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

“He is a traitor!” replied Cuitlahua, emphatically. “So I sent a servant to follow him. From the Chalcan’s, he was seen go to the gates of the palace of Axaya’. Malinche received him. He is there now.”

The two were silent awhile, the cacique observing the king, the king gazing upon the ground.

“Well,” said the latter, at length, “is that all?”

“Is it not enough?”

“You are right. He must be arrested. Keep close watch on the gates of the palace, and upon his coming out, seize him, and put him safely away in the temple.”

“But if he comes not out?”

“To-morrow, at noon, if he be yet within, go to Malinche and demand him. Here is your authority.”

At that, the monarch took from a finger of his left hand a ring of gold, set with an oval green malachite, on which his likeness was exquisitely cut.

“But,” said the other, while the royal hand was outstretched, “if Malinche refuses your demand?”

“Then—then—” And the speaker paused so long that his indecision was apparent.

“Behind the refusal,—see you what lies there?” asked Cuitlahua, bluntly.

The king reflected.

“Is it not war?” the cacique persisted.

The hand fell down, and closed upon the signet.

“The demand is just, and will not be refused. Take the ring, my brother; we will at least test Malinche’s disposition. Say to him that the lord Iztlil’ is a traitor; that he is conspiring against me; and that I require his person for punishment. So say to him; but go not yet. The messenger I await may bring me something to make your mission unnecessary.”

The cacique smiled grimly. “If the Tezcucan is guilty, so is Malinche,” he said. “Is it well to tell him what you know?”

“Yes. He will then be careful; at least, he will not be deceived.”

“Be it so,” said Cuitlahua, taking the ring. “I will bring you his answer; then—”

“Well?”

“Bear with me, O king. The subject I now wish to speak of is a tender one, though I know not why. To win the good-will of the Tezcucan, was not Guatamozin, our nephew, banished the city?”

“Well?”

“Now that the Tezcucan is lost, why should not the ’tzin return? He is a happy man, O my brother, who discovers an enemy; happier is he who, at the same time, discovers a friend.”

Montezuma studied the cacique’s face, then, with his eyes upon the ground, walked on. Cuitlahua went with him. Past the great trees, under the gray moss, up the hill to the summit, and along the summit to the verge of the rocky bluff, they went. At the king’s side, when he stopped, was a porphyritic rock, bearing, in bas-relief, his own image, and that of his father. Below him, westwardly, spread the placid lake; above it, the setting sun; in its midst, a fair child on a fair mother’s breast, Tenochtitlan.

“See! a canoe goes swiftly round yon chinampa; now it outstrips its neighbors, and turns this way. How the slaves bend to the paddles! My laggards at last!”

The king, while speaking, rubbed his hands gleefully. For the time, Cuitlahua and his question were forgotten.

“The lord Hualpa has company,” observed the brother, quietly.

“Yes. Io’.”

Another spell of silence, during which both watched the canoe.

“Come, let us to the palace. Lingering here is useless.” And with another look to the city and lake, and a last one at the speeding vessel, yet too far off to be identified, the king finally turned away. And Guatamozin was still an exile.

Tecalco and Acatlan, the queens, and Tula, and their attendants, sitting on the azoteas of the ancient house, taking the air of the declining day, arose to salute the monarch and his brother. The latter took the hand of each, saying, “The gods of our fathers be good to you.” Tula’s forehead he touched with his lips. His countenance, like his figure and nature, Indian in type, softened somewhat under her glance. He knew her sorrow, and in sympathy thought of the ’tzin, and of the petition in his behalf, as yet unanswered.

“All are not here, one is absent,—Nenetzin. Where is she? I may not sleep well without hearing her laugh once more.”

Acatlan said, “You are very good, my lord, to remember my child. She chose to remain below.”

“She is not sick, I hope.”

“Not sick, yet not well.”

“Ah! the trouble is of the mind, perhaps. How old is she now.”

“Old enough to be in love, if that is your meaning.”

Cuitlahua smiled. “That is not a sickness, but a happiness; so, at least, the minstrels say.”

“What ails Nenetzin?” asked the king.

Acatlan cast down her eyes, and hesitated.

“Speak! What ails her?”

“I hardly know. She hardly knows herself,” the queen answered. “If I am to believe what she tells me, the lord Cuitlahua is right; she is in love.”

“With Tula, I suppose,” said the king, laughing.

“Would it were! She says her lover is called Tonatiah. Much I fear, however, that what she thinks love is really a delusion, wrought by magic. She is not herself. When did Malinche go to the temple?”

“Four days ago,” the king replied.

“Well, the teule met her there, and spoke to her, and gave her a present. Since that, like a child, she has done little else than play with the trinket.”

Montezuma became interested. He seated himself, and asked, “You said the spell proceeds from the present: why do you think so?”

“The giver said the gift was a symbol of his religion, and whoever wore it became of his faith, and belonged to his god.”

“Mictlan!” muttered Cuitlahua.

“Strange! what is the thing?” the king persisted.

“Something of unknown metal, white, like silver, about a hand in length, and attached to a chain.”