TIATA'S BRAVE DEATH AND SANDOVAL'S GRIEF
So untiring were the efforts of Sandoval and his associates during the
remainder of that night, that by sunrise the army of rescue had left
Cempoalla. It consisted of about one thousand infantry, of whom nearly
one hundred were armed with muskets, and as many more with cross-bows,
a hundred cavalry, and a well-provisioned train of artillery. In three
days they reached Tlascala; and Huetzin, who had obtained permission to
hasten to this point in advance of the army, rejoined it with a welcome
reinforcement of two thousand Tlascalan warriors, all eager to be led
against their hereditary foe.
While the army halted at Tlascala, the aged chieftain of Titcala
offered to one of the newly arrived cavaliers so great a sum in gold
dust for his horse, a dainty sorrel mare, that the offer was promptly
accepted. This purchase was immediately transferred to Huetzin, of whom
his grandfather was so proud, that he was determined to give the young
warrior an opportunity for making as brave an appearance as any of his
white comrades. Thus Huetzin, raised to a pinnacle of proud happiness
by his new possession, became the first native of the new world to own
and bestride one of those marvellous animals which, but a year before,
had been spoken of throughout all Anahuac as either gods or devils.
He named his mare "Cocotin" (little girl), and, under the skilful
teachings of Sandoval, who was almost as delighted to see him mounted
as he was to be so, he soon became an expert horseman.
From Tlascala the conquerors made all speed over the rugged
Cordilleras, though this time, as a measure of precaution, taking a
more northerly route than that traversed before. On the western brow of
the mountains it presented the broad Mexican valley from an entirely
different point of view. It gave, however, the same exquisite picture
of shimmering lakes with white-walled cities and villas resting on
their bosoms, fire-tipped teocallis, dark groves, blooming fields,
and encircling walls of distant blue, that some of them had gazed on
before. At their feet lay the city of Tezcuco, shaded by cypresses,
while, far across the shining waters, rose the inscrutable walls of
Tenochtitlan, either the prison or the grave of their friends.
Their fears that it was the latter were aroused, as they descended into
the valley, by the coolness and even rudeness of their treatment by its
inhabitants. As they entered the city of Tezcuco, where they proposed
to rest for the night, their reception was even more chilling than any
yet experienced. No one came forth to give them welcome, and, as they
marched through the silent streets, only a furtive face, peering now
and then from a doorway, proved that any living soul still remained
in the city. These things raised uneasy forebodings, not only in the
mind of Cortes, but throughout all his army, as to the fate of Alvarado
and those with him, and they would have given much for news from the
distant city. Not only would it put an end to their suspense, but by it
their future movements could be determined. At a time and in a manner
that they least expected it, the news came.
The night had passed quietly, and Huetzin, who had charge of the
morning watch, stood on the shore of the lake, noting the rosy flush of
morning redden the snow-fields of towering Popocatepetl. A mist hung
over the waters that hid their farther shore and the city in which
he had dared and suffered so much. As he gazed in the direction of
Tenochtitlan, he became aware of moving forms out on the lake, dimly
disclosed through the lifting fog. They were advancing toward him, and
soon resolved themselves into two canoes, one behind the other. In a
moment Huetzin saw that in the first a slight youth was paddling with a
desperate energy, and evidently endeavoring to escape from the other.
In the second a man, clad in the white robe of a priest, was laboring
with an equal effort, and, by his superior strength, was surely
gaining on the other. After them more canoes shot out of the mist, all
coming from the same direction, and all advancing at their utmost speed.
A light craft lay drawn up on the shore, not far from where the young
Toltec stood, and, as a wild cry for aid came quavering across the
waters from the foremost canoe, Huetzin, first giving an alarm to
his own men, sprang into it, and put forth to the assistance of the
hard-pressed fugitive. As he did so, the man robed like a priest, who
led the pursuit, dropped his paddle, seized a bow lying in the bottom
of his boat, and stood up, with a copper-tipped arrow drawn back to its
head. Huetzin uttered a cry of horror as the cruel shaft sped on its
deadly errand, and sank deep in the back of the flying youth, striking
him squarely between the shoulders. As the stricken lad fell forward,
there came an exultant cry across the still waters: "Thus deals Topil
with the enemies of his gods!" Then his canoe was spun around, and
joined those of the other pursuers in an unharmed flight across the
lake, though a dozen bullets were sent whistling after them, by the few
musketeers who had been attracted to the shore.
Although Huetzin heard the priest's words plainly enough, he did not,
at the moment, realize their full meaning. Filled with sorrow for the
young stranger whom he had just seen so cruelly shot down, and who he
felt must be a friend, he drove his own craft rapidly to where the
other lay drifting. Its occupant, who seemed a mere boy, clad in the
picturesque costume of a king's page, lay, face downward in a pool of
his life's blood that was forming in the bottom of the canoe. The arrow
had been sped truly, and with a deadly force.
As Huetzin, stepping into the canoe, lifted the lad to an easier
position, a filmy scarf wound about his head, fell off, and a wealth of
auburn hair tumbled over his shoulders. Then a pair of glorious, brown
eyes were opened, and fixed full on the face of the Tlascalan warrior.
The latter grew rigid, as though from a numbing shock. The very blood
in his veins turned chill. A voice that he had thought never again to
hear, came to his ears. It was very faint, but the words were clear and
distinct:
"Huetzin, my brother! My dear, dear, brother! I knew you would
come, though they said you were dead. You are fighting for the true
faith, for the old faith, are you not, dear? I, too, have done what
I could. Now I am dying for it. Gladly. Help me to make the sign,
Huetzin. The holy sign of the Toltecs. There. Now it--is well.
Huetzin!--Father!--Mother!----" The brown eyes closed gently, like
those of an infant dropping into peaceful slumber. The queenly head
sunk back on the strong arm supporting it; there came a soft sigh,
and, as the rising sun burst in full glory from behind snow-crowned
Popocatepetl, the spirit of Tiata mingled with its flood of brightness.
Like one who dreams, Huetzin sat with the light burden in his arms,
gazing at the calmly beautiful face of his dead sister, but seeming to
see far beyond it. There was that in his expression that caused those
who came to his assistance to respect his silence, though they knew not
that the form, which he held, was other than what it appeared. Very
gently they led his canoe to land, and, when its prow grated on the
beach, he rose and stepped out, still bearing his burden. They offered
to relieve him of it, but he paid no heed. As he lifted it a letter
addressed to the Spanish commander fell to the ground. It was from
Alvarado, and it contained the news, so longed for, that the garrison
still held out. It concluded: "Were it not that I realize the great
importance of this word to you, and that your movements will be guided
by it, I should not strive to send it. Almost certain death awaits any
messenger who attempts to pass the lines that the priests, who are
heading this insurrection, have drawn about us. No ordinary despatch
bearer could cross them. I am sending this by a king's page, a brave
lad, who has volunteered for the service, and will get through the
lines if it be in the power of mortal to do so. I heartily recommend
him to your favor, and pray that no harm may befall him."
While this letter, borne hastily to Cortes, was being read by him,
Huetzin, taking no notice of proffered assistance, and still appearing
like one in a dream, bore his dead to his own quarters, and laid the
slender form on his own bed. He had barely deposited his sorrowful
burden, when Sandoval, who, hearing that something had gone amiss with
his friend, had hastened with ready sympathy to find him, entered the
room.
"What has happened thee, Don Juan, my brother?" he began. Then,
catching sight of the dead girl, lying so peacefully, he stopped as
though struck with an instant dumbness, clutched at his own throat, and
staggered back so that, but for the wall, he must have fallen.
Surprised from his own grief for the moment, Huetzin sprang to his
friend, crying: "What is it? What ails thee, my brother? Art thou
stricken with death?"
With a mighty sob, that sounded like the breaking of a heart, Sandoval
answered: "Thou hast said it, for I am indeed stricken with death.
There lies she who held my life, and if she has taken it not with her,
still it is gone from me, so that none other may ever hold it. I know
not even the name by which she was called, yet did I know her soul as
though it were mine own."
"She was Tiata, my sister," answered Huetzin, in a whisper.
"Then are we indeed brothers, and more than brothers," replied
Sandoval. With these words he left the room, nor was he seen again by
living soul that day.