Montezuma's Daughter Part 31

'Woman,' the prince answered in a thick voice, 'you have betrayed your country and you have brought me to shame and torment. Yes, had it not been for you, these things had never been. I am sorry, indeed I am sorry--that I did not kill you. For the rest, may your name be shameful for ever in the ears of honest men and your soul be everlastingly accursed, and may you yourself, even before you die, know the bitterness of dishonour and betrayal! Your words were fulfilled, and so shall mine be also.'

She heard and turned away trembling, and for a while was silent. Then her glance fell upon me and she began to weep.

'Alas! poor man,' she said; 'alas! my friend.'

'Weep not over me, Marina,' I answered, speaking in Aztec, 'for our tears are of no worth, but help me if you may.'

'Ah that I could!' she sobbed, and turning fled from the place, followed presently by Cortes.

Now the Spaniards came in again and removed Guatemoc and the cacique of Tacuba, carrying them in their arms, for they could not walk, and indeed the cacique was in a swoon.

'Farewell, Teule,' said Guatemoc as he pa.s.sed me; 'you are indeed a true son of Quetzal and a gallant man. May the G.o.ds reward you in times to come for all that you have suffered for me and mine, since I cannot.'

Then he was borne out and these were the last words that I ever heard him utter.

Now I was left alone with the Tlascalans and de Garcia, who mocked me as before.

'A little tired, eh, friend Wingfield?' he said sneering. 'Well, the play is rough till you get used to it. A night's sleep will refresh you, and to-morrow you will be a new man. Perhaps you believe that I have done my worst. Fool, this is but a beginning. Also you think doubtless that your obstinacy angers me? Wrong again, my friend, I only pray that you may keep your lips sealed to the last. Gladly would I give my share of this hidden gold in payment for two more such days with you. I have still much to pay you back, and look you, I have found a way to do it.

There are more ways of hurting a man than through his own flesh--for instance, when I wished to be revenged upon your father, I struck him through her whom he loved. Now I have touched you and you wonder what I mean. Well, I will tell you. Perhaps you may know an Aztec lady of royal blood who is named Otomie?'

'Otomie, what of her?' I cried, speaking for the first time, since fear for her stirred me more than all the torments I had borne.

'A triumph indeed; I have found a way to make you speak at last; why, then, to-morrow you will be full of words. Only this, Cousin Wingfield; Otomie, Montezuma's daughter, a very lovely woman by the way, is your wife according to the Indian customs. Well, I know all the story and--she is in my power. I will prove it to you, for she shall be brought here presently and then you can console each other. For listen, dog, to-morrow she will sit where you are sitting, and before your eyes she shall be dealt with as you have been dealt with. Ah! then you will talk fast enough, but perhaps it will be too late.'

And now for the first time I broke down and prayed for mercy even of my foe.

'Spare her,' I groaned; 'do what you will with me, but spare her! Surely you must have a heart, even you, for you are human. You can never do this thing, and Cortes would not suffer it.'

'As for Cortes,' he answered, 'he will know nothing of it--till it is done. I have my warrant that charges me to use every means in my power to force the truth from you. Torture has failed; this alone is left. And for the rest, you must read me ill. You know what it is to hate, for you hate me; multiply your hate by ten and you may find the sum of mine for you. I hate you for your blood, I hate you because you have your mother's eyes, but much more do I hate you for yourself, for did you not beat me, a gentleman of Spain, with a stick as though I were a hound?

Shall I then shrink from such a deed when I can satisfy my hate by it?

Also perhaps, though you are a brave man, at this moment you know what it is to fear, and are tasting of its agony. Now I will be open with you; Thomas Wingfield, I fear you. When first I saw you I feared you as I had reason to do, and that is why I tried to kill you, and as time has gone by I have feared you more and more, so much indeed, that at times I cannot rest because of a nameless terror that dogs me and which has to do with you. Because of you I fled from Spain, because of you I have played the coward in more frays than one. The luck has always been mine in this duel between us, and yet I tell you that even as you are, I fear you still. If I dared I would kill you at once, only then you would haunt me as your mother haunts me, and also I must answer for it to Cortes. Fear, Cousin Wingfield, is the father of cruelty, and mine makes me cruel to you. Living or dead, I know that you will triumph over me at the last, but it is my turn now, and while you breathe, or while one breathes who is dear to you, I will spend my life to bring you and them to shame and misery and death, as I brought your mother, my cousin, though she forced me to it to save myself. Why not? There is no forgiveness for me, I cannot undo the past. You came to take vengeance on me, and soon or late by you, or through you, it will be glutted, but till then I triumph, ay, even when I must sink to this butcher's work to do it,' and suddenly he turned and left the place.

Then weakness and suffering overcame me and I swooned away. When I awoke it was to find that my bonds had been loosed and that I lay on some sort of bed, while a woman bent over me, tending me with murmured words of pity and love. The night had fallen, but there was light in the chamber, and by it I saw that the woman was none other than Otomie, no longer starved and wretched, but almost as lovely as before the days of siege and hunger.

'Otomie! you here!' I gasped through my wounded lips, for with my senses came the memory of de Garcia's threats.

'Yes, beloved, it is I,' she murmured; 'they have suffered that I nurse you, devils though they are. Oh! that I must see you thus and yet be helpless to avenge you,' and she burst into weeping.

'Hush,' I said, 'hush. Have we food?'

'In plenty. A woman brought it from Marina.'

'Give me to eat, Otomie.'

Now for a while she fed me and the deadly sickness pa.s.sed from me, though my poor flesh burned with a hundred agonies.

'Listen, Otomie: have you seen de Garcia?'

'No, husband. Two days since I was separated from my sister Tecuichpo and the other ladies, but I have been well treated and have seen no Spaniard except the soldiers who led me here, telling me that you were sick. Alas! I knew not from what cause,' and again she began to weep.

'Still some have seen you and it is reported that you are my wife.'

'It is likely enough,' she answered, 'for it was known throughout the Aztec hosts, and such secrets cannot be kept. But why have they treated you thus? Because you fought against them?'

'Are we alone?' I asked.

'The guard is without, but there are none else in the chamber.'

'Then bend down your head and I will tell you,' and I told her all.

When I had done so she sprang up with flas.h.i.+ng eyes and her hand pressed upon her breast, and said:

'Oh! if I loved you before, now I love you more if that is possible, who could suffer thus horribly and yet be faithful to the fallen and your oath. Blessed be the day when first I looked upon your face, O my husband, most true of men. But they who could do this--what of them?

Still it is done with and I will nurse you back to health. Surely it is done with, or they had not suffered me to come to you?'

'Alas! Otomie, I must tell all--it is NOT done with,' and with faltering voice I went on with the tale, yes, and since I must, I told her for what purpose she had been brought here. She listened without a word, though her lips turned pale.

'Truly,' she said when I had done, 'these Teules far surpa.s.s the pabas of our people, for if the priests torture and sacrifice, it is to the G.o.ds and not for gold and secret hate. Now, husband, what is your counsel? Surely you have some counsel.'

'I have none that I dare offer, wife,' I groaned.

'You are timid as a girl who will not utter the love she burns to tell,'

Otomie answered with a proud and bitter laugh. 'Well, I will speak it for you. It is in your mind that we must die to-night.'

'It is,' I said; 'death now, or shame and agony to-morrow and then death at last, that is our choice. Since G.o.d will not protect us, we must protect ourselves if we can find the means.'

'G.o.d! there is no G.o.d. At times I have doubted the G.o.ds of my people and turned to yours; now I renounce and reject Him. If there were a G.o.d of mercy such as you cling to, could He suffer that such things be? You are my G.o.d, husband, to you and for you I pray, and you alone. Let us have done now with pleading to those who are not, or who, if they live, are deaf to our cries and blind to our misery, and befriend ourselves.

Yonder lies rope, that window has bars, very soon we can be beyond the sun and the cruelty of Teules, or sound asleep. But there is time yet; let us talk a while, they will scarcely begin their torments before the dawn, and ere dawn we shall be far.'

So we talked as well as my sufferings would allow. We talked of how we first had met, of how Otomie had been vowed to me as the wife of Tezcat, Soul of the World, of that day when we had lain side by side upon the stone of sacrifice, of our true marriage thereafter, of the siege of Tenoct.i.tlan and the death of our first-born. Thus we talked till midnight was two hours gone. Then there came a silence.

'Husband,' said Otomie at last in a hushed and solemn voice, 'you are worn with suffering, and I am weary. It is time to do that which must be done. Sad is our fate, but at least rest is before us. I thank you, husband, for your gentleness, I thank you more for your faithfulness to my house and people. Shall I make ready for our last journey?'

'Make ready!' I answered.

Then she rose and soon was busy with the ropes. At length all was prepared and the moment of death was at hand.

'You must aid me, Otomie,' I said; 'I cannot walk by myself.'

She came and lifted me with her strong and tender arms, till I stood upon a stool beneath the window bars. There she placed the rope about my throat, then taking her stand by me she fitted the second rope upon her own. Now we kissed in solemn silence, for there was nothing more to say.

Yet Otomie said something, asking:

'Of whom do you think in this moment, husband? Of me and of my dead child, or of that lady who lives far across the sea? Nay, I will not ask. I have been happy in my love, it is enough. Now love and life must end together, and it is well for me, but for you I grieve. Say, shall I thrust away the stool?'

'Yes, Otomie, since there is no hope but death. I cannot break my faith with Guatemoc, nor can I live to see you shamed and tortured.'

'Then kiss me first and for the last time.'