CHAPTER XXIV.
KINDRED FEELING.
"He shall be hung; I have said it."
And Hernan Cortes looked very much indeed at that moment as if he had said it.
"As if he had said the whole band of us should be hung," muttered that incorrigible Juan de Cabrera. After a moment's pause he added, "Toro, my brother."
"Thy brother!" exclaimed a companion standing by. "Thy very reverend, great, great-grandfather, thou shouldst say."
"Doubtless," returned the other calmly; "but still my brother in arms, so do not interrupt thy betters, Rodrigo, but hearken. My brother Toro, dost thou not feel thankful that there is no rope in the camp strong enough to hang us all at one go?"
Montoro lifted his proud head high.
"If I were a thief I should be glad," he said slowly, and with a significance little relished by not a few of those about him.
Some of them sauntered off to the neighbourhood of less strict censors. Cabrera laughed. Thieving propensities were not amongst the long list of his faults. But he looked grave again as he said—
"After all, though, it is hard lines upon that unlucky dog Morla, that he should have to be the one to do duty—hanging for the rest of the culprits. A flogging now, or some such penance as that, you know, that—that—"
"That should leave him little the worse after it is over, you would say," said Montoro.
"Just so," was the slow reply, as the young adventurer thought upon some of his own penances in the way of heavy fines, which decidedly did leave him a good deal the worse in pocket, at any rate, whatever might be the case as to person. "But to be hung! That was another thing."
"What was it that Morla stole from the black beggars?" asked Ordaz, who had but just returned with a couple of escorts from a short exploring expedition, during which various little bits of gold had somehow or other found their way into the pockets of himself and his companions.
Ordaz mechanically put up his hand to his neck as he spoke, as though feeling beforehand the sensation of a rope about it. He had angered Cortes very greatly but a few weeks since, by standing up boldly for what he declared to be the rights of Velasquez, the Governor of Cuba, in regard to the present undertaking. On that occasion he had the pleasure of passing twenty-four hours on board one of the ships in irons. There was no knowing whether this resolute, prompt commander might not treat him to something worse now, and so his anxious question—
"What was it that Morla stole?"
Cabrera noticed both the involuntary action and the tone of voice, and answered both with a mischievous—
"Ah, my noble Ordaz, hast heard that the commander thinks of overhauling all our possessions, to see how much each of us has that may help to drown us, if hanging cords run short. Instead of feeling that long neck of thine, thou hadst better learn the Indian art of diving. Morla is to swing for stealing a couple of fowls, thou art as like to sleep beneath the waves for thy golden borrowings. So to confession with thee at once, like a good Catholic."
"Who talks of good Catholics," exclaimed Don Pedro de Alvarado, coming hurriedly up to the group as the men stood gossiping. "There is as good a fighting man, as ever drew sword upon the enemies of Spain, going to be sent full gallop into purgatory just for wringing the necks of a bird or two."
"Or rather," corrected Montoro, "for wringing the fingers of those who held them, is perchance nearer to the truth."
"Well, well," said Alvarado, "put it as you will, most noble and virtuous Señor Diego; but I know this, that the man is a first-rate soldier, and our numbers are small enough already."
"Ay, and if they need diminishing," assented Cabrera, "the redskins are like enough to do us a favour that way when they get the chance, if the horrible air hereabouts do not do it first. Besides, poor Morla hath made restitution."
"Hath he so?" asked Montoro with a more relenting accent in his voice. "I feared that he had killed the owners of the fowls. Otherwise—I do lament his heavy punishment."
"Thou art in earnest?" said Alvarado eagerly, and stepping nearer to the last speaker, who looked hurt as well as surprised.
"Surely I am in earnest. Why canst thou doubt it, Alvarado?"
"Well," was the rather hesitating answer, "to tell truth, Diego, I thought thou hadst of late years given so much pity to our adversaries—"
"Our adversaries!" interrupted Montoro indignantly. "Callest thou these poor, simple, hospitable peoples of this New World our adversaries? That were, verily, to add mockery to our many barbarities." There was a brief, angry pause before Montoro recovered himself, and said more gently—"But there, Don Pedro, I meant not thus to break in upon thy speech. I crave pardon. Thou wouldst have said that I give too much pity to the Indians to have ought to spare for my own brethren?"
"Even so," came the blunt reply.
"And even so it is not," was the answer back. "And I will prove it, by attempting anything thou mayest suggest, for the rescue of this man Morla from his impending fate. What wouldst thou?"
"First to grasp thee by the hand for a true good comrade," was the impulsive reply. "And then—"
"Well, and then? Fear not to tell me thy will," said Montoro more warmly and cordially. "You see, I stand pledged now to help you."
"Yes, I see—I know," said the other stammering, and turning his eyes somewhat cautiously from side to side. At last he muttered quickly in an undertone—"Diego, there are here too many quick-eared listeners; I will seek you in your tent an hour hence. The man is not to die till nightfall."
CHAPTER XXV.
MONTORO DE DIEGO TURNS HANGMAN.
A good deal within the hour Pedro de Alvarado stepped into Montoro's tent, and with somewhat scant ceremony; for, Spaniard though he was, he felt ceremony and strict punctuality also somewhat out of the reckoning where a man's life was concerned.
Besides, he had just seen Morla sitting bound upon the ground between two guardians, and with the rope beside him, with which he was to be hung so soon as the priest should have been fetched back to the camp to confess him. And the poor wretch had appealed to his superior with a mixture of pitifulness and indignation.
"Ah, Captain! save me from this dismal fate. You should, in very justice you should, for you contented not yourself with stealing skin and bone done up in feathers. And yet you came off with no punishment at all."
"Thou impudent fellow!" exclaimed Alvarado. "Callest thou a furious rebuke before the whole force, and accompanied with threats too, nothing? Thinkest thou that thy beggarly life is worth a Spanish noble's honour?"
Morla was in no great haste to answer this peremptory question; but at last he grumbled out—
"If one has not the honour, I suppose, then, one may at least value the life; and I call it hard lines to lose all one's got."
A grim laugh was the reply to this undeniable statement.
"Well, well, fellow, maybe there I can agree with thee. And yet more; know that I have already given thee more of my thoughts than thou shouldst venture to expect."
The man's eyes brightened.
"Ah! and I am not to be hung after all, thou wouldst say, my Captain?"
"After all, I would say that thou art to be hung," was the curt retort, and with it Pedro de Alvarado turned short round, and went his way. But before he did so he had managed to cast a warning, significant glance at the condemned culprit, which gave the poor fellow comfort in spite of the sinister words, and the brutal laugh of his guardians.
The Captain betook himself, as has been said, at once to Montoro's tent, and was greeted instantly with a ready alacrity that proved time and reflection had not cooled his promise.
"Now, Captain, what wouldst thou?"
Don Pedro had marched in quickly enough, but his tongue seemed unwilling to second the agility of his feet. He paused so long ere speaking, that Montoro said at last, between jest and earnest—
"Perhaps, Captain, your suggestion is that I should substitute my own neck for that of the poor culprit, Morla?"
"And if it were," was the reply, "I verily believe that you would accept it. At any rate, you would accept it as easily as that which I am about to make; that—that——"
"Well!" rather impatiently.
Alvarado made a dash at it.
"I want you to beg the post of hangman."
Montoro started back with a cry of horror. It was bad enough to him to kill men in fair fight, but to destroy a fellow-creature in cold blood was a thing too horrible to be thought of. He felt stunned, and it was not until his companion had broken into a short, smothered laugh that he could recall his scattered senses.
"Why, Diego," muttered Don Pedro, "you could not look more horror-struck if I had asked you to murder the man, instead of only——"
"Don't, don't," gasped Montoro. "To me, hanging the man would be like murdering him."
"Doubtless. But I intend not that you should do either, if you please."
Montoro began to breathe more freely, but also to look somewhat angry.
"Don Pedro, this is no time for speaking in riddles, to my thinking."
"Nor to mine either," replied the Captain, with a half-smile. "But to tell you the truth, I am a trifle afraid of you, friend Diego, and I well know that my present proposition must be somewhat unpalatable. But mark you, I only wish that you should request the post of hangman on the present occasion, and not that you should fulfil the duties of the office, when you have it, to its usual end."
"Oh—h—h!" ejaculated Montoro now, with a new light of comprehension beginning to dawn on his face. "But yet," he added, after a moment's pause, "although I am willing enough to plead for mercy in this instance, I fear greatly that I shall sue in vain. Cortes is so resolved on making an example of some one."
"I know that. That is why I only ask you to be appointed executioner, and not to plead for pardon. The wretches to whom the office is now given have a personal spite against their comrade, and will take good care that the fatal decree be carried out to the very letter—that he be hanged by the neck until he be dead. Now I propose that you hang him."
"Hold, hold," exclaimed Montoro once more, with a half-smile upon his face, it is true, but a return of horrified disgust also. "You said I was not to have any hanging to do."
"Well, well," was the answer, "not hanging till any one hung be dead, or even choked. But surely, to save a fellow-creature's life, you will not refuse to put a rope round his neck, will you?"
"Umph!" muttered Montoro, dismally. He did not at all like the alternative. "I would really rather that some one should put the rope round mine. But, by the bye, why do not you ask Cortes to let you have this new kind of honour yourself, pray? Why am I, of all people, to seek it?"
Alvarado lifted his dark eyebrows significantly enough.
"You know the answer, I dare swear, to your own question, Diego. To whom but yourself would our worthy commander be likely to grant such a favour, think you? He knows your feeling for the Indians, and may credit your willingness to avenge them; but for the rest of us—Ah! thou knowest."
Pedro de Alvarado was right enough. Hernan Cortes gave the desired order to Montoro to replace the executioners already appointed, and at the same time he declared very positively that he would have given it to no one else. Secretly, he was intensely astonished and disgusted with his friend for having asked the favour.
"Every man with a hobby is sure to ride it to death," he muttered angrily to Montejo. "Morla must hang, to win us the trust and good-will of the Indians for the present, that our progress towards Mexico be not further hindered or harassed. But to think of a Spaniard longing to kill a Spaniard, for the sake of a parcel of redskins! Faugh! Our Don Diego hath fallen a hundred-fold in our estimation."
That same poor Don Diego felt, foolishly enough, as if he had fallen a hundred-fold in his own estimation when he actually stood beside the condemned culprit, Morla, with the hangman's rope in his hand.
The order obtained, Alvarado had lost no time in hurrying his friend with him to the proposed scene of execution. They were joined on their way by Juan de Cabrera, carrying an empty tub, at sight of which Montoro actually shuddered, to the evident amusement of his companions, who burst into shouts of laughter. He remonstrated impatiently.
"How can you find amusement in what perchance may turn out a tragedy?"
"Tragedy, indeed," exclaimed Cabrera, laughing as heartily as ever. "That element is passed, my well-beloved but too long-faced friend. The comedy is to be played now."
"And thy tub yonder represents stage properties," laughed Alvarado. "The carrying of it becomes thee as would the carrying of a Damascus blade."
"Beware that I break not thy head with it, by way of proving it hath use as well as ornament to boast," was the retort of the light-hearted knight, who ever seemed ready to dance, whether to fun or fighting.
The surly fellows who were guarding the soldier, Morla, were very loth to give up their trust, and it was not until they had received a particularly sharp hint from Don Pedro that their own past, present, and future delinquencies should be visited with the heaviest possible punishments if they did not preserve themselves from his displeasure, that they at length obeyed his commands to betake themselves out of sight and hearing.
"And now, sirrah," said Cabrera, jauntily, "may it please thee to stand up and be hung; for, as doubtless thou canst perceive, the noble Don Montoro de Diego is in haste to be quit of that rough rope, and of his task."
The man thus adjured began to rise from the ground, but still somewhat slowly, and with a dubious countenance. His reluctance grew greater when he saw it reflected on the amateur hangman's face.
"But, my good Señors," he began anxiously, "I thought that surely now you signified I should be released?"
"Yes," said Montoro, with equal anxiety; "verily I think that this play hath continued long enough; too long for yon fellow's apprehensions and my distress. What is to be the end?"
"Why, his hanging," replied Cabrera, quickly. "To that thou art pledged to the commander; therefore proceed to thy task, and for the sake of that very tender conscience of thine ask no further questions. Ten minutes hence thou wilt have light enough to see our plot by. It is very simple."
So saying, he placed his tub on the ground beneath the gallows, and with a solemn shake of the head at the prisoner, desired him to kneel upon it, and to pray that all things might go well with him. To this piece of advice poor Morla paid the greatest heed, as he felt Montoro's trembling fingers adjusting that horrible rope about his neck.
"Ah, Señor, not too tight," he muttered, even yet thinking it more than probable that his noble countrymen might really hang him, in inadvertence, if not in sport.
But they had no such intention. The next minute he felt the tub very slowly and gently drawn from beneath him; his feet naturally went downwards to the ground, which they managed just to touch by the toes, and there he stood, not comfortably certainly, but still not dead—most decidedly not.
"And there thou art to stay, upon the gallows——"
"Or under it," interrupted Cabrera.
"'Upon' was the commander's word," was the sedate answer. "It best becomes us to keep to that. There thou art to stay upon the gallows for the space of half-an-hour, and then be cut down, and thy body cast outside the camp. But hearken, thou Morla; if I find thy body not again within the camp, ten minutes later, I will find thee a further punishment as a deserter. Don Juan de Cabrera hath consented to hide thee in his tent awhile."
At the expiration of a rather short half-hour, a very tired, toe-aching Morla was accordingly cut down, and Montoro returned to his tent, thankful enough that his good repute had enabled him to save a fellow-Spaniard's life, but also not a little relieved that the unpleasant farce was over, and his new office of hangman come to an end with sunset.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CORTES BURNS HIS SHIPS.
It was night, and sleep reigned throughout the camp of the Spaniards, for the new city of Villa Rica de Vera Cruz could as yet be considered little better than a camp, in spite of its grand-sounding name, and the crowd of duly-appointed officers with which Cortes had endeavoured to give it sudden dignity.
Even the sentinels were drowsy at their posts, and scarcely feared rebuke, for peace had prevailed both within and without for some days past, at any rate on the surface of events, and Cortes had been indulging in a short breathing space.
Montoro de Diego was in his tent, asleep like his comrades, dreaming of his boyhood, and of the gentle-spirited and lovely young mother who had made poverty and hard usage endurable to him in the past, honour and righteous dealing his firm principles in the present. But his dreams were to be disturbed.
Slowly, and in almost breathless silence, a fold of his tent was pushed aside, and a man crept within, holding back the canvas for a moment, that by the faint light he might discover the object of his search. Then he dropped it again, and moved on the two or three paces in the darkness, until he dropped on his knees beside the low bed on which Montoro lay, and bent his mouth to the sleeper's ear.
"My Señor—Señor Diego," he whispered urgently. "Rouse you, my Señor."
And, with a soldier's watchful spirit, Montoro needed no second bidding to arouse him. Grasping his sword even before he was fully awake, he would have sprung to his feet the next instant, with a shout to banish slumber from the whole band, but that his probable conduct had been divined, and prudently guarded against.
One firm, hard hand was pressed down upon the nobleman's chest, another closely covered his mouth, while the hushed voice beside him muttered hurriedly—
"Nay then, my Señor, nay then. Lie still, and be silent, or you will render my care fruitless. I have come to you with the discovery I have made, before all others, for your prudence's sake, and now you are eager as the Don Juan de Cabrera himself could be, to publish the whole matter to the very winds, methinks."
In spite of this expostulation, which was in truth intended more as a warning than an expression of real belief, its speaker trustfully enough withdrew both his detaining hands at its conclusion, and permitted his companion to rise into a sitting posture on his bed, and to speak.
"Who are you?" was the very natural first use that Montoro made of his power of speech, for he did not recognize the voice, and he could not see the face. However, he was soon enlightened so far.
"I am Morla, the man you hung," was the comprehensive information. "And you were good to me then, my Señor," came the seemingly contradictory statement; "and so for that, and for those other reasons, that you are wise and wary, and have our Captain's confidence, I have come to you with my discovery of a conspiracy in the camp. It is intended by many to forsake the great cause, and, taking to the ships secretly, to flee from this land to Cuba, or to Spain, with evil reports of the expedition and of its leader, to exonerate themselves."
Montoro was startled.
"Wherefore," he demanded sternly, "hast thou not instantly carried news of this base treachery to our leader himself?"
A smile, unseen in the darkness, flitted over the man's face.
"Bethink you, my Señor, what credence should I be likely to gain from our commander, when he learns that I am, myself, a testimony of disobedience to his commands."
There was some plausibility in that reasoning; nevertheless, he yielded to Montoro's desire that he should accompany him forthwith to Cortes' tent, to corroborate the statements he wished made.
Aroused by Diego with the same stealthy caution as had been used towards himself, Cortes was not long in learning the particulars of the cowardly conspiracy, and, even as he listened, his prompt mind had already begun to concert the measures for its suppression.
"But still," he said at length, thoughtfully, "we must be well assured of the truth of these accusations before we publish them, or attempt to punish. From whom, Toro, hast thou learnt all this?"
Montoro moved aside.
"There is my informant, Captain, and—I fully trust him."
A lamp was burning in the commander's tent, or rather hut of palm-branches and native cotton-mats, and as Montoro stepped to one side a man, hitherto unnoticed behind him, came forward into its light, and, falling on his knees before a small crucifix, called it to witness that his tale was true.
Cortes looked at him closely for a few moments and then said drily—
"If it be but as true as that thou wast not hung, friend Morla, then will it be true indeed."
"It had needs be truer than that, Hernan Cortes," returned Montoro: "for he was hung, as I know to my cost, as I had the hanging of him. And at the end of half-an-hour he was cut down, according to thy orders."
"Ah! I see," exclaimed Cortes, with a glimmer of a smile. "And no doubt our worthy Don Juan de Cabrera found it needful to give thee a lesson in hanging, by which thou profitedst. Is it not so, friend Toro?"
Montoro laughed.
"Partly so. But, to confess the truth, Pedro de Alvarado declared that if this Morla were hung to death he should, himself, evermore go about the world feeling as though there were a cord about his own neck, only waiting to be used."
That glimmer of a smile broadened for a moment, but the time was too serious for its cherishing.
"Enough!" said Cortes, with returning gravity. "Rise, fellow, and come nearer. And hearken! Should these charges prove true, well; if false, then will I myself hang thee ere to-morrow's sunset, and thou hadst best make thy peace with Heaven, for I warn thee thou wilt not live to laugh at me as having 'prentice hands at my new work."
The man bowed calmly.
"Ere the morrow's sunset, Captain, I shall have your thanks and praises for my promptness."
And Morla was right. He had gained his dark news from one of the conspirators themselves, who had turned faint-hearted at the last moment, and from this informer all further particulars were quickly drawn. The conspiracy was quashed, Morla reinstated in a post of trust, and the ringleaders punished with death, maiming, or degradation.
The executions had been accomplished, a miserable pilot lay moaning in agony and despair over his footless limbs, others were endeavouring to find some posture of ease for bodies torn and lacerated by fiercely-wielded whips, and the commander of the expedition stood upon the shore, moodily gazing out to sea. He felt those hours to be the crisis in his fate.
A gloom was over the sky, the camp, and Cortes; and a spirit of doubtfulness and disappointment seemed to be brooding in the atmosphere.
Alvarado, Gonzalo de Sandoval, Escalante, Juan de Cabrera, and Montoro, gathered into a group not far from their leader, watched him, and discussed the present position of affairs.
"The conspiracy is put down for the moment," said Alvarado gravely, "but at any hour it may be rekindled so long as we stay inactive in this unhealthy place. And some morning we may rise to find two thirds of the small handful of our comrades gone, and no ships left with which to effect our own escape."
"What would you say, Alvarado," said a voice suddenly,—"what would you all say, in truth, if you did find yourselves thus with the means of escape cut off—with no safety for us but in victory?"
Cortes had suddenly stepped up to them as his comrade and follower had been speaking, and there was so strange a tone in his voice as he put this question, so deep and burning a light glowing in the depths of his eyes, that the little group of men stood as though breathless, gazing at him, and waiting to hear more. The tension on their minds was strained to the utmost.
Having asked his searching question, Hernan Cortes appeared for the moment indifferent as to the answer. Folding his arms across his broad and powerful chest, he once more turned, and gazed out across the waters to where the ten vessels that composed his fleet rode quietly at anchor. They looked well enough to the eye at any rate. And besides, they signified to those few hundreds of men, encamped on that foreign coast, home and life and liberty. While they had those ships to flee to, they felt brave to dare and attempt much. But without those ships, in an unknown world and surrounded by myriads of foes, their case would indeed be desperate. And even so Cortes, in his far-seeing wisdom, wished it should be. He turned back to his companions, and began abruptly as before.
"Comrades, to many, doubtless to most of our brethren in arms, those ships signify home and life and liberty, and yet—I wish you to aid me in burning them."
Montoro and the others of the group gazed at him speechless for one instant, and then cast startled glances around towards the distant camp.
"Yes," said Cortes, answering the looks, "most assuredly it is we who should be burnt before the ships, if some of yon timorous or turbulent spirits heard word prematurely of such intention. But nevertheless, minute by minute, as I have stood here thinking, the conviction has grown upon me that only in the burning of those ships lies victory for us."
"Break down the bridge behind," muttered Juan de Cabrera, "and the mule must go forward."
"Even so," was the reply. "We are few enough as it is for the glorious enterprise on which we are embarked, and shall we allow base-minded churls to force us back to the contempt and ridicule of those who, we too well know, would store up scorning for us? No, no, my brethren, my noble and valued friends and comrades, do you but stand by me faithfully in the future, as you have done in the past, and we will cut off the means of retreat that, for ourselves, we value not, and force all to die with us, or to aid us in winning the splendid triumph that shall shed a glory on us, to endure to the end of time."
He stood there glowing with his own magnificent enthusiasm, and his hearers, carried with him beyond the dictates of a colder prudence, exclaimed eagerly as though with one heart—
"Agreed. We are with you. Burn the ships, and go forward in the names of thy patron saint and St. Jago."
CHAPTER XXVII.
MONTORO LEADS A CHANT.
"The ships are burnt!" "Our ships are burnt!" resounded on all sides from the Spanish troops rushing from their quarters in that new Villa Rica de Vera Cruz.
Consternation, fear, and fury gave ever-increasing emphasis to that one wild, startled shout, "Our ships are burnt!"
"Said I not well," muttered the discontented priest Father Juan Diaz, instigator of the former conspiracy—"said I not well that this Cortes was leading us like cattle, for his own renown, to be butchered in the shambles!"
Even Father Olmedo, and Morla, and others of his stamp, eagerly watching for opportunities to earn distinction, felt their hearts sink heavily as they repeated that startled cry, "Our ships are burnt!"
For one half-hour it may have been that Hernando Cortes trembled, and that his friends feared for him, and for themselves.
"But after all," said Juan de Cabrera, recovering his usual off-hand carelessness, "one can but die once, and though, as you yourself said, Captain, one would rather die at the hands of others than one's own friends, or one's own countrymen, still, when the breath is once fairly out of the body, I scarcely suppose one will care much what hand drove it forth."
"That is true," replied Cortes, with a sudden return of his usual resolute energy and undaunted bearing, and as another tumultuous shout rent the air throughout the so-called town of Vera Cruz, the Captain-General strode forth from his hut, and with stentorian tones exclaimed to his mutinous followers—
"What means this uproar, comrades? If you have complaints to make, I am here. Make them to me."
"Our ships are burnt, and by your orders," came the reply, but by no means from all throats now, and from none so loudly as before. Some were cowed in the actual presence of that resolute commander of theirs, others were awed into admiration and fresh attachment by his dauntless attitude.
Still, a certain number there were who yet reiterated that reproachful cry, "Our ships are burnt!"
"Yes, comrades, it is true," exclaimed Cortes, in tones as loud and resolute as before. "Our ships are burnt, but not before the foul creatures of these seas had so eaten through them, that they had been water coffins for any who had trusted their lives to them for the voyage back to Spain; ay, or even to our new Santiago yonder. Those who had gone on board them had gone to their death."
"And those who stay here stay to their death," called a harsh voice from the midst of the crowd. "You might at least have given us our choice."
"And so he has, coward," shouted Alvarado. "Stand forth and show thyself, and any others of thy chattering-teethed brethren, and I will gather the bundle of you in my arms as one gathers a bundle of cotton, and fling the worthless bale on shipboard! Faugh! the Captain wants not such as thou to help him on the road to glory and renown."
The tone of this tirade was more scathing in its contempt than even the words, and a momentary hush followed it. None stood forth to accept the untempting offer of its maker.
At length Cortes once again broke the silence. Distinctly, but slowly, and more calmly than before he addressed his assembled army—
"What the Captain, Don Pedro de Alvarado, saith is true. For those who chose flight there is still the means. I desire no unwilling comrades. For me, I have chosen my part. I remain here so long as there is one to bear me company. But for those who shrink from the dangers of our glorious enterprise, let them go home, in God's name. There is still one vessel left. Let them take that and return to Cuba. They can tell there how they deserted their commander and their comrades, and then patiently await us until our return with the Aztecs' spoils."[4]
Cortes ceased, and for some moments there was a silence throughout the small army, broken only by the humming of the insects and the occasional clink of a sword. But Juan de Cabrera never felt much reverence for silence.
"How now," he shouted mockingly, "how now, ye bold cravens! Where are all your voices? Ye were brave enough a few minutes since. Come along with you to the front. Or are ye, in very truth, turned too cowardly even to confess your cowardice, ye miserable crew!"
It seemed so, for there was still no answer from even a single voice, and Cortes wisely changed the question, and in a few moments the whole air was resounding with the enthusiastic acclaim from every throat:
"To Mexico!—to Mexico! Lead on, Captain! Lead us on to Mexico!"
"All the same," muttered a sullen-browed soldier to Juan Diaz the priest, who stood beside him—"all the same, father, you did say that we should be traitors to ourselves if any longer we continued to follow yon upstart."
"Hold thy peace, fool," returned the discontented ecclesiastic. "Knowest thou not that for all things, even for revolt, a fitting time is needful?"
And with that sententious remark the politic priest edged himself away to safer neighbourhood, and resumed the cry as lustily as the truest among Cortes' followers—
"To Mexico! Lead on to Mexico!"
Well satisfied with the change effected thus rapidly in his soldiers' sentiments, the Commander suddenly resolved to give the new-born enthusiasm a safe outlet, and at the same time to further one of his own most solemnly-cherished purposes. He raised his hands to claim silence once more, then his voice. But his efforts were vain. He had roused a new uproar, which, though a joyous one, was universal, and more difficult to allay. Threats to fly might be toned down by some tinge of shame, but offers and entreaties to be allowed to fight needed no restraint. The cry rang on and on unceasingly:
"To Mexico! Lead on to Mexico!"
"To Mexico indeed! To the depths of the sea with you rather, squalling rabble that ye are," said Cortes at last impatiently. Turning to the group of officers about him he added in comic despair: "Can no one befriend me thus far?"
"How far?" asked Alvarado and Escalante together, and with some wonder.
"How far!" repeated the Captain in a tone of increasing irritation. "Why, to the extent of ramming something down those screaming throats, to stop this Babel, to be sure."
Juan de Cabrera gave a delighted leap.
"I have it. I'll set the dogs barking; that will drown them."
"Ay, and thy Captain also," ejaculated Cortes, breaking into a short laugh in spite of himself. "Wilt thou never outgrow thy boyhood, thou madcap Juan? Thinkest thou—"
But his remonstrance died away on his lips, and they curved into an awe-struck smile. From a few feet behind him there arose the first notes of a solemn chant—loud and strong as a battle-cry, sweet as the tones of a silver bell.
Alone and unaided the glorious voice sang on for a few moments, and then Father Olmedo's rich bass joined in, and Pedro de Alvarado's, then the light tenors of Escalante and Cabrera, and the ringing voice of Gonzalo de Sandoval.
For the space, perhaps, of a quarter of a minute the shouting soldiers continued their cry through the chant, "To Mexico! to Mexico!" then, with a startled sensation of thrilling wonder, the foremost ranks caught the sweeter sounds, hushed their own discordant tones, paused, and joined in.
"Hearken!" came the smothered ejaculation of the man Morla to Juan Diaz, who had just come up to him. And Juan the priest gazed at him with wide eyes, and then, accepting this new vent for his restlessness, he too joined in with a tremendous vigour that soon let all ears, that were not absolutely deaf, in the neighbourhood know what was going forward.
By some unconscious impulse the rough company of Spanish adventurers fell upon their knees, and still the solemn chant rose and fell, and swelled again, on that new-found western shore of an idolatrous land, to the glory of the one true God.
Cortes alone remained standing, alone remained mute, with his great, vivacious eyes fixed intently upon the great, earnest ones of Montoro de Diego. By his own fearlessness and iron will he had quelled the mutinous mob, by the power of his voice and the power of his faith Montoro de Diego had subdued it to a noble calm and peace.
The chant ceased; the prayer of Father Olmedo for safety from foes, and unity amongst themselves, was ended, and rising to his feet again Montoro asked in clear, loud tones, audible to all around—
"And now, our Captain, since we have consecrated ourselves anew to brotherhood, what wouldst thou with us? Say on: we hearken."
"Then hear this, first of all," exclaimed the leader with generous warmth, as he grasped his friend's hand, and clasped it between both his own. "Hear this: that from my soul I thank thee for thy Christlike fervour, which has thus taught thee to retune our hearts to reason after their late frantic turmoil. And for the rest," he added after a moment's interval, and more lightly, "Ay, for the rest, the remainder of my speech must wait, for it is ill-rewarded toil haranguing hungry listeners."
"Yea, verily," softly assented that irrepressible Cabrera. "And the more so when the said hungry mortals, not to speak of the dogs, poor starving brutes, can see their victuals waiting for their mouths."
The young cavalier was right, and many other sharp eyes besides his own had caught sight already of the long train of Indians laden with provisions. Pheasants, turkeys, roast and boiled, and very good eating in their native land, even though they were not accompanied with bread-sauce, and were seasoned with neither chestnuts nor veal-stuffing. There were, however, plenty of fresh, sweet maize cakes to eat with them, and enough vegetables to satisfy even a German. Then, amongst the seasonable gifts were fish of all kinds, dressed by those clever native cooks in many savoury ways; plantains, bananas, pine-apples, purple grapes, and even sweet-meats of various sorts made with the sugar of the agave. Beverages also were not wanting, from the thick-frothed, rich, vanilla-flavoured chocolate and cooling fruit-drinks, to the fermented juice of the Mexican aloe, the intoxicating pulque.
Altogether the 'victuals awaiting mouths,' as Cabrera expressed it, to put it more in accordance with circumstances, the feast awaiting feasters, was of such quality and quantity as to make it quite as well, perhaps, that Hernando Cortes decided to dispense with his followers' attention for the present.
"To claim a patient hearing for a discourse, while those savoury meats were cooling, really might prove too much for the forbearance of even our good Father Olmedo himself," said Cortes smiling, as he linked his arm within that of the priest, and led him off with him as a companion at the dinner then being carried to his hut.
"'Twould be a deal too much for mine," said Alvarado, moving off in another direction with his friends. "Here, thou Morla,—thou'rt a good hand at looking after fowls, thou know'st,—just hasten yonder and pick us out the plumpest and the fairest-cooked of those good-eating great birds yonder, and thy good patron here, Don Montoro, will give thee due thanks."
"For thy sake, Alvarado, or mine own?" asked Montoro, laughing.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
"I'll not quarrel with thee, my dear Toro, on that point, since thou art very sure to permit me the lion's share of food as the reward of victory, whether won or no."
"Of course he will," broke in Juan de Cabrera, "seeing that for himself he will henceforth live upon an elegant but unsubstantial dietary of air."
"Wherefore?"
"For this simple reason, that time will be wanting to him for any more substantial meal. From this hour henceforth, even to the ending of this campaign, I do authorize, empower, and appoint him to be chief minstrel, on duty unrelieved, to the high and mighty Hernando Cortes, Captain-General and Chief Justice of the magnificent Villa Rica de Vera Cruz. The appointment is splendid, though somewhat empty of—"
"Like thy words—of wit," interrupted Alvarado. "Come, crackbrain, I will allow thee almost as good a share as myself of the viands Morla brings, to silence thy mouth for awhile, for verily thou art the prince of sparrows for a chatterer."
"And also a black-crested cockatoo! Ah! I always did suppose myself a marvel, now I know it."
And so laughing off the emotions produced by the recent great crisis in the fate of their leader and his enterprise, the party of Spanish officers sauntered off to their quarters, and were very soon pleasantly engaged in doing ample justice to the good cheer provided so hospitably by those whom they designated as 'their foes.'
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE GODS MUST AVENGE THEMSELVES.
The wooden platters, leaf baskets, and rough earthen bowls brought by the Indians full of good things were not long in being emptied, and then the Spaniards were at leisure once more to indulge in curiosity.
"What think you, father, was our captain about to say to us before the wherewithal for a dinner was so seasonably provided?"
Morla looked anxious for the answer, for although he had caught the infection of the late sudden outburst of enthusiasm, and had shouted as lustily as any one—"To Mexico! to Mexico!" he had a bad foot at the present time, and contemplated with very great apprehension the prospect of a number of days' long marches. But Juan Diaz could give him neither news nor consolation.
"Take a siesta," was the priest's advice. "I doubt not Cortes is doing so himself. And when he hath fed well and slept well, he will perchance think well to inform us of his lordly will, whether half-a-dozen or so more of his betters are to be hanged, perhaps, to do him pleasure."
"Thou the first, for an ill-conditioned, surly knave that thou art," muttered Alvarado under his breath, as he came up in time to hear most of the priest's speech. Passing a few yards farther on he raised his voice, and summoned the little army once more to assemble without delay to hear the proposed plan of future movements.
Within ten minutes the whole force had crowded up together around Cortes, and in breathless silence awaited the coming news. The first words were somewhat startling. They were a repetition of their own at the outset of that morning's tumult.
"Comrades, our ships are burnt."
Then—a long, startling pause following startling words. Men turned their heads slowly from side to side, and gazed into each others' eyes.
Were those words and the silence ominous of evil to come? of passionate accusations or of dark forebodings? But before one could mutter these and many another doubt to his fellow, the words were repeated, and the short speech continued to its end.
"Our ships are burnt. Now we go to burn the heathen gods of this benighted land. We are helpless in our own strength; in the power of the one true God we are invincible. Let us invite His aid and mercy by showing due honour to the most holy faith. We go, my comrades, to hurl the idols from their altars to make way for the Blessed Mother, and once for all to blot out human sacrifices from this polluted land, by raising on high the cross of Him who has become the one sacrifice for all mankind."
The short speech of Hernando Cortes was ended, and although it contained no hint for any one there of gain, of gold, or glory, it went home—straight home from the speaker's heart to the hearts of his hearers.
Intensely ambitious, and burdened with many faults, was that dauntless leader; wild, reckless, and cruel were many of his followers; but in some strange way they held to the Christian faith as they knew it, and were at any time willing to lay down their life in its cause, although none of their sins.
The emotions that closed that day were stronger and deeper than those with which it opened. Even the turbulent priest, Juan Diaz, put on an appearance of satisfaction now, whatever he might really still feel as to the discomforts of pestilent marshes, uncertain commons, and the faint prospect of better things for the future.
"Before all things spread the Catholic faith," was the watchword in that age, of all exploring expeditions, the one universal plea for their aid and countenance. Cortes held to it with the intense fervour natural to his strong nature. So did his followers; but all the same that Merry Andrew, Juan de Cabrera, took occasion during the course of the afternoon to remark to Alvarado—
"Now, my most estimable and dearly-beloved friend, when we get into those heathen temples do the friendly part by me, and just give me a quiet hint where to lay my fingers on any easily-portable little bits of gold."
"If you don't take better heed to that impudent tongue of thine," interfered Escalante with a laugh, "he is more likely to introduce thee to a good cudgelling."
Alvarado himself as usual shrugged his shoulders with calm indifference. Words that would have led to fatal combats amongst those fiery, proud Spaniards if spoken by any one else were uttered by the young, laughing-eyed Cabrera with perfect impunity.
"Did thy mother never think," said Don Pedro with an air of kind pity, "of putting thee in the way of earning an honest livelihood as Court fool?"
"Ay, that did she," was the instant reply; "but thy mother heard of it, and begged of her not to stand in thy light. She said there were so many comfortable little pickings——"
"Now, now, Cabrera! Hold!" sharply interrupted Montoro; "it is enough. Verily thou dost allow that tongue of thine too much licence. Alvarado, I would a few words in private with you, if you can for awhile forego this youngster's company."
So saying, he linked his hand in the other's arm and drew him away, before amusement should change into anger. And for the next hour and more even Cabrera was deep in converse of the gravest nature with Escalante, Alonzo de Grado, Velasquez de Leon, and Gonzalo de Sandoval.
Not a man in that little camp-city slept much that night, from Hernando Cortes the leader down to the meanest soldier amongst his followers. All felt that they were on the eve of great things. What had gone before was, as it were, drill-work; but now there loomed before them the true tug of war.
"And, in the prospect facing us there is one thing, I confess, that fills me with an almost abject terror."
It was Escalante who spoke, brave, firm, calm-natured Escalante, than whom there was no officer more justly honoured in the whole band for his wise spirit and unflinching courage. And yet now he uttered those craven-seeming words in low, hushed tones, and with eyes filled with a nameless horror that said even more than the words had done. His companions gazed at him in amazement.
"It is well for his present peace," said Cabrera, "that it is thyself and not another that has said that for thee, Escalante."
"Ay, indeed," ejaculated Gonzalo de Sandoval. "But what mystery lies there, Escalante, at the back of thy words?"
"No mystery," was the reply—"nought but a plain truth. The idea of falling alive into some of these heathens' hands in battle, and of then being offered up in sacrifice to their idols, and eaten after in their ghastly cannibal feasts, in very deed seemeth to me, when I think on it, to—"
"Ah! to pluck the heart out of thy breast before those fiendish hands can do it," exclaimed Cabrera, starting to his feet in sudden excitement. "I grant thee, Escalante, one has need to learn a new kind of courage to that we have hitherto required, to hold a stiff face before these thoughts."
"Not the terrors of the Inquisition itself," muttered Alonzo de Grado, "can compare with them."
But Velasquez had had enough, and more than enough, for his part, of such discourse, and flinging back his head with impetuous hauteur, he said indignantly—
"In very truth I marvel at ye all, discussing as though it were a possibility, the chance of a Spanish nobleman falling alive into the hands of a base redskin! Let us turn our tongues to themes that shall be more profitable."
"To pleasanter ones, with all my heart," said Juan de Cabrera readily. "But see, who comes yonder in such haste?"
"Morla, for a gold button," said Sandoval.
"An easy guess enough," laughed Velasquez. "And none will take thy bet, my friend. Was there ever another man with so huge a head as Morla!"
"Never mind, Morla, it hath brains inside," said Escalante good-naturedly to the man, who had now come up to the party of officers, and stood before them awaiting permission and opportunity to speak. Curiosity gave him them soon enough.
"Brains or no brains, thou hanged rascal," said Cabrera, "what wouldst thou with us. To have another try at thy neck by way of practice for the natives, if they turn restive on their gods' behalf?"
A grim smile flitted for a moment over the soldier's face.
"I thank thee, my Señor, I would rather that practising were undertaken with the Don Montoro de Diego by to witness it, and to make sure that the lesson were not too well learnt. Meantime, I have a message from the Captain-General to the Don Juan de Escalante, to the effect that he will repair without delay to the Captain's tent."
The order was obeyed with alacrity, and when the officer returned, some time later, to his brethren in arms his face wore an expression of mingled elation and satisfaction. The confidence felt in his abilities and integrity had received full proof, for he was to be left in charge of the new city of Villa Rica de Vera Cruz, and of its small garrison, of which Morla was to form one, and of the company of slaves and attendants.
"You will at any rate be safe from the perils of the sacrificial altar, seeing that here you will have neither priests, false gods, nor altars for the sacrifice," said the fine young officer Gonzalo de Sandoval, with just a touch of envy at his companion's elevation to a post of so much trust and honour. But Cabrera looked at the matter in another light—
"Neither will he have here the rich prizes that we go to gather from the golden palaces of Mexico."
"I agree with you," said Velasquez. "Wealth and action, with any peril you please, for me, sooner than poverty and a safe tranquillity."
And so the band of high-spirited young adventurers discussed their prospects gaily, none seeing into the veiled future, nor knowing that the one they thought to leave to such safety was doomed to deadly peril, none dreaming that the remaining days of life of their gallant comrade were so few, and that they were about to bid him a final farewell. But more of that in its due course.
With the first dawn of the morrow after the day of mutiny, clamour, and expectation, the whole camp was astir, and in no long time after, the army was on its way through a country beautiful enough for the Garden of Paradise, to the Indian city of Cempoalla, one of the centres of the civilization of the Western World.
Delighted feelings of new hope arose in the soldiers' minds as they came in sight of fruit-laden orchards in the highest state of cultivation, and gardens evidencing a care and knowledge, in their wonderful beauty and luxuriance, that few indeed of the gardens of Europe could boast in that warlike age.
Hernando Cortes and his men marched on. Cortes himself maintained a closely observant silence, but his officers and men were not so reticent, and on all sides there were exclamations of wonder, at the unexpected signs of an advanced civilization and refinement so utterly unlooked-for in those regions.
And now their progress began to be somewhat impeded by the innumerable processions that met them from the city,[5] some coming to welcome the strange visitors, some coming as sightseers, to enjoy an early view of the new-comers and their marvellous four-footed companions, whom they took, like the ancients of the old world, to form with their riders one extraordinary animal.
"Are we once more fighting on the battle-fields of Granada, think you!" ejaculated Alvarado to Montoro, as he pointed to a long train of men then approaching the Captain-General, and glittering in the sunlight as they came on, clad in richly-coloured mantles worn over the shoulders in the Moorish fashion, gorgeous sashes of every rainbow tint, or girdles, while splendid jewels of gold adorned their necks, their ears and nostrils.
Montoro gazed at them in equal wonder.
"But see," he murmured, almost breathless with amaze,—"see yonder, friend Pedro. Let thine eyes travel on a little farther. Is not yon a singular sight to behold in a country where we had taught ourselves to expect nought but savage wilds, and inhabitants sunk in the depths of a miserable degradation? I feel as though I had fallen asleep, to awake in dreamland."
"And a fair enough dreamland too," replied Juan de Cabrera. "I care not, for my part, how long I may remain there, so I be not altogether smothered with their flowers."
That hope as to the smothering seemed almost needful with reference to the trains of women and young maidens to whom Montoro had directed his companion's notice. Beautifully clad from the neck to the ankles in robes of exquisitely-wrought fine cotton, ornamented with finely-worked golden necklets, bracelets, and earrings, and surrounded by crowds of obsequious attendants, the graceful processions advanced, literally laden with brilliant blossoms, the products of that most lovely country.
Hastening gaily forward, they surrounded the warriors with their dainty offerings. They hung a chaplet of roses about the general's helmet, and wreaths about his charger's neck. As for the yellow-haired Alvarado and the laughing Cabrera, they were very soon converted into tolerable imitations of the English Maypole, or the May-day Jack-in-the-green, their fine Spanish eyes beaming out of the midst of their bright coverings, upon their decorators, with a smiling good-humour that gave little warning of future headlong and annihilating cruelty.
At length the Europeans reached the city, and silence fell upon them as they slowly entered the narrow, crowded streets, and paced along to a temple assigned them by the Cacique for their quarters, during their stay in his dominion.
Not one of the band would have now retreated from the enterprise on hand had he been able. At the same time, for a company of about six or seven hundred men to be cooped up within a close-built town, of whose ins and outs they knew nothing, and in this position to be surrounded by thirty thousand people who might prove to be crafty enemies, was a state of affairs to make even the most reckless feel just a little bit like wishing that they had at least two pairs of eyes, and one of them situated in the back of their heads.
No one saw fit to demur when Cortes announced, on arriving at the temple, that he intended to double the usual number of the sentinels to keep watch at night, and that the whole force was to maintain a constant state of the utmost vigilance, and readiness for any surprise.
"Moreover," concluded the General, with resolute determination of manner, "moreover, comrades, it is my absolute command, on pain of death, that none leave the precincts of our present quarters without my leave, on any pretext whatsoever. I will myself shoot the first who does."
"Umph," muttered Cabrera with a little raising of his eyebrows. "You speak very positively, my Captain. How would it be with your word if you did not get the chance!"
"Just so," returned Alvarado in the same tone. "My fears of being caught hold of by those bloodthirsty idol-priests would do more to keep me from straying, than any threats of being shot if I were lucky enough to get back to camp again. Meantime, here comes a party of well-laden cooks. Whatever other fate they intend for us, it is apparently not starvation."
As those two thus talked together, Montoro de Diego was no little startled by one of the women, with a flower-decked basket of maize cakes in her hands, and cheeks streaming with tears, separating herself with some quiet caution from her fellows, and coming up to him with her gift, and with eyes that besought, with all the power of mute eloquence, for a hearing for some tale of sorrow.
Montoro had been wandering with a vivid interest through some of the numerous apartments of the temple, opening on to the courtyard where the rest of his comrades were assembled, and he was standing within one of the halls, and alone, when the woman caught sight of him. The bringing of the maize bread was but a pretext for an interview.
"Be comforted. Trust me; I will do what I can," said Montoro, with the flush of deep excitement on his face, after listening for a few moments to the poor creature's broken utterances.
Then he dismissed her, and made his way to Cortes, asking a private audience. But the General was in something less than his usual cordial mood. Cortes was preoccupied, and oppressed with many anxieties that night, and little disposed to speech or interviews with even those whom he most esteemed.
"What is it, Diego?" he asked rather hastily—"any news of treachery without or within? For matters of high importance one must have always leisure; for others—I crave your pardon,—they must wait."
Montoro bowed with a certain degree of haughtiness.
"I am not accustomed to seek private interviews concerning trivialities. But,—I will crave your pardon as you have craved mine,—methinks, now I give second thoughts to the affair, that thou mightest even pronounce my present matter unworthy of your present favourable attention, and with disfavour I can well dispense."
"As I with thine unseasonable anger, friend Toro," said Hernando with grave reproach.
But the angered cavalier had already retired.
"To brood over his fancied causes of complaint against me, no doubt, like the most unreasonable amongst my company," muttered Cortes in a tone of vexation.
Union was so abundantly necessary just now.
CHAPTER XXIX.
MONTORO AND CABRERA RESCUE A HUMAN SACRIFICE.
"Cabrera."
"Diego!"
The one name had been spoken with a sort of eager hush in the voice; the second with an accent of startled interrogation.
The hour was about ten at night. Cabrera and Diego had been on sentry duty since Diego's short, sharp interview with the General. One of them had just been relieved, and the other was about to be so, when Montoro called to his friend, who passed him on his way to shelter and sleep.
Cabrera stepped up closer to his friend.
"Why, Toro, what is it? Of all men in the world to hear thee speaking as thou hadst some mystery to whisper!"
"And so I have," came the hurried return.
Juan's big round eyes grew bigger and rounder than ever.
"Well, and if thou hast, there is ne'er a redskin about can understand thee if thou dost but speak fast, and with some of those long words thou knowest so—"
"Hush thee, then," muttered Montoro hastily. "It is from no redskin that I would hide the matter that I have in hand, at least not for the moment, but from the keenest pair of Spanish ears that either thou or I are likely to have met with."
"If thou meanest to hint at our Captain-General by that," agreed Cabrera, "thou art right enough, for I believe that he hears thoughts sometimes, without need of the tongue to give them utterance. But the business grows interesting. I love a plot. I would thou wert about to propose to break bounds, and take a midnight wandering."
"And it is—" a pause at the fancied sound of an approaching footstep. And then he continued, scarcely audibly, "It is even so. Wilt thou join me?"
Cabrera paused an instant, and gave a perceptible start.
"It is death, Diego, by the General's orders."
"I know it. And it is death to a native Christian, my lost Indian interpreter, as a living sacrifice to heathen gods, if we do not rescue him ere the dawn. But there, I should not have asked thee to share the double danger; I will go alone. You will not, at least, betray me?"
"No, nor suffer you to go alone," was the hurried answer. "I would sooner shoot myself. But there comes your exchange. Where shall we meet again?"
"In the hollow there, two yards to the right," muttered Montoro quickly, and then he stood silent and watchful, awaiting the new-comer, as though intent upon nothing beyond guarding his present post.
Two minutes later he once more stood beside Cabrera, at the only spot of the temple's surroundings whence escape unobserved was possible. Montoro's diligent search had discovered it very soon after he quitted the General, and the daring companions had scarcely met before they were safe outside the temple's precincts. There they were joined by the Indian woman, waiting to be their guide to the great temple of sacrifice. On its lofty summit there was a fire burning, and in front of the fire was visible, even at a distance, the great stone, stained with the blood of the countless human sacrifices offered up to the honour of the horrible god of war.
Closely following their guide, and keeping in the darkest shadows of the houses along the silent streets, the two Spaniards went on their adventurous mission of mercy. Suddenly the woman fell back upon them for a few moments with a low cry, and her hand upraised towards the temple's heights. The Spaniards stood still and with their eyes obeyed her sign.
The fire had been replenished, and blazed up fiercely, and there, high up above the houses of the town, on the elevated platform, and illuminated by the ruddy glow, there now stood a group of men. As the Europeans gazed they perceived a stir amongst that group—one appeared to fall; there was a pause, the woman with another shuddering cry dropped her face into her hands. Then a far-off shout fell upon the two friends' ears, and they saw an upraised arm against the glowing background, a hand that held something—
"Is it a head?" muttered Cabrera.
But the woman once more hurried them on.
"But if he is already slain," questioned Montoro sadly, "what can we do more?"
"Perhaps he is not already sacrificed," came the anguished answer in broken Spanish. "There are many to die to-night to please the god; perhaps he still lives, and may be saved."
For that 'perhaps' the devoted champion of the oppressed, and his friend, continued their dangerous route. It might be to meet the fate that, only twenty-four hours before, Escalante had spoken of with such horror. But even if they escaped that, it would but be to receive death at the hands of their own countrymen. Montoro began to be sorely troubled. To save one man he had brought the life of another into jeopardy. After all, it might be that he did deserve Alvarado's accusation. He stood still again.
"Cabrera, I have done wrong."
"Well," was the calm answer. "A thought more wildly, perchance, than might have been looked for from the sensible Don Montoro. Shall we return?"
"You will," was the eager reply. "We have not as yet gone too far for you to find your way back easily."
"Oh—h," ejaculated Cabrera. "And for thyself?"
"I go on."
"Ah! I see. Thanks, my friend, for your dismissal then, but—I go on also."
Montoro clenched his hands tightly.
"It will be a load off my heart, Juan, if you will return."
"Without you?—never. You must keep your load."
They had begun to move on again slowly before this short dialogue was ended; but now a bitter, imploring moan from the poor creature with them helped Montoro to forget all but her troubles, and making a sign to her, they hurried on as rapidly as before.
After all, as far as Juan de Cabrera was concerned, any excitement, even to the excitement of deadly peril, was better than peace and quietness. He rather liked the sensation of feeling as though a dozen or two pairs of those lean, small, redskin hands were stretching out from every doorway to clutch at him, and that he had a sword by his side which should win him freedom. Montoro for the time thought of nothing at all, but his purpose to rescue his native servant from the bloody altar of the horrible war-god Huitzilopotchli.
Arrived at the foot of the mound on which the chief temple was built, the guide paused, and looked at her companions as though with some compunction for having brought them into so great peril; but her regrets were then too late. They had caught sight of a spectacle which had filled them with loathing indignation; and they sprang up the mound, rushed up the great flight of stone steps in the centre of the temple with a fierce shout, regardless of prudence, indifferent to all consequences, and gained the platform just in time to witness the completion of a third awful act of heathen faith.
On a huge block of jasper, with a slightly convex surface, lay the living, human, palpitating sacrifice. Around him were gathered six of the war-god's priests, hardened to their awful office by almost daily custom. Men fitted for such duties they looked, with their wild eyes, their long and matted locks flowing in wild disorder over their shoulders, and their sable, crimson-stained robes covered with hieroglyphic scrolls of mystic import.
Five of these weird, sombre, butcher-priests held down the head and limbs of the victim. The sixth, clad in a scarlet mantle, emblematic of the office, cut open the breast of the sacrifice with a sharp razor of the volcanic itztli, inserted his hand in the wound, and tore away the beating heart from the yet writhing body; the awful trophy was held for one moment up on high, then cast at the feet of the idol to which it was devoted.[6]
All was over before the Spaniards' second furious cry had had power to escape their lips. The next instant that elevated plateau was a scene of wild confusion.
Transported beyond himself, Cabrera had shot down the priest of sacrifice, dashed to the ground, insensible, two of the other black-robed ministers of the dismal faith, and then with his sword cut asunder the bonds binding a group of prisoners awaiting their turn on the jasper block.
Montoro had not been idle. At the point of the sword he had driven the remaining priests into the interior of the temple, flung into the fire the instrument of torture, and the instruments of music used to drown the wretched sufferers' cries, and then, with a far-echoing shout—"For the glory of the one true God!" he signed to the rescued captives, brandished his sword aloft, and, followed by the liberated train, the two Spaniards rushed down from the height, thrust a way for themselves and their bewildered companions through the gathering multitudes, with an impetuosity that bore down all obstacles, and with the happy Indian woman once more for guide, regained their own quarters.
The whole band of their comrades was astir, and within an hour of their stealthy departure Montoro de Diego and Cabrera, with the little group of Indians about them, once more stood in the courtyard of the lesser temple, surrounded by their Captain-General and the whole company of his followers.