The sun was declining fast, when the travellers made their way to the
camp of Cortes. The River of Canoes ran through a fertile valley; but
this was of no great extent, and towards its upper termination, the
scene of the events of the day, it was arid and broken with rocks.
Immediately beyond the river, in a place made strong by rocks and
bushes, impenetrable to cavalry, and affording the safest covert to his
arquebusiers and crossbowmen, the wary rival of Narvaez had pitched his
quarters. Temporary huts of boughs and fresh-woven mats were seen
withering among the green shadows, and from these ascended the smoke of
fires, at which the soldiers were dressing their evening meal. But in
advance of this primitive encampment, dripping with rain like their
commanders, yet standing to their arms with a patient and grave
constancy, as if still in readiness for an enemy, Don Amador beheld the
forces of Cortes. They had a weather-beaten and veteran appearance; most
of them were apparelled in the escaupil, cut in separate pieces
resembling cumbrous plate-armour, and occasionally so hacked by the
weapons of the natives, that the white lining gaped out somewhat
ludicrously from its darker covering. Those arrayed in a better
investment, had their morions and breast-plates commonly covered with
rust, as if kept too much occupied with perils by night and day to allow
leisure for burnishing them. Nevertheless, they looked like disciplined
and experienced soldiers. Amador observed that few of them had
fire-arms; the cross-bow, the sword, and the great lance of Chinantla,
with its long double head of bright copper, were almost their only arms;
but they handled them as if well acquainted with their value. Behind
this advanced guard, under the shelter of the rocks and bushes, he
remarked several officers, a few of them mounted, as well as divers
groups of Indian menials; and, as his ear caught a low exclamation from
the general, he turned his eyes, and beheld the object of his long and
painful search.
Under the shadow of a tall tree, remote from the rest, and attended only
by a single armed follower,--on a coal-black horse, heavily harnessed,
which stood under his weight with a tranquillity as marble-like as his
own, sat the knight of Calavar. He was in full armour, but the iron
plates were rusted on his body, and in many places shattered. The plumes
were broken and disordered on his helmet; the spear lay at the feet of
his steed; his buckler was in the hands of his attendant; and instead of
the red tabard which was worn in a season of war by the brothers of his
order, the black mantle of peace, with its great white cross, hung or
drooped heavily from his shoulders. His beaver was up, and his
countenance, wan and even ghastly, was fully revealed. The ravages of an
untimely age were imprinted upon his aspect; yet, notwithstanding the
hollow cheeks and grizzled beard, the brow furrowed with a thousand
wrinkles, the lips colourless and contracted into an expression of deep
pain, he presented the appearance of a ruin majestic in its decay. His
hands were clasped, and lay on the pommel of the saddle, and, together
with his whole attitude and air, indicated a state of the most profound
and sorrowful abstraction. In truth, he seemed the prey of thoughts,
many and deep; and it scarcely needed the simple and touching legend,
_Miserere mei, Deus!_ which usurped the place of a scutcheon or other
device on his shield, to know that if fame sat on his saddle, sorrow
rested under his bosom.
No sooner had the neophyte beheld this gloomy apparition, than, with a
loud cry, he threw himself from his horse; and, rushing forward, he
seized the relaxed hand of the figure, and pressed it to his lips with
reverence and affection. But the knight, not yet roused from his revery,
or struggling vainly with imperfect recollections, looked only into his
face with a wistful stare.
"Patron and cousin! my friend and my father!" cried the novice,
passionately, "do you not know me? I am Amador!"
"Amador!" muttered the knight, with a troubled look and a tone of
perplexity. "Very well,--to-morrow--to-morrow!"
"He will not understand you now," said the general. "He is often in
these trances."
"Mi padre! mi amigo!" cried the youth, vehemently, without regarding the
interruption of the commander, "will you not know me? I am Amador!
Look,--here is Baltasar, old Baltasar! your servant and favourite, that
has been at your side ever from the days of the Alpujarras to the fall
of Rhodes."
"The Alpujarras!" echoed the knight, with a deep sigh. "Wo is
me!--miserere mei, Deus!"
"He will recollect us _now_," said Baltasar, who had also descended, and
who testified his fidelity by a tear that glittered in his ancient eye.
"I never knew that word fail to call him out of his mood, though I have
often known it fling him into one.--Master! I am Baltasar; and here is
your honour's kinsman, Don Amador!"
"Ay! is it so indeed? I thought I was dreaming," said the knight: "Art
thou here indeed, my son Amador? Give me thy brows, for I am rejoiced to
find thee in the world again." And stooping and flinging his arms round
his neck, he kissed the forehead of the neophyte, with a parental
affection.
"This, my masters," said Cortes, in an under voice, "is not a spectacle
for us. Let us pass on, and arrange proceedings for the attack." And,
with his suite, he instantly departed.
"And how dost thou prosper at Almeria?" continued Calavar, mildly, and
without any incoherence of manner, though it was evident his thoughts
were far away. "Hast thou found me any brave hearts, who will march with
me against the infidels of Barbary?"
"Dear knight and patron," said Amador, "we are not now in Spain, but in
the heathen lands of Mexico."
"Ay! Dios mio, I had forgotten that!" said Don Gabriel, with a
bewildered air.
"Whither I have come," said the novice, "to beg your pardon for my
negligence and desertion, and never more to part from your side."
"I remember me now," said the knight, slowly and sadly. "Wo is me! a
sore infirmity is on my brain; and sometimes I am not master of my own
acts. But I remember thee, my friend: I remember that, in an evil hour
of forgetfulness, I forsook thee, to come to this unknown land. But I
beg thy pardon, my son;--the dark mood took me from thee, and in truth I
knew it not."
The tears came into the eyes of Amador, as he listened to the
self-accusation of his kinsman, and remembered how much the blame should
rest on his own momentary defection.
"It is _I_ that must bear the reproach, and _I_ that must look for
forgiveness," he cried. "But I will never need to be rebuked or forgiven
again; for I swear, dear kinsman, I will follow thee truly now, until my
death."
"And thou hast left the fair hills of Spain, thy true friends, and thy
lady-love," said Calavar, with a mournful voice, "to follow me over the
wide seas and the hostile deserts? I welcome thee with gratitude, for
thy love is great, and thy task will be bitter. I welcome thee well,
Amador, but surely it is with sorrow; for I heard thou hadst won the
love of a noble and virtuous lady; and heaven forbid I should not lament
to sever thee, in thy youth, from the enjoyment of thy affection."
A flush of shame and pain mantled the countenance of the devoted novice,
as he replied,--
"I confess I have much need of thy forbearance, dear knight; but they
did me wrong, who said I could forget thee for the love of woman. I
acknowledge no duty that is not to thee, and no passion but that of
serving thee with constancy and truth. But I am sent to thee not more by
the impulses of my own love, than by the commands of his most eminent
highness, the Grand Master, who leaves it to thyself, as a well-beloved
and much-trusted follower of the holy order, whether thou wilt remain
fighting the infidels of this new world, or return at thy pleasure to
the island Malta, which his majesty the king and emperor, Don Carlos of
Spain and Austria, hath promised to bestow upon the good knights, the
defenders of Christendom."
"Among the infidels of the new world, then," said Calavar, casting his
eyes meekly to heaven; "for I know that what poor service I may yet
render the faith, must be rendered soon; and if God uphold me, I will
render it truly and well. But thou, Amador my son, my faithful and my
beloved! I adjure thee that, when my task is finished, thou return to
the land of thy birth, and give thyself to a life of virtue, and, if
possible, of peace. Watch well the creatures that are in thy breast, for
among them are devils, which, if thou do not chain them, will rend thee.
Check thy wrath, fetter thy fury," continued the knight, vehemently;
"and when thou drawest thy sword, call on God, that it may not fall
unjustly; for when blood is shed that should not have been shed, it
lives on the soul for ever--Ay de mi! Miserere mei, Deus!"
Don Amador feared, as he listened with a superstitious reverence to the
adjurations of the knight, that he was about to relapse into his gloomy
stupor; but he was deceived. The lips of Calavar muttered on for a
moment, as if continuing to repeat the solemn and impassioned appeal of
the psalmist: and then, making the sign of the cross on his breast, he
turned again to the novice with a kind of dismal cheer, and said:--
"I welcome thee again to this land, Amador. And Baltasar--What now,
Baltasar? is it possible I should forget thee? I am glad to look upon
thy loyal countenance; thine old friend Marco will rejoice to fight
again at thy side.--If I do not err, this is thy henchman, Lazaro:--I
greet thee well, Lazaro: be very true to thy master, and forget not thy
religion. And this youth that rests behind thee--if he be thy follower,
my son, he shall share thy welcome."
"I recommend the youth Fabueno to thy kindness," said Amador, well
pleased to perceive his kinsman so collected. "He is the secretary of
the admiral Cavallero, who claims to be related to your honour, and
sends you the assurance of his love. I have been constrained, without
yet knowing the pleasure of his excellency, to receive the youth into
my protection; and this I did the more cheerfully, that he was my
fellow-sufferer in the camp of Narvaez, and did, for my sake, very
courageously expose himself to the painful shot of a cross-bow, which
now maims his right arm."
"If he have suffered for thee, my friend, I will not forget him," said
the knight; "and I am rejoiced for his sake that now, in this season of
peace, we may cure his wound before we call upon him to endure another."
The countenance of Don Amador fell; he thought the knight's dream of
peace denoted that he was sinking again into abstraction.
"Call this not the season of peace," he cried. "The commander Cortes is
resolute to fall upon his enemy, Narvaez, the enemy of honour; and it
needs we should burnish up our arms, to give him help."
Calavar looked seriously at the youth, and touching his black mantle
with an expressive gesture, said:--
"It is the time of peace, my son,--the time of peace for those that
follow the good St. John. I remember me now, that Cortes came down from
the mountains, to fight the man Narvaez and his host: but these are not
infidels, but Christians."
"Cousin," said the cavalier, warmly, "though this man have the name, yet
do I very much doubt if he possess any of the religion of a Christian;
and I have to assure you, I have endured such causeless indignities at
his hands, such as direct insult, violent seizure, and shameful
imprisonment, as can only be washed away with his blood."
"Wo's me! wo's me!" cried the knight: "the blood that is poured in
anger, will not flow like water; it will not dry like water; nor will
water, though blessed by the holy priest in the church, wash its crust
from the hand! Thou seest," he cried, extending his gauntleted member,
and gazing piteously into the face of his heated kinsman--"thou seest,
that though, for thrice five years, I have washed it in brook and font,
in the river that flows from the land of the Cross, and in the brine of
the sea, it oozes still from between the scales, like a well that must
trickle for ever, and will not be hidden.--Thou art very wroth with me,
heaven!--Miserere mei, Domine!"
Don Amador was greatly shocked and grieved, that his imprudent obstinacy
had so nearly again recalled the distraction of his kinsman. But it
needed not many expressions of gentleness and submission, to divert the
current of his thoughts. The appearance of the young and devoted
follower had come to the spirit of the penitent knight, like a cool
breeze over the temples of a fevered man; and having once been roused
from his gloom, he could not be long insensible to the excitement of his
presence. He cast an eye of kindness and affection on the youth, and
obeying, as one who had been long accustomed to such control, the humble
suggestion of Marco, he turned to the tents of the encampment.
* * * * *