According to the apologue, every man carries on his back a satchel, in
which are deposited his infirmities and vices, and which, though thus
concealed from his own eyes, lies very invitingly open to the inspection
of his friends. Not satisfied with this exposure of foibles, there are
some good-natured moralists, who would dive deeper into the secrets of
their neighbours, and who lament, with the old heathen metaphysician,
that heaven had not clapped windows into their breasts, so that they
might detect even the iniquity of thoughts. This regret may be avoided
by all who are willing to satisfy curiosity at their own expense; for
heaven has fitted most bosoms with private loopholes, through which each
man may survey at his leisure the workings of his own spirit. A peep
through the secret casement will disclose something startling, if not
humbling, to many, who, in the vanity of good works, are disposed to
uplift themselves above their fellows;--such, perhaps, as rational
principles, and even kindly feelings, taking their hue from 'that
smooth-faced gentleman,'--that biassing spirit which is more
comprehensively expressed in Shakespeare's phrase of _Commodity_ than in
the more familiar one of Interest; for it is true of us all, that
virtues are sometimes nothing but passions in disguise, and that reason
has a marvellous facility in acquiring the tones of worldly-wisdom. If
the mere grovelling villain,--the robber, assassin, or slayer of man's
peace,--can find some such spectacle near to his heart as the surgeon's
knife exposes in the breast of a cankered corse, what may _he_ detect,
whose sublimer villany has led, or is leading him, to distinction, upon
a highway paved with the miseries of mankind? Methinks, the breast of
the ambitious man is a labyrinth of some such caverns as perforate the
bowels of a volcano, in whose depths are lost all the petty details of
crime, committed, or meditated,--in which there is no light but that
which bubbles up from the lava of the vast passion,--and in which there
is even no grandeur, that has not arisen from convulsions the most
disorganizing and unnatural. Such a heart is, at least to the limited
ken of others, a chaos,--but a chaos from which he who imbosoms it, and
who alone can understand it, calls up,--less like a god than a
demon,--the evil elements, which create the lurid sphere his greatness.
In the bosom of the Conquistador there was a corner, into which the
blaze of ambition had not yet penetrated, and where the common passions
of our nature were left to rage and struggle as in the heart of a meaner
mortal. As he looked therein, he gave himself up to thoughts which
devoured him, while his countenance betrayed, for a time at least,
nothing beyond such lassitude and faintness as may have characterized
the Spartan boy, while bleeding under the fangs of the beast he
concealed in his bosom.
As he sat brooding in this apparently calm, yet deeply suffering
lethargy, there glided into the apartment, from one of the curtained
doors on the right hand, a figure, which, seen for the first time and in
the dusky twilight already darkening around, might, to superstitious
eyes, have seemed an apparition,--it was so strange, so fair, so
majestic, and so mournful. It presented a stature taller than belongs to
the beauty of woman, yet not inconsistent with the conception of a
divinity; and to this a singular dignity was given by flowing and
voluminous robes of a grayish texture, which, both in hue and fashion,
bore an air of monastic simplicity, without precisely resembling those
of any one order. A sort of hood, or veil, drawn a little aside and
resting upon the brow, gave to view a female countenance of wonderful
loveliness, and not without a share of that commanding dignity, which
distinguished her figure. Her hair, shorn, or perhaps bound behind by a
fillet, and thus almost altogether concealed by the hood, gave yet to
the gaze two long locks, broad and black, which, falling over either
cheek, were lost among the folds of the veil which her right hand held
upon her bosom. A complexion dark, yet not tawny,--a chin and nostrils
carved like the most exquisite statuary,--lips of dusky crimson,--a brow
of marble, and an eye of midnight, made up a countenance both beautiful
and characteristic, yet contradictory in the expression of its several
parts, and sometimes even in the expression of the same features. Thus,
the first impression made upon a spectator by the whole visage, was such
as could only be effected by extreme gentleness of disposition; while
the second, he scarce knew why, spoke of energy and decision, none the
less striking for being concealed under a mask so captivating. Thus,
also, the eyes, very large and set widely apart, conveyed, on ordinary
occasions, the idea of a spirit passive, melancholy, and inanimate;
though the slightest depression of the brow, the smallest motion of the
lid, transformed them at once into the brightest torches of passion. If
one could conceive the spirit of a Philomela--a compound of sweet
tenderness and still sweeter melancholy--dashed with the fire of a
Penthesilea, he might conjure up to his mind's eye a correct
representation of the mysterious being, (alluded to by Villafana, under
the name of La Monjonaza, or the Nun, the word being a sort of cant
augmentative of _Monja_, a nun,) whom an extraordinary destiny had
thrown among the warlike invaders of Mexico.
As she passed from the thick curtain and advanced towards the platform,
on which sat the moody general, her visage presented none of its
ordinary mildness; on the contrary, her brows were knit together, her
lip retracted, and the look with which she regarded him whom all others
were learning to fear, was bold, stern, and even fiercely hostile.
The rustling of the curtain, the light sound of her footstep, the bright
glance of her eye, when she paused before him, all alike failed to make
an impression on the general's senses. She perceived that he was in a
waking dream, absorbingly profound and painful, and she stood in
silence, from disdainful pride, or perhaps with a woman's curiosity,
endeavouring to trace the workings of his spirit from the revelations of
his countenance, which, by this time, had changed from a stony
inexpressiveness to agitation and distortion. At this moment, the head
of the Conqueror was bent forwards, and his eyes directed upon the
floor; but she saw enough in the writhing features, and the forehead
almost impurpled with blood, to know that the passions then convulsing
his bosom, were dark and deadly.
At this sight, the frown gradually passed away from her own visage, and
she stood regarding him for the space of several minutes, with a calm
and melancholy intentness. Then, perceiving that his lips, though moving
as if in speech, gave out no articulate sound, she exclaimed, with a
voice that thrilled to his soul, though subdued to the lowest accents,
"Arise, assassin! It is _not_ just, it is _not_ expedient; and he shall
NOT perish!"
It seemed as if she had read his heart. He started up, surprised and
confounded; and his first act was to cross himself, as if to exorcise a
fiend, conjured up by the mere spell of evil thoughts. He even gave
voice to two or three interjections of alarm, before perceiving that the
rebuke came only from lips of earth.
"Hah! hah! Santa Maria! Santos y Angeles! hah!--Ho! ho! Infeliz!
Magdalena! fair conqueror of hearts! bright converter of souls that
shalt be! is it thou, _Monja mia Santisima_? most devout saint of the
veil?" he cried, recovering his self-possession, and banishing every
trace of passion with astonishing address. "By thy bright eyes of
heaven,--and thanks be thine for the good deed,--thou hast waked me from
a dream of night-mare, a most horrible vision. These naps o' the
afternoon are but provokers of Incubus,--ay, and Succuba into the
bargain. I thank thee, bright Infeliz: it is better to be waked by thy
voice, than by sweet music!"
"And dost thou think," said the lady, with a voice whose deep but not
unfeminine tones suited so well with the mournfulness of her
emphasis,--"dost thou think, I see not, this moment, into thy bosom?
Visions and sleep! Speak of visions to thy dull conquerors: they who
dream of immortal renown, can best appreciate a vision of bloodshed.
Speak of sleep to thy duller victims: the stupid wretches who slumber
with the chain at their necks, may well believe that the enslaver has
also his seasons of repose. But talk not of these to _me_, who look upon
thee neither with the eyes of follower nor of foe. Thou canst not sleep,
thou dost not dream: thy head is too full of fame, thy foot too deep in
blood, thy heart too black with evil thoughts--No, nevermore canst thou
sleep, nevermore, nevermore!"
The last words were uttered with a cadence so extremely melancholy, and
with a manner so much like that of one who apostrophizes self, that a
stranger overhearing them, and marking the look and gesture--the
upturned eye and the folding of arms on the breast--would have naturally
supposed they referred rather to herself than to another. This was,
indeed, a suspicion, entertained, in part, by Cortes, who, somewhat
confounded by the calm decision with which she rejected a deceitful
attempt to explain expressions of countenance so ominous as those he had
displayed, now recovered himself, and said, with an air of grave
sympathy, in which earnestness could not conceal a vein of sarcasm and
bagatelle, that were parts of his nature,
"Fair Infeliz, the Unhappy, (since by this lugubrious epithet you choose
to be called,) it is now some two months since you dropped among us from
the clouds, the fairest, shrewdest and strangest, as well as the most
broken-hearted, and self-accusing of all the angels that have fallen
from paradise. For mine own part, however fervently I may thank heaven
for sending me such a minister, I have not yet got over my amazement at
your presence; which I indeed regard with much the same wonder wherewith
I should behold the sun of heaven take up his quarters at my tent-door."
"In this particular," said the lady, with the utmost tranquillity, "you
should have been satisfied, (had it accorded with your nature to believe
any solution of a problem, that was not suggested by your own
imagination,) that the deceptions of others, and no will of my own,
brought me from Santiago to Mexico, in a ship which should have carried
me to Jamaica.--Your allies do not fit out vessels openly for this land,
under the eye of Velasquez.--But why ask you me this? Hast thou no
better device to lure me from my purpose? I came, not to speak of
myself, but of others. Thou couldst have played the lapwing more subtly,
hadst thou dwelt upon the whispers, the nods, the smiles of contempt and
the words of scorn, that heralded a compelled coming, find which requite
an inevitable stay. But learn, if thou hast not yet learned it, that
these things are felt more than they are feared, and that she who has
not deserved it, may sometimes have the courage to endure even a
degrading misconstruction. Why hast thou not insinuated _this_?"
continued the singular being, with a voice that betrayed more feeling
than her pride confessed: "this would have drowned every other thought
in a true woman; for to woman, good name and fame are more than
life-blood,--yes, more than life!--I save thee, however, the trouble; I
am reminded of my condition,--a woman alone in thy camp, alone in thy
hands;--and yet I return to my purpose, which concerns not myself, but
another. Wilt thou have me speak further of myself? If it last till the
midnight, be sure I will yet speak of that which I have in view."
"Of thyself, then, beauteous Infeliz," said Cortes, admiringly; "for I
vow to heaven, thou art the marvel of womankind, whom I desire to
understand even more than to adore. Sit thou upon my barbarian throne,
and I will fling me at thy feet, in token that I acknowledge thy
supremacy in wit, wisdom, subtle observation, determination, and all
other virtues that can grace woman,--ay, or man either; for I swear by
my conscience, I think thou art valiant also, fearing nothing that walks
under heaven or above the abyss. To the throne then, as queen of my
mystery."
"I will answer thee where I stand," said Infeliz, calmly disengaging the
hand which the Conquistador had taken to lead her to the platform; "and
think not, this gallant folly will make me a whit quicker of
apprehension, or reply. Make thy demands, and gain thereby what time
thou wilt to answer mine; for this is thy purpose."
"Well then," said the Captain-General, with a look of not less respect
than curiosity, "make me acquainted with this. Wherefore, as thy coming
hither was so much against thy will, hast thou not once demanded to be
taken back to the islands?"
"Because it is not yet my will to be discharged from your presence,"
replied the lady, calmly.
"Be thou of this mind for ever," said the general, with an air of
sincerity. "Now let me know, I pray you, why it is that I am somewhat
more forward in confiding to thy scrutiny my secret thoughts than to the
best and wisest of my bold cavaliers?"
"Because thou knowest I neither love thee nor hate thee; because I lose
not good-will by asking honours and spoils, nor by boasting of services
and ability; but chiefly am I troubled with your confidence, because I
am the only one who lists not to have it."
"By my faith, thou art very right, especially in the last reason of
all," said Cortes, with a laugh; "for secrets are like gnats and
musket-bullets, they ever crowd thickest after those who strive most to
avoid them.--Tell me now, fair and most provoking Infeliz, why, when I
have flung thee open the whole book of my confidence, thou givest me not
a single chapter of thine?"
"Because it extends not beyond that single chapter," replied La
Monjonaza, patiently, "hath neither beginning nor end, and is, beside,
in a language which thou canst not understand."
"Pho, you put me off with nothing," said Don Hernan, again taking the
hand of his remarkable guest. "I have but one more question to ask you.
Why is it, (and I pray you to forgive me the question,) that, with the
consciousness that your situation in this mad land and knavish army,
exposes you not only to degrading suspicion, but even to absolute
personal danger, you betray no apprehension of the wild reprobates among
whom you are placed? that you show no dread even of me?"
"Because," said the maiden, removing her right hand, which she had, up
to this moment, preserved upon her breast, and drawing aside the thick
folds of veil and mantle,--"because, for the wretch who fears not the
woman's arms of modesty and helplessness, I bear with me a weapon which
will secure his respect."
And as she spoke, the eye of Don Hernan fell upon a naked and glittering
poniard thrust through her girdle, and worn as if it had long formed a
part of the habit.
There was something inexpressibly impressive in the calm and simple
dignity with which, in the very gesture that pointed out a protection so
insufficient, she acknowledged a weakness, in all other respects,
unfriended. Cortes, in the multitude of his base and graspingly selfish
attributes, was not without some traits of a more generous character;
and especially admiring a courage so self-relying, so unaffectedly real,
and perhaps so much akin to his own, he had enough of the old leaven of
chivalric feeling, to understand and appreciate the claims of the sex to
his compassion and protection. That he had other reasons for treating La
Monjonaza with respect, cannot be denied.
"Give me thy hand, Magdalena," he said, with an action and voice rather
indicating the familiarity of a patron than that of a presumptuous
suitor: "Thou art right; thou art a creature after mine own heart; and I
swear to thee, I will do thee no wrong, nor suffer it to be done thee by
another. Heed not what may be said of thee; my dogs would bay an angel,
should one condescend to pay them a visit. Thy cloister-like garments
are not amiss;--there be more that venerate than malign thee, for this
reason; and, thank heaven, the padre Olmedo finds no sin in thy wearing
them. Wilt thou be seated? There is peace between us; let there be
confidence. What hast thou to ask of me, Magdalena? Thy revenge is at
hand."
The maiden returned the scrutinizing look of the general with one which,
if not so piercing, was at least quite as steady:
"Your excellency has thrice called me, who call myself Infeliz, by a
name not authorized by any revealments of mine," she said: "you speak
also of revenge,--of _my_ revenge!--Yes," she muttered, with a quivering
lip; "this is a thing to be thought of, not spoken."
She paused a moment, and Cortes, casting a quick eye round the
apartment, said, in a voice confidentially low and insinuating,
"I would the story had come from yourself. But it matters not,--I have
it; and disguise is no longer availing. You lose nothing by the change,
for I see, thy spirit hath the elements of mine own. Ah! water in the
desert! the first kiss of a lover! breath to the suffocating!--such is
revenge to the soul of the mighty!--I know thee, thy history and thy
purpose.--I have dandled the boy Hilario upon my knee!"
The strong and meaning stress laid upon the last abrupt words, only
served to drive the colour from the maiden's cheeks and lips. In all
other respects, she remained calm and collected, and replied gravely,--
"The tale comes from the Alguazil Villafana--"
"Hah!" said Cortes, in surprise; "how knowest thou that?"
"Because there is no other,--no other, save _one_, who will not speak
it,--in all this land, who knows so much of me; and because, were there
twenty, the man whom heaven has cursed with the industrious treachery of
a spider, and the rage to entangle all things in his flimsy web, would
be the first to betray me."
"Thou sayst the truth of Villafana," said Cortes, with a laugh of
peculiar exultation. "In spirit and intention, he is the insect you have
named; but yet he spins his web, less like the spider, with the chance
of destroying, than the silken-caterpillar, that toils for his master,
who will smother him in his work, as soon as it is perfected. Ay, thy
penetration is clear, thy conception just; the knave is, in all things,
a traitor,--a double, a triple,--a centupled traitor!"
"And you both spare him, and give him the means of multiplying his
dangerous villanies?"
"I do, by my conscience!" said Cortes, vivaciously. "There is a charm in
it, and no little policy. Dost thou think this little fly can deceive?
can deceive _me_?--Wert thou a man, thou wouldst know, that even above
the triumph of vengeance, is the joy of him who watches the nets that
his foe is spreading, and, as he watches, fastens them softly down upon
the ensnarer."
"And is the insect worthy to be toiled by the lion?"
"Ay,--when the lion is a _man_!--This is my diversion; it is also my
profit. I would not for a thousand crowns, any harm should come to so
serviceable a tool: a better decoy never circled the disaffected about
him. He is the touchstone that reveals me the metal of the
doubtful,--the diamond that cuts me the adamant of malignancy. I look
through him, as through the philosopher's glass, and behold the million
things of corruption that swarm in the hearts of the curs beneath
him.--By heaven! it joys me, that I have one to whom I can speak these
secret blisses. Thou art my vizier, my very familiar. Know then, that
this very night, the dog meditates a treachery, with which I will be
acquainted, and yet seem unacquainted. By my conscience, it delights me
to tell thee, with what exquisite industry the poor knave works me a
good, while foolishly believing he is doing me an ill. Dost thou not
remember that I have told thee, how much it concerns me to procure some
trusty envoy, to go between me and the young infidel, Guatimozin of
Tenochtitlan?"
"I am familiar with your wishes."
"Learn then, that, this night, Villafana himself procures me the
emissary I have myself sought after in vain,--a Mexican noble of high
rank.--I could kiss the dog for his knavery!"
"And wherefore does he this?"
"Faith, in the amiable wish to reconcile some of the jarring elements of
his conspiracy; to wit, the Tlascalans and Mexicans; the latter of whom,
this night, will, with his good help, show the black-cheeked Xicotencal
the advantages to be gained by uniting with his mighty and royal enemy
of Mexico, to secure the destruction of my insignificant self. Ha! ha!
Is not the thought absurdly delightful! Ah, Villafana! Villafana! I have
no such merry conceited good-fellow as thou!"
La Monjonaza beheld the exultation, and listened to the mirthful laugh
of the Conqueror with much interest, and not a little surprise. It did
indeed seem extraordinary, that he should be so heartily diverted by the
audacity of a villany that aimed at his downfall, and perhaps his life.
But this very merriment indicated how many majestic fathoms he felt
himself elevated above the reach of any arts of human malevolence or
opposition. It was as if the eagle, flapping his wings among
thunder-clouds, shrieked with contempt at schoolboys shooting up
birdbolts from the village-green.--It gave a clew to a characteristic
which Infeliz was not slow to unravel. A deep sigh from her lips
recalled the general from his diversion.
"Thou sighest, Magdalena?" he cried.
"It was for thee," she answered: "I sighed, indeed, to think how much
and how truly _thou_, thus elevated by a touch of divinity above the
children of men, dost yet resemble this miserable, grovelling, befooled
Villafana!"
"What, I? Resemble him? resemble Villafana?"
"Deny it, if thou canst," said the maiden, with rebuking severity; "and
if thou canst not, then humble thyself, and confess the base similitude.
Thou differest from him but in this,--that, whereas, in one quality,
thou art uplifted miles above his head, thou art, in another, sunk even
leagues _below_ him.--Thou frownest? Hast thou discovered that anger
adds aught to the state of dignity? Thou dost, this moment, even with
the crawling venom of Villafana, with a rage still more abased, seek a
life thou hast not courage openly to destroy."
"Santiago!" cried Cortes, in a heat; "by St. Peter, you are over-bitter.
But pho, I will not be angry with thee. Dost thou think me this coward
thing?"
"Hast thou not doomed the young man, Juan Lerma, a second time, to
death?" cried La Monjonaza, with an eye that trembled not a moment in
the gaze of the Captain-General; "and was it not with the embrace of a
Judas? Oh, senor!" she continued, firmly, "say not that Villafana is
either base or craven. _He_ strikes at the strong man, who sits armed
and with his eyes open: but thou, oh _thou_,--thou art content to aim at
the breast of the friendless and naked sleeper!--Judge between thyself
and Villafana."
It is impossible to express the mingled effects of shame and rage, that
disfigured the visage and convulsed the frame of the Captain-General, at
this powerful and altogether unexpected rebuke. He smote his brow, he
took two or three hasty steps over the floor; when, at last, a thought
striking him, he rushed back to the chider, snatched up her hand, and
said, with an attempt at laughter, painfully contrasted with his working
and even agonized visage,
"Dost thou quarrel with me for fighting thy battles? Oh, by St. James,
it is better to draw sword _on_ a friend than _for_ him: ingratitude
always comes of it. Had I thought this of old, I had been a happier man,
and thou never hadst mourned the death of Hilario;--no, by'r lady,
Hilario had been a living man, and thou happy with him in the island!"
As he hurried over these words, the diversion they gave to his thoughts,
enabled him rapidly to recover his self-command, in which, as in affairs
of less personal consequence, he always exhibited wonderful power. This
accomplished, he continued, with an earnest voice,
"Concealment is now useless: the time waxes, when I must think of other
things: let us shrive one another even as two friars, and deceive one
another no further than they. Methinks, what I do is for thy especial
satisfaction.--An ill loon I am, to do so much for one who so bitterly
censures me!--Who thou art, and what thou art, I know not: thou wert an
angel, couldst thou give over chiding. The young Hilario del Milagro was
the son of mine old friend Antonio:--a very noble boy,--I remember him
well.--By heaven, thy hand is turned to ice! Art thou ill?"
"Do I look so?" said the maiden, with a faint laugh. Her face had of a
sudden become very pale, yet she spoke firmly, though not without a
visible effort. "I listen to thy confession."
"To mine! By my troth, I am confessing _thy_ sins and sorrows, and not
mine. Well, Magdalena," he continued, "thy emotion is not amiss: it is
not every maiden can think calmly of the death of her lover, knowing
that his slayer is nigh.--I knew Hilario, when a boy,--ay, good faith,
and Juan Lerma, too, his playmate and foster-brother, or his young page
and varlet, I know not which. It was on Antonio's recommendation, that I
afterwards took this foundling knave to my bosom, and made him--no, not
what he _is_! for this is a thing of his own making. I sent him to
Espanola to recruit: he loitered,--he returned to the house of
Milagro--Shall I say more? Hilario, his brother, the son of his best
friend and patron, was the betrothed husband of Magdalena; and him did
the wolf-cub slay. Wo betide me! for it was I that taught him the use of
his weapon.--Is not this enough? Accident hath brought thee to Mexico;
thou seest the killer of thy lover; and, like a true daughter of Spain,
thy heart is full of vengeance.--Is not this true? Disguise thy wrath in
wild sarcasm no longer. Were he the king's son, he should----Pho! recall
thy words: Is it not 'just?' is it not 'expedient?'"
To these sinister demands, Magdalena replied with astonishing composure:
"All this is well. Shrive now thyself--Hast _thou_ any cause,
personally, to desire his death?"
"Millions!" replied the general, grinding his teeth; "millions,
millions! to which the death of Hilario, wringing at thy breast, is but
as a gnat-bite to the sting of adders.--Millions, millions!"
"Give him then to death," said Magdalena, with a voice so grave and
passionless, that it instantly surprised the Conquistador out of his
fury; "give him to death,--but let it be in _thy_ name, not _mine_."
"Art thou wholly inexplicable?" he cried. "I read thee by the alphabet
of human passions, and I make thee not out,--no, not so much as a word.
Thy flesh warms and chills, thine eye swims and flashes, thy brow bends,
thy lip curls, thy breast heaves, thy frame trembles; and yet art thou
more than mortal, or less. When shall I understand thee?"
"When thou canst look to heaven, and say, 'I have done no wrong'--No,
no! not to heaven; for what child of earth can look thitherward, and
unveil the actions of life?--When thou canst lay thy hand upon thy
bosom, and appealing, not to divine justice, but to that of human
reason, say, 'What I do is just:'--in other words, _never_. You are
surprised: you bade me repeat my words: I do:--'It is _not_ just, it is
_not_ expedient, and Juan Lerma shall _not_ die!'"
"Now by my conscience!" said Cortes, "this is the true dog-star madness!
Wert thou not behind the curtain, and didst thou not shriek at sight of
him? Mystery that thou art, unveil thyself--Wherefore tarriest thou in
this land, suspected, scorned, degraded, if not to have vengeance on
him? Wherefore, I say, wherefore?"
"To _save_ him," replied the lady, boldly,--"to save him from the fury
that has brought thee to the level of the Alguazil. Else had I long
since returned to the islands. Revoke therefore thy commission, and, in
any way thou wilt, so that it carry with it neither secret malice nor
open insult, contrive to discharge him from thy service. His life is
charmed--it is in my keeping."
"Oho!" said the Captain-General, surveying La Monjonaza with an exulting
sneer; "sits the wind in that quarter? And thou art but a woman after
all! Now was I but a fool, I trow, not to bethink me how the wife of
Uriah forgot the death of her husband, when she saw a path open to the
arms of his murderer. Is it so indeed? Thou hast fallen from admiration
to pity."
"She who withstands evil thoughts and maligning words, will not weep
even at the contempt of commiseration," said Magdalena, with a sigh.
"Villafana has then deceived me,--or rather, poor fool, has deceived
himself, as is more natural," said Cortes, with a malicious grin. "Never
believe me, but thou shalt rule me in this matter, as in others. Juan
Lerma shall thank thee for his life, even for the sake of the Maid of
Mexico,--thy brown rival, Zelahualla."
As he spoke thus, he watched closely the effect of his words on
Magdalena, and beheld a sudden fire light up in her eyes, succeeded by
such paleness as had always covered her visage, when he referred to the
death of Hilario. Nevertheless, she did not avert her glance, nor
exhibit any other manifestation of feeling, except that she replied not
a single word.
"It is the truth that I tell thee," he muttered in a low voice, taking
up, as if in compassion, her hand, which was yielded passively, and was
again cold and dewy; "she is very lovely,--very,--and a king's daughter.
He fought for her love with Guzman. So, perhaps, he fought Hilario for
thine. By my conscience! he makes love over blood-thirstily! When I
spoke to him of Zelahualla,--nay, I mentioned not her name; I spoke only
of his friends in the palace of Mexico--yet the colour flushed over his
cheeks. Nevertheless, thou shalt rule me; thou shalt have time for
consideration: the expedition to Tochtepec can be delayed. Dost thou
think he would have consented to be mine envoy to Tenochtitlan, but for
the hope of seeing his princess? I could tell thee another thing--(there
are more rivals than one)--but it matters not,--it matters not! Thou
wilt not be content with--pity!--Arouse thee, and speak.--Art thou
marble?"
At this moment, and while it seemed indeed that the unhappy Monjonaza,
notwithstanding that her countenance was still inexpressively placid,
had been turned to stone, the curtain of the great door, or principal
entrance, was drawn aside, and the cavalier Don Francisco de Guzman
strode hastily into the apartment. The sound of his footsteps, more than
the warning gesture of Cortes, recalled her to her senses. She raised
her hand to her brow, and the long hood falling over her countenance,
she turned to depart through the door by which she had entered. The
evening was already closing fast, and the shadowy obscurity of the
chamber perhaps concealed her from the eyes of the intruder.
Nevertheless, Cortes perceived, as she glided away, that her step was
altered and tottering, and that her hands fumbled for a moment at the
door curtain, as if she knew not how to remove it. It yielded, however,
at last, and she vanished from his eyes.
"Poor fool," he muttered, with a feeling divided between scorn, anger,
and pity, "thou hast discovered to me the broken postern of thy spirit:
the walls are strong, but the citadel is in ruins. This is somewhat
marvellous,--I will know more of it. It is a new and another thing to be
remembered.--Come, amigo: it is over dark here for thy business. We will
walk in the open air."
So saying, he took Guzman's arm, and departed from the chamber.