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

And so, intent upon the conflict, insensibly he approached the front of the temple, before described as one great stairway. On the topmost step he paused. A man looking at him from the street below would have said, “It is only a paba”; and considering, further, that he was a paba serving the forsaken shrine, he would have passed by without a second look.

What he looked down upon was a broad street, crowded with men,—not citizens, but warriors, and warriors in such splendor of costume that he was fairly dazzled. Their movement suggested a retreat, whereat pride dashed his eyes with the spray of tears; he dared not shout.

More and more eagerly he listened to the coming tumult. At last, finding the attraction irresistible, he descended the steps.

The enemy were not in rout. They moved rapidly, but in ranks extending the width of the street, and perfectly ordered. The right of their column swept by the Spaniard almost within arm’s reach. He heard the breathing of the men, saw their arms,—their shields of quilted cotton, embossed with brass; their armor, likewise of quilted cotton, but fire-red with the blood of the cochineal; he saw their musicians, drummers, and conch-blowers, the latter making a roar ragged and harsh, and so loud that a groan or death-shriek could not be heard; he saw, too, their chiefs, with helms richly plumed or grotesquely adorned with heads of wild animals, with escaupiles of plumage, gorgeous as hues of sunset, with lances and maquahuitls, and shields of bison-hide or burnished silver, mottoed and deviced, like those of Christians; amongst them, also, he saw pabas, bareheaded, without arms, frocked like himself, singing wild hymns, or chanting wilder epics, or shouting names of heroic gods, or blessing the brave and cursing the craven,—the Sun for the one, Mictlan for the other. The seeing all these things, it must be remembered, was very different from their enumeration; but a glance was required.

The actual struggle, as he knew, was at the rear of the passing column. In fancy he could see horsemen plunging through the ranks, plying sword, lance, and battle-axe. And nearer they came. He could tell by the signs, as well as the sounds; by the files beginning to crowd each other; by the chiefs laboring to keep their men from falling into confused masses. At length the bolt of a cross-bow, striking a man, fell almost at his feet. Only the hand of a Spaniard could have launched the missile.

“They come,—they are almost here!” he thought, and then, “O Madre de Dios! If they drive the infidels past this temple, I am saved. And they will. Don Pedro’s blood is up, and in pursuit he thinks of nothing but to slay, slay. They will come; they are coming! There—Jesu Christo! That was a Christian shout!”

The cross-bow bolts now came in numbers. The warriors protected themselves by holding their shields over the shoulder behind; yet some dropped, and were trampled under foot. Orteguilla was himself in danger, but his suspense was so great that he thought only of escape; each bolt was a welcome messenger, with tidings from friends.

The column, meantime, seemed to become more disordered; finally, its formation disappeared utterly; chiefs and warriors were inextricably mixed together; the conch-blowers blew hideously, but could not altogether drown the yells of the fighting men.

Directly the page saw a rush, a parting in the crowd as of waters before a ship; scores of dark faces, each a picture of dismay, turned suddenly to look back; he also looked, and over the heads and upraised shields, half obscured by a shower of stones and arrows, he saw a figure which might well have been taken for the fiend of slaughter,—a horse and rider, in whose action there were a correspondence and unity that made them for the time one fighting animal. A frontleted head, tossed up for a forward plunge, was what he saw of the horse; a steel-clad form, swinging a battle-axe with the regularity of a machine, now to the right, now to the left of the horse’s neck, was all he saw of the rider. He fell upon his knees, muttering what he dared not shout, “Don Pedro, brave gentleman! I am saved! I am saved!” Instantly he sprang to his feet. “O my God! Tecetl,—I had almost forgotten her!”

He climbed the steps again fast as the gown would permit.

“My poor girl, come; the Mother offers us rescue. Can you not see a little?”

She smiled faintly, and replied, “I cannot say. I have tried to look at Quetzal’ here. He was said to be very beautiful; my father always so described him; but this thing is ugly. I fear I cannot see.”

“It is a devil’s image, Tecetl, a devil’s image,—Satan himself,” said the page, vehemently. “Let him not lose us a moment; for each one is of more worth to us than the gold on his shield there. If you cannot see, give me your hand. Come!”

He led her to the steps. The infidels below seemed to have held their ground awhile, fighting desperately. Eight or ten horsemen were driving them, though slowly; if one was struck down, another took his place. The street was dusty as with the sweeping of a whirlwind. Under the yellow cloud lay the dead and wounded. The air was alive with missiles, of which some flew above the temple, others dashed against the steps. It looked like madness to go down into such a vortex; but there was no other chance. What moment Don Pedro might tire of killing no one could tell; whenever he did, the recall would be sounded.

“What do I hear? What dreadful sounds!” said Tecetl, shrinking from the tumult.

“Battle,” he answered; “and what that is I have not time to tell; we must go down and see.”

He waited until the fighting was well past the front of the old Cû, leaving a space behind the cavaliers clear of all save those who might never fight again; then he threw back the hood, loosed the cord from his waist, and flung the disguise from him.

“Now, my pretty beadswoman, now is the time! Begin the prayer again: ‘O Mother, beautiful Mother, save us for Christ’s sake!’ Keep the count with one hand; put the other about my neck. Life or death,—now we go!”

He carried her down the steps. Over a number of wounded wretches who had dragged themselves, half dead, out of the blood and trample, he crossed the pavement. A horseman caught sight of him, and rode to his side, and lifted the battle-axe.

“Hold, Señor! I am Orteguilla. Viva España!”

The axe dropped harmless; up went the visor.

“In time, boy,—in time! An instant more, and thy soul had been in Paradise,” cried Alvarado, laughing heartily. “What hast thou there? Something from the temple? But stay not to answer. To the rear, fast as thy legs can carry thee! Faster! Put the baggage down. We are tired of the slaughter; but for thy sake, we will push the dogs a little farther. Begone! Or stay! Arrows are thicker here than curses in hell, and thou hast no armor. Take my shield, which I have not used to-day. Now be off!”

Orteguilla set the girl upon her feet, took the shield, and proceeded to buckle it upon his arm, while Alvarado rode into the fight again. A moment more, and he would have protected her with the good steel wall. Before he could complete the preparation, he heard a cry, quick, shrill, and sharp, that seemed to pierce his ear like a knife,—the cry by which one in battle announces himself death-struck,—the cry once heard, never forgotten. He raised the shield,—too late; she reeled and fell, dragging him half down.

“What ails thee now?” he cried, in Spanish, forgetting himself. “What ails thee? Hast thou looked at the sun again?”

He lifted her head upon his knee.

“Mother of Christ, she is slain!” he cried, in horror.

An arrow descending had gone through her neck to the heart. The blood gushed from her mouth. He took her in his arms, and carried her to the steps of the temple. As he laid her down, she tried to speak, but failed; then she opened her eyes wide: the light poured into them as into the windows of an empty house; the soul was gone; she was dead.

In so short a space habitant of three worlds,—when was there the like?

From the peace of the old chamber to the din of battle, from the din of battle to the calm of paradise,—brief time, short way!

From the sinless life to the sinful she had come; from the sinful life sinless she had gone; and in the going what fulness of the mercy of God!

I cannot say the Spaniard loved her; most likely his feeling was the simple affection we all have for things gentle and helpless,—a bird, a lamb, a child; now, however, he knelt over her with tears; and as he did so, he saw the rosary, and that all the beads but one were wet with her blood. He took the string from the slender neck and laid her head upon the stone, and thought the unstained bead was for a prayer uncounted,—a prayer begun on earth and finished in heaven.

CHAPTER XI.

THE PUBLIC OPINION PROCLAIMS ITSELF.—BATTLE

“How now, thou here yet? In God’s name, what madness hast thou? Up, idiot! up, and fly, or in mercy I will slay thee here!”

As he spoke, Alvarado touched Orteguilla with the handle of his axe. The latter sprang up, alarmed.

“Mira, Señor! She is just dead. I could not leave her dying. I had a vow.”

The cavalier looked at the dead girl; his heart softened.

“I give thee honor, lad, I give thee honor. Hadst thou left her living, shame would have been to thee forever. But waste not time in maudlin. Hell’s spawn is loose.” With raised visor, he stood in his stirrups. “See, far as eye can reach, the street is full! And hark to their yells! Here, mount behind me; we must go at speed.”

The infidels, faced about, were coming back. The page gave them one glance, then caught the hand reached out to him, and placing his foot on the captain’s swung himself behind. At a word, up the street, over the bridges, by the palaces and temples, the horsemen galloped. The detachment, at the head of which they had sallied from the palace,—gunners, arquebusiers, and cross-bowmen,—had been started in return some time before; upon overtaking them, Alvarado rode to a broad-shouldered fellow, whose grizzly beard overflowed the chin-piece of his morion:—

“Ho, Mesa! the hounds we followed so merrily were only feigning; they have turned upon us. Do thou take the rear, with thy guns. We will to the front, and cut a path to the gate. Follow closely.”

“Doubt not, captain. I know the trick. I caught it in Italy.”

“Cierto! What thou knowest not about a gun is not worth the knowing,” Alvarado said; then to the page, “Dismount, lad, and take place with these. What we have ahead may require free man and free horse. Picaro! If anybody is killed, thou hast permission to use his arms. What say ye, compañeros mios?” he cried, facing the detachment. “What say ye? Here I bring one whom we thought roasted and eaten by the cannibals in the temples. Either he hath escaped by miracle, or they are not judges of bones good to mess upon. He is without arms. Will ye take care of him? I leave him my shield. Will ye take care of that also?”

And Najerra, the hunchback, replied, “The shield we will take, Señor; but—”

“But what?”

“Señor, may a Christian lawfully take what the infidels have refused?”

And they looked at Orteguilla, and laughed roundly,—the bold, confident adventurers; in the midst of the jollity, however, down the street came a sound deeper than that of the guns,—a sound of abysmal depth, like thunder, but without its continuity,—a divided, throbbing sound, such as has been heard in the throat of a volcano. Alvarado threw up his visor.

“What now?” asked Serrano, first to speak.

“One, two, three,—I have it!” the captain replied. “Count ye the strokes,—one, two, three. By the bones of the saints, the drum in the great temple! Forward, comrades! Our friends are in peril! If they are lost, so are we. Forward, in Christ’s name!”

Afterwards they became familiar with the sound; but now, heard the first time in battle, every man of them was affected. They moved off rapidly, and there was no jesting,—none of the grim wit with which old soldiers sometimes cover the nervousness preceding the primary plunge into a doubtful fight.

“Close the files. Be ready!” shouted Serrano.