The Second G.A. Henty

by G. A. Henty

  “You might manage, lad, with a dark night to hide your color, and with the aid of a native dress, for you can speak their tongue; but as for me, the idea is hopeless, and not to be thought of. No, no, lad, I do not delude myself. My time has come; and I shall bear it, I hope, like a man, and a Christian.”

  From time to time, Aztecs came in to see that the prisoners were safe. From their conversation with the guards, Roger gathered that the attack had everywhere failed, and that the Spaniards had retired to their camps.

  Late in the afternoon some priests entered. Two of the prisoners were selected by them, their bonds cut, and they were taken away. Soon afterwards, the sound of the great war drum reverberated through the city.

  The Spaniards in their camps started to arms, on hearing the sound; but they were not long in understanding its meaning, for from their camps they beheld a great procession winding up the principal pyramid. Alvarado’s camp, which was the nearest to the city, was a short mile away from the temple; and in the clear evening air the troops could see that there were five or six white figures among them.

  As usual, the victims were decorated with plumes of feathers, to do honor to their own sacrifice. They were driven along with blows and, when they reached the summit of the temple, were seized and thrown, one by one, upon their backs upon the sacrificial stone, which was convex, so as to give a curve to their bodies. The principal priest then, with a sharp stone knife, cut through the skin and flesh between two of the ribs and, plunging his hand into the orifice, dragged out the heart, which he presented to the figure of the god.

  The sight, distant as it was, excited the Spaniards to the verge of madness; and if it had not been for their officers, they would have seized their weapons and rushed forward again to the attack, to avenge the murder of their comrades.

  The feelings of the captives, as they heard the sound of the drums, the shouts of the natives, and once or twice caught the scream of agony of their comrades, were terrible. This was the fate that they, too, were to undergo; and men who had, a hundred times, looked death in battle in the face, shuddered and trembled at their approaching doom.

  Each day two of their number were taken, and the same terrible scene was gone through. Roger was rather surprised that he himself was not one of the first selected, as his height and figure made him specially conspicuous among his comrades; but he supposed that he was being one of those reserved for some special festival. Whatever the famine might be in the city, the captives were well fed; for it was a point of honor, among the Aztecs, that all victims offered to the gods should be in good health and condition.

  The guards were changed every six hours, and on the third day, in the officer over the relief, Roger recognized, to his surprise and delight, his friend Bathalda. The latter, as he entered, made a significant motion to Roger, as he caught his eye, to make no sign that he recognized him.

  The Aztecs, as usual, sat down in groups, chatting. They had no fear whatever of the prisoners attempting to escape in the daytime, and it was only at night that they exercised any special vigilance in seeing that they did not attempt to unloose their bonds. Bathalda presently sauntered up into the corner in which Roger was sitting.

  “How are my friends?” the latter asked, in a low voice.

  “Well,” Bathalda replied. “Cuitcatl explained to the young emperor the circumstances under which he came to know and assist you, and was at once restored to favor, and now commands a large body of troops here. I have not seen the princess. She is at the palace. Cuitcatl bade me tell you that they are working for you, and will rescue you before the time comes for your sacrifice; but at present the watch is too strict.”

  “But I may be chosen, any day,” Roger said.

  Bathalda shook his head.

  “Cuitcatl has bribed the priests who choose the victims to leave you until the last; so you need not feel uneasiness on that score. Be patient and watchful. If any of your guard approach you and say, ‘The time is at hand,’ you will know that he is a friend. Act as he tells you. I dare not say more, now.”

  Ten days passed. Juan had gone, and Roger had been much moved at parting with him—more so, indeed, than the old soldier himself, who had kept up firmly, and was prepared to meet his fate with contempt for his enemies, in the assurance that his death would be terribly avenged.

  Bathalda had not reappeared. As the number of prisoners had decreased, the guard had been diminished; and as there now only remained Roger and one other, and both were still bound, a single Aztec relieved the two who had, the night before, kept guard.

  He stood, indifferently gazing through the loophole, until Roger’s companion fell asleep. Then he approached him and said:

  “The time is at hand. Tomorrow the other will be taken. The number will be made up from the other prisons. At night Cuitcatl will be outside. The door here will not be bolted. You will have but one man to watch you; but we know not whom he may be, and may not be able to arrange with him. If we do, he will give you the password. If not, you must deal with him. The man who will follow me is in the secret. You must unfasten your ropes while he is here, and he will aid you to do them up again, so that, while to the eye they will seem secure, they can be shaken off instantly.

  “Bathalda and another will accompany you. I do not know who the other is; but I was told that you would understand.”

  That other Roger felt sure must be Amenche; and his heart beat hotly, at the thought that his dear princess would share his flight.

  The hours passed quickly. The next day the last Spaniard was taken; and no sooner had he been forced, struggling and resisting, from the chamber; than the guard who, since he had taken up his post four hours before, had made no sign to Roger, gave the password agreed upon. The latter rose to his feet and, with the aid of the native, unfastened the cords that bound his ankles together.

  For half an hour he paced up and down the chamber, to restore the circulation to his feet. Then the guard replaced the cords, but did it in such a way that, though they seemed as tight and secure as before, they would at a slight effort fall off, and leave him free.

  At eight o’clock in the evening the guard was relieved. He had told Roger that he was to listen for the cry of an owl outside, twice repeated; and that upon hearing this, he would know that his friends were without. Roger listened anxiously for the password from his new guard; but as it did not come, he concluded that Cuitcatl had not been able to bribe him, and that he must himself overpower the man.

  The Aztec placed himself at the loophole, and stood looking out; turning, from time to time, to see by the light of the torch, which was fixed close to where Roger was lying, that he was making no attempt to release himself from his bonds.

  It was not until nearly midnight that Roger heard the expected signal. No sooner was the second call given, than he pulled the knot which kept the cords together, raised himself noiselessly to his feet, and sprang upon the Aztec. Taken by surprise, the man was no more than a child in Roger’s strong grasp. In a moment he was thrown down, his cloth was twisted round his mouth, so as to prevent any cry from escaping him, and his arms were bound behind him with Roger’s rope.

  Roger then took his sword and javelin, and went to the door. As he had been told would be the case, the outer bolts were unfastened. Passing along a passage, he came to the outside gate. This was securely fastened, but Roger had no difficulty in scaling the roof of a building leaning against the outer wall; and on reaching this, he pulled himself up and dropped down into the street beyond.

  Three persons were standing at the gate, and he at once made towards them. One ran forward with a little cry, and threw herself into his arms. The others were, as he had expected, Cuitcatl and Bathalda. The former saluted him warmly.

  “Thank the gods you are free, Roger,” he said. “I have a canoe close at hand for you. Bathalda will accompany you and the princess. I cannot leave. I am an Aztec, and shall fight until the last, with our brave young emperor.”

  “I hope, Cuitcat
l, that when the resistance is over—as it must be before long, for I know from the talk of the guards that famine is among you, and that hundreds are dying daily—I hope that I may be able to aid you, as you are aiding me.”

  “I care not to live,” Cuitcatl said. “The empire is lost.”

  “But there is no dishonor in that,” Roger replied. “No men could defend themselves more bravely than you have done, and there is no disgrace in being vanquished by superior arms. I trust that you may live, and be happy, yet.”

  “Let us not stand here talking,” the young cazique said. “It is not as it was before. Then you might walk through the city at midnight, without meeting with a single person. We sleep no longer now, but make nightly attacks on the Spaniards; and at any moment bodies of troops may come along.”

  The little party moved forward, and in a minute descended the steps. Bathalda took his place in a small canoe lying there.

  “Here is a weapon which will suit you better than that sword and javelin,” he said, handing him a war club, a heavy weapon, with pieces of sharp-pointed obsidian fixed in it.

  Roger helped Amenche into the canoe, wrung Cuitcatl warmly by the hand, and then stepped in.

  “Go,” the latter exclaimed. “I can hear troops approaching.”

  So saying, he bounded swiftly away. Bathalda sat listening for a moment, to discover the direction from which the troops were coming. As soon as he made out the soft tread of the shoeless feet, he dipped his paddle in the water, and the boat glided noiselessly away.

  It was not long before they emerged from the narrow water way on to the lake; and then the boat’s head was turned in the direction in which lay the Tlacopan causeway. Presently Amenche, who had been sitting nestled close to Roger—too happy even to speak—sat up and said:

  “Hush!”

  Bathalda ceased rowing.

  “There is a large canoe coming up behind us,” he said, listening intently. “I can hear others on the lake, beyond us.”

  “We had better make into the shore again,” Roger said, “and let them pass us.”

  The canoe, however, was not very far behind; and those on board caught sight of the little craft, as she rowed in towards shore. It was unusual to see so small a boat at night. The idea that it might contain a spy occurred to them, and they shouted to them to stop.

  Bathalda exerted himself to the utmost, but the canoe came rapidly up to them. As the command to stop was again disregarded, a volley of javelins was discharged.

  “We cannot escape,” Bathalda said. “They will be upon us, before we can land.”

  “Cease rowing,” Roger said.

  “Amenche, lie still, dear, at the bottom of the boat. I will deal with them.”

  Seeing that the oarsmen had stopped paddling, the volley of javelins ceased; and the canoe, which contained some twenty men, ran alongside.

  As she did so, Roger sprang on board her. Three or four of the natives were struck down in an instant, with his terrible weapon. The others, as soon as they recovered from their astonishment, rose from their seats and attacked him. Their numbers were but of slight avail. Standing in the bow of the boat, and swinging his weapon round his head, Roger kept them off; beating down one, each time his weapon fell. In vain they tried to close with him. His great size, and the suddenness with which he had attacked them, acted upon their superstitious fears. They knew not what sort of being it was with whom they had to deal, and the terrible strength displayed, and the instant fate that fell on all who approached him, appalled them.

  Roger soon took the offensive and, making his way along the boat, drove them back before him. At last, when more than half their number had fallen, the rest sprang overboard and swam to the shore. Roger had been wounded by three or four spear thrusts, but these had been too hastily given to penetrate very deeply.

  “I am unhurt, Amenche,” he said, making his way forward again, and stepping into the canoe.

  There was no reply. He stooped over, as she lay quietly there.

  “She has fainted,” he said.

  “Row on, Bathalda. You had best give me the other paddle. I can hear boats coming in this direction. No doubt they heard the yells.

  “Skirt along the shore. We shall be unseen, close in; and if they approach us, can take refuge in a canal.”

  But they passed along unnoticed. When they caught sight of the causeway, stretching away dimly in front of them, they again rowed out into the lake and, making a long circuit to avoid the canoes attacking Xoloc, the guns of which were firing hotly, came down on the causeway again in its rear.

  They were hailed as they approached, for the Spaniards were all under arms. Roger shouted that he was a friend, who had escaped from the prison; and the Spaniards, in return, gave a shout of welcome. In another two minutes, the canoe lay alongside the causeway.

  Bathalda sprang on shore, and held the canoe while Roger lifted Amenche up, and stepped out. A dozen hands were held out to assist him to climb the slippery bank.

  His figure was known by them all. Many exclamations of welcome greeted him, and many were the inquiries as to the other captives.

  “I will tell you all about it, directly. Bring the torch a little closer. I have a lady here who has fainted. We were attacked as we came out. The fight was a sharp one, and has scared her.”

  A soldier brought a torch and, as he did so, Roger uttered a loud cry. Amenche’s face was bloodless, and her eyes were closed. But it was not this that had caused Roger’s cry. There was a dark stain on her white dress, and in its center the feathered head of an arrow. While Bathalda and Roger had escaped the missiles, with which those in the boat heralded their attack; an arrow had struck Amenche, as she turned, when Roger sprang on board.

  So great was Roger’s horror that he reeled, and would have fallen, had not the soldiers standing round supported him.

  “I think that she has but fainted from loss of blood,” Bathalda said; and Roger, refusing all assistance, carried Amenche to the fort through the ranks of the Spaniards, who were engaged hotly with their assailants in the canoes.

  He bore her, at once, to the chamber occupied by Marina. She was up and dressed, for the attack was a hot one, and there was no sleep in Xoloc. She uttered a cry of welcome, and gladness, as Roger entered.

  “I have escaped, Malinche,” he said; “but I fear that she has died in saving me. I have brought her to you, as you are the only woman here.”

  Marina took the girl tenderly, and laid her on a couch.

  “I will see to her,” she said, softly. “Leave her to me, Roger.”

  As Roger, blinded with tears, left the room, an officer met him at the door, and told him that Cortez had just heard of his arrival, and desired his presence. The general received him with great kindness.

  “It is something to see one of my comrades back again, Sancho,” he said. “I hear how sad a misfortune has befallen you; for I suppose the lady you brought ashore was she of whom Marina spoke to me. She told me that she did not give up all hope that you might return; for that the princess whom you loved was in the city, and would, she was sure, do all that she could to save your life.”

  “She did so, General,” Roger said; “and I fear at the cost of her own—she and a noble young cazique, who was a brother to me, when I was living at Tezcuco.”

  “I will not trouble you now with questions,” Cortez said; “but tell me—do you know whether any of the other prisoners are alive? Every evening we have marked that terrible procession to the summit of the temple. Fifty-eight have been sacrificed, but we know not exactly how many more remain; being ignorant which of our comrades fell, and which were captured.”

  “I cannot tell,” Roger replied. “I was the only one left, out of twenty who were in prison together. If they were taken in the same proportion from the other prisons, there can be but a few remaining now. I was set aside until the last, because the priest who had daily chosen out the victims had been bribed by my friend Cuitcatl.”

  Roger haste
ned away, as soon as Cortez dismissed him, and hurried back to Malinche’s apartment. Her Mexican attendant, who was standing outside the door, opened it when she saw him approaching; and as she came up Malinche stole out, with her finger on her lips.

  “We have taken out the arrow,” she said. “She is still insensible; but the leech thinks that it is from loss of blood, and hopes that no vital point has been injured. More than that he cannot say, at present.

  “You had best have your own wounds attended to, now. I will have a pile of rugs laid for you, in this little room to the left; and will let you know if any change takes place.”

  “Do you think that there is any hope, Malinche?”

  Malinche shook her head.

  “I know not, Roger. I have already sent off to the mainland, to fetch a leech famous for his skill in the use of herbs. Our people have many simples of which you know nothing in Europe, and they are very skillful in the treatment of wounds—much more so, I think, than the white men.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Home

  After having had his wounds dressed, Roger threw himself down upon the bed that had been prepared for him, and lay tossing for hours. Hitherto he had believed, and had often reproached himself for it, that he had not loved Amenche as she had loved him. She had loved him with the passion and devotion of the people of her race, and it was no figure of speech when she said that she was ready to give her life for him.

  Roger knew that, until lately, his love had been poor by the side of hers. From the time he had sailed from England, to his first meeting with her, he had pictured to himself that some day, when he came to command a ship of his own, he would marry his cousin, if she had borne him in mind since he parted with her on Plymouth Hoe. This dream had faded away, from the time he had first met Amenche; and when Cacama had proposed the marriage to him, he had accepted the offer gladly. His chance of ever leaving the country, at that time, seemed slight; and he felt sure that he should be happy with Amenche. Since that time, the girl’s frank expression of her love for him, her tender devotion, and her willingness to sacrifice country, and people, and all, to throw in her lot with him, had greatly heightened the feeling he had towards her; and he had come to love her truly; but still, perhaps, rather with the calm earnest affection of a brother, than the passionate devotion of a lover.