The Infidel; or, the Fall of Mexico. Vol. I.

Of these, that one whom the Castilians at the cypress-tree hesitated, for a moment, whether to esteem an Indian or a Christian man, was of a figure more remarkable for sturdiness than elegance. The roll of cloth round his body extended from his waist, where it was secured by a leathern girdle, to his knees. The mantle about his shoulders was more capacious than his fellow's, but it left his brawny chest in part exposed, and thereby revealed a skin fairer than belonged to the natives of Anahuac. His hair, though very long, was of a reddish-brown colour, and waving rather than straight; and a rough beard of a ruddy hue, though so short that its growth seemed to have been permitted for not more than the space of a week, was another phenomenon not to be looked for in a barbarian. But the indications of civilized origin offered by these characteristics, were set at naught by the step and bearing of the stranger, which were to the full as wild and peculiar as those of his more ancient companion; like whom, he carried a buckler and macana, though without the bow and quiver. His eye rolled with a like wildness; but his features were European; and instead of being entirely barefoot, like the senior, his feet were defended by stout sandals of untanned skin.

The third, and by far the most remarkable of all, was he who had first caught the eye of Najara, and upon whom was now concentrated the gaze of the whole party. A figure of the most majestic height, and noble proportions, though, at the present moment, greatly wasted, was rather set off to advantage than concealed by a costume as spare and primitive as that of the red-bearded man. His skin was much tawnier than his companion's; indeed, it was of the darkest hue known among the southern provinces of Spain and Portugal, where the blood of Europe has mingled harmoniously with the life-tides of Africa. His lofty stature was more obvious, perhaps, since he adopted not the bearing or gait of the others, but moved along erect, with a graceful demeanour, and a step of natural ease and dignity. He had but one characteristic of a Mexican; and that was the long hair, straight, and of an intense blackness, that fell from his temples to his breast, with much of a wild and savage profusion, concealing, in part, a cheek of the finest contour, though somewhat hollowed by hardship, and, perhaps, suffering. The puffs of wind, blowing aside this sable curtain, disclosed an elevated forehead, crowning a visage in which every feature was of the mould of Castile, and after the happiest model of that order of beauty, each being sculptured with a touch that preserved delicacy, even while giving boldness. His age would have been a question wherewith to puzzle a physiognomist: there was much in the smoothness of his brow, and the unaltered freshness of a mouth, over which was sprouting a mustache, short and bushy, as if as lately submitted to the tonsure as the beard of his companion, that spoke of youth just verging into maturity; while, on the other hand, the complete developement of his frame, and the seriousness of his countenance, would have conveyed the impression of an age many years farther advanced. This seriousness of expression was, indeed, more than mere gravity; it indicated a melancholy, or even sadness, which, though of a gentle cast, was become a settled and permanent characteristic.

As he approached, his eyes were, like his companions', fixed with curiosity upon the long and dense body of Tlascalans, from whom they were only withdrawn, when the exclamation of Najara attracted them suddenly to the group at the cypress. The confusion of these personages was so manifest, and they handled their arms with an air so indicative of hostility, that the old warrior and the red-bearded man came to an instant halt, and looked, as if for instructions, to their taller and more noble-visaged companion. He instantly stepped before them, and waving his hand to Najara, who was hastily fitting a bolt to his crossbow, and to the historian, who presented his partisan with greater alacrity of decision than would have been anticipated from his sluggish appearance, cried aloud,

"Hold, friends! We are not enemies, but Christians and Castilians."

"Art thou Juan Lerma? and art thou truly alive? or do I look upon thy phantom?" cried the hunchback, with an agitated voice.

"Out, fool! we are good living men," exclaimed the red-bearded man, angrily; "and with flesh enough upon our bones, to cudgel thee into better manners, I trow. Is this the way you receive old friends, returning from bondage among infidels? What, Bernal Diaz, thou ass! dost thou not know Gaspar Olea, thine old townsman of Medina-del-Campo, thy brother-in-arms and sworn friend? nor yet the señor Don Juan Lerma, my captain and friend in trouble? nor Ocelotzin, the old Ottomi rascal, our guide here?"

"Ay, oho! old rascal, old friend; all friends, all rascals," cried the Indian, looking affectionately towards the Castilians, who still stood in doubt, and using the few Spanish words with which he was familiar; "good friends, good rascals, – Castellanos, Cristianos; – friends, rascals."

While the rest were hesitating, the cavalier Don Francisco de Guzman suddenly stepped out from among them, and, advancing towards the young man Lerma, with a smiling countenance and extended hand, said,

"Though I am not thought to be the most loving of thy friends, I will be the first to bid thee welcome, señor Lerma, in token that old feuds do not mar the satisfaction with which I behold a Christian man rescued so happily, and as it appears to me, so marvellously, from the grave."

The emotions and changes of countenance with which the young man heard these words, were various and strongly marked. At the first tones of Guzman, he started back, as if a serpent had suddenly crossed his path, and grew pale, while his eyes flashed a ferocious and deadly fire. At the next, the blood rushed over his visage, and throbbed with a visible violence in the vessels of his temples; while he half raised the macana, which he carried, in lieu of a better weapon, as if to cleave the speaker to the earth. The next instant, the angry suffusion departed, his brows relaxed their severity, the deep melancholy gathered again in his eyes, and he surveyed the cavalier with a patient and grave placidity, until the latter had finished his salutation. Then, bending his head, and folding his hands upon his breast, he replied, mildly, and without a shadow of anger,

"I have, as thou sayest, returned from the grave, in the sight of which I strove, as a Christian should, to make my peace with man as well as with heaven. I have done so; I am at peace with all; I am at peace with thee– But I cannot give thee my hand."

The cavalier Don Francisco received this rejection of his good-will with no sign of dissatisfaction, that was distinguishable by others, beyond a smile or sneer; but inclining his head towards Lerma, he muttered in his ear —

"The strife is unequal; but I accept thy defiance. Thou art but a broken-legged wolf, and wilt fight a fatted tiger – I am content."

So saying, or rather whispering, for his words were only caught by the ears of Juan, the cavalier turned upon his heel, and without condescending to exhibit his mortification in the vain air of pride and scorn, assumed by ordinary men on such occasions, he began to walk towards the city. He was presently followed by the señor Camarga; who, having fastened upon Juan, for a few moments, a look of intense curiosity, flung, when he had satisfied himself, his cloak over the lower part of his visage, and thus departed.

"You give me but a cold welcome, good friends," said Juan, looking after the retreating man with a sigh. "Will no one else in this company offer his hand to one who burns with joy at the sight of Christian faces?"

"When thou art better acquainted with the bounty of the compliment, doubtless, but no sooner," said the hunchback, who had surveyed the youth with an interest which was belied by his present scorn. "A good day to you, señor Juan Lerma, and God keep you well. There is a good path over the mountains, northward, by the way of Otumba. If you like not the company of heathens, there are fair maids enow in Cuba."

With these hints, which the young man listened to with a disturbed aspect, and which the hunchback accompanied with sour and contemptuous looks, he turned away, and began to hobble after his companions.

"Now God be our stay!" exclaimed Juan, with some emotion, "there is not a man who has a tear for our sorrows, or a smile for our joy. It were better we had perished, Gaspar!"

"I am not ashamed to give thee my hand," said Bernal Diaz, shaking off his amazement, and advancing, "though I know not how far thou art deserving of such countenance. But I must first claim to embrace my old friend and brother, Gaspar; whom, by my faith, I can scarce believe that I see living before me! How didst thou thus learn to turn thy toes in, Gaspar?"

"Away, thou dog-eared, ill-blooded block!" cried the red-bearded Gaspar, who had watched the turn of proceedings with indignation, and now poured forth his accumulated wrath upon the worthy historian. "Ashamed! —thou ashamed! —thy countenance! – deserving of thy countenance, thou ill-mannered, bog-brained churl and ass! Thou wilt give the young señor thy hand! If thou dost but lift it, I will smite it off with my battle-axe. Curmudgeon! I thy friend and brother? – I discard thee and forswear thee; I do, marry – "

"Peace, Gaspar," said Lerma, mildly; "quarrel not with thy friend on my account; thou hast no offence on thine own. It is plain, there is but cold cheer in store for me: make none for thyself."

"Oh, señor!" said Gaspar, sharply, for his anger was waxing hot and unrespective, "I am no servant, no grinning lackey, to be told, 'do me this,' and 'do me that,' by your excellent favour; no, by your leave, no; – I am your soldier, not your foot-man. I will quarrel when I like, and I will not be chidden. I am your soldier, señor, your soldier – "

"My friend, I think," said the young man; "though thou dost now afflict me more than those who seem my enemies."

"Afflict! – enemies! —I afflict!" cried Gaspar, fiercely; "I quarrel with your enemies! – ay, à outrance, as the Frenchmen, say. I have fought them in Italy. Fuego! enemies! – call this knave by the name, and if I do not smite him to the chine, townsman though he be – "

"Peace, Gaspar, if thou art my friend, as, I trust this good Bernal is, – "

"Go to," said Bernal Diaz, in high dudgeon, addressing himself to Gaspar, "thou art turned heathen, or thou wouldst not so abuse me. I care for you not; I have nothing to do with you, nor with any of your companions. By and by you will repent. God be with you, and make you wiser."

With these words, the historian followed the example of the others, and was straightway stalking, with impetuous strides, towards Tezcuco.

"Now art you not ashamed, Gaspar, to have given way to this boy's wrath? Wilt thou be womanish, too?"

"Ay," said Gaspar, shaking his head with the fury of a mastiff, rending some meaner animal, and thus dashing away certain tears of rage or mortification, that were starting in his eyes: "it doth make a woman of me, to think we have escaped from dangers such as were never dreamed of by these false traitors, – from infidel prisons and heathen maws, and come, at last, among Christian men, whom I could have hugged, every ill loon of them all; and not one to stretch forth his hand, and say God bless me! You were right, señor; it were better to have remained slaves with the King of the Humming-bird Valley, than to have left him for such hangdog welcome."

"Thou wouldst have had nothing to complain of, hadst thou bridled thy impatient temper. These men meant not to provoke thee."

"Bad friends, bad rascals!" said the Ottomi, who, during these several passages, had been staring from one Christian to another in unconcealed amazement: "bad friends! no good rascals!" he muttered in Spanish; then instantly changing to Mexican, which though not his native tongue, was more familiar to him, and was besides well understood by Juan, he continued,

"Itzquauhtzin, the Great Eagle," (for thus he chose to designate the youth,) "has settled upon the hill of kites. Where are his wings? Malintzin is angry; he sends his young men to frown. Here is another: he laughs with his eyes. – Ocelotzin is an old tiger, – Techeechee is a dog without voice; but the itzli6 is sharp in his hand. Shall he strike?"

The wild eyes of the barbarian (for the Ottomies, or mountain Indians, were the true savages of Anahuac,) were bent with the subtle and malignant keenness of the tiger whose name he bore, upon the Alguazil, Villafana, who, standing a little aside, and for a time unseen, had watched the salutations, and, finally, the departure of his companions, without himself saying a word. He now stepped forward, disregarding the evil looks of the Indian, as well as those of Gaspar, whose feelings of mortification were thirsting for some legitimate object whereon to expend their fury: and stretching forth his hand in the most friendly manner, said to Juan,

"How now, señor? drive this old cut-throat dog away. – I claim to be an old acquaintance, and, at this moment, not a cold one. The foxes being gone, the goose may stretch her neck. – Here am I, one man at least, heartily glad to find you coming alive from the trap, and not afraid to say so. – Does your favour forget me? Methinks you have the gift of rejecting the hands that are offered, howsoever you may covet those that are withheld."

"You do me wrong – I remember you well," said Juan, taking the hand, from which he had first recoiled with a visible reluctance: "I thank you for your kindness. Yes, I remember you," he repeated, with extreme sadness: "Would I did not."

"Come, señor Gaspar," continued the Alguazil, turning to Olea. "You and I were never such friends as true men should be; but, notwithstanding, I give you my true welcome and most Christian congratulations."

"I ever thought you a knave," said Gaspar, clutching Villafana's hand, with a sort of sulky thankfulness, "being but an eternal grumbler and reviler at the general. But I see you are more of a Christian and man than any other villain of them all. Fire and blood! why do they treat us thus?"

"Oh, you shall soon know. But how now, señor Lerma, what is your will? Will you walk with me to the city? We have royal commanders now: 'tis a matter for the stocks, and, sometimes, the strappado, to loiter beyond the lines, after the trumpet's call. Will you walk to Tezcuco? or do you choose rather to betake you to the hills, as Najara advised you? Cortes is another man now, señor, and somewhat dangerous, as you may have inferred from the bearing of his favourites. If you would be wise, go not near him. It is not too late."

"Señor Villafana," said Juan, "what I have seen and heard has filled me with trouble; for, like Gaspar, I looked for such reception as might be expected by men returning from among heathen oppressors, to Christian associates and old friends. I know not well what has happened during the fourteen months of my absence from the army, save what was darkly spoken to me by a certain king, in whose hands I have remained, with my companions, many months in captivity. He gave me to believe that my countrymen had all fallen in a war with Montezuma, whom I left in peace, and in strong, though undeserved, bonds. I perceive that I have been cajoled: I rejoice that you are living men; but I know not why I should fear to join myself again among you. I claim to be conducted to your general."

"It shall be as you choose; but, señor, you are no longer in favour. As for Gaspar and the Indian, it will be well enough with them: a good soldier like Gaspar is worth something more than hanging; and such a knave as this old savage can be put to good use. Señor, shall I speak a word with you? Bid the two advance: I have somewhat to say to you in private."

The young man regarded the Alguazil with an anxious countenance; and then, desiring his companions to lead the way towards Tezcuco, followed, at a little distance, with Villafana.

CHAPTER IV

For a few moments, the two walked together in silence, and at a slow pace, until the others were beyond earshot; when Villafana, suddenly stopping and casting his eyes upon Juan, said, with but little ceremony,

"Señor Juan Lerma, I am your friend; and by St. Peter, who was once a false one, you need one that is both plain and true. Does your memory tax you with the commission of any act deserving death?"

To this abrupt demand, the young man answered, with an agitated voice, but without a moment's hesitation,

"It does. Thou knowest full well, and perhaps all others know, now, that I have shed the blood of my friend, the son of my oldest and truest benefactor."

"Pho!" cried Villafana, hastily; "I meant not that. Your friend, indeed? Come, you grieve too much for this. At the worst, it was the mishap of a duel, – a fair duel; and, I am a witness, it was, in a manner, forced upon you. You should not think of this: there are but few who know of it, and none blame you. What I meant to ask, was this – are you conscious of any crime worthy of death at the hands of Cortes?"

"I am not," said Lerma, firmly, though very sadly; "no, by mine honour, no! I am conscious, and it is a thing long since known to all, that I have entirely lost the favour with which he was used to befriend me. Nay, this was apparent to me, before I was sent from his presence. I hoped that in the long period of my exile, something might occur to show him his anger was unjust; and, with this hope, I looked this day, to end my wanderings joyfully. I am deceived; everything goes to prove, that neither my long sufferings, (and they were both long and many,) nor my supposed death have made my appeal of innocence. But I will satisfy him of this: I will demand to know my crime. If it be indeed, as I think, the death of Hilario – "

"Pho! be wise. He counts not this against thee, – he has been himself a duellist. Say nothing of Hilario, neither; no, by the mass! nor be thou so mad as to question him of his anger. Thou art very sure, then – I must be free with thee, even to the dulness of repetition: – thou art very sure, thou hast done nothing to deserve death at his hands?"

"I call heaven to witness," said Juan, "that, save this unhappy mischance in the matter of Hilario, which is itself deserving of death, I am ignorant of aught that should bring me under his displeasure."

"Enough," said Villafana: "But I would thou shouldst never more speak of Hilario. He is dead, heaven rest his soul! He was a knave too; peace, then, to his bones! – I am satisfied, thou hast done naught to Cortes, deserving death at his hand. I have but one more question to ask you: – Has Cortes done nothing to deserve death at thine?"

"Good heavens! what do you mean?" cried Juan, starting as much at the sinister tones as the surprising question of the Alguazil.

"Do you ask me? what, you?" said Villafana, "Come, I am your friend."

As the Alguazil pronounced these words, with an insinuating frankness and earnestness, he threw into his countenance an expression that seemed meant to invite the confidence of the young man, and encourage him to expose the mystery of his breast, by laying bare the secrets of his own. It was a transfiguration: the mean person was unchanged, – the insignificant features did not alter their proportions, – but the smile that had contorted them, was turned into a sneer of fiendish malignancy, and the peculiar sweetness that characterized his eyes, was lost in a sudden glare of passion, so demoniacal, that it seemed as if the flames of hell were blazing in their sockets. It was the look of but an instant: it made Juan recoil with terror: but before he could express a word of this feeling, of curiosity, or of suspicion, it had vanished. The Alguazil touched his arm, and said quickly, though without any peculiar emphasis,

"Judge for yourself: Heaven forbid I should breed ill-will where there is none, or plant thorns in my friend's flower-garden. Judge for yourself, señor: if, being innocent of all crime, Cortes has yet doomed you, basely and perfidiously, to death, – "

"To death!" exclaimed Juan, with a voice that reached the ears of his late companions, and brought them to a sudden stand; "Heaven be my help! and do I come back but to die?"

"You went forth but to die!" said Villafana; "and, you may judge, with what justice. Come, señor, – the thing is said in a moment. The expedition was designed for your death-warrant."

"Villain!" exclaimed Juan; "dare you impute this horrible treachery to Cortes?"

"Not, – no, not, if it appear at all doubtful to your own excellent penetration," replied the Alguazil, with a laugh. "I do but repeat you the belief of some half the army – had it been but before the Noche Triste, I might have said, all: but, in truth, we are now, more than half of us, new men, who know but little of the matter."

"Does any one charge this upon the general?" said Juan, with a look of horror.

"Ay, – if you call them not 'villains,'" replied the soldier.

"I will know the truth," said Juan. "I will find who has belied me."

"You will find that of any one but Don Hernan. Señor Don Juan, I pity you. You have returned at an evil moment; your presence will chill old friends, and sharpen ancient enemies."

"If he seek my life, it is his: but, by heaven, the man who has wronged me, – "

"Get thy horse and arms first. Wilt thou be wise? Thou shalt have friends to back thee. Listen: A month since, there came for thee, in a ship from the islands, two very noble horses, and a suit of goodly armour, sent, as was said, by some benevolent friend, whom thou mayst be quicker at remembering than myself."

"Sent by heaven, I think," said Lerma, "for I know not what earthly friend would so supply my necessities."

"Oh, then," said Villafana, "the rumour is, they were sent thee by the lady Catalina, our general's wife."

"May heaven bless her!" exclaimed Juan; "for she is mine only friend: and this bounty I have not deserved."

"In this matter," said Villafana, dryly, "she will prove rather thine enemy; that is, if thou art resolute to demand the restoration of her gifts."

"The restoration!"

"In good truth, they were distributed among thine heirs; the horse Bobadil, thought by many to be the best in the army, falling to the share of thy good friend Guzman."

"To Guzman?" cried Juan, angrily. "Could they find no better friend to give him to? I will have him back again; yea, by St. Juan, he shall ride no steed of mine!"

"Right!" exclaimed Villafana; "for if thou hast an enemy, he is the man. Thou didst well, to refuse his hand. He offered it not in love, but in treachery. Thou wilt ask Cortes for thy maligner? It needs not: remember Don Francisco."

"I will do so," said Juan, with a sigh. "I thought, in my captivity, when I despaired of ever more looking upon a Christian face, that I had forgiven my enemies. I deceived myself, – I hate Don Francisco. I will proclaim him before the whole army, if he refuse to do me reparation."

"I tell thee, thou shalt have friends," said the Alguazil, with an insinuating voice, "to back thee in this matter, as well as in all others wherein thou hast been wronged. But thou must be ruled. Speak not to Cortes in complaint: he will do thee no justice. Send no defiance of battle to Guzman, for this has been proclaimed a sin against God and the king, to be punished with loss of arms, degradation, and whipping with rods, – sometimes with the loss of the right hand. You stare! Oh, señor Juan Lerma, you will find we have a master now, – a master by the king's patent, – who makes his own laws, beats and dishonours, and gives us to the gallows, when the fit moves him, without any necessity of cozening us to death in expeditions to the gold mines, or the South Seas."

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