SANDOVAL
At home, they say Death takes a female form,
And in her cave a billion candles burn
Which mark the dwindling measure of our lives-
Short stubs for the infirm, fresh spires for babes.
When our own taper sputters at the base,
This fickle life winks out.
CORTÉS What said he next?
AGUILAR
“You see our signal fire on the butte,
Whose dark clouds broadcast swift alarms for war.
If our old friends push off with crowded sails
Before those flames to embers smolder low,
Then shall they safely coast from Mayaland,
And may God blunt what mischiefs are to come.
But, if they loiter when this fire is cold,
We’ll ***** their lingering lives, for at that time
Shall I raise up my droves of rabid braves
To course this quarry like the hounds of hell.”
CORTÉS
I wish I’d that false truant in my hands,
For it will never do to leave him here.
OLMEDO
Those of the breed to grapple their own hearts
Must own that something in their soul is stirred
In answer to the awful frankness of these howls,
And if, by our own shared humanity,
We may uplift them to civility,
So might they pull our most self-searching down,
To dance, to stamp and rage. We, to resist,
Must be as much a man as they. If not,
Rebarbarism claims her wayward natures,
And our prim, mincing minuets may yet
Yield to innate impulse: leaps, bones and blood.
CORTÉS
Clear out! Our foe’s friend orders we embark,
With sails puffed by this sometime Spaniard’s threats.
These titles- “Captain,” “Chief”- these are but breath,
Yet- backed with tooth- are words which utter death.
Speed North! At merrier campfires will we rest. All exit.