Are the refinements and delicate sensibilities of the spirit confined to the highborn and polished? They are undoubtedly the offspring of nature: Education supplies their place only by the substitutes of affectation. Though poverty may crush, though wretchedness and evil habits may corrupt and extinguish them, yet they throb in the breasts of the lowly, during the days of youth, and are not always banished even by the rigours of manhood. They dwell under the painted lodge of the barbarian, and they burn even in the heart of the benighted heathen.

Let us fancy the moonlight streaming over the lake of Tezcuco. The moon is in her first quarter, and the evening-star, almost her rival in lustre and magnitude, precedes her in the blue paths of the west. The golden radiance of sunset trembles no more on the mountain peaks; but the thin vapours floating through the zenith, are yet gleaming faintly with the last expiring glories of day. The birds are at rest in the garden of Mexico,—all save the little madrugadores, that yet chirp merrily in the trees, and the centzontli, who leaves her ravishing melody, to mock them with their own music, made yet more musical. The breeze sleeps among the boughs, or it stirs only through the poplar leaves, and its rustling sound is mingled with the hum of a thousand nocturnal insects. In such a night, one forgets that man is not an angel. We see not the frown of malevolence in the sky; we hear not the step of the betrayer on the grass; nor does the dew-drop, falling from the leaf, admonish us of the tears that are streaming, hard by, in sorrow. In such a night, the feelings of the kind are kindest, the thoughts of the pure, purest; youth gathers about it the mantle of hope, and hope whispers in the voice of affection. At such a time, it is good to look into the hearts of the youthful, and forget the excitements of years. A draught from the waters of Clitorius was fabled to extinguish the thirst for wine.[10] He who can creep into the bosoms of the young, and drink of the fountain of innocent affections, will turn with loathing from the impure and maddening currents, that convert the human family into a race of moral Bacchanals.

Can we think that among the worshippers of the ferocious Mexitli, and the fierce invaders of his people, there were none with natures worthy of a better belief, and a nobler cause? Destiny had thrown together two, at least, whose spirits were but little tainted with the evil of their place and their day,—in whom, perhaps, feeling rather than reason, had set a talisman that left them incorruptible. A good heart is to man what the galvanic bar of the philosopher was to the ship's copper-sheathing. It gives this protection, at least, that, through the whole voyage of life, it preserves the integrity of the vessel. The barnacle and the remora will indeed deaden its course, but the metal remains clean and bright: the billows of the world waste their corrosive powers only on the protector. Morality itself is two-fold; it is of the head, and of the heart. The first belongs to the philosopher, the second to the poet. The one is an abstraction of reason; the other an exhortation of passion. The morality of the head is the only one that is just; but it is loveliest and best when the heart enforces its precepts. With good hearts, Juan Lerma and the princess of Mexico, moved among the corruptions of superstition, uncorrupted; and preserved to themselves, unabated and unsullied, the pure and gentle feelings, which nature had showered upon them at their birth.

The moon, falling aslant upon the garden, lighted the countenances of the young Spanish exile and the orphan child of Montezuma, as they rested upon the summit of a little artificial mound, ornamented with carved stone seats and rude statuary, constructed for the purpose of overlooking the walls. The visage of the Christian was illumined by pensive smiles, and his lips breathed gently and fervently the accents that were sweetest to the ears of the Indian maiden. But did he discourse of worldly affection and passion to one so ignorant and artless? A nobler spirit animated the youth. He spoke of the faith of Christians, and laboured with more than the zeal, though not perhaps with the wisdom of the missionary, to impress its divine truths upon the mind of his hearer. If his arguments were somewhat less cogent and logical than might have been spoken, it must be remembered that his religion was like that which will perhaps belong to the majority of Christians to the end of the world,—a faith of the heart, which the head has not been accustomed to canvass.

He directed her eyes to the moon, to the evening star, and to those other celestial wanderers, by which the heart of man was 'secretly enticed,' even before the days of the perfect man of Uz.

"They are the little bright heroes that hang down from the house of Ometeuctli, king of the city of heaven," said the poor infidel,—"all save Meztli," (the moon) "who is the king of night, brother of Tonatricli," (the sun) "god of the burning day. This is what they say of the two gods: There were men on the earth, but wicked: the ancient gods, the sons of Ipalnemoani killed them. Then Ometeuctli sent forth from the city of heaven his sons, who descended to Mictlan,—the dark hell,—by the road that leads between the Fighting Mountains, and the Eight Deserts,—and stole the bones of men, that Mictlanteuctli had heaped up in his cavern. The sons of Ometeuctli sprinkled the bones with their blood; and these men lived again, and the sons of Ometeuctli were their rulers and fathers. But the earth was dark,—it was night over the world, and the only light was the fire which they kindled and kept burning in the vale of Teotihuacan. The sons of Ometeuctli pitied the men they had revived; and, to give them light, they burned themselves in the fire. Ometeuctli, their father, then placed them in the sky,—Tonatricli the first born, to be the sun, Meztli to be the moon, and the others to be stars. So they hang in heaven, turned to fire: and men built pyramids to them, on the place of burning, Micoatl, the Field of Death.[11] They are very good gods, for they shine upon us."

"Forget these idle fables," said Juan, with a gentleness much more judicious than any zeal could have been. "Forget, too, Mexitli, Painalton, Quetzalcoatl, Centeotl, and the thousand vain beings of imagination, with which your priests have peopled the world. Think only of the great Teotl, whom you have called Ipalnemoani,—the great God, the only God,—for there is no other than He, and the rest are but fables. Yonder moon and stars are not divinities, but great globes like this on which we live; and to worship them is a sin—it angers Ipalnemoani, who is the only God,—the Creator,—whom all men worship, though under different names. Worship but Ipalnemoani, and in mode as I will tell thee, and thou art already almost a Christian."

"But is not Christ another god of the Spaniards?" said the maiden, doubtfully.

"The Son of God, a portion of God, and God himself," replied the Christian, launching at once into all the theological metaphysics with which he was acquainted, and succeeding in confounding the mind of the poor barbarian, without being very sensible of the confusion of his own. But if he could not teach her how to distinguish between categories, not reducible to order and consistency by the poor aids of human language, he was able to interest her in the fate and character of the divine Redeemer, by no other means than that of relating his history. And it is this, to which men must chiefly look for instruction, belief, and renovation, without reference to dogmas and creeds; for here all find the unanimity of belief and feeling, which entitles them to the claims of fraternity.

When Juan had excited her sympathy in the character of the Messiah, he began to discourse upon the object and the ends of his mission. But unfortunately the doctrine of original sin, with which he set out, had in it something extremely repugnant to the rude ideas of the child of nature. It inferred a native wickedness in all, to be banished only by belief; and it seemed at once to place her in an humble and degraded light, in the eyes of the young Christian.

"What has Zelahualla done," she said, with maidenly pride, "that the king's brother should make her out wicked?"

At this application of the doctrine, Juan was somewhat staggered in his own belief. He looked at the mild eyes of the catechumen, beaming as from a spirit without stain and without guile, and he said to himself, 'How can this be? for she has known no sin?' His imagination wandered among the moral and religious precepts stored in his memory, and settled at last with the triumph of a controversialist, as well as the satisfaction of a Christian, upon the first rules of the decalogue,—broken in ignorance, and therefore he doubted not, easily atoned. He told her that the worship of false gods was a sin, and homage shown to idols of wood and stone a deep iniquity; and these being common to all benighted people, he satisfied himself, and perhaps her, that they were unanswerable proofs of the existence of natural depravity. But a stronger light was thrown upon the maiden's mind, when he showed its effects in the scene of bloodshed, commenced long since in the days of her sire, and now about to be terminated in a war of massacre.

"He of whom I speak," he said, "came into the world, in order that these things should cease. He offers men peace and good-will; and when men acknowledge him and follow his commands, peace and good-will will reign over the whole world. Think not, because my countrymen are sometimes unjust, and often cruel, that our divine Leader is the less divine. These are the wickednesses of their nature, not yet removed by full or just belief; for the belief of some is insufficient, of others perverted, and some, though they profess it, have no belief at all. Know, then, that our religion, justly considered, and with a pure mind not selfish, has its great element in affection. It teaches love of heaven, and, equally love of man. It denounces the wrong-doer, who is as a fire, burning away the cords that bind men together in happiness; and it exalts the good man, who unites his fellows in affection. It punishes vicious deeds and forbids evil thoughts; for with these, there can be no happiness and peace. This it does upon earth; and it prepares for the world beyond the grave, in which no human passion or infirmity can disturb the perfect purity and enjoyment, of which the immortal spirit is capable."

Thus he conversed, and thus, guided by the native bias of his mind, dwelt upon that feature of our heavenly faith, of which it requires no aid of enthusiasm to perceive the amiableness and beauty. "Peace and good-will to all!"[12] There is a charm in the holy sentence, at once the watchword and synopsis of religion, that thrills to the hearts even of those, who, to obtain the base immortality of renown, are willing to exchange it for the war-cry of the barbarian, the VÆ victis! of a hero.

Thus far, then, the heart of the Indian maiden was softened, and tears,—not of penitence, for it never entered her mind that she had anything to repent,—tears of gentle and pleasurable emotion stole into her eyes, as she listened to tenets explained by one so revered and beloved.

"The religion that my lord loves, is good; and Zelahualla shall know no other."

"God be praised for this then," said Juan, fervently; "for now is the desire of my heart fulfilled, mine errand accomplished; and I will die, when I am called, cheerfully; knowing that thou wilt follow me to heaven. Now do I perceive that heaven works good in our misfortunes. The miseries that I have lamented,—the hatred of Don Hernan, the malice of my foes, my downfall, my condemnation,—what were they but the steps which have led me to effect thy conversion and salvation? God be praised for all things! and God grant that the seeds of the true faith, now sown in thy heart, may grow and flourish, till transplanted into paradise!"

Thus saying, Juan fell upon his knees, and invoked blessings upon the proselyte, who knelt beside him, confirmed greatly in her new creed by the evident pleasure her conversion, if it could be so called, had given him.

"Know now, Zelahualla," he said, as he raised her from the ground, and folded her in an embrace that had more of the gentle affection of a brother, than the ardent passion of a lover, "that now thou art dearer to me than all the world beside. While thou wert a worshipper of idols, I wept for thee; now that thou art a Christian, I love thee; and through this storm of war, that is gathering around thee, I will remain to protect thee, and, if need be, to perish by thy side."

"What my lord is, that will I be," said the young princess, with such looks of confiding affection as belong to the unsophisticated child of nature—"Yes, Zelahualla will be a Christian,—Juan's Christian,"—for she had been long since instructed to pronounce the name of her young friend—"and she will think of none but him—"

She paused suddenly, and disengaged herself from the arms of the Castilian, who, looking round, beheld almost at his side, surveying him with manifest satisfaction, the young king of Mexico. The gorgeous mantles of state were upon his shoulders, the golden sandals and copilli, or crown, bedecked his feet and head; and though no sceptre-bearers or other noble attendants followed at his heels, his appearance was not without dignity, and even majesty.

He stepped forward, and taking the princess by the hand, said to Juan,

"The Centzontli is the king's sister;—thus said I, when Montezuma lived no more; for the Spaniards have killed the sons of the king, and who remains to be her brother? It is enough—the Eagle of the east is the king's brother.—The king will speak with his brother."

At this signal, the maiden stooped humbly over Guatimozin's hand, kissed it with mingled love and respect, and immediately stole from the mound.

"My brother beheld me among my people," said Guatimozin, as soon as she was gone. "What thinks he of the warriors of Mexico?"

"They are numerous as the sands and leaves. But hear the words of him who knows the Spaniards as well as the Mexicans. Before a blow is struck, speak good things to Cortes. Acknowledge thyself the vassal of Spain, and rule for ever."

"Is my brother yet a Spaniard? and does he tell me this thing?"

"If I anger thee, yet must I speak! for I speak with the heart of one grateful to thyself and friendly to the race of Montezuma. As a true Spaniard, I should counsel thee to resist; for resistance would excuse rapacity. How wilt thou fight upon this island, with thine enemies round about thee? They will sit down and sleep, while the king perishes with hunger."

"The houses are garners," replied Guatimozin, proudly: "There is food provided for many days; and how shall the big ships see the peasant's canoe, when it brings corn in the night-time?"

"The lake is broad, but thou knowest not of all the craft and skill of thy foes. Think then of this: Can a man drink the water of the salt lake and canals? Are the pipes of Chapoltepec under the mountains? The Spaniards will tear them up from the causeways; and the warriors will despair for drink."

"Is Guatimozin a fool?" exclaimed the royal barbarian, with a laugh. "The rains have begun to fall; and for seven[13] months, the sky will be my fountain. Is not Malintzin mad, that he should besiege me at this season? He is not a god!"

"Were it for thrice seven months," said Juan, "be assured that Cortes will still remain by thy city, awaiting its downfall."

"And what shall be done by the warriors of Mexico? Will they look from the island, and wring their hands, till he departs? For every grain of corn in the garners of Tenochtitlan, there is an arrow in the quivers of the warriors. Count the bones that lie in the ditches of Tacuba,—number the bearded skulls that are piled on the Huitzompan, the trophies gathered from the Spaniards in the night of their flight,—there are not so many living men in the camp of Malintzin, as perished that night when we drove them from Mexico."

"Dost thou hold, then, for nothing the two hundred thousand Tlascalans, Tezcucans, Chalquese, Totonacs, and other tribes, that follow with Cortes?"

"There are but three roads to Mexico.—Can they hurt me from the shores?"

"The ships are fourteen more; and by and by, there will be no canoe that swims the lake, but will bear the soldiers of Don Hernan. Think not resistance can do aught but protract the fate of thine empire, and incense the miseries of its subjects. Its history is written. Heaven is angry with your gods and with your acts. The blood of human sacrifices, detestable in the eyes of divinity, calls for revenge. Alas, thou didst this day condemn a poor Spaniard to the altar, and thus stain thine installation with cruelty! God will punish the Mexicans for this."

The eyes of Guatimozin flashed in the moonlight with indignation.

"Is not the prisoner," he cried, "the prey of the victor? The Spaniard burns the captive in the shoulder, and makes him a slave. Which is cruel? The prisoner and the felon we give to the gods—it is good. Did the Eagle ever behold a Mexican chain men to a stake, and burn them with fire? Yet he saw Malintzin burn the Chief of Nauhtlan and the fifteen warriors, in the palace-yard, in a great fire made with Mexican bows and arrows! Which, then, is cruel?"

"This act I will not defend," said Juan, "and it was my presumption in censuring it, that made Cortes my enemy. But, prince, let us speak of these things no more, for our arguments shake not each other's minds. Let me speak of myself, for it is just thou shouldst know my resolve. I am thy friend, but I will not lift my hand against my countrymen."

The countenance of the king darkened:

"Is not the Great Eagle brave? He fears his enemies!"

"I fear nothing," said Juan, with conscious dignity, "else would I speak no words to lose thy favour. I will be thy prisoner, thy sacrifice, if thou wilt.—I lament the fate that is coming upon thee, but I cannot fight in thy cause."

Guatimozin eyed him earnestly, as if to read his soul; and then said, a little softly,

"The Great Eagle knows all things: he shall rest in the palace all day, and at night, speak wise things to the king."

"Neither in this can I aid thee," replied Juan, resolutely. "What I know of religion and moral duties,—nay, all that I know of civilized arts, that are not military,—this much I am free to communicate; but nothing more. I can no more help thee to fight with my knowledge, than with my arm."

This was a declaration of principles somewhat above the powers of the infidel to appreciate, and it filled him, as Juan saw, with serious displeasure. He took him by the arm, and spoke sternly and even menacingly:

"The faith of a Christian is not that of a Mexican. The Indian kills his foes and the foes of his friend: the Christian forgets his friend, when his friend is in trouble."

Juan was stung by the reproach, and replied with emphasis:

"The king took me from the prison-house of Tezcuco: the block was in waiting for me. Who talked to me of prisons and of blocks, before Olin came to the garden?"

Guatimozin grasped his hand, and spoke with impetuosity,—

"I have said the thing that was false, and my brother does not forget his friend. He did a good deed to Olin; why should he turn his face from Guatimozin? Was Olin in greater distress than the king, beset by enemies who cannot be counted? My brother has looked in the face of the Centzontli, my sister.—The princes of the city, and the kings of the tribes, have said, each one, 'Give me the daughter of Montezuma, and I will die for Mexico.' But the king thought of his brother. Thus it shall be: the Great Eagle shall take the princess for his wife, and be a Mexican; and then, when Guatimozin entreats him to strike his foe, he will call upon his god of the cross,—the Mexitli of the Spaniards,—and strike with all his force. Is it not so?"

"Prince!" said Juan, sadly, "even this cannot be. According to our thoughts, there are sins of the deepest turpitude in acts which your customs cause you to esteem virtues. The Spaniard may change his country, but he cannot become the foe of his countrymen. What wouldst thou think of one of thine own people,—thy friend, thy subject—whom thou shouldst find among the Spaniards, and aiming his weapon against thee?"

"There are many thousands of them," said Guatimozin, giving way to passion. "Malintzin fights with weapons more destructive than the big thunder-pipes. He goes among the serfs that pay tribute, and he says, 'Pay no more—Is it not better to be free?' Thus he seduces them. But my brother shall think of this again. And now he shall eat and sleep."

So saying, and perhaps thinking it unwise to pursue his designs at the present moment, he drew Juan from the mound, and was leading him towards the palace, when the sound of voices and footsteps came from the bottom of the garden, accompanied by the fierce barking of Befo, who was still confined in the cage.

"Now do I remember me," said Juan, with a feeling of shame, "that I have suffered the noble animal—"

But his words were cut short by an unexpected circumstance. No sooner had his voice sounded, than a wild cry burst from a neighbouring copse, and a female figure, pursued by Mexican warriors, rushed forwards, calling upon him by name, and by a title that had never before blessed his ears.

"Juan! Juan! my brother! oh, my brother!"

It was Magdalena,—her hair disordered and drooping in the damp air of evening, her face, as far as it could be seen in the imperfect light, pale and distracted. No sooner did her eyes behold him than she redoubled her speed, and throwing herself upon his neck, she cried, with transports of emotion, while the pursuers gathered round in no little amazement.

"Oh, Juan! my brother! pardon me and forgive me; for I am your sister,—yes, your sister, your own sister,—and I have come to die with you!"

Confounded as much by the strange declaration as by her presence, Juan endeavoured gently to disengage himself from her embrace, but all in vain. She clasped his neck with tenfold strength, weeping and exclaiming he scarce knew what; and, though much affected, he began to think that sorrow and passion had turned her brain. What therefore was his surprise, when he gathered from her incoherent exclamations, that Camarga, the masking stranger, who had, on three several occasions, betrayed such an unaccountable desire to take his life, had, even with his dying lips, pronounced them brother and sister. His heart thrilled at the thought; for his affection for the singular being whose destiny of mourning was so like his own, had ever been great, though chilled and pained by the belief of her unworthiness. He pursued the idea with a thousand questions, the answers to which provoked his curiosity, while they damped his hope. Was Camarga their father? and was he dead? What did he say? What,—no more than this—'He was her brother?' No more? And no one alive to confirm the story? "Alas," he said, his thoughts reverting to what he remembered of his childhood; "this fancy has made me as distracted as thyself. Camarga was a dreamer—an evident madman. My father died at Isabela in the island; for was not I at his side? This cannot be, Magdalena;—deceive thyself no longer."

"Speak not to me of deceit, my brother—for my brother thou art," said Magdalena, vehemently. "Can my heart deceive me? Is it not the work of heaven, seen in our whole life? Heaven kept thee—yes, Juan, while heaven punished me the sin of neglected vows with the torments of unavailing affection—it kept thee from loving me as much, because thou wert my brother. Yes, this it is! The angels spoke with the lips of that man, who now lies dead on the lake-side! But what of that, Juan? We will go to Cortes—I can win thy forgiveness. Alas, alas! I could have saved thee before, but thou madest me mad. Why didst thou treat me so, Juan? I was innocent—indeed I was; and Hilario's recantation—oh believe me, I knew not of his murder, till it was accomplished! Villafana killed him from fear, for Hilario had discovered how he scuttled the ship; and thus it was that Hilario gained Villafana to corroborate the falsehoods he spoke of me. I can make all clear to thee, indeed I can.—But now, dear Juan, cast me not off again,—for you are my brother. We will go to Cortes,—he will pardon thee. We will find out the friends of Camarga, and it must needs be that we shall discover all. And then I will go to a convent again,—and then I care not what befalls me; for I shall have a brother in the world left to love me."

While Magdalena was pouring forth these wild expressions, for a time almost unconscious of her situation in the heart of the pagan city, and in the presence of so many barbarians, Guatimozin, who had looked on with an astonishment that was soon converted into the darkest displeasure, turned to the capturers of Magdalena, who had ceased their pursuit the moment they beheld the king, and flung themselves reverently at his feet. The Lord of Death, who made the like prostration, had assumed an erect posture, in virtue of his high rank. But his looks wandered from the king to the Christian pair, whose endearments he watched with exceeding great satisfaction, and indeed with exultation.

"What is this that I see?" said the king, in a low but stern voice; "and who hath brought this woman to my garden?"

Masquazateuctli bent his head to the earth, replying with the complacency of one who has achieved a happy exploit,—

"The king made the Great Eagle of the East his brother; he took him to the hill of Chapoltepec that his people might know him, and do him honour. Shall not Masquazateuctli do a good thing to the king's brother? He was sorry because of his loneliness in the king's garden, and the Maiden of the East was afar in Tezcuco. I thought of this, and I crept to the gates of Tezcuco: and I said, 'I will take a prisoner for the king, and perhaps I shall find a maiden with white brows; which will gladden the heart of the king's brother.' Mexitli was with me. But I killed the man that came with her, for I saw she was that daughter of a god, with eyes like the full moon, of whom the king had spoken, when he came from Tezcuco alone, and my heart was very joyful. The Eagle is glad—he will not ask the king for the daughter of Montezuma!"

Guatimozin muttered a fierce interjection betwixt his teeth, but replied with dignity,

"The Lord of Death should have spoken this to the king; but if he be angry, he remembers that Masquazateuctli was Montezuma's soldier. By and by, I will speak with him in the palace.—I have said."

The Lord of Death, thus dismissed, and not a little mortified at such insufficient thanks, beckoned to his followers and departed.

Guatimozin strode up to the Christians, and touching Juan on the shoulder, said, with a stern voice,

"What shall the king say of his brother, to the daughter of Montezuma?"

The colour rushed into Juan's cheeks; but he replied immediately, and even firmly,

"That he brings her his sister, to whom, for his own sake, he prays her to be kind and gentle."

"Does my brother tell me this?" said the king, starting. "The Great Eagle said he was alone in the world, with none of his kin remaining."

"And so I thought, until this hour," said Juan, not without embarrassment: "and now must I tell the king, that though I call this maiden my sister, and pray heaven she may prove so, yet neither she nor I have aught upon which to found our belief, but the words of one whom the Lord of Death killed, when he seized her."

Guatimozin intently eyed the maiden, who watched with painful interest the changes of his countenance and Juan's, for she understood not a word of their speech; and then said,

"Let it be so: Guatimozin will think of this. The Spanish lady is welcome—the Eagle shall speak with her a little, and then give her up to the women, that they may be good to her.—The king's house is very spacious."

He then turned gravely away, signing to the outcast pair to follow him.

They were suffered to be alone together for a brief hour, in which Magdalena, rejecting impetuously and passionately all Juan's doubts, poured out all the secrets of a life full of unhappiness, but not of crime; and Juan himself, forgetting the weakness of all her claims of consanguinity, melted into belief, and learned to call her his sister. There were indeed certain circumstances of mystery about his birth, which might have often disturbed his thoughts, had he been of an imaginative turn. The man whom he had called and esteemed his father, had died a violent death in the islands, while Juan was yet very young. He could recollect little of him that was agreeable to remember; and all that had afterwards come to his ears, only served to chill his curiosity; all persons, who had not forgotten him, representing the elder Lerma as a most depraved and infamous man. No one knew whence he had come, or if he had any relatives left in the world; and Juan remembered well, that the planters had, on several occasions, when the unnatural parent, if parent he was, had maltreated and abandoned him, taken him away from Lerma, and comforted Juan with the assurance that the villain had undoubtedly stolen him from some one. It is, however, very certain that Juan never seriously thought of doubting that this man was his parent; nor would he have recalled such trivial circumstances to his mind, had he not been staggered by the impetuosity of Magdalena, and by his own feelings of affection, into a credulity almost as ample as her own. That he should desire also to find a relative in one, who, considered without reference to the weakness shown only in her love for him, was of a soul as stainless as it was noble, is not to be doubted; and such love he could be rejoiced to return. In truth, his reasons for admitting her claims were as flimsy as hers for making them, as he came to discover, when left to examine them in solitude. They made, however, a deep and lasting impression upon his mind. Perhaps the impression would have been still deeper, had the two been permitted to remain longer together; but before Magdalena had yet been able to speak with composure, there came a train of maidens, bearing chaplets of flowers, and rich ornaments of feathers, giving Juan to understand, that it was the king's will his companion should now leave him.

Magdalena turned pale, when this command was announced to her by Juan, and seemed at first as if resolved never to be parted from him more. But being persuaded by Juan that she had nothing to fear—that the king was his friend—that they should certainly meet again,—she at last consented. She strode to the door—she listened to his words of farewell, and she sobbed upon his breast; and then departed with the happy but delusive hope of seeing him again on the morrow.

It was the last night of peace that ever darkened over the Mexico of the pagans.