’Never, dear wife, nor had I forgotten you as you know well; but what I wonder at is that you should grow jealous now when all cause is done with.’

’Cannot we be jealous of the dead?  With the living we may cope, but who can fight against the love which death has completed, sealing it for ever and making it immortal!  Still, that I forgive you, for against this woman I can hold my own, seeing that you were mine before you became hers, and are mine after it.  But with the children it is otherwise.  They are hers and yours alone.  I have no part nor lot in them, and whether they be dead or living I know well you love them always, and will love them beyond the grave if you may find them there.  Already I grow old, who waited twenty years and more before I was your wife, and I shall give you no other children.  One I gave you, and God took it back lest I should be too happy; yet its name was not on your lips with those strange names.  My dead babe is little to you, husband!’

Here she choked, bursting into tears; nor did I think it well to answer her that there was this difference in the matter, that whereas, with the exception of one infant, those sons whom I had lost were almost adolescent, the babe she bore lived but sixty days.

Now when the Queen first put it in my mind to write down the history of my life, I remembered this outbreak of my beloved wife; and seeing that I could write no true tale and leave out of it the story of her who was also my wife, Montezuma’s daughter, Otomie, Princess of the Otomie, and of the children that she gave me, I let the matter lie.  For I knew well, that though we spoke very rarely on the subject during all the many years we passed together, still it was always in Lily’s mind; nor did her jealousy, being of the finer sort, abate at all with age, but rather gathered with the gathering days.  That I should execute the task without the knowledge of my wife would not have been possible, for till the very last she watched over my every act, and, as I verily believe, divined the most of my thoughts.

And so we grew old together, peacefully, and side by side, speaking seldom of that great gap in my life when we were lost to each other and of all that then befell.  At length the end came.  My wife died suddenly in her sleep in the eighty-seventh year of her age.  I buried her on the south side of the church here, with sorrow indeed, but not with sorrow inconsolable, for I know that I must soon rejoin her, and those others whom I have loved.

There in that wide heaven are my mother and my sister and my sons; there are great Guatemoc my friend, last of the emperors, and many other companions in war who have preceded me to peace; there, too, though she doubted of it, is Otomie the beautiful and proud.  In the heaven which I trust to reach, all the sins of my youth and the errors of my age notwithstanding, it is told us there is no marrying and giving in marriage; and this is well, for I do not know how my wives, Montezuma’s daughter and the sweet English gentlewoman, would agree together were it otherwise.