By the time Olmedo and Beatriz had begun to retrace their steps to their homes, Tolta’s hesitation had vanished, and he prepared to seize them. If his anger had been aroused by the scene between Kiana and the maiden, he was now furious with rage and jealousy at the discovery of the mutual love of Olmedo and Beatriz. Of their motives and resolves he could appreciate nothing. He saw only that they loved. Their devout prayer had astonished him, but that over, his imagination acted as a slow-match to explode his passions.

At a sign from him, his warriors stealthily encircled the two, and stepping out suddenly from their retreat, seized and bound them before they could either resist or effectually cry out. Tolta, unable to repress his satisfaction, walked up to Olmedo and hissed in his ear, “Catholic maidens are not kept solely for the dalliance of Catholic priests. You shall soon see her fonder of an Aztec priest than she has been of you, most chaste monk,” and he leered upon him with such a demoniacal meaning, as for an instant to paralyze the speech of Olmedo, who almost fancied the devil himself had bodily entrapped him.

Soon recognizing Tolta, he exclaimed, “What means this violence? Are you mad? Release us, or evil will come upon you.”

“Not so fast, monk, we have a journey to make first. I wish to introduce you to one who is as fond of Spanish blood as your countrymen are of Mexican.”

“Do with me as you will, but send back Beatriz to her brother. She has never injured you,” urged Olmedo.

“Beatriz is my prize, you are another’s,” said Tolta, with a look so full of dark insinuation that his captive shuddered,—not for himself, but for the maiden.

He would have again entreated, but Tolta fearing to lose time, ordered his men to gag him and drive him before them, while he whispered to Beatriz, “If you attempt an outcry, these infidels will kill Olmedo. His sole hope is in your keeping quiet.” This he said with cunning forethought, and it had the immediate effect he wished, to keep her silent, for he dreaded the influence of her voice quite as much as he feared any alarm she could give.

Compelling her to walk before him, the party passed in single file through the forest in the direction of the mountain, till they reached its outskirts, and came to the more scantily wooded uplands. Here they were joined by another and larger band, bearing a “manele,” a sort of palanquin, into which Beatriz was placed, and borne rapidly on by four stout warriors, who were relieved each hour by others. In this way allowing no intercourse between the captives, but hurrying on at a dog trot by a circuitous course that took them away from the inhabited portions of the country, they made rapid progress for several hours without a halt or seeing any one.

Their course lay along the eastern and southern flank of Mauna Kea, which was then a wilderness, much broken up by precipitous ravines and irregular plains, dotted with groves of a beautiful species of laurel, whose pendant branches, with small dark green leaves intermingled with delicate white blossoms, all but swept the ground, affording by day a shade impervious to the sun, and by night not an unwelcome shelter. Not a word had been uttered by which either of the captives could get a clue to their probable fate. Each was most anxious for the other. At the same time both felt a certain degree of relief and even pleasure in their mutual presence, and had the choice to be free and apart been given to either, while thus uncertain as to their future, neither would have accepted it. Beatriz alone had some suspicion as to the object of Tolta in their abduction. Olmedo on the contrary, notwithstanding the dark hints of the Mexican, could not persuade himself that any real danger awaited either. Calm in his own soul-peace, he patiently bided a solution of the mystery.

As night approached, Tolta gave orders to encamp under one of the laurel groves. Being now beyond immediate danger of a recapture, Olmedo’s gag was removed, and he was permitted to warm himself by the fire, which, at that altitude, was agreeable even in July. He was kept apart from Beatriz, each being under the charge of a distinct company of warriors. They were fierce, athletic men, quite capable of executing any orders their chief,—for such by the command of Pohaku, they now considered the Mexican,—might give, but at the same time they regarded their captives, especially Beatriz, more with curiosity than hostility. Her quiet, resigned demeanor, had made some impression upon them, and involuntarily they treated her with a degree of respect, that did not pass unnoticed by their crafty leader. He was not at all satisfied with himself, although his expedition promised such complete success. While away from Beatriz, he could plot against her honor and her brother’s life without compunction, but it was quite a different thing when she was an unresisting captive in his power. Her apparent feebleness and moral security were more formidable barriers than an armed defence. She had not once appealed to him by voice, but her mournful look, excited rather at his treachery than her danger, recalled to him those moments which, under other auspices, had impelled him to peril his life for hers. Besides, he thought of Pohaku, and feared the effect of her beauty on his sensual appetite. He might claim the woman as well as the man, and how could he resist.

Having fully embarked in his career of deceit and revenge, Tolta saw at a glance he had gone too far to withdraw, for the fiery Juan would never forgive the insult to his sister, however lenient she might prove. The future began already to wear a different and more problematical aspect than it did when he first meditated his treachery. The apparent ease with which he had done so much, but magnified what remained to be done. In fact, his conflicting emotions all but paralyzed his evil energies, which threatened to leave him midway in his career an imbecile villain, sure to die like a torpid serpent from the blows of the first that discovered him. This hesitation arose from the influence Beatriz exercised over him, despite his jealousy, which at intervals somewhat cooled from having his rival in his power. He was therefore, restless, suspicious and wavering. While his captives slept peacefully on the rude couches of tapa and dried leaves their guards had prepared for them, he sat apart gloomily brooding over his projects.

It was clear star-light. Through the thick foliage an occasional bright ray at times found its way, as if to hint to his troubled soul there still was light for it if he would but look upward. But his eyes were either bent upon the ground, or peered out between the pendulous branches into the mysterious horizon around, out of which grew strange, spectral shapes, with long arms sweeping the night-air. In the daytime they were but common trees, like those under which he sat, but to him they now became demon ambassadors from his terrible war-god to arouse him to vengeance. Through the overhanging branches, the chill breeze sent hoarse sounds as they chafed against each other, at times grinding heavily with a dismal noise like the crushing of bones, while the more distant trees responded with fitful shrieks or deep sighings as the winds by turns rose or sunk in varying gusts; now wholly silent, then swelling into a diapason that thrilled Tolta’s heart with horrible fancies. Owls flapped their white wings, and lighted near by, hooting, with their great staring eyes fixed on him. Then gathered about him a chorus of furies that excited every passion to avenge his father, massacred by Cortez at the foot of the altar, on which still reeked a human sacrifice; his mother violated and slain by the savage allies of the inhuman Christian; himself, wounded and senseless in her defence, mangled and taunted by his Tezcucan foes,—but, but what? that but for the instant exorcised the vision, for it recalled to him that Juan, indignant at the wanton barbarity, had rescued him from their hands, and that Beatriz had bound up his wounds, and spoken to him the first words of kindness he had ever heard from the lips of a Spaniard.

Could he have forgotten this, he would have gone straight on to his revenge without a single soul-qualm. As it was, fortified by his jealousy, and impelled by the gathering force of reawakened passions, the struggle of personal gratitude became gradually weaker, until there was nothing between him and his victims, except the love which he felt for Beatriz, and which jealousy had now all but turned into hate. From out of the gloom of nature around him, there spoke voices and issued shapes, kindred to all the darker purposes of his soul. Guatimotzin, his butchered sovereign, whose blood was in his own veins, called to him from his bed of hot coals, not to forget his martyrdom. The spirits of myriads of Mexicans slain by famine were waving their gaunt arms, and clawing with feeble fingers at him, while hollow voices muttered, “Avenge us, art thou not our kin?” and they pointed to the sleeping Spaniards, and wound their dark limbs over them in a death embrace. The flames of Mexico, once the pride and glory of the Aztec empire, now in ashes, burst upon his vision. He once more saw her towers and palaces glowing with heat and crumbling to the ground, while fire and smoke shut out the bright heaven above, and settled like a hellish pall upon his native city. His eye-balls became blood-shot as he strove to penetrate the darkness to gainsay his vision. It was in vain. Far into the deep shadow beyond, and high above him, there glowed a bright red spot growing larger each minute, with flames and smoke intermingled, and ever and anon there faintly reached him a crashing sound like the fall of heavy bodies from a great elevation. There was a reality in the sight he could not dissipate by reason, or by gazing. The longer he looked, the more true it became. At last, tired out by his watchings, he too sunk into an uneasy slumber, saying to himself as his original purpose, with renewed craft returned to him, “Away with doubt; I will obey your call, my countrymen, or join you in the dark abodes whence you urge me to vengeance,”—then mingling with his patriotic frenzy his personal desires, he added, “I will circumvent them all. The Spaniards shall be sacrificed, and Juan slain. Kiana and Pohaku must perish in the coming war. Olmedo and Beatriz shall believe that I have taken them away to save them. He shall die in attempting to escape, and she shall be rescued by me. It will then be time enough to use my opportunity, if she still resists my love. Alone! whom else can she look to? Chiefs and people all curse Pohaku, brute that he is. Many already hail me as their deliverer from his tyranny. Yes, love and revenge are both sweet to an Aztec. My parents’ slaughter shall be avenged, and these sacrilegious Spaniards shall learn that an Aztec’s hate never dies.”