stood before the throne, his head bowed, his face shaded by the hood, leaning humbly on his staff, and clasping the harp close to his breast, the vines yet about it. So well did he observe his disguise, that none there, save Tula and Yeteve, might dream that the hood and dark gown concealed the boldest warrior in Tenochtitlan. The face of the priestess was turned away; but the princess sat a calm witness of the scene; either she had too much pride to betray her solicitude, or a confidence in his address so absolute that she felt none.

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

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

The gray courtiers frowned, and the king laughed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If the great king will deign to heed his servant again,—I am old and weak. There was a time when I would have rejoiced to hear a prize so princely offered in such a trial. But that was many, many summers ago. And this afternoon, in my hut by the lake-shore, when I took my harp, all covered with dust, from the shelf where it had so long lain untouched and neglected, and wreathed it with this fresh vine, thinking a gay dress might give it the appearance of use, and myself a deceitful likeness to the minstrel I once was, alas! I did not think of my trembling hand and my shattered memory, or of trial like this. I only knew that a singer, however humble, was privileged at your banquet, and that the privilege was a custom of the monarchs now in their halls in the Sun,—true, kingly men, who, at time like this, would have put gold in my hand, and bade me arise, and go in peace. Is Montezuma more careless of his glory? Will he compel my song, and dishonor my gray hair, that I may go abroad in Tenochtitlan and tell the story? In pity, O king, suffer me to depart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

QUETZAL’

 
Beloved of the Sun! Mother of the
Brave! Azatlan, the North-born! Heard be thou
In my far launched voice! I sing to thy
Listening children of thee and Heaven.
Vale in the Sun, where dwell the Gods! Sum of
The beautiful art thou! Thy forests are
Flowering trees; of crystal and gold thy
Mountains; and liquid light are thy rivers
Flowing, all murmurous with songs, over
Beds of stars. O Vale of Gods, the summery
Sheen that flecks Earth’s seas, and kisses its mountains,
And fairly floods its plains, we know is of thee,—
A sign sent us from afar, that we may
Feebly learn how beautiful is Heaven!
 

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

 
Richest hall in all the Vale is Quetzal’s—
 

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

 
O, none so fair as Quetzal’s! The winds that
Play among its silver columns are Love’s
Light laughter, while of Love is all the air
About. From its orient porch the young
Mornings glean the glory with which they rise
On earth.
 
 
First God and fairest was Quetzal’.
As him O none so full of holiness,
And by none were men so lov’d! Sat he always
In his hall, in deity rob’d, watching
Humanity, its genius, and its struggles
Upward. But most he watch’d its wars,—no hero
Fell but he call’d the wand’ring soul in love
To rest with him forever.
 
 
Sat he once
Thus watching, and where least expected, in
The far North, by stormy Winter rul’d, up
From the snows he saw a Nation rise. Shook
Their bolts, glistened their shields, flashed the
Light of their fierce eyes. A king, in wolf-skin
Girt, pointed Southward, and up the hills, through
The air, to the Sun, flew the name—Azatlan.
Then march’d they; by day and night they march’d,—march’d
Ever South, across the desert, up the
Mountains, down the mountains; leaping rivers,
Smiting foes, taking cities,—thus they march’d;
Thus, a cloud of eagles, roll’d they from the
North; thus on the South they fell, as autumn
Frosts upon the fruits of summer fall.
 

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

 
Pass’d
Many years of toil, and still the Nation march’d;
Still Southward strode the king; still Sunward rose
The cry of Azatlan! Azatlan! And
Warmer, truer, brighter grew the human
Love of Quetzal’. He saw them reach a lake;
As dew its waves were clear; like lover’s breath
The wind flew o’er it. ’Twas in the clime of
Starry nights,—the clime of orange-groves and
Plumy palms.
 
 
Then Quetzal’ from his watching
Rose. Aside he flung his sunly symbols.
Like a falling star, from the Vale of Gods
He dropp’d, like a falling star shot through the
Shoreless space; like a golden morning reach’d
The earth,—reach’d the lake. Then stay’d the Nation’s
March. Still Sunward rose the cry, but Southward
Strode the king no more.
 
 
In his roomy heart, in
The chambers of its love, Quetzal’ took the
Nation. He swore its kings should be his sons,—
They should conquer, by the Sun, he swore! In
The laughing Lake he bade them build; and up
Sprang Tenochtitlan, of the human love
Of Quetzal child; up rose its fire-lit towers,
Outspread its piles, outstretched its streets
Of stone and wave. And as the city grew,
Still stronger grew the love of Quetzal’.
Thine
 
 
Is the Empire. To the shields again, O
Azatlan! ’Twas thus he spoke; and feather’d
Crest and oaken spear, the same that from the
North came conquering, through the valley,
On a wave of war went swiftly floating.
Down before the flaming shields fell all the
Neighb’ring tribes; open flew the cities’ gates;
Fighting kings gave up their crowns; from the hills
The Chichimecan fled; on temple towers
The Toltec fires to scattering ashes
Died. Like a scourge upon the city, like
A fire across the plain, like storms adown
The mountain,—such was Azatlan that day
It went to battle! Like a monarch ’mid
His people, like a god amid the Heavens,
O such was Azatlan, victor from the
Battle, the Empire in its hand!
 

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

 
As the river runneth ever, like the river ran the love of
Quetzal’. The clime grew softer, and the Vale fairer. To weave, and trade,
And sow, and build, he taught, with countless other ways of peace. He broke
The seals of knowledge, and unveiled the mystic paths of wisdom;
Gathered gold from the earth, and jewels from the streams; and happy
Peace, as terrible in war, became Azatlan. Only one more
Blessing,—a religion sounding of a quiet heaven and a
Godly love,—this only wanted Azatlan. And alas, for the
Sunly Quetzal’! He built a temple, with a single tower, a
Temple over many chambers.
 

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

 
Worship he asked, and offerings,
And sacrifices, not of captives, heart-broken and complaining,
But of blooming flowers, and ripened fruits, emblems of love, and peace,
And beauty. Alas, for the gentle Quetzal’! Cold grew the people
Lov’d so well. A little while they worshipped; then, as bees go no
More to a withered flower, they forsook his shrine, and mock’d his
Image. His love, longest lingering, went down at last, but slowly
Went, as the brook, drop by drop, runs dry in the drought of a rainless
Summer. Wrath ’rose instead. Down in a chamber below the temple,
A chamber full of gold and unveiled splendor, beneath the Lake that
Long had ceased its laughing, thither went the god, and on the walls,
On the marble and the gold, he wrote—
 

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

“Peace—enough!”

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

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

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

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

“For the god, Mualox?”

The hall became silent as a tomb.

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

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

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

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

And they waited, but the Tezcucan came not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 
He look’d for the brave captains that led the hosts of Spain,
But all were fled, except the dead,—and who could count the slain?
Where’er his eye could wander all bloody was the plain;
And while thus he said the tears he shed ran down his cheeks like rain.
 
 
Last night I was the king of Spain: to-day no king am I.
Last night fair castles held my train: to-night where shall I lie?
Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the knee,
To-night not one I call my own,—not one pertains to me.³⁵
 

BOOK THREE

CHAPTER I
THE FIRST COMBAT

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

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

As to the walk he should follow he had no choice, for in every direction he heard laughter, music, and conversation; everywhere were flowers and the glow of lamps. Merest chance put him in a path that led to the neighborhood of the museum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hualpa made his first advance close by the eastern gate of the garden, to which point he held himself in check lest the want of arms should prove an apology for refusing the fight.

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

“I do not know you,” was the answer.

The sleek courtier also stopped, and stared broadly.

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

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

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

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

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

The blow was given.

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

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

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

“Have a care,—’tis an assassin! I will call the guard at the gate!” said the courtier, alarmed.

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

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

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

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

The courtier protested, but the prince was determined.

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

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

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

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

The impatience of the Tezcucan permitted but few preliminaries.

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

“Strike!” answered Hualpa.

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

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

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

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

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

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