Kitabı oku: «The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins», sayfa 34

Down from the heights marched the victors; into the palace they marched; and not a hand was raised against them on the way; the streets were almost deserted.

“Bien!” said Cortes, as he dismounted once more in front of his quarters. “Muy bien! We have their king and chief-priests; we have burned their churches, disgraced their gods, and slain their nobles by the thousand. The war is over, gentlemen; let us to our couches. Welcome rest! welcome peace!”

And the weary army, accepting his words as verity, went to rest, though the sun flamed in the brassy sky; but rest there was not; ere dreams could follow slumber, the trumpets sounded, and the battle was on again, fiercer than ever.

The sun set, and the night came; then the companies thought to rest; but Cortes, made tireless by rage, went out after them, and burned a vast district of houses.

And the flames so filled the sky with brilliance that the sun seemed to have stood still just below the horizon.

During the lurid twilight, Olmedo laid away, in shallow graves dug for them in the palace-garden, more than fifty Christians, of whom six and forty perished on the temple and its terraces.

CHAPTER XII.
IN THE INTERVAL OF THE BATTLE—LOVE

The chinampa, at its anchorage, swung lightly, like an Indian cradle pendulous in the air. Over it stooped the night, its wings of darkness brilliant with the plumage of stars. The fire in the city kindled by Cortes still fitfully reddened the horizon in that direction,—a direful answer to those who, remembering the sweetness of peace in the beautiful valley, prayed for its return with the morning.

Yeteve, in the hammock, had lulled herself into the sleep of dreams; while, in the canoe, Hualpa and the oarsmen slept the sleep of the warrior and laborer,—the sleep too deep for dreams. Only Tula and the ’tzin kept vigils.

Just outside the canopy, in sight of the meridian stars, and where the night winds came sighing through the thicket of flowers, a petate had been spread for them; and now she listened, while he, lying at length, his head in her lap, talked of the sorrowful time that had befallen.

He told her of the mantas, and their destruction; of how Hualpa had made way to the presence of Nenetzin, and how she had saved his life; and as the narrative went on, the listener’s head drooped low over the speaker’s face, and there were sighs and tears which might have been apportioned between the lost sister and the unhappy lover; he told of the attack upon the palace, and of the fall of Iztlil’, and how, when the victory was won, Malinche flung the gods from the temple, and so terrified the companies that they fled.

“Then, O Tula, my hopes fell down. A people without gods, broken in spirit, and with duty divided between two kings, are but grass to be trodden. And Io’,—so young, so brave, so faithful—”

He paused, and there was a long silence, devoted to the prince’s memory. Then he resumed,—

“In looking out over the lake, you may have noticed that the city has been girdled with men in canoes,—an army, indeed, unaffected by the awful spectacle of the overthrow of the gods. I brought them up, and in their places sent the companies that had failed me. So, as the sun went down, I was able to pour fresh thousands upon Malinche. How I rejoiced to see them pass the wall with Hualpa, and grapple with the strangers! All my hopes came back again. That the enemy fought feebly was not a fancy. Watching, wounds, battle, and care have wrought upon them. They are wasting away. A little longer,—two days,—a day even,—patience, sweetheart, patience!”

There was silence again,—the golden silence of lovers, under the stars, hand-in-hand, dreaming.

The ’tzin broke the spell to say, in lower tones and with longer intervals,—

“Men must worship, O Tula, and there can be no worship without faith. So I had next to renew the sacred fire and restore the gods. The first was easy: I had only to start a flame from the embers of the sanctuaries; the fire that burned them was borrowed from that kept immemorially on the old altars. The next duty was harder. The images were not of themselves more estimable than other stones; neither were the jewels that adorned them more precious than others of the same kind: their sanctity was from faith alone. The art of arts is to evoke the faith of men: make me, O sweetheart, make me master of that art, and, as the least of possibilities, I will make gods of things least godly. In the places where they had fallen, at the foot of the temple, I set the images up, and gave each an altar, with censers, holy fire, and all the furniture of worship. By and by, they shall be raised again to the azoteas; and when we renew the empire, we will build for them sanctuaries richer even than those of Cholula. If the faith of our people demand more, then—”

He hesitated.

“Then, what?” she asked.

He shuddered, and said lower than ever, “I will unseal the caverns of Quetzal’, and,—more I cannot answer now.”

The influence of Mualox was upon him yet.

“And if that fail?” she persisted.

Not until the stars at the time overhead had passed and been succeeded by others as lustrous, did he answer,—

“And if that fail? Then we will build a temple,—one without images,—a temple to the One Supreme God. So, O Tula, shall the prophecy of the king, your father, be fulfilled in our day.”

And with that up sprang a breeze of summery warmth, lingering awhile to wanton with the tresses of the willow, and swing the flowery island half round the circle of its anchorage; and from the soothing hand on his forehead, or the reposeful motion of the chinampa, the languor of sleep stole upon his senses; yet recollection of the battle and its cares was hard to be put away:—

“I should have told you,” he said, in a vanishing voice, “that when the companies abandoned us, I went first to see our uncle, the lord Cuitlahua. The guards at the door refused me admittance; the king was sick, they said.”

A tremor shook the hand on his forehead, and larger grew the great eyes bending over him.

“Did they say of what he was sick?” she asked.

“Of the plague.”

“And what is that?”

“Death,” he answered, and next moment fell asleep.

Over her heart, to hush the loudness of its beating, she clasped her hands; for out of the chamber of the almost forgotten, actual as in life, stalked Mualox, the paba, saying, as once on the temple he said, “You shall be queen in your father’s palace.” She saw his beard of fleecy white, and his eyes of mystery, and asked herself again and again, “Was he indeed a prophet?”

And the loving child and faithful subject strove hard to hide from the alluring promise, for in its way she descried two living kings, her father and her uncle; but it sought her continually, and found her, and at last held her as a dream holds a sleeper,—held her until the stars heralded the dawn, and the ’tzin awoke to go back to the city, back to the battle,—from love to battle.

CHAPTER XIII
THE BEGINNING OF THE END

“Leave the city, now so nearly won! Surely, father, surely thou dost jest with me!”

So Cortes said as he sat in his chamber, resting his arm on the table, the while Olmedo poured cold water on his wounded hand.

The father answered without lifting his face,—

“Go, I say, that we may come back assured of holding what we have won.”

“Sayest thou so,—thou! By my conscience, here are honor, glory, empire! Abandon them, and the treasure, a part of which, as thou knowest, I have already accounted to his Majesty? No, no; not yet, father! I cannot—though thou may’st—forget what Velasquez and my enemies, the velveted minions of the court, would say.”

“Then it is as I feared,” said Olmedo, suspending his work, and tossing his hood farther back on his shoulders. “It is as I feared. The good judgment which hath led us so far so well, and given riches to those who care for riches, and planted the Cross over so many heathen temples is, at last, at fault.”

The father’s manner was solemn and reproachful. Cortes turned to him inquiringly.

“Señor, thou knowest I may be trusted. Heed me. I speak for Christ’s sake,” continued Olmedo. “Leave the city we must. There is not corn for two days more; the army is worn down with wounds and watching; scarcely canst thou thyself hold an axe; the men of Narvaez are mutineers; the garden is full of graves, and it hath been said of me that, for want of time, I have shorn the burial service of essential Catholic rites. And the enemy, Señor, the legions that broke through the wall last evening, were new tribes for the first time in battle. Of what effect on them were yesterday’s defeats? The gods tumbled from the temple have their altars and worship already. Thou may’st see them from the central turret.”

The good man was interrupted. Sandoval appeared at the door.

“Come,” said Cortes, impatiently.

The captain advanced to the table, and saluting, said, in his calm, straightforward way,—

“The store for the horses is out; we fed them to-night from the rations of the men. I gave Motilla half of mine, and yet she is hungry.”

At these words, the hand Olmedo was nursing closed, despite its wound, as upon a sword-hilt, vice-like, and up the master arose, brow and cheek gray as if powdered with ashes, and began to walk the floor furiously; at last he stopped abruptly:—

“Sandoval, go bid the captains come. I would have their opinions as to what we should do. Omit none of them. Those who say nothing may be witnesses hereafter.”

The order was given quietly, with a smile even. A moment the captain studied his leader’s face, and I would not say he did not understand the meaning of the simple words; for of him Cortes afterwards said, “He is fit to command great armies.”

Cortes sat down, and held out the hand for Olmedo’s ministrations; but the father touched him caressingly, and said, when Sandoval was gone,—

“I commend thee, son, with all my soul. Men are never so much on trial as when they stand face to face with necessity; the weak fight it, and fall; the wise accept it as a servant. So do thou now.”

Cortes’ countenance became chill and sullen. “I cannot see the necessity—”

“Good!” exclaimed Olmedo. “Whatsoever thou dost, hold fast to that. The captains will tell thee otherwise, but—”

“What?” asked Cortes, with a sneer. “The treasure is vast,—a million pesos or more. Dost thou believe they will go and leave it?”

But Olmedo was intent upon his own thought.

“Mira!” he said. “If the captains say there is a necessity, do thou put in thy denial; stand on thy opinion boldly; and when thou givest up, at last, yield thee to that other necessity, the demand of the army. And so—”

“And so,” Cortes said with a smile, which was also a sneer, “and so thou wouldst make a servant of one necessity by invoking another.”

“Yes; another which may be admitted without danger or dishonor. Thou hast the idea, my son.”

“So be it, so be it,—aguardamonos!”

Thereupon Cortes retired within himself, and the father began again to nurse the wounded hand.

And by and by the chamber was filled with captains, soldiers, and caciques, whose persons, darkly visible in the murky light, testified to the severity of the situation: rusted armor, ragged apparel, faded trappings, bandaged limbs, countenances heavy with anxiety, or knit hard by suffering,—such were the evidences.

In good time Cortes arose.

“Ola, my friends,” he said, bluntly. “I have heard that there are among ye many who think the time come to give the city, and all we have taken, back to the infidels. I have sent for ye that I may know the truth. As the matter concerneth interests of our royal master aside from his dominion,—property, for example,—the Secretary Duero will make note of all that passeth. Let him come forward and take place here.”

The secretary seated himself by the table with manuscript and pen.

“Now, gentlemen, begin.”

So saying, the chief dropped back into his seat, and held the sore hand to Olmedo for further care,—never speech more bluff, never face more calm. For a time, nothing was heard but the silvery tinkle of the falling water. At length one was found sturdy enough to speak; others followed him; and, at last, when the opinion was taken, not a voice said stay; on the contrary, the clamor to go was, by some, indecently loud.

Cortes then stood up.

“The opinion is all one way. Hast thou so written, Señor Duero?”

The secretary bowed.

“Then write again,—write that I, Hernan Cortes, to this retreat said, No; write that, if I yield my judgment, it is not to any necessity of which we have heard as coming from the enemy, but to the demand of my people. Hast thou so written?”

The secretary nodded.

“Write again, that upon this demand I ordered Alonzo Avila and Gonzalo Mexia to take account of all the treasure belonging to our master, the most Christian king; with leave to the soldiers, when the total hath been perfected and the retreat made ready, to help themselves from the balance, as each one may wish. Those gentlemen will see that their task be concluded by noon to-morrow. Hast written, Duero?”

“Word for word,” answered the secretary.

“Very well. And now,”—Cortes raised his head, and spoke loudly,—“and now, rest and sleep who can. This business is bad. Get ye gone!”

And when they were alone, he said to Olmedo,—

“I have done ill—”

“Nay,” said the father, smiling, “thou hast done well.”

“Bastante,—we shall see. Never had knaves such need of all their strength as when this retreat is begun; yet of what account will they be when loaded down with the gold they cannot consent to leave behind?”

“Why then the permission?” asked the father.

Cortes smiled blandly,—

“If I cannot make them friends, by my conscience! I can at least seal their mouths in the day of my calamity.”

Then bowing his head, he added,—

“Thy benediction, father.”

The blessing was given.

“Amen!” said Cortes.

And the priest departed; but the steps of the iron-hearted soldier were heard long after,—not quick and determined as usual, but slow and measured, and with many and long pauses between. So ambition walks when marshalling its resources; so walks a heroic soul at war with itself and fortune! He flung himself upon his couch at last, saying,—

“In my quiver there are two bolts left. The saints help me! I will speed them first.”

CHAPTER XIV
THE KING BEFORE HIS PEOPLE AGAIN

Guatamozin’s call at the royal palace to see the king, Cuitlahua, had not been without result. When told that the monarch was too sick of the plague to be seen, he called for the officer who had charge of the accounts of tribute received for the royal support.

“Show me,” said the ’tzin, “how much corn was delivered to Montezuma for Malinche.”

A package of folded aguave leaves was brought and laid at the accountant’s feet. In a moment he took out a leaf well covered with picture-writing, and gave it to the ’tzin, who, after study, said to a cacique in waiting, “Bring me one of the couriers,” and to another, “Bring me wherewith to write.”

When the latter was brought, he sat down, and dipping a brush into a vessel of liquid color, drew upon a clear, yellow-tinted leaf a picture of a mother duck leading her brood from the shore into the water; by way of signature, he appended in one corner the figure of an owl in flight. On five other sheets he repeated the writing; then the missives were given each to a separate courier with verbal directions for their delivery.

When he left the palace, the ’tzin laid his hand upon Hualpa’s shoulder, and said, joyfully,—

“Better than I thought, O comrade. Malinche has corn for one day only!”

The blood quickened in Hualpa’s heart, as he asked,—“Then the end is near?”

“To-morrow, or the next day,” said the ’tzin.

“But Montezuma is generous,—”

“Can he give what he has not? To-night there will be delivered for his use and that of his household, whom I have had numbered for the purpose, provisions for one day, not more.”

“Then it is so! Praised be the gods! and you, O my master, wiser than other men!” cried Hualpa, with upraised face, and a gladness which was of youth again, and love so blind that he saw Nenetzin,—not the stars,—and so deaf that he heard not the other words of the ’tzin,—

“The couriers bear my orders to bring up all the armies. And they will be here in the morning.”

In the depth of the night, while Cortes lay restlessly dreaming, his sentinels on the palace were attracted by music apparently from every quarter; at first, so mellowed by distance as to seem like the night singing to itself; afterwhile, swollen into the familiar dissonant minstrelsy of conch and atabal, mixed with chanting of many voices.

“O ho!” shouted the outliers on the neighboring houses, “O ho, accursed strangers! Think no more of conquest,—not even of escape; think only of death by sacrifice! If you are indeed teules, the night, though deepened by the smoke of our burning houses, cannot hinder you from seeing the children of Anahuac coming in answer to the call of Huitzil’. If you are men, open wide your ears that you may hear their paddles on the lake and their tramp on the causeway. O victims! one day more, then,—the sacrifice!”

Even the Christians, leaning on their lances, and listening, felt the heaviness of heart which is all of fear the brave can know, and crossed themselves, and repeated such pater nosters as they could recollect.

And so it was. The reserve armies which had been reposing in the vales behind Chapultepec all marched to the city; and the noise of their shouting, drumming, and trumpeting, when they arrived and began to occupy its thoroughfares and strong places, was like the roar of the sea.

To the garrison, under arms meantime, and suffering from the influence of all they heard, the dawn was a long time coming; but at last the sun came, and poured its full light over the leaguered palace and courtly precincts.

But the foemen stood idly looking at each other; for in the night, Cortes, on his side, had made preparations for peace. Two caciques went from him to the king Cuitlahua, proposing a parley; and the king replied that he would come in the morning, and hear what he had to say. So there was truce as well as sunshine.

“Tell me truly, Don Pedro,—as thou art a gentleman, tell me,—didst thou ever see a sight like this?”

Whereupon, Alvarado, who, with others, was leaning against the parapet which formed part of the battlements of the eastern gate of the palace, looked again, and critically, over that portion of the square visible from his position, and replied,—“I will answer truly and lovingly as if thou wert my little princess yonder in the patio. Sight like this I never saw, and”—he added, with a quizzical smile—“never care to see again.”

Orteguilla persisted,—

“Nay, didst thou ever see anything that surpassed it?”

Once more Alvarado surveyed the scene,—of men a myriad, in the streets rank upon rank; so on the houses and temple,—everywhere the glinting of arms, and the brown faces of warriors glistening above their glistening shields; everywhere escaupiles of flaming red, and banners; everywhere the ineffable beauty and splendor of royal war. The good captain withdrew his enamoured gaze slowly:—

“No, never!” he said.

Even he, the prince of gibes and strange oaths, forgot his tricks in presence of the pageant.

While the foemen looked at each other so idly, up the beautiful street came heralds announcing Cuitlahua. Soon his palanquin, attended by a great retinue of nobles, was brought and set down in front of the eastern gate of the palace. Upon its appearance, the people knelt, and touched the ground with their palms. Then there was a blare of Christian trumpets, and Cortes, with Olmedo and Marina, came upon the turret.

The heralds waved their silver wands: the hush became absolute; then the curtains of the palanquin were rolled away, and the king turned his head languidly, and looked up to Cortes, who raised his visor, and looked down on him; and in the style of a conqueror demanded peace and quick return to obedience.

“If thou dost not,” he said, “I will make thy city a ruin.”

The shrill voice of Marina, interpreting, flew wide over the space, so peopled, yet so still; at the last word, there was a mighty stir, but the heralds waved their wands, and the hush came back.

On Cuitlahua’s face the pallor of sickness gave place to a flush of anger; he sat up, and signed to Guatamozin, and upon his shoulder laid his hand trustingly, saying,—

“My son, lend me your voice; answer.”

The ’tzin, unmindful that the breath he drew upon his cheek was the breath of the plague, put his arm around the king, and said, so as to be heard to the temple’s top,—

“The king Cuitlahua answers for himself and his people. Give ear, O Malinche! You have desolated our temples, and broken the images of our gods; the smoke of our city offends the sky; your swords are terrible,—many have fallen before them, and many more will fall; yet we are content to exchange in death a thousand of ours for one of yours. Behold how many of us are left; then count your losses, and know that you cannot escape. Two suns shall not pass, until, amidst our plenty, we shall laugh to see you sick from hunger. For further answer, O Malinche, as becomes the king of his people, Cuitlahua gives you the war-cry of his fathers.”

The ’tzin withdrew his arm, and snatching the green panache from the palanquin, whirled it overhead, crying, “Up, up, Tlateloco! Up, Tlateloco!”

At sight of the long feathers streaming over the group, like a banner, the multitude sprang to foot, and with horrible clamor and a tempest of missiles drove the Christians from the turret.

And of the two bolts in Cortes’ quiver, such was the speeding of the FIRST ONE!

An hour passed,—an hour of battle without and dispute within the palace.

To Cortes in his chamber then came Orteguilla, reporting.

“I gave the king the message, Señor; and he bade me tell thee thy purpose is too late. He will not come.”

The passion-vein⁵⁰ on Cortes’ neck and forehead rose, and stood out like a purple cord.

“The heathen dog!” he cried. “Will not! He is a slave, and shall come. By the holy blood of Christ, he shall come, or die!”

Then Olmedo spoke,—

“If thou wilt hear, Señor, Montezuma affects me and the good Captain Oli tenderly; suffer us to go to him, and see what we can do.”

“So be it, so be it! If thou canst bring him, in God’s name, go. If he refuse, then—I have sworn! Hearken to the hell’s roar without! Let me have report quickly. I will wait thee here. Begone!”

Olmedo started. Cortes caught his sleeve, and looked at him fixedly.

“Mira!” he said, in a whisper. “As thou lovest me do this work well. If he fail—if he fail—”

“Well?” said Olmedo, in the same tone.

“Then—then get thee to prayers! Go.”

The audience chamber whither Oli and the priest betook themselves, with Orteguilla to interpret, was crowded with courtiers, who made way for them to the dais upon which Montezuma sat. They kissed his hand, and declining the invitation to be seated began their mission.

“Good king,” said the father, “we bring thee a message from Malinche; and as its object is to stay the bloody battle which is so grievous to us all, and the slaughter which must otherwise go on, we pray thy pardon if we make haste to speak.”

The monarch’s face chilled, and drawing his mantle close he said, coldly,—

“I am listening.”

Olmedo proceeded,—

“The Señor Hernan commiserates the hard lot which compels thee to listen here to the struggle which hath lasted so many days, and always with the same result,—the wasting of thy people. The contest hath become a rebellion against thee as well as against his sovereign and thine. Finally there will be no one left to govern,—nothing, indeed, but an empty valley and a naked lake. In pity for the multitude, he is disposed to help save them from their false leaders. He hath sent us, therefore, to ask thee to join him in one more effort to that end.”

“Said he how I could help him?” asked the king.

“Come and speak to the people, and disperse them, as once before thou didst. And to strengthen thy words, and as his part of the trial, he saith thou mayst pledge him to leave the city as soon as the way is open. Only let there be no delay. He is in waiting to go with thee, good king.”

The monarch listened intently.

“Too late, too late!” he cried. “The ears of my people are turned from me. I am king in name and form only; the power is another’s. I am lost,—so is Malinche. I will not go. Tell him so.”

There was a stir in the chamber, and a groan from the bystanders; but the messengers remained looking at the poor king, as at one who had rashly taken a fatal vow.

“Why do you stay?” he continued, with a glowing face. “What more have I to do with Malinche? See the state to which my serving him has already reduced me.”

“Remember thy people!” said Olmedo, solemnly.

Flashed the monarch’s eyes as he answered,—

“My brave people! I hear them now. They are in arms to save themselves; and they will not believe me or the promises of Malinche. I have spoken.”

Then Oli moved a step toward the dais, and kissing the royal hand, said, with suffused eyes,—

“Thou knowest I love thee, O king; and I say, if thou carest for thyself, go.”

Something there was in the words, in the utterance, probably, that drew the monarch’s attention; leaning forward, he studied the cavalier curiously; over his face the while came the look of a man suddenly called by his fate. His lips parted, his eyes fixed; and but that battle has voices which only the dead may refuse to hear his spirit would have drifted off into unseemly reverie. Recalling himself with an effort, he arose, and said, half-smiling,—

“A man, much less a king, is unfit to live when his friends think to move him from his resolve by appeals to his fears.” And rising, and drawing himself to his full stature, he added, so as to be heard throughout the chamber, “Very soon, if not now, you will understand me when I say I do not care for myself. I desire to die. Go, my friends, and tell Malinche that I will do as he asks, and straightway.”

Oli and Olmedo kissed his hands, and withdrew; whereupon he calmly gave his orders.

Very soon the ’tzin, who was directing the battle from a point near the gate of the coatapantli, saw a warrior appear on the turret so lately occupied by Cortes, and wave a royal panache. He raised his shield overhead at once, and held it there until on his side the combat ceased. The Christians, glad of a breathing spell, quit almost as soon. All eyes then turned to the turret; even the combatants who had been fighting hand to hand across the crest of the parapet, ventured to look that way, when, according to the usage of the infidel court, the heralds came, and to the four quarters of the earth waved their silver wands.

Too well the ’tzin divined the meaning of the ceremony. “Peace,” he seemed to hear, and then, “Lover of Anahuac, servant of the gods,—choose now between king and country. Now or never!” The ecstasy of battle fled from him; his will became infirm as a child’s. In the space between him and the turret the smoke of the guns curled and writhed sensuously, each moment growing fainter and weaker, as did the great purpose to which he thought he had steeled himself. When he brought the shield down, his face was that of a man whom long sickness had laid close to the gates of death. Then came the image of Tula, and then the royal permission to do what the gods enjoined,—nay, more than permission, a charge which left the deed to his hand, that there might be no lingering amongst the strangers. “O sweetheart!” he said, to himself, “if this duty leave me stainless, whom may I thank but you!”

Then he spoke to Hualpa, though with a choking voice,—

“The king is coming. I must go and meet him. Get my bow, and stand by me with an arrow in place for instant use.”

Hualpa moved away slowly, watching the ’tzin; then he returned, and asked, in a manner as full of meaning as the words themselves,—

“Is there not great need that the arrow should be very true?”

The master’s eyes met his as he answered, “Yes; be careful.”

Yet the hunter stayed.

“O ’tzin,” he said, “his blood is not in my veins. He is only my benefactor. Your days are not numbered, like mine, and as yet you are blameless; for the sake of the peace that makes life sweet, I pray you let my hand do this service.”

And the ’tzin took his hand, and replied, fervently,—

“There is nothing so precious as the sight that is quick to see the sorrows of others, unless it be the heart that hurries to help them. After this, I may never doubt your love; but the duty is mine,—made so by the gods,—and he has asked it of me. Lo, the heralds appear!”

“He has asked it of you! that is enough,” and Hualpa stayed no longer.

Upon the turret the carpet was spread and the canopy set up, and forth came a throng of cavaliers and infidel lords, the latter splendidly bedight; then appeared Montezuma and Cortes.

As the king moved forward a cry, blent of all feelings,—love, fear, admiration, hate, reverence,—burst from the great audience; after which only Guatamozin and Hualpa, in front of the gate, were left standing.

And such splendor flashed from the monarch’s person, from his sandals of gold, tunic of feathers, tilmatli of white, and copilli⁵¹ inestimably jeweled; from his face and mien issued such majesty that, after the stormy salutation, the multitude became of the place a part, motionless as the stones, the dead not more silent.

With his hands crossed upon his breast he stood awhile, seeing and being seen, and all things waited for him to speak; even the air seemed waiting, it was so very hushed. He looked to the sky, flecked with unhallowed smoke; to the sun, whose heaven, just behind the curtain of brightness, was nearer to him than ever before; to the temple, place of many a royal ceremony, his own coronation the grandest of all; to the city, beautiful in its despoilment; to the people, for whom, though they knew it not, he had come to die; at last his gaze settled upon Guatamozin, and as their eyes met, he smiled; then shaking the tilmatli from his shoulder, he raised his head, and said, in a voice from which all weakness was gone, his manner never so kingly,—