Part 15 (1/2)

The Spaniards looked at this strange figure in absolute bewilderment. He was to all appearance an Indian. His long hair was braided and wound about his head, he had a bow in his hand, a quiver of arrows on his back, a bag of woven gra.s.s-work hung about his neck by a long cord. The pattern of the weaving was a series of interwoven crosses. Cortes, giving up hope of rescuing any Christian captives, had left the island, but one of his s.h.i.+ps had sprung a leak and he had put back. When he saw an Indian canoe coming he had sent scouts to see what it might be. They now led Jeronimo Aguilar and his Indian companions into the presence of the captain-general and his staff. Aguilar saluted Cortes in the Indian fas.h.i.+on, by carrying his hand from the ground to his forehead as he knelt crouching before him. But Cortes, when he understood who this man was, raised him to his feet, embraced him and flung about his shoulders his own cloak. Aguilar became his interpreter, and thus was the prophecy fulfilled concerning the G.o.ds of Taxmar.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”CORTES FLUNG ABOUT HIS SHOULDERS HIS OWN CLOAK.”--_Page_ 146]

NOTE

The story of Jeronimo Aguilar follows the actual facts very closely. The account of his adventures will be found in Irving's ”Life of Columbus”

and other works dealing with the history of the Spanish conquests.

A LEGEND OF MALINCHE

O sorcerer Time, turn backward to the sh.o.r.e Where it is always morning, and the birds Are troubadours of all the hidden lore Deeper than any words!

There lived a maiden once,--O long ago, Ere men were grown too wise to understand The ancient language that they used to know In Quezalcoatl's land.

Though her own mother sold her for a slave, Her own bright beauty as her only dower, Into her slender hands the conqueror gave A more than queenly power.

Between her people and the enemy-- The fierce proud Spaniard on his conquest bent-- Interpreter and interceder, she In safety came and went.

And still among the wild shy forest folk The birds are singing of her, and her name Lives in that language that her people spoke Before the Spaniard came.

She is not dead, the daughter of the Sun,-- By love and loyalty divinely stirred, She lives forever--so the legends run,-- Returning as a bird.

Who but a white bird in her seaward flight Saw, borne upon the shoulders of the sea, Three tiny caravels--how small and light To hold a world in fee!

Who but the quezal, when the Spaniards came And plundered all the white imperial town, Saw in a storm of red rapacious flame The Aztec throne go down!

And when the very rivers talked of gold, The humming-bird upon her lichened nest Strange tales of wild adventure never told Hid in her tiny breast.

The mountain eagle, circling with the stars, Watched the great Admiral swiftly come and go In his light s.h.i.+p that set at naught the bars Wrought by a giant foe.

Dull are our years and hard to understand, We dream no more of mighty days to be, And we have lost through delving in the land The wisdom of the sea.

Yet where beyond the sea the sunset burns, And the trees talk of kings dead long ago, Malinche sings among the giant ferns-- Ask of the birds--they know!

XI

THE THUNDER BIRDS

”Glory is all very well,” said Juan de Saavedra to Pedro de Alvarado as the squadron left the island of Cozumel, ”but my familiar spirit tells me that there is gold somewhere in this barbaric land or Cortes would not be with us.”

Alvarado's peculiarly sunny smile shone out. He was a ruddy golden-haired man, a type unusual in Spaniards, and the natives showed a tendency to revere him as the sun-G.o.d. Life had treated him very well, and he had an abounding good-nature.

”It will be the better,” he said comfortably, ”if we get both gold and glory. I confess I have had my doubts of the gold, for after all, these Indians may have more sense than they appear to have.”

”People often do, but in what way, especially?”

”_Amigo_, put yourself in the place of one of these caciques, with white men bedeviling you for a treasure which you never even troubled yourself to pick up when it lay about loose. What can be more easy than to tell them that there is plenty of it somewhere else--in the land of your enemies? That is Pizarro's theory, at any rate.”

Saavedra laughed. ”Pizarro is wise in his way, but as I have said, Cortes is our commander.”