_Here begins the second scroll with the picture
of a footprint, which is a sign that someone
goes upon a journey._
The king held revels in the town
Next evening, and there came
Chieftains and minstrels of renown
To taste the roasted game
And drink strong mescal to the bride,
But there no priests were bid;
Scowling, the high priest hied him down
From Huitzil's pyramid
To the long palace in the town,
Where many litters fared,
And wrangling bearers set guests down,
And sputtering torches flared
With fluxing light along the walls,
And music's measured din
Sounded above the idlers' calls,
While rich guests hurried in.
The sentries talked before the doors,
But in a time of gloom
The priest sneaked in--down corridors--
Past many an empty room--
For all were at the king's repast;
Slaves near each darkened door
Slept by their earthen lamps. At last
He found upon the floor
The mother of the child he'd slain,
Pallid from many tears
Shed in her agony from pain
That scarcely dulls with years.
She knew him standing there.
Nothing was said.
Her face she covered with her hair
And lay as dead.
"Hail, mother," said the priest,
"Where is your little one,
The king's dead brother's son?
Does he sit with his uncle at the feast,
Whence they will bring him, sleepy, to your side?
Is he still smiling there
Where marriage torches flare,
And warriors drain the pulque to the bride?"
Then with a voice grown weak with many tears,
She spoke, as in a dream, and said,
"Yours was the hand that slew him on the stone--
You know that he is dead."
The far feasters shouted and he heard her moan.
"Yes," said the priest, "Mine was the hand,
But by the king's command, not mine he died.
He died in place of Huitzil's bride
And needs no funeral,
For now he serves the gods
In the high mountain glen
Where Huitzil sits at everlasting feast
And morning sunshine bathes the wall;
His spirit is at peace with them."
"It is his body that I want,"
The mother said, "His little feet--
Dear little feet, that I shall hear no more!
Each footfall was a stroke upon my heart;
His voice that called me 'mother' at the door;
What could the gods want with my child?
His shoes wait still and empty by the bed,
And his soft kisses I shall feel no more,
Oh, he is gone--is dead!"
And then the priest poured in her ear
How the high gods were wronged;
How he had slain the lad from fear,
And how the bride belonged
To Huitzil--and the ruthless king
Slept in a cursèd bed.
"He lives," she gasped--fire swept her brain--
"And my sweet son is dead!"
"Avenge yourself!" replied the priest,
"Arise, put gladness on,
Win near the king at his bad feast;
An hour before the dawn,
A priest will bring the holy dish,
The heart of your young son;
Persuade the king to grant this wish--
And your revenge is won:
Ask him to let you bless the sacrifice;
But you must choose
To taste the heart with him, lest otherwise,
Suspecting, he refuse;
But when you spread your hands to bless the dish,
Bless with your lips and curse within,
And pray to Huitzil for revenge,
And drop this in.
It is a subtle pearl of death;
No more by her soft side
In dalliance, with deep-taken breath,
The king shall seek his bride,
But sleep will lead him to the couch of death,
And death to strange abodes;
Then you will be revenged,
And I shall claim his loved one for the gods."
She rose, and washed away her tears.
And put bright colors on,
Long pendant ear-rings in her ears--
Meanwhile the priest had gone--
She clutched the poison in her hand,
Resolved to play her part,
And by the great door took her stand
While rage surged in her heart.
The room shone with a noonday glare--
Torches on silver urns--
Steam from hot dishes rose in air,
Wild songs were sung by turns;
Huge turkeys in their feathers dressed
Smoked down the crowded board;
From earthen jars behind each guest
Brown slaves the pulque poured.
She stood long by the entrance door
And listened to the feast,
Bronze spear-butts rang upon the floor
In honor to the priest
Who brought the king the holy meat,
Hot from the temple fires--
Huge dish to hide so small a heart!
"Silence!" proclaimed the criers.
The priest strode down the banquet hall,
The woman following after,
Chill silence fell upon them all.
The slave girls ceased their laughter.
He set the dish down, and they heard
The mumbled words of prayer.
The woman stood without a word;
No one could brave her stare.
Only a blind slave mouthed a bone.
A dog the silence broke--
Hunting in dreams, he gave a moan.
The king arose and spoke.
"Sister," he said, "what brings you here,
Where weeping has no place?
Have you no tears for your dead child?
I see none on your face."
"None;" said the woman, "I have wept,
But now I weep no more,
My tearful vigil has been kept.
Children have died before!
I come to show all Anahuac
No woman is above
Bearing her children for the gods.
Duty is more than love!
Therefore, give me the holy dish
To bless it to your use,
For that is all I ask--a wish
Custom can scarce refuse."
But the king tried the woman's soul,
Delayed, and shook his head,
And held aloft the steaming bowl,
Pondered awhile, and said,
"Sup with me from the holy dish.
If you but taste the heart,
Then you may bless it as you wish,
And afterward depart."
"Yea," said the woman, "I will taste
The heart of my own son
If I may bless it; but make haste,
The night is nearly done."
Smiling, he took away the cover.
She gave a cry and start,
Then spread her hands and held them over
The little smoking heart.
Trembling, she blessed with hands outspread,
But writhed and cursed within
And prayed for vengeance on his head--
And dropped the sleep-pearl in.
Then stifling horror in her soul,
She tasted of the heart.
And then the king supped from the bowl,
And let her straight depart.
She sought her lonely, shadowed room,
And there, with fluttering breath,
She blew the light out, and in gloom
Slept to a welcome death.
Then a slave struck upon a gong,
And each guest
Departed with much talk,
And some with song;
And the bride left with her maidens
To their rest.
But the king sat sleeping there alone.
The torches died away,
Glimmering to their sockets in the stone,
While far dogs bayed
The last belated revelers going home.
Only the blind slave sat behind the door,
Mumbling an endless tune,
Peering with eyeballs dim;
Outside there sank the moon,
But light and darkness were alike to him.
[Illustration: Tailpiece]
_Here ends the second scroll with the sign of
a skull set with turquoise stones,
which is the symbol of
Coatlicue, the Goddess
of Death._
[Illustration: Headpiece]