The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins

“This is indeed royal!” the warrior said to the minstrel. “It bewilders me. Be yours the lead.”

“I know the walks as a deer his paths, or a bird the brake that shelters its mate. Come,” and the voice was strangely firm for one so aged,—“come, let us see the company.”

Now and then they passed ladies, escorted by gallants, and frequently there were pauses to send second looks after the handsome soldier, and words of pity for his feeble companion. By and by, coming to an intersection of the walk they were pursuing, they were hailed,—“Stay, minstrel, and give us a song.”

By the door of a summer-house they saw, upon stopping, a girl whose beauty was worthy the tribute she sought. The elder sat down upon a bench and replied,—

“A song is gentle medicine for sorrows. Have you such? You are very young.”

Her look of sympathy gave place to one of surprise.

“I would I were assured that minstrelsy is your proper calling.”

“You doubt it! Here is my harp: a soldier is known by his shield.”

“But I have heard your voice before,” she persisted.

“The children of Tenochtitlan, and many who are old now, have heard me sing.”

“But I am a Chalcan.”

“I have sung in Chalco.”

“May I ask your name?”

“There are many streets in the city, and on each they call me differently.”

The girl was still perplexed.

“Minstrels have patrons,” she said, directly, “who—”

“Nay, child, this soldier here is all the friend I have.”

Some one then threw aside the vine that draped the door. While the minstrel looked to see who the intruder was, his inquisitor gazed at the soldier, who, on his part, saw neither of them; he was making an obeisance so very low that his face and hand both touched the ground.

“Does the minstrel intend to sing, Yeteve?” asked Nenetzin, stepping into the light that flooded the walk.

The old man bent forward on his seat.

“Heaven’s best blessing on the child of the king! It should be a nobler hand than mine that strikes a string to one so beautiful.”

The comely princess replied, her face beaming with pleasure, “Verily, minstrel, much familiarity with song has given you courtly speech.”

“I have courtly friends, and only borrow their words. This place is fair, but to my dull fancy it seems that a maiden would prefer the great hall, unless she has a grief to indulge.”

“O, I have a great grief,” she returned; “though I do borrow it as you your words.”

“Then you love some one who is unhappy. I understand. Is this child in your service?” he asked, looking at Yeteve.

“Call it mine. She loves me well enough to serve me.”

The minstrel struck the strings of his harp softly, as if commencing a mournful story.

“I have a friend,” he said, “a prince and warrior, whose presence here is banned. He sits in his palace to-night, and is visited by thoughts such as make men old in their youth. He has seen much of life, and won fame, but is fast finding that glory does not sweeten misfortune, and that of all things, ingratitude is the most bitter. His heart is set upon a noble woman; and now, when his love is strongest, he is separated from her, and may not say farewell. O, it is not in the ear of a true woman that lover so unhappy could breathe his story in vain. What would the princess Nenetzin do, if she knew a service of hers might soothe his great grief?”

Nenetzin’s eyes were dewy with tears.

“Good minstrel, I know the story; it is the ’tzin’s. Are you a friend of his?”

“His true friend. I bring his farewell to Tula.”

“I will serve him.” And, stepping to the old man, she laid her hand on his. “Tell me what to do, and what you would have.”

“Only a moment’s speech with her.”

“With Tula?”

“A moment to say the farewell he cannot. Go to the palace, and tell her what I seek. I will follow directly. Tell her she may know me in the throng by these locks, whose whiteness will prove my sincerity and devotion. And further, I will twine my harp with a branch of this vine; its leaves will mark me, and at the same time tell her that his love is green as in the day a king’s smile sunned it into ripeness. Be quick. The moment comes when she cannot in honor listen to the message I am to speak.”

He bent over his harp again, and Nenetzin and Yeteve hurried away.

CHAPTER X

THE ’TZIN’S LOVE

The minstrel stayed a while to dress his harp with the vine.

“A woman would have done it better; they have a special cunning for such things; yet it will serve the purpose. Now let us on!” he said, when the task was finished.

To the palace they then turned their steps. As they approached it, the walk became more crowded with guests. Several times the minstrel was petitioned to stay and sing, but he excused himself. He proceeded, looking steadily at the ground, as is the custom of the very aged. Amongst others, they met Maxtla, gay in his trappings as a parrot from the Great River.

“Good minstrel,” he said, “in your wanderings through the garden, have you seen Iztlil’, the Tezcucan?”

“I have not seen the Tezcucan. I should look for him in the great hall, where his bride is, rather than in the garden, dreaming of his bridal.”

“Well said, uncle! I infer your harp is not carried for show; you can sing! I will try you after a while.”

When he was gone, the minstrel spoke bitterly,—

“Beware of the thing known in the great house yonder as policy. A week ago the lord Maxtla would have scorned to be seen hunting the Tezcucan, whom he hates.”

They came to a portal above which, in a niche of the wall, sat the teotl[34 - A household god.] of the house, grimly claiming attention and worship. Under the portal, past the guard on duty there, through many apartments full of objects of wonder to the stranger, they proceeded, and, at last, with a current of guests slowly moving in the same direction, reached the hall dominated by the king, where the minstrel thought to find the princess Tula.

“O my friend, I pray you, let me stay here a moment,” said the warrior, abashed by dread of the sudden introduction to the royal presence. The singer heard not, but went on.

Standing by the door, the young stranger looked down a hall of great depth eastwardly, broken by two rows of pillars supporting vast oaken girders, upon which rested rafters of red cedar. The walls were divided into panels, with borders broad and intricately arabesqued. A massive bracket in the centre of each panel held the image of a deity, the duplicate of the idol in the proper sanctuary; and from the feet of the image radiated long arms of wood, well carved, crooked upward at the elbows, and ending with shapely hands, clasping lanterns of aguave which emitted lights of every tint. In the central space, between the rows of pillars, immense chandeliers dropped from the rafters, so covered with lamps that they looked like pyramids aglow. And arms, and images, and chandeliers, and even the huge pillars, were wreathed in garlands of cedar boughs and flowers, from which the air drew a redolence as of morning in a garden.

Through all these splendors, the gaze of the visitor sped to the further end of the hall, and there stayed as charmed. He saw a stage, bright with crimson carpeting, rising three steps above the floor, and extending from wall to wall; and on that, covered with green plumaje, a dais, on which, in a chair or throne glittering with burnished gold, the king sat. Above him spread a canopy fashioned like a broad sunshade, the staff resting on the floor behind the throne, sustained by two full-armed warriors, who, while motionless as statues, were yet vigilant as sentinels. Around the dais, their costumes and personal decorations sharing the monarch’s splendor, were collected his queens, and their children, and all who might claim connection with the royal family. The light shone about them as the noonday, so full that all that portion of the hall seemed bursting with sunshine. Never satin richer than the emerald cloth of the canopy, inwoven, as it was, with feathers of humming-birds! Never sheen of stars, to the eyes of the wondering stranger, sharper than the glinting of the jewels with which it was fringed!