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

“Men must worship, O Tula, and there can be no worship without faith. So I had next to renew the sacred fire and restore the gods. The first was easy: I had only to start a flame from the embers of the sanctuaries; the fire that burned them was borrowed from that kept immemorially on the old altars. The next duty was harder. The images were not of themselves more estimable than other stones; neither were the jewels that adorned them more precious than others of the same kind: their sanctity was from faith alone. The art of arts is to evoke the faith of men: make me, O sweetheart, make me master of that art, and, as the least of possibilities, I will make gods of things least godly. In the places where they had fallen, at the foot of the temple, I set the images up, and gave each an altar, with censers, holy fire, and all the furniture of worship. By and by, they shall be raised again to the azoteas; and when we renew the empire, we will build for them sanctuaries richer even than those of Cholula. If the faith of our people demand more, then—”

He hesitated.

“Then, what?” she asked.

He shuddered, and said lower than ever, “I will unseal the caverns of Quetzal’, and,—more I cannot answer now.”

The influence of Mualox was upon him yet.

“And if that fail?” she persisted.

Not until the stars at the time overhead had passed and been succeeded by others as lustrous, did he answer,—

“And if that fail? Then we will build a temple,—one without images,—a temple to the One Supreme God. So, O Tula, shall the prophecy of the king, your father, be fulfilled in our day.”

And with that up sprang a breeze of summery warmth, lingering awhile to wanton with the tresses of the willow, and swing the flowery island half round the circle of its anchorage; and from the soothing hand on his forehead, or the reposeful motion of the chinampa, the languor of sleep stole upon his senses; yet recollection of the battle and its cares was hard to be put away:—

“I should have told you,” he said, in a vanishing voice, “that when the companies abandoned us, I went first to see our uncle, the lord Cuitlahua. The guards at the door refused me admittance; the king was sick, they said.”

A tremor shook the hand on his forehead, and larger grew the great eyes bending over him.

“Did they say of what he was sick?” she asked.

“Of the plague.”

“And what is that?”

“Death,” he answered, and next moment fell asleep.

Over her heart, to hush the loudness of its beating, she clasped her hands; for out of the chamber of the almost forgotten, actual as in life, stalked Mualox, the paba, saying, as once on the temple he said, “You shall be queen in your father’s palace.” She saw his beard of fleecy white, and his eyes of mystery, and asked herself again and again, “Was he indeed a prophet?”

And the loving child and faithful subject strove hard to hide from the alluring promise, for in its way she descried two living kings, her father and her uncle; but it sought her continually, and found her, and at last held her as a dream holds a sleeper,—held her until the stars heralded the dawn, and the ’tzin awoke to go back to the city, back to the battle,—from love to battle.

CHAPTER XIII

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

“Leave the city, now so nearly won! Surely, father, surely thou dost jest with me!”

So Cortes said as he sat in his chamber, resting his arm on the table, the while Olmedo poured cold water on his wounded hand.

The father answered without lifting his face,—

“Go, I say, that we may come back assured of holding what we have won.”

“Sayest thou so,—thou! By my conscience, here are honor, glory, empire! Abandon them, and the treasure, a part of which, as thou knowest, I have already accounted to his Majesty? No, no; not yet, father! I cannot—though thou may’st—forget what Velasquez and my enemies, the velveted minions of the court, would say.”

“Then it is as I feared,” said Olmedo, suspending his work, and tossing his hood farther back on his shoulders. “It is as I feared. The good judgment which hath led us so far so well, and given riches to those who care for riches, and planted the Cross over so many heathen temples is, at last, at fault.”

The father’s manner was solemn and reproachful. Cortes turned to him inquiringly.

“Señor, thou knowest I may be trusted. Heed me. I speak for Christ’s sake,” continued Olmedo. “Leave the city we must. There is not corn for two days more; the army is worn down with wounds and watching; scarcely canst thou thyself hold an axe; the men of Narvaez are mutineers; the garden is full of graves, and it hath been said of me that, for want of time, I have shorn the burial service of essential Catholic rites. And the enemy, Señor, the legions that broke through the wall last evening, were new tribes for the first time in battle. Of what effect on them were yesterday’s defeats? The gods tumbled from the temple have their altars and worship already. Thou may’st see them from the central turret.”

The good man was interrupted. Sandoval appeared at the door.

“Come,” said Cortes, impatiently.

The captain advanced to the table, and saluting, said, in his calm, straightforward way,—

“The store for the horses is out; we fed them to-night from the rations of the men. I gave Motilla half of mine, and yet she is hungry.”

At these words, the hand Olmedo was nursing closed, despite its wound, as upon a sword-hilt, vice-like, and up the master arose, brow and cheek gray as if powdered with ashes, and began to walk the floor furiously; at last he stopped abruptly:—

“Sandoval, go bid the captains come. I would have their opinions as to what we should do. Omit none of them. Those who say nothing may be witnesses hereafter.”

The order was given quietly, with a smile even. A moment the captain studied his leader’s face, and I would not say he did not understand the meaning of the simple words; for of him Cortes afterwards said, “He is fit to command great armies.”

Cortes sat down, and held out the hand for Olmedo’s ministrations; but the father touched him caressingly, and said, when Sandoval was gone,—

“I commend thee, son, with all my soul. Men are never so much on trial as when they stand face to face with necessity; the weak fight it, and fall; the wise accept it as a servant. So do thou now.”

Cortes’ countenance became chill and sullen. “I cannot see the necessity—”

“Good!” exclaimed Olmedo. “Whatsoever thou dost, hold fast to that. The captains will tell thee otherwise, but—”

“What?” asked Cortes, with a sneer. “The treasure is vast,—a million pesos or more. Dost thou believe they will go and leave it?”

But Olmedo was intent upon his own thought.

“Mira!” he said. “If the captains say there is a necessity, do thou put in thy denial; stand on thy opinion boldly; and when thou givest up, at last, yield thee to that other necessity, the demand of the army. And so—”

“And so,” Cortes said with a smile, which was also a sneer, “and so thou wouldst make a servant of one necessity by invoking another.”

“Yes; another which may be admitted without danger or dishonor. Thou hast the idea, my son.”

“So be it, so be it,—aguardamonos!”

Thereupon Cortes retired within himself, and the father began again to nurse the wounded hand.

And by and by the chamber was filled with captains, soldiers, and caciques, whose persons, darkly visible in the murky light, testified to the severity of the situation: rusted armor, ragged apparel, faded trappings, bandaged limbs, countenances heavy with anxiety, or knit hard by suffering,—such were the evidences.

In good time Cortes arose.

“Ola, my friends,” he said, bluntly. “I have heard that there are among ye many who think the time come to give the city, and all we have taken, back to the infidels. I have sent for ye that I may know the truth. As the matter concerneth interests of our royal master aside from his dominion,—property, for example,—the Secretary Duero will make note of all that passeth. Let him come forward and take place here.”

The secretary seated himself by the table with manuscript and pen.

“Now, gentlemen, begin.”