bleeding heart indifferent to its auguration. And she had always danced moved by no warmer impulse than duty; so that the prompting of the spirit in the presence of a strange auditory free to express itself, like that she now faced, came to her for the first time. The dance chosen was one of the wild, quick, pulsating figures wont to be given in thanksgiving for favorable tokens from the deity. The steps were irregular and difficult; a great variety of posturing was required; the head, arms, and feet had each their parts, all to be rendered in harmony. At the commencement she was frightened by the ecstasy that possessed her; suddenly the crowd vanished, and she saw only the beggar, and him wanting bread. Then her form became divinely gifted; she bounded as if winged; advanced and retreated, a moment swaying like a reed, the next whirling like a leaf in a circling wind. The expression of her countenance throughout was so full of soul, so intense, rapt, and beautiful, that the lords were spell-bound. When the figure was ended, there was an outburst of voices, some bidding, others applauding; though most of the spectators were silent from pity and admiration.
Of the competitors the loudest was Iztlil’. In his excitement, he would have sacrificed his province to become the owner of the girl. Maxtla opposed him.
“Five thousand cocoa! Hear, Chalcan!” shouted the Tezcucan.
“A thousand better!” answered Maxtla, laughing at the cacique’s rage.
“By all the gods, I will have her! Put me down a thousand quills of gold!”
“A thousand quills above him! Not bread, but riches for the beggar!” replied Maxtla, half in derision.
“Two thousand,—only two thousand quills! More, noble lords! She is worth a palace!” sung Xoli, trembling with excitement; for in such large bids he saw an extraordinary loan. Just then, under the parted curtain of the principal doorway, he beheld one dear to every lover of Tenochtitlan; he stopped. All eyes turned in that direction, and a general exclamation followed,—“The ’tzin, the ’tzin!”
Guatamozin was in full military garb, and armed. As he lingered by the door to comprehend the scene, what with his height, brassy helm, and embossed shield, he looked like a Greek returned from Troy.
“Yeteve, the priestess!” he said. “Impossible!”
He strode to the front.
“How?” he said, placing his hand on her head. “Has Yeteve flown the temple to become a slave?”
Up to this time, it would seem that, in the fixedness of her purpose, she had been blind to all but the beggar, and deaf to everything but the music. Now she knelt at the feet of the noble Aztec, sobbing broken-heartedly. The spectators were moved with sympathy,—all save one.
“Who stays the sale? By all the gods, Chalcan, you shall proceed!”
Scarcely had the words been spoken, or the duller faculties understood them, before Guatamozin confronted the speaker, his javelin drawn, and his shield in readiness. Naturally his countenance was womanly gentle; but the transition of feeling was mighty, and those looking upon him then shrank with dread; it was as if their calm blue lake had in an instant darkened with storm. Face to face he stood with the Tezcucan, the latter unprepared for combat, but in nowise daunted. In their angry attitude a seer might have read the destiny of Anahuac.
One thrust of the javelin would have sent the traitor to Mictlan; the Empire, as well as the wrongs of the lover, called for it; but before the veterans, recovering from their panic, could rush between the foemen, all the ’tzin’s calmness returned.
“Xoli,” he said, “a priestess belongs to the temple, and cannot be sold; such is the law. The sale would have sent your heart, and that of her purchaser, to the Blessed Lady. Remove the girl. I will see that she is taken to a place of safety. Here is gold; give the beggar what he wants, and keep him until to-morrow.—And, my lords and brethren,” he added, turning to the company, “I did not think to behave so unseemly. It is only against the enemies of our country that we should turn our arms. Blood is sacred, and accursed is his hand who sheds that of a countryman in petty quarrel. I pray you, forget all that has passed.” And with a low obeisance to them, he walked away, taking with him the possibility of further rencounter.
He had just arrived from his palace at Iztapalapan.
Chapter VI.
The Chinampa
Between Tula, the child of Tecalco, and Nenetzin, daughter and child of Acatlan, there existed a sisterly affection. The same sports had engaged them, and they had been, and yet were, inseparable. Their mothers, themselves friends, encouraged the intimacy; and so their past lives had vanished, like two summer clouds borne away by a soft south wind.
The evening after Iztlil’s overture of marriage was deepening over lake Tezcuco; the breeze became murmurous and like a breath, and all the heavens filled with starlight. Cloudless must be the morrow to such a night!
So thought the princess Tula. Won by the beauty of the evening, she had flown from the city to her chinampa, which was lying anchored in a quarter of the lake east of the causeway to Tepejaca, beyond the noise of the town, and where no sound less agreeable than the plash of light waves could disturb her dreams.
A retreat more delightful would be a task for fancy. The artisan who knitted the timbers of the chinampa had doubtless been a lover of the luxuriant, and built as only a lover can build. The waves of the lake had not been overlooked in his plan; he had measured their height, and the depth and width of their troughs, when the weather was calm and the water gentle. So he knew both what rocking they would make, and what rocking would be pleasantest to a delicate soul; for, as there were such souls, there were also such artisans in Tenochtitlan.
Viewed from a distance, the chinampa looked like an island of flowers. Except where the canopy of a white pavilion rose from the midst of the green beauty, it was covered to the water’s edge with blooming shrubbery, which, this evening, was luminous with the light of lamps. The radiance, glinting through the foliage, tinted the atmosphere above it with mellow rays, and seemed the visible presence of enchantment.
The humid night breeze blew softly under the raised walls of the pavilion, within which, in a hammock that swung to and fro regularly as the chinampa obeyed the waves, lay Tula and Nenetzin.
They were both beautiful, but different in their beauty. Tula’s face was round and of a transparent olive complexion, without being fair; her eyes were hazel, large, clear, and full of melancholy earnestness; masses of black hair, evenly parted, fell over her temples, and were gathered behind in a simple knot; with a tall, full form, her presence and manner were grave and very queenly. Whereas, Nenetzin’s eyes, though dark, were bright with the light of laughter; her voice was low and sweet, and her manner that of a hoyden. One was the noble woman, the other a jocund child.
“It is late, Tula; our father may want us. Let us return.”
“Be patient a little longer. The ’tzin will come for us; he promised to, and you know he never forgets.”
“Patience, sister! Ah! you may say it, you who know; but how am I to practise it,—I, who have only a hope?”
“What do you mean, Nenetzin?”
The girl leaned back, and struck a suspended hoop, in which was perched a large
