"That was a good shot, Mit! Your old father couldn't have done it
better." Such was the comment made by Tezcot, the hunter, on the result
of a well directed arrow from a bow in the hands of Mitla, the
"Mountain Princess."
They were out on the mountain, hunting. Tezcot often went on short
excursions of the kind to please Mitla, and it gave him genuine
pleasure to do so. Being very kindly disposed, as he was, it afforded
him much gratification to make others happy, especially his children.
"He's a fine specimen of his kind," he continued, holding the bird up
before him, "and will increase your stock of plumage, and, as well, add
another feather to your archer's cap."
The prize was a most beautiful pheasant; and for a moment Mitla's eyes
were bright with excitement, but as she gazed upon the lovely bird,
lying dead and bleeding at her feet, where her father had carelessly
thrown it, the woman's heart within her was touched with feelings of
compunction, and she said:
"Father, is it well to kill such beautiful birds? My heart is sad
because I have done this."
"It's all the same, child, whether the bird is beautiful or ugly; the
one suffers equally with the other, when it comes to that,"
philosophized he. "Hello, Menke! Is that you?" he continued, addressing
a hunter, who just then came up to where they were.
"Wull, yes, it's me, ef I know myself; an' think I should, for some
folks do say that Menke an' me are right sociable," jestingly replied
the newcomer, a well known mountaineer hunter, who was much addicted to
talking to himself, to which addiction his remark referred.
"That ye are, Menke, we all know," answered Tezcot, appreciating the
hunter's reference to his peculiar habit, "but it doesn't make ye any
less friendly toward the rest of us."
"Wull, no; Menke's about the same all over," returned he, and, suddenly
changing the subject, continued: "Goin' far up the mountain, Tez?"
"Not far. We're only out for a short hunt this morning. Mit, there,
enjoys a trip to the mountains occasionally."
"Good mornin', Princess," he said to Mitla. "Had any luck, eh?"
"Yes, I have one beautiful bird, a pheasant. See! Is it not a pretty
one?" she replied, showing him the prize.
"Nice bird, Princess. Shot it yerself, eh?"
"Certainly, but wish I had not; it is such a lovely bird," she
returned, looking sorrowfully at it.
"That's the woman of ye, Princess. Women don't make good hunters;
they're too squeamish," he observed, rather contemptuously.
"You, no doubt, speak truly, Menke; but it is our nature, and we can
not help it," she replied, her eyes fixed on the bird with an
expression of sadness.
Menke turned to Tezcot, and said:
"Say, Tez, wish ye'd jine me in a trip across the mountain to-day.
Can't do it, eh?"
"Not to-day, Menke; it would spoil Mit's sport. Some other day I'll go
with you."
"All right, Tez; ye know yer own business. The mornin's goin' right
fast, an' I'll have to be goin' with it, ef I'd get roun' 'fore night.
Good mornin', Princess."
"Good morning, and success attend you, Menke," she returned.
With a parting word to his friend Tezcot the hunter left them, moving
rapidly up the mountain, and was soon lost to view among the timber.
Tezcot and Mitla, at a later hour, awoke to the fact that they were
farther from home than they had intended to go at starting out. They
were more than a league and a half away, and the hunter thought it time
to call a halt. Their hunt had proven fairly successful, quite a bunch
of game having been secured, rendering the excursion very satisfactory.
"Father," said Mitla, when a return had been decided on, "let us visit
the hermit's cave, on our way, going home. I have not been there for a
long time."
"If a visit to the hermit would please ye, Mit, we'll go that way."
"Thank you, father; it would, indeed, please me very much to visit the
hermitage again."
So it was settled the hermitage should receive a visit from them.
The hermit's cave was the abode of a recluse, whose identity and
previous life were a profound mystery. By accompanying the hunter and
Mitla to it, we will at least get an insight into the character of the
man.
About a league from Tezcot's house was a long, narrow, and dark ravine.
It was fully a half mile in length, and was inwalled on either side by
steep elevations. Its gloomy wildness was seemingly filled with an
awe-inspiring presence, and only a few of the denizens of the
mountainous range would venture into it. Stories were told of strange
sights and sounds haunting its lonely recesses, which readily found
credence in the minds of the more superstitious of them.
Tezcot, and a few other fearless hunters of the locality, took the
stories for what they were--creations of fancy or design, and
occasionally explored the place in quest of game.
Since the advent of the hermit on the mountain, which took place some
years prior to the incidents narrated here, these bolder mountaineers
might have been seen at intervals cautiously invading its solitudes,
going, in most cases, to the hermitage to visit its strange occupant.
The ravine was situated east and west, and those who were familiar with
its dark depths found it most easily entered from the eastern terminus.
When Tezcot and Mitla arrived there, they went in without hesitation.
They found the ground rough, and frequently quite sloping, yet made
good progress over it.
After going some distance into the ravine, they turned toward the
south, and began the ascent of the steep acclivity in that direction,
along a natural depression in its side.
Going well up out of the ravine they made a turn to the west, and went
around the side of a mountain until they came to a dense growth of
underbrush, which had the appearance, in its denseness, of being
impenetrable. Tezcot, however, knew the ground well, and quickly found
a place that would admit of their passing through. When they came out
on the opposite side of the thicket, it was to find themselves on a
kind of shelf in the side of the mountain, at the back of which rose an
almost perpendicular wall of rock. Following this rocky wall for a
short distance back, they came to a great recess in its face, which had
the appearance of a natural vestibule. In the rear of this recess was
an opening, which proved to be the entrance to a cavern. Tezcot went
familiarly forward, passing through the aperture into a tunnel-shaped
cave, which appeared as running far back into the mountain. The
interior was only dimly lighted from the entrance; yet the
semi-darkness did not seem to impede the hunter's movement, for he went
confidently in, until he came to an opening in the side of the tunnel,
before which he stopped, and gave a peculiar signal.
In response to the signal there presently appeared before the visitors
the form of a man dimly outlined in the faint light of the cavern. In a
voice which was deep and solemn, he inquired:
"Who would break in on the solitude of Ix, the anchorite?"
"Tezcot, the anchorite's friend, and Mitla, his child, who have come to
pay their respects to him, and hear again the words of wisdom which his
lips are wont to speak," replied the hunter, respectfully.
"Tezcot and his are ever welcome in the home of Ix, the hermit. Enter,
and find rest."
Tezcot laid aside his hunter's outfit, and, followed by Mitla, passed
into the recluse's lonely abode.
The cell, or room, occupied by the hermit as a habitation, was a
natural cavity in the side of the main cavern, situated, as we have
seen, some distance back from the entrance. It was square shaped, and
answered well the purpose for which it was used.
A burning taper shed a dim and sickly glimmer over the room, giving
barely light enough to reveal its contents. At one side of the
apartment was a couch, made up of animals' skins, and opposite to it a
rough table, on which was placed a burning taper.
Such was the scanty furnishment of the hermit's cell, except the
necessary arms of a hunter, with which he was supplied, and which were
lying and hanging about the room.
Good friends, like Tezcot, would often give the recluse sufficient
provisions to last for days, yet he would sometimes venture out on the
mountain, when no eye was near to watch him, in quest of game, which he
seldom failed to secure, for he handled his weapons with efficiency.
His food was prepared in the main cavern, leaving his cell free from
that inconvenience.
A question frequently asked, but never answered, was: "Who is he, this
Ix, the hermit?" He was in truth, and to all, a man of mystery.
The more ignorant of the mountaineers--those who believed the ravine
haunted--thought the mysterious individual superhuman in character, and
shunned the locality as an abode of spirits. Ix encouraged this feeling
and belief among them, so far as he could, though always very grateful
to the few who were above such notions, and who were ever welcome
visitors to his cavern home.
The hermit could afford no better accommodations than skins thrown on
the ground, as a protection, to sit on, and his visitors were seated in
this manner. When they were comfortably settled, the anchorite said:
"How is it with my wise friend--thyself, O Tezcot, and those who share
with thee the bounteous favors which bless thy mountain home?"
"It is well with us. And thou, O friend, hath good or evil come to make
or mar thy peace, of late?" replied the hunter inquiringly.
"My lonely life is seldom interrupted. Its simplicity could only lead
to peace if the mind were less active. But who can say, O, mind, be
still, and trouble not thyself with what is past, or what may come?"
The hermit's words showed that he was not in his usual temper of mind.
They indicated that his meditations sometimes disturbed him. On no
previous occasion had Tezcot heard him intimate that disquieting
recollections were ever present to interrupt the peacefulness of his
lonely life. And yet, why not? The man had not always been a hermit.
The surprise to Tezcot was in the yielding of his habitual restraint
upon his speech, so far as to give utterance to such a thought. He did
not immediately respond to the hermit, and, after a moment's pause, the
latter continued:
"You have come from the world of light, O Tezcot, and know much that is
dark to Ix. If it please you, will you tell me something of what is
passing there? How fares it with the people in the valley?"
"Why should Ix, the hermit, who has gone from the world to find
seclusion in a mountain fastness, seek knowledge concerning the people
and of what is passing beyond? Does the anchorite tire of his lonely
mountain cell, and long for a place among them, that he turns from his
solitude to inquire after the people's welfare?"
"Tezcot is wise, but he reads only from that which his eyes behold.
There are sealed records from which even he can not read. Ix is one of
these to all the world, yet not without his sorrows. Memory is not less
bright because of the darkness which hides external things," rejoined
the hermit, with deep pathos in his voice.
"Tezcot is rebuked," returned he, regretfully. "The wisdom of Ix is
greater than his. The hermit's desire to learn something of what is
passing among the people in the valley shall be gratified. There is
peace on the beautiful Anahuac, and the people appear to be happy;
still, there is unrest and repining beneath it all. The signs bespeak a
coming storm--not of the heavens, which we wot of when the sky is
overcast and chains of fire flash across it--nor yet when the waters
descend and the thunder's deep and awful voice is heard. No, it is not
a storm like that, but one in which the passions of men shall sway them
as the tempest sways the mighty tree; a storm in which blood shall flow
and once more stain and soil the beautiful face of Anahuac; and sorrow
shall find place in the hearts of many people, and lamentation shall
ascend."
The voice of the hunter was like one inspired. The hermit felt it, and
replied:
"The language of Tezcot is the language of a prophet. Whose hand is in
the strifeful storm of which he foretells?"
"The hand of Maxtla, king at the royal city of Azcapozalco, is in it,"
answered the hunter.
At the mention of Maxtla's name, an expression of fierceness came over
the hermit's face, but the taper's dim light did not reveal it. He
inquired, in a voice in which there was evident displeasure, causing
the hunter to give him a closer look:
"Where is the old destroyer of Tezcucan liberty, Tezozomoc, that Maxtla
is king at Azcapozalco?"
"The old king is dead," replied Tezcot.
"The world is none the worse for that, I'm sure," returned the hermit,
showing unmistakable enmity.
"It is surely not any better since Maxtla is king," answered the
hunter, observing with interest the hermit's relaxing reserve.
"What would he--this Maxtla of Azcapozalco?" inquired Ix.
"It is known that he would destroy the Prince of Tezcuco, because of
jealousy and hatred." A gleam of intelligence might have been seen to
light up the anchorite's countenance on hearing these words, but it was
not observed by the hunter, who continued: "The prince is a fugitive,
hunted as a fox by the vassals of the king."
The hermit was silent and thoughtful for a moment, and then asked:
"Whence come the signs which speak to Tezcot of an approaching
conflict?"
"If Ix would read the signs himself, let him go into the valley where
dwell the Tezcucans--the oppressed people of the fugitive prince. The
deadly serpent lies motionless in our path, but should our foot
perchance fall upon it, our destruction would follow swift and sure;
though not more surely than retribution on the man who tramples human
rights beneath his heel," replied the hunter, impressively.
"The words of my wise friend are full of meaning. They come to Ix like
a message from the world. He will treasure them up and give them
thought, for they are portentous. Things of which the wise hunter hath
no knowledge press heavily upon Ix's mind. His heart is sad because of
the wickedness of men," returned the hermit, in gloomy accents.
Tezcot was acquainted with some of the hermit's peculiar moods, and
felt, from his manner, that a longer stay would be neither pleasant nor
profitable; so, after a brief silence, he arose and said they would
depart, inasmuch as their absence from home had been prolonged in order
to make the hermitage a visit.
The hermit expressed his gratification for the visit, and said further:
"My friend has brought much food for thought, for which I am grateful.
Do not forget, O Tezcot, that you and yours are ever welcome in the
home of the hermit. Tarry not away; for Ix would hear more of the signs
of the hour and what they portend."
"When the signs speak more clearly I will come again, that Ix may have
knowledge of their import," returned the hunter, turning to leave the
hermit's cell.
They passed into the main cavern, where a liberal division of the game
was made, of which the hermit received a goodly portion. It was
accepted with expressions of gratitude; and, after the customary
salutations, the visitors took their departure, leaving the recluse to
his solitude and lonely cogitations, the nature of which could only be
surmised.
The hunter went from the hermitage with conflicting thoughts. He had
talked with the hermit many times, but had never before looked so far
into his character. He was nearer the solution of the oft repeated, but
still unanswered question, "Who is he?" than at any previous time; and
yet his theories were vague and unsatisfactory. He determined to know
more of the man of mystery, and resolved to see him frequently.