The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins
I cannot say the recognition wrought a subsidence of Hualpa’s fears. He felt instinctively for his arms,—he had nothing but a knife of brittle itzli. Then he thought of the stories he had heard of the ferocity of the royal tigers, and of unhappy wretches flung, by way of punishment, into their dens. He shuddered, and turned to the king, who still gazed thoughtfully over the wall of the tank.
Holy Huitzil’! the ocelot was creeping upon the monarch! The flash of understanding that revealed the fact to Hualpa was like the lightning. Breathlessly he noticed the course the brute was taking; there could be no doubt. Another flash, and he understood the monarch’s peril,—alone, unarmed, before the guards at the gates or in the palace could come, the struggle would be over; child of the Sun though he was, there remained for him but one hope of rescue.
As, in common with provincials generally, he cherished a reverence for the monarch hardly secondary to that he felt for the gods, the Tihuancan was inexpressibly shocked to see him subject to such a danger. An impulse aside from native chivalry urged him to confront the ocelot; but under the circumstances,—and he recounted them rapidly,—he feared the king more than the brute. Brief time was there for consideration; each moment the peril increased. He thought of the ’tzin, then of Nenetzin.
“Now or never!” he said. “If the gods do but help me, I will prove myself!”
And he unlooped the mantle, and wound it about his left arm; the knife, poor as it was, he took from his maxtlatl; then he was ready. Ah, if he only had a javelin!
To place himself between the king and his enemy was what he next set about. Experience had taught him how much such animals are governed by curiosity, and upon that he proceeded to act. On his hands and knees he crept out into the walk. The moment he became exposed, the ocelot stopped, raised its round head, and watched him with a gaze as intent as his own. The advance was slow and stealthy; when the point was almost gained, the king turned about.
“Speak not, stir not, O king!” he cried, without stopping. “I will save you,—no other can.”
From creeping man the monarch looked to crouching beast, and comprehended the situation.
Forward went Hualpa, now the chief object of attraction to the monster. At last he was directly in front of it.
“Call the guard and fly! It is coming now!”
And through the garden rang the call. Verily, the hunter had become the king!
A moment after the ocelot lowered its head, and leaped. The Tihuancan had barely time to put himself in posture to receive the attack, his left arm serving as shield; upon his knee, he struck with the knife. The blood flew, and there was a howl so loud that the shouts of the monarch were drowned. The mantle was rent to ribbons; and through the feathers, cloth, and flesh, the long fangs craunched to the bone,—but not without return. This time the knife, better directed, was driven to the heart, where it snapped short off, and remained. The clenched jaws relaxed. Rushing suddenly in, Hualpa contrived to push the fainting brute into the tank. He saw it sink, saw the pool subside to its calm, then turned to Montezuma, who, though calling lustily for the guard, had stayed to the end. Kneeling upon the stained shells, he laid the broken knife at the monarch’s feet, and waited for him to speak.
“Arise!” the king said, kindly.
The hunter stood up, splashed with blood, the fragments of his tilmatli clinging in shreds to his arm, his tunic torn, the hair fallen over his face,—a most uncourtierlike figure.
“You are hurt,” said the king, directly. “I was once thought skilful with medicines. Let me see.”
He found the wounds, and untying his own sash, rich with embroidery, wrapped it in many folds around the bleeding arm.
Meantime there was commotion in many quarters.
“Evil take the careless watchers!” he said, sternly, noticing the rising clamor. “Had I trusted them,—but are you not of the guard?”
“I am the great king’s slave,—his poorest slave, but not of his guard.”
Montezuma regarded him attentively.
“It cannot be; an assassin would not have interfered with the ocelot. Take up the knife, and follow me.”
Hualpa obeyed. On the way they met a number of the guard running in great perplexity; but without a word to them, the monarch walked on, and into the palace. In a room where there were tables and seats, books and writing materials, maps on the walls and piles of them on the floor, he stopped, and seated himself.
“You know what truth is, and how the gods punish falsehood,” he began; then, abruptly, “How came you in the garden?”
Hualpa fell on his knees, laid his palm on the floor, and answered without looking up, for such he knew to be a courtly custom.
“Who may deceive the wise king Montezuma? I will answer as to the gods: the gardens are famous in song and story, and I was tempted to see them, and climbed the wall. When you came to the fountain, I was close by; and while waiting a chance to escape, I saw the ocelot creeping upon you; and—and—the great king is too generous to deny his slave the pardon he risked his life for.”
“Who are you?”
“I am from the province of Tihuanco. My name is Hualpa.”
“Hualpa, Hualpa,” repeated the king, slowly. “You serve Guatamozin.”
“He is my friend and master, O king.”
Montezuma started. “Holy gods, what madness! My people have sought you far and wide to feed you to the tiger in the tank.”
Hualpa faltered not.
“O king, I know I am charged with the murder of Iztlil’, the Tezcucan. Will it please you to hear my story?”
And taking the assent, he gave the particulars of the combat, not omitting the cause. “I did not murder him,” he concluded. “If he is dead, I slew him in fair fight, shield to shield, as a warrior may, with honor, slay a foeman.”
“And you carried him to Tecuba?”
“Before the judges, if you choose, I will make the account good.”
“Be it so!” the monarch said, emphatically. “Two days hence, in the court, I will accuse you. Have there your witnesses: it is a matter of life and death. Now, what of your master, the ’tzin?”
The question was dangerous, and Hualpa trembled, but resolved to be bold.
“If it be not too presumptuous, most mighty king,—if a slave may seem to judge his master’s judgment by the offer of a word—”
“Speak! I give you liberty.”
“I wish to say,” continued Hualpa, “that in the court there are many noble courtiers who would die for you, O king; but, of them all, there is not one who so loves you, or whose love could be made so profitable, being backed by skill, courage, and wisdom, as the generous prince whom you call my master. In his banishment he has chosen to serve you; for the night the strangers landed in Cempoalla, he left his palace in Iztapalapan, and entered their camp in the train of the governor of Cotastlan. Yesterday a courier, whom you rewarded richly for his speed in coming, brought you portraits of the strangers, and pictures of their arms and camp; that courier was Guatamozin, and his was the hand that wrought the artist’s work. O, much as your faculties become a king, you have been deceived: he is not a traitor.”
“Who told you such a fine minstrel’s tale?”
“The gods judge me, O king, if, without your leave, I had so much as dared kiss the dust at your feet. What you have graciously permitted me to tell I heard from the ’tzin himself.”
Montezuma sat a long time silent, then asked, “Did your master speak of the strangers, or of the things he saw?”
“The noble ’tzin regards me kindly, and therefore spoke with freedom. He said, mourning much that he could not be at your last council to declare his opinion, that you were mistaken.”
The speaker’s face was cast down, so that he could not see the frown with which the plain words were received, and he continued,—
“‘They are not teules,’36 so the ’tzin said, ‘but men, as you and I are; they eat, sleep, drink, like us; nor is that all,—they die like us; for in the night,’ he said, ‘I was in their camp, and saw them, by torchlight, bury the body of one that day dead.’ And then he asked, ‘Is that a practice among the gods?’ Your slave, O king, is not learned as a paba, and therefore believed him.”
Montezuma stood up.
“Not teules! How thinks he they should be dealt with?”
“He says that, as they are men, they are also invaders, with whom an Aztec cannot treat. Nothing for them but war!”
To and fro the monarch walked. After which he returned to Hualpa and said,—
“Go home now. To-morrow I will send you a tilmatli for the one you wear. Look to your wounds, and recollect the trial. As you love life, have there your proof. I will be your accuser.”
“As the great king is merciful to his children, the gods will be merciful to him. I will give myself to the guards,” said the hunter, to whom anything was preferable to the closet in the restaurant.
“No, you are free.”
Hualpa kissed the floor, and arose, and hurried from the palace to the house of Xoli on the tianguez. The effect of his appearance upon that worthy, and the effect of the story afterwards, may be imagined. Attention to the wounds, a bath, and sound slumber put the adventurer in a better condition by the next noon.
And from that night he thought more than ever of glory and Nenetzin.
CHAPTER III
THE PORTRAIT
Next day, after the removal of the noon comfitures, and when the princess Tula had gone to the hammock for the usual siesta, Nenetzin rushed into her apartment unusually excited.
“O, I have something so strange to tell you,—something so strange!” she cried, throwing herself upon the hammock.
Her face was bright and very beautiful. Tula looked at her a moment, then put her lips lovingly to the smooth forehead.
“By the Sun! as our royal father sometimes swears, my sister seems in earnest.”
“Indeed I am; and you will go with me, will you not?”
“Ah! you want to take me to the garden to see the dead tiger, or, perhaps, the warrior who slew it, or—now I have it—you have seen another minstrel.”
Tula expected the girl to laugh, but was surprised to see her eyes fill with tears. She changed her manner instantly, and bade the slave who had been sitting by the hammock fanning her, to retire. Then she said,—
“You jest so much, Nenetzin, that I do not know when you are serious. I love you: now tell me what has happened.”
The answer was given in a low voice.
“You will think me foolish, and so I am, but I cannot help it. Do you recollect the dream I told you the night on the chinampa?”
“The night Yeteve came to us? I recollect.”
“You know I saw a man come and sit down in our father’s palace,—a stranger with blue eyes and fair face, and hair and beard like the silk of the ripening maize. I told you I loved him, and would have none but him; and you laughed at me, and said he was the god Quetzal’. O Tula, the dream has come back to me many times since; so often that it seems, when I am awake, to have been a reality. I am childish, you think, and very weak; you may even pity me; but I have grown to look upon the blue-eyed as something lovable and great, and thought of him is a part of my mind; so much so that it is useless for me to say he is not, or that I am loving a shadow. And now, O dear Tula, now comes the strange part of my story. Yesterday, you know, a courier from Cempoalla brought our father some pictures of the strangers lately landed from the sea. This morning I heard there were portraits among them, and could not resist a curiosity to see them; so I went, and almost the first one I came to,—do not laugh,—almost the first one I came to was the picture of him who comes to me so often in my dreams. I looked and trembled. There indeed he was; there were the blue eyes, the yellow hair, the white face, even the dress, shining as silver, and the plumed crest. I did not stay to look at anything else, but hurried here, scarcely knowing whether to be glad or afraid. I thought if you went with me I would not be afraid. Go you must; we will look at the portrait together.” And she hid her face, sobbing like a child.
“It is too wonderful for belief. I will go,” said Tula.
She arose, and the slave brought and threw over her shoulders the long white scarf so invariably a part of an Aztec woman’s costume. Then the sisters took their way to the chamber where the pictures were kept,—the same into which Hualpa had been led the night before. The king was elsewhere giving audience, and his clerks and attendants were with him. So the two were allowed to indulge their curiosity undisturbed.
Nenetzin went to a pile of manuscripts lying on the floor. The elder sister was startled by the first picture exposed; for she recognized the handiwork, long since familiar to her, of the ’tzin. Nor was she less surprised by the subject, which was a horse, apparently a nobler instrument for a god’s revenge than man himself.
Next she saw pictured a horse, its rider mounted, and in Christian armor, and bearing shield, lance, and sword. Then came a cannon, the gunner by the carriage, his match lighted, while a volume of flame and smoke was bursting from the throat of the piece. A portrait followed; she lifted it up, and trembled to see the hero of Nenetzin’s dream!
“Did I not tell you so, O Tula?” said the girl, in a whisper.
“The face is pleasant and noble,” the other answered, thoughtfully; “but I am afraid. There is evil in the smile, evil in the blue eyes.”
The rest of the manuscripts they left untouched. The one absorbed them; but with what different feelings! Nenetzin was a-flutter with pleasure, restrained by awe. Impressed by the singularity of the vision, as thus realized, a passionate wish to see the man or god, whichever he was, and hear his voice, may be called her nearest semblance to reflection. Like a lover in the presence of the beloved, she was glad and contented, and asked nothing of the future. But with Tula, older and wiser, it was different. She was conscious of the novelty of the incident; at the same time a presentiment, a gloomy foreboding, filled her soul. In slumber we sometimes see spectres, and they sit by us and smile; yet we shrink, and cannot keep down anticipations of ill. So Tula was affected by what she beheld.
She laid the portrait softly down, and turned to Nenetzin, who had now no need to deprecate her laugh.
“The ways of the gods are most strange. Something tells me this is their work. I am afraid; let us go.”
And they retired, and the rest of the day, swinging in the hammock, they talked of the dream and the portrait, and wondered what would come of them.
CHAPTER IV.
THE TRIAL
Hualpa’s adventure in the garden made a great stir in the palace and the city. Profound was the astonishment, therefore, when it became known that the savior of the king and the murderer of the Tezcucan were one and the same person, and that, in the latter character, he was to be taken into court and tried for his life, Montezuma himself acting as accuser. Though universally discredited, the story had the effect of drawing an immense attendance at the trial.
“Ho, Chalcan! Fly not your friends in that way!”
So the broker was saluted by some men nobly dressed, whom he was about passing on the great street. He stopped, and bowed very low.
“A pleasant day, my lords! Your invitation honors me; the will of his patrons should always be law to the poor keeper of a portico. I am hurrying to the trial.”
“Then stay with us. We also have a curiosity to see the assassin.”
“My good lord speaks harshly. The boy, whom I love as a son, cannot be what you call him.”
The noble laughed. “Take it not ill, Chalcan. So much do I honor the hand that slew the base Tezcucan that I care not whether it was in fair fight or by vantage taken. But what do you know about the king being accuser to-day?”
“So he told the boy.”
“Incredible!”
“I will not quarrel with my lord on that account,” rejoined the broker. “A more generous master than Montezuma never lived. Are not the people always complaining of his liberality? At the last banquet, for inventing a simple drink, did he not give me, his humblest slave, a goblet fit for another king?”
“And what is your drink, though ever so excellent, to the saving his life? Is not that your argument, Chalcan?”
“Yes, my lord, and at such peril! Ah, you should have seen the ocelot when taken from the tank! The keepers told me it was the largest and fiercest in the museum.”
Then Xoli proceeded to edify his noble audience with all the gossip pertaining to the adventure; and as his object was to take into court some friends for the luckless hunter more influential than himself, he succeeded admirably. Every few steps there were such expressions as, “It would be pitiful if so brave a fellow should die!” “If I were king, by the Sun, I would enrich him from the possessions of the Tezcucan!” And as they showed no disposition to interrupt him, his pleading lasted to the house of justice, where the company arrived not any too soon to procure comfortable seats.
The court-house stood at the left of the street, a little retired from the regular line of buildings. The visitors had first to pass through a spacious hall, which brought them to a court-yard cemented under foot, and on all sides bounded with beautiful houses. Then, on the right, they saw the entrance to the chamber of justice, grotesquely called the Tribunal of God,37 in which, for ages, had been administered a code, vindictive, but not without equity. The great door was richly carved; the windows high and broad, and lined with fluted marble; while a projecting cornice, tastefully finished, gave airiness and beauty to the venerable structure.
The party entered the room with profoundest reverence. On a dais sat the judge; in front of him was the stool bearing the skull with the emerald crown and gay plumes. Turning from the plain tapestry along the walls, the spectators failed not to admire the jewels that blazed with almost starry splendor from the centre of the canopy above him.
The broker, not being of the class of privileged nobles, found a seat with difficulty. To his comfort, however, he was placed by the side of an acquaintance.
“You should have come earlier, Chalcan; the judge has twice used the arrow this morning.”
“Indeed!”
“Once against a boy too much given to pulque,—a drunkard. With the other doubtless you were acquainted.”
“Was he noble?”
“He had good blood, at least, being the son of a Tetzmellocan, who died immensely rich. The witnesses said the fellow squandered his father’s estate almost as soon as it came to him.”
“Better had he been born a thief,”38 said Xoli, coolly.
Suddenly, four heralds, with silver maces, entered the court-room, announcing the monarch. The people fell upon their knees, and so remained until he was seated before the dais. Then they arose, and, with staring eyes, devoured the beauty of his costume, and the mysterious sanction of manner, office, power, and custom, which the lovers of royalty throughout the world have delighted to sum up in the one word,—majesty. The hum of voices filled the chamber. Then, by another door, in charge of officers, Hualpa appeared, and was led to the dais opposite the king. Before an Aztecan court there was no ceremony. The highest and the lowliest stood upon a level: such, at least, was the beautiful theory.
So intense was the curiosity to see the prisoner that the spectators pressed upon each other, for the moment mindless of the monarch’s presence.
“A handsome fellow!” said an old cacique, approvingly.
“Only a boy, my lord!” suggested the critic.
“And not fierce-looking, either.”
“Yes—”
“No—”
“He might kill, but in fair fight: so I judge him.”
And that became the opinion amongst the nobles.
“Your friend seems confident, Xoli. I like him,” remarked the Chalcan’s acquaintance.
“Hush! The king accuses.”
“The king, said you!” And the good man, representing the commonalty, was frozen into silence.
In another quarter, one asked, “Does he not wear the ’tzin’s livery?”
The person interrogated covered his mouth with both hands, then drew to the other’s ear, and whispered,—
“Yes, he’s a ’tzin’s man, and that, they say, is his crime.”
The sharp voice of the executive officer of the court rang out, and there was stillness almost breathless. Up rose the clerk, a learned man, keeper of the records, and read the indictment; that done, he laid the portrait of the accused on the table before the judge; then the trial began.
The judge, playing carelessly with the fatal arrow, said,—“Hualpa, son of Tepaja, the Tihuancan, stand up, and answer.”
And the prisoner arose, and saluted court and king, and answered, “It is true, that on the night of the banquet, I fought the Tezcucan; by favor of the gods, I defeated, without slaying him. He is here in person to acquit me.”
“Bring the witness,” said the judge.
Some of the officers retired; during their absence a solemn hush prevailed; directly they returned, carrying a palanquin. Right before the dais they set it down, and drew aside the curtains. Then slowly the Tezcucan came forth,—weak, but unconquered. At the judge he looked, and at the king, and all the fire of his haughty soul burned in the glance. Borrowing strength from his pride, he raised his head high, and said, scornfully,—
“The power of my father’s friend is exceeding great; he speaks, and all things obey him. I am sick and suffering; but he bade me come, and I am here. What new shame awaits me?”
Montezuma answered, never more a king than then: “’Hualpill was wise; his son is foolish; for the memory of the one I spare the other. The keeper of this sacred place will answer why you are brought here. Look that he pardons you lightly as I have.”
Then the judge said, “Prince of Tezcuco, you are here by my order. There stands one charged with your murder. Would you have had him suffer the penalty? You have dared be insolent. See, O prince, that before to-morrow you pay the treasurer ten thousand quills of gold. See to it.” And, returning the portrait to the clerk, he added, “Let the accused go acquit.”
“Ah! said I not so, said I not so?” muttered the Chalcan, rubbing his hands joyfully, and disturbing the attentive people about him.
“Hist, hist!” they said, impatiently. “What more? hearken!”
Hualpa was kneeling before the monarch.
“Most mighty king,” he said, “if what I have done be worthy reward, grant me the discharge of this fine.”
“How!” said Montezuma, amazed. “The Tezcucan is your enemy!”
“Yet he fought me fairly, and is a warrior.”
The eyes of the king sought those of Iztlil’.
“What says the son of ’Hualpilli?”
The latter raised his head with a flash of the old pride. “He is a slave of Guatamozin’s: I scorn the intercession. I am yet a prince of Tezcuco.”
Then the monarch went forward, and sat by the judge. Not a sound was heard, till he spoke.
“Arise, and come near,” he said to Hualpa. “I will do what becomes me.”
His voice was low and tremulous with feeling, and over his face came the peculiar suffusion of sadness afterwards its habitual expression. The hunter kissed the floor at his feet, and remained kneeling. Then he continued,—
“Son of the Tihuancan, I acknowledge I owe my life to you, and I call all to hear the acknowledgment. If the people have thought this prosecution part of my gratitude,—if they have marvelled at my appearing as your accuser, much have they wronged me. I thought of reward higher than they could have asked for you; but I also thought to try you. A slave is not fit to be a chief, nor is every chief fit to be a king. I thought to try you: I am satisfied. When your fame goes abroad, as it will; when the minstrels sing your valor; when Tenochtitlan talks of the merchant’s son, who, in the garden, slew the tiger, and saved the life of Montezuma,—let them also tell how Montezuma rewarded him; let them say I made him noble.”
Thereupon he arose, and transferred the panache from his head to Hualpa’s. Those close by looked at the gift, and saw, for the first time, that it was not the crown, but the crest of a chief or cacique. Then they knew that the trial was merely to make more public the honors designed.
