It, the lord of every magic? Let me look in silence. Peace!-- But where is the blasphemous hand Which has severed from the godlike Flesh a head which but to touch Shuddering reverence forbids me? Where the man who thinks eternal Penitence too short for him? Where? For I will know it! Where?
Priest. Where the author of this murder Lingers out his damned life No one knows. 'Tis said a hunter Of the Cazik Qualpopoca, Who is governor in Nautla, Found in a wood the holy head. Thus the regent sent the tidings.
Mon. Surely Qualpopoca slumbers, Lies in bed, or in the grave! For dead servants I've no use. And how came the head thus far?
Priest. Lord, thy vassal sent it hither.
Mon. How was't brought?
Priest. A peasant, lord, Bore it hither in a sack.
Mon. (Turns to his followers.) Do ye hear? O Guatemotzin, Even such servants has thy father, Stupid mindless animals!
O for shame! that not with golden Warrior courtesy of the Caziks, Not led forward by kings' hands, Not amid priests' long processions And the hollow drum-beats' thunder, To our temple came it here, This poor head, to our chief city,-- But insulted and unsightly. It demands bloody atonement.
Guat. (Throws himself at Montezuma's feet.) Pity, lord! None of us here Sees this head, save thou, with love. Fear, yea, hate, it wakes in all. Yea, it breathes forth icy terror.
Priest. Not to those who are wise: see this.
(The servants of the temple bring out the Spaniard's helmet, inlaid with gold.)
Mon. (In amazement.) The helmet of a god! Resplendent! Guatemotzin, Cacamatzin, All your fears are clear to me. Only the god's true children know not Terror when the gods are nigh. And they come: who doubts it still? I can bear no more. My heart Hammers too wildly with ecstasy. I am slain with sacred terrors.
(He clutches at his heart: his attendants hasten to support him.)
(A hall in MONTEZUMA's palace in Tenochtitlan. Along the walls wait servants. The young princes Cacamatzin and Guatemotzin walk backwards and forwards while waiting for the king. It is early morning.)
Cac. It is dreadful. Naught will move him.
Guat. O what madness! Even if these Lead the lightning and the thunder, Ride the sun's loud braying dragons, They are not invulnerable.
Cac. No! What clatters down in dust Under the enemy's hand is mortal! But corruptible and mortal The true deities are not.
Guat. True gods they! Nay, naught but carrion That white head was, in the temple. Loathsome hair smeared o'er with blood, Squinting and defeated glance! He who bore it on his shoulders May have come of giant blood, Yea, a God-man may have been.
Yet he fought and he was slain, Suffered and died in his own gore, Knew the death throes, even as we shall.
Cac. Thou persuade him! Stony numbness Holds the king's mind fast imprisoned. Nay, he would not even accept What thou said'st about the severed Bloody head there in the temple. Ye are men, and know but men, So he says here night and day. I alone am son of the sun And a Tonatiuh, and know The sun's children and their fates!
(The Cazik Qualpopoca enters.)
Qual. Young high princes, can you tell me: Has the king yet left his bed?
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