_THE TLASCALAN KNIGHT'S PROBATION._
Fast as her nimble little gay-sandalled feet could move, the aged
Cacique's grandchild danced along the well-thronged streets of the fine
city of Tlascala, the capital of the Republic.
Friends passed her, and with smiles and nods tossed to her great
bunches of roses and sweet honeysuckle. From many a broad,
flat-terraced roof sweet-toned, merry laughter floated down, as a
well-aimed garland fell over Montoro de Diego's handsome head and
rested round his neck, or a brilliant chaplet of bright blossoms
stopped its flight on the footway before his feet.
Thither marched along a band of warriors in glittering array, and
singing as they marched to the wild music of the instruments. And here
Xicotencatl's granddaughter paused a few moments, with the impatient
small feet curbed to stillness, and the bright eyes bent to the ground
with meek deference. A company of the white-robed, long-haired priests
was passing, swinging burning censers as they went, and the clouds
of aromatic incense floated like a purple veil through the dazzling,
sunlit air of that October day.
The priests passed on, and once more the Indian maiden led her
companions on again, showing her rows of little white teeth in
gratified smiles as her Spanish companion lingered now and again to
admire the beautiful pottery, elegant in design and fine in make as
that of Florence, or to gaze in surprise at the fine public baths, or
the busy barbers' shops and sweetmeat stalls.
At the entrance of one especially narrow street she came to a second
standstill. Montoro very quickly read the cause. About half-way down
the street there was a disturbance of some sort going on,--a fight over
a bad market bargain,--and the partisans on both sides effectually
blocked up the way from every one else.
"Let us take another route," said Montoro.
But his guide shook her head.
"No need," she said confidently.
And even as she spoke two or three of the efficient, well-disciplined
Tlascalan police put in an appearance on the scene, and the tumult was
quelled almost instantaneously. A half-unconscious wish passed through
the Spaniard's mind that the Spanish guardians of the peace were
anything like as effective.
But they were nearing the temple now for which they were bound, and
all other thoughts were lost sight of for the present in wondering
speculations as to what new sights he had been brought to witness. It
was thanks to the rank and good-will of his guide, and to the fame of
her late deed, which had already spread through the city, that he thus
easily gained admission to them.
The temple-in-chief of Tlascala did not, indeed, cover forty acres of
ground, with an acre of platform for its colossal summit, like its
bewildering giant of a sister at Cholula, but it was of sufficient size
and proportions to embrace various ecclesiastical institutions within
its limits, under the jurisdiction of the priests--seminaries for the
education of children, girls and boys, colleges for the priests, and
training-schools for the young knights before their entry into the
world and its many strifes.
It was with some parade and solemn ceremony that Montoro de Diego
was admitted into its precincts, and only upon the half-pleading,
half-authoritative demand of the great chieftain's child. But at length
he and his companions stood within one of the great halls, and the
chatterbox tongues of the young girl, of Doña Marina, and of the Indian
women were hushed to reverential silence.
There upon the pavement, a few yards before them, lay a motionless
human figure, emaciated to the last degree, and with a deathly
pallidness visible even through the red-lined skin. Beside it lay the
gaudy feather mantle, the grotesque helmet, and the copper-tipped
javelin.
The figure was that of a very young man, and, so it seemed to Montoro,
of one fast dying, if not already dead. He turned with a glance of awed
interrogation to his conductor, and was bewildered past all saying, and
astounded, when he met her face glowing with enthusiasm and lighted by
a pair of eyes brilliant with proud joy.
"See, good chieftain," she murmured, with lips trembling with lofty
emotion, "see now that it is not I only of the Tlascalans who know how
to endure for honour's sake and our country. Yonder is my brother, the
youngest. This is now the fifty-third day that he watches, prays, and
fasts in the temple beside his armour, that he may hereafter with due
rank and fortitude fight in the Republic's wars."
"Surely," ejaculated Montoro, "surely this youth will never live to
fight! Methinks he hath but hours of life left even for peace."
As Doña Marina interpreted this speech the words caught the young
knight's ears, and the figure which the Spaniard had taken for that of
one in the death swoon had sprung to its feet, and by rapid words, and
gestures of indignant scorn, gave swift proof that the emaciated frame
was still instinct with keen vitality.
The brother and sister exchanged a few low-spoken sentences, the
probationer returned to his hard and comfortless couch beside the
armour that he so longed to don, and the young guide led her party away
to another part of the temple, where fresh scenes for wonder awaited
her amateur surgeon.
These said fresh scenes very nearly led to an outbreak of hostilities,
for even Montoro de Diego, for all his self-discipline, had the fiery
Spanish blood in his veins, and would imagine himself specially
commissioned to set other folks to rights; at any rate to try to do so,
whether the effort were wild or sensible.
It is true, however, that the sights to which he was now introduced
without any previous preparation were terrible enough to have aroused
the uninformed indignation of any feeling heart.
In one of the inner courts the Indian maiden made another pause, and
pointed with one of her swathed-up arms to the farther end, where a
group of men were collected around a companion, whom they were flogging
with a savage force that cut open the flesh at every stroke of the lash.
Montoro winced with sympathy as the great whip fell.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "use the authority of your father's name to stay
that cruel punishment."
The young girl's lip curled proudly.
"It is a self-chosen punishment."
"Self-chosen!"
"Ay, self-chosen. How should the warrior dare the peril of being made
a sacrifice by enemies, if he had not fortitude sufficient to bear
the rods of his friends? But come, there is more to see, that the
white-face may learn that the warriors of Tlascala know how to suffer,
and can thereafter have small chance to fear aught that the most cruel
foes can do to them."
So saying, the girl once more led the way on to an inner hall opposite
to that by which they had first entered. She had, however, scarcely
entered it when she turned back again hastily, saying--
"No, not this yet; this is for the last. Come!"
But for once the slightly imperative "Come!" was not obeyed by the
white-face as it had been before. His keen eyes had alighted on that
which had thrilled him with horror.
"Verily," he exclaimed, "it seems that if ye have many of the blessings
of civilization ye have also its curses, even to an Inquisition with
all its iniquities."
"What do you mean? what would you do?" exclaimed the girl,
half-angered, half-terrified as she saw her companion's perturbed
countenance, and could scarcely, with the help of Doña Marina and her
attendants, keep him from dashing forward into the dim hall, where a
young man lay stretched upon a bier of damp reeds, beneath which burned
a great fire of smoking herbs, which were stirred from time to time
into greater heat.
Truly the punishment, if it were a punishment, was a fearful one; but
the Indian girl laid a firm, determined clasp upon Montoro de Diego's
arm as she pointed to the young man on his fiery bed.
"He too is my brother," she said, with stern pride--"my eldest brother.
That is his final trial. When he wins through that he will be enrolled
in the noble order of our knights. Now you know why the Indian warrior
fights well."
"You are a noble race, and worthy of a noble fate," murmured the
Spaniard; and many a sigh escaped him as they wended homewards.
* * * * *
And now we must pass on quickly to the occupation of Mexico itself,
and there, in that island city of flowers and palaces and temples
and turrets, take our final leave of Hernando Cortes, its great,
world-famous conqueror.