engaged in a doubtful struggle with the Tlascalan; the ’tzin was the last hope of his party. Upon him devolved the fight with the Othmies. In the interest thus excited Iztlil’s battle was forgotten.
Twice had the younger Othmi been victor, and still he was scathless. Instead of the maquahuitl, he was now armed with the javelin, which, while effective as a dart, was excellent to repel assault.
From the crowded seats of the theatre not a sound was heard. At no time had the excitement risen to such a pitch. Breathless and motionless, the spectators awaited the advance of the ’tzin. He was, as I have said, a general favorite, beloved by priest and citizen, and with the wild soldiery an object of rude idolatry. And if, under the royal canopy there were eyes that looked not lovingly upon him, there were lips there murmuring soft words of prayer for his success.
When within a few steps of the waiting Othmies, he halted. They glared at him an instant in silence; then the old chief said tauntingly, and loud enough to be heard above the noise of the conflict at his side,—
“A woman may wield a bow, and from a distance slay a warrior; but the maquahuitl is heavy in the hand of the coward, looking in the face of his foeman.”
The Aztec made no answer; he was familiar with the wile. Looking at the speaker as if against him he intended his first attack, with right hand back he swung the heavy weapon above his shoulder till it sung in quickening circles; when its force was fully collected, he suddenly hurled it from him. The old Othmi crouched low behind his shield: but his was not the form in the ’tzin’s eyes; for right in the centre of the young victor’s guard the flying danger struck. Nor arm nor shield might bar its way. The boy was lifted sheer above the body of the Otompan, and driven backward as if shot from a catapult.
Guatamozin advanced no further. A thrust of his javelin would have disposed of the old Othmi, now unarmed and helpless. The acclamation of the audience, in which was blent the shrill voices of women, failed to arouse his passion.
The sturdy chief arose from his crouching; he looked for the boy to whom he had so lately spoken of home; he saw him lying outstretched, his face in the sand, and his shield, so often bound with wreaths and garlands, twain-broken beneath him; and his will, that in the fight had been tougher than the gold of his bracelets, gave way; forgetful of all else, he ran, and, with a great cry, threw himself upon the body.
The Chalcan was as exultant as if the achievement had been his own. Even the prouder souls under the red canopy yielded their tardy praise; only the king was silent.
As none now remained of the challengers but the Tlascalan occupied with Iztlil’,—none whom he might in honor engage,—Guatamozin moved away from the Othmies; and as he went, once he allowed his glance to wander to the royal platform, but with thought of love, not wrong.
The attention of the people was again directed to the combat of the Tezcucan. The death of his comrades nowise daunted the Tlascalan; he rather struck the harder for revenge; his shield was racked, the feathers in his crest torn away, while the blades were red with his blood. Still it fared but ill with Iztlil’ fighting for himself. His wound in the breast bled freely, and his equipments were in no better plight than his antagonist’s. The struggle was that of the hewing and hacking which, whether giving or taking, soon exhausts the strongest frame. At last, faint with loss of blood, he went down. The Tlascalan attempted to strike a final blow, but darkness rushed upon him; he staggered, the blades sunk into the sand, and he rolled beside his enemy.
With that the combat was done. The challengers might not behold their “land of bread” again; nevermore for them was hammock by the stream or echo of tambour amongst the hills.
And all the multitude arose and gave way to their rejoicing; they embraced each other, and shouted and sang; the pabas waved their ensigns, and the soldiers saluted with voice and pealing shells; and up to the sun ascended the name of Quetzal’ with form and circumstance to soften the mood of the most demanding god; but all the time the audience saw only the fortunate hero, standing so calmly before them, the dead at his feet, and the golden light about him.
And the king was happy as the rest, and talked gayly, caring little for the living or the dead. The combat was over, and Quetzal’ not come. Mualox was a madman, not a prophet; the Aztecs had won, and the god was propitiated: so the questioner of the Morning flattered himself!
“If the Othmi cannot fight, he can serve for sacrifice. Let him be removed. And the dead—But hold!” he cried, and his cheeks blanched with mortal pallor. “Who comes yonder? Look to the arena,—nay, to the people! By my father’s ashes, the paba shall perish! White hairs and prophet’s gifts shall not save him.”
While the king was speaking, Mualox, the keeper of the temple, rushed within the wall of shields. His dress was disordered, and he was bareheaded and unsandalled. Over his shoulders and down his breast flowed his hair and beard, tangled and unkempt, wavy as a billow and white as the foam. Excitement flashed from every feature; and far as his vision ranged,—in every quarter, on every platform,—in the blood of others he kindled his own unwonted passion.
Chapter XII.
Mualox and His World
Mualox, after the departure of the king and ’tzin, ascended the tower of the old Cû, and remained there all night, stooped beside the sacred fire, sorrowing and dreaming, hearkening to the voices of the city, or watching the mild-eyed stars. So the morning found him. He, too, beheld the coming of the sun, and trembled when the Smoking Hill sent up its cloud. Then he heaped fresh fagots on the dying fire, and went down to the court-yard. It was the hour when in all the other temples worshippers came to pray.
He took a lighted lamp from a table in his cell, and followed a passage on deeper into the building. The way, like that to the golden chamber, was intricate and bewildering. Before a door at the foot of a flight of steps he stopped. A number of earthen jars and ovens stood near; while from the room to which the door gave entrance there came a strong, savory perfume, very grateful to the sense of a hungry man. Here was the kitchen of the ancient house. The paba went in.
This was on a level with the water of the canal at the south base; and when the good man came out, and descended another stairway, he was in a hall, which, though below the canal, was dusty and perfectly dry. Down the hall further he came to a doorway in the floor, or rather an aperture, which had at one time been covered and hidden by a ponderous flag-stone yet lying close by. A rope ladder was coiled up on the stone. Flinging the ladder through the door, he heard it rattle on the floor beneath; then he stooped, and called,—
“Tecetl, Tecetl!”
No one replied. He repeated the call.
“Poor child! She is asleep,” he said, in a low voice. “I will go down without her.”
Leaving the lamp above, he committed himself to the unsteady rope, like one accustomed to it. Below all was darkness; but, pushing boldly on, he suddenly flung aside a curtain which had small silver bells in the fringing; and, ushered by the tiny ringing, he stepped into a chamber lighted and full of beauty,—a grotto carven with infinite labor from the bed-rock of the lake.
And here, in the day mourned by the paba, when the temple was honored, and its god had worshippers, and the name of Quetzal’ was second to no other, not even Huitzil’s, must have been held the secret conclaves of the priesthood,—so great were the dimensions of the chamber, and so far was it below the roll of waters. But now it might be a
