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

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 - Gods.] 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.