And of the two bolts in Cortes’ quiver, such was the speeding of the FIRST ONE!

An hour passed,—an hour of battle without and dispute within the palace.

To Cortes in his chamber then came Orteguilla, reporting.

“I gave the king the message, Señor; and he bade me tell thee thy purpose is too late. He will not come.”

The passion-vein[50] on Cortes’ neck and forehead rose, and stood out like a purple cord.

“The heathen dog!” he cried. “Will not! He is a slave, and shall come. By the holy blood of Christ, he shall come, or die!”

Then Olmedo spoke,—

“If thou wilt hear, Señor, Montezuma affects me and the good Captain Oli tenderly; suffer us to go to him, and see what we can do.”

“So be it, so be it! If thou canst bring him, in God’s name, go. If he refuse, then—I have sworn! Hearken to the hell’s roar without! Let me have report quickly. I will wait thee here. Begone!”

Olmedo started. Cortes caught his sleeve, and looked at him fixedly.

“Mira!” he said, in a whisper. “As thou lovest me do this work well. If he fail—if he fail—”

“Well?” said Olmedo, in the same tone.

“Then—then get thee to prayers! Go.”

The audience chamber whither Oli and the priest betook themselves, with Orteguilla to interpret, was crowded with courtiers, who made way for them to the dais upon which Montezuma sat. They kissed his hand, and declining the invitation to be seated began their mission.

“Good king,” said the father, “we bring thee a message from Malinche; and as its object is to stay the bloody battle which is so grievous to us all, and the slaughter which must otherwise go on, we pray thy pardon if we make haste to speak.”

The monarch’s face chilled, and drawing his mantle close he said, coldly,—

“I am listening.”

Olmedo proceeded,—

“The Señor Hernan commiserates the hard lot which compels thee to listen here to the struggle which hath lasted so many days, and always with the same result,—the wasting of thy people. The contest hath become a rebellion against thee as well as against his sovereign and thine. Finally there will be no one left to govern,—nothing, indeed, but an empty valley and a naked lake. In pity for the multitude, he is disposed to help save them from their false leaders. He hath sent us, therefore, to ask thee to join him in one more effort to that end.”

“Said he how I could help him?” asked the king.

“Come and speak to the people, and disperse them, as once before thou didst. And to strengthen thy words, and as his part of the trial, he saith thou mayst pledge him to leave the city as soon as the way is open. Only let there be no delay. He is in waiting to go with thee, good king.”

The monarch listened intently.

“Too late, too late!” he cried. “The ears of my people are turned from me. I am king in name and form only; the power is another’s. I am lost,—so is Malinche. I will not go. Tell him so.”

There was a stir in the chamber, and a groan from the bystanders; but the messengers remained looking at the poor king, as at one who had rashly taken a fatal vow.

“Why do you stay?” he continued, with a glowing face. “What more have I to do with Malinche? See the state to which my serving him has already reduced me.”

“Remember thy people!” said Olmedo, solemnly.

Flashed the monarch’s eyes as he answered,—

“My brave people! I hear them now. They are in arms to save themselves; and they will not believe me or the promises of Malinche. I have spoken.”

Then Oli moved a step toward the dais, and kissing the royal hand, said, with suffused eyes,—

“Thou knowest I love thee, O king; and I say, if thou carest for thyself, go.”

Something there was in the words, in the utterance, probably, that drew the monarch’s attention; leaning forward, he studied the cavalier curiously; over his face the while came the look of a man suddenly called by his fate. His lips parted, his eyes fixed; and but that battle has voices which only the dead may refuse to hear his spirit would have drifted off into unseemly reverie. Recalling himself with an effort, he arose, and said, half-smiling,—

“A man, much less a king, is unfit to live when his friends think to move him from his resolve by appeals to his fears.” And rising, and drawing himself to his full stature, he added, so as to be heard throughout the chamber, “Very soon, if not now, you will understand me when I say I do not care for myself. I desire to die. Go, my friends, and tell Malinche that I will do as he asks, and straightway.”

Oli and Olmedo kissed his hands, and withdrew; whereupon he calmly gave his orders.

Very soon the ’tzin, who was directing the battle from a point near the gate of the coatapantli, saw a warrior appear on the turret so lately occupied by Cortes, and wave a royal panache. He raised his shield overhead at once, and held it there until on his side the combat ceased. The Christians, glad of a breathing spell, quit almost as soon. All eyes then turned to the turret; even the combatants who had been fighting hand to hand across the crest of the parapet, ventured to look that way, when, according to the usage of the infidel court, the heralds came, and to the four quarters of the earth waved their silver wands.

Too well the ’tzin divined the meaning of the ceremony. “Peace,” he seemed to hear, and then, “Lover of Anahuac, servant of the gods,—choose now between king and country. Now or never!” The ecstasy of battle fled from him; his will became infirm as a child’s. In the space between him and the turret the smoke of the guns curled and writhed sensuously, each moment growing fainter and weaker, as did the great purpose to which he thought he had steeled himself. When he brought the shield down, his face was that of a man whom long sickness had laid close to the gates of death. Then came the image of Tula, and then the royal permission to do what the gods enjoined,—nay, more than permission, a charge which left the deed to his hand, that there might be no lingering amongst the strangers. “O sweetheart!” he said, to himself, “if this duty leave me stainless, whom may I thank but you!”

Then he spoke to Hualpa, though with a choking voice,—

“The king is coming. I must go and meet him. Get my bow, and stand by me with an arrow in place for instant use.”

Hualpa moved away slowly, watching the ’tzin; then he returned, and asked, in a manner as full of meaning as the words themselves,—

“Is there not great need that the arrow should be very true?”

The master’s eyes met his as he answered, “Yes; be careful.”

Yet the hunter stayed.

“O ’tzin,” he said, “his blood is not in my veins. He is only my benefactor. Your days are not numbered, like mine, and as yet you are blameless; for the sake of the peace that makes life sweet, I pray you let my hand do this service.”

And the ’tzin took his hand, and replied, fervently,—

“There is nothing so precious as the sight that is quick to see the sorrows of others, unless it be the heart that hurries to help them. After this, I may never doubt your love; but the duty is mine,—made so by the gods,—and he has asked it of me. Lo, the heralds appear!”

“He has asked it of you! that is enough,” and Hualpa stayed no longer.

Upon the turret the carpet was spread and the canopy set up, and forth came a throng of cavaliers and infidel lords, the latter splendidly bedight; then appeared Montezuma and Cortes.

As the king moved forward a cry, blent of all feelings,—love, fear, admiration, hate, reverence,—burst from the great audience; after which only Guatamozin and Hualpa, in front of the gate, were left standing.

And such splendor flashed from the monarch’s person, from his sandals of gold, tunic of feathers, tilmatli of white, and copilli[51] inestimably jeweled; from his face and mien issued such majesty that, after the stormy salutation, the multitude became of the place a part, motionless as the stones, the dead not more silent.

With his hands crossed upon his breast he stood awhile, seeing and being seen, and all things waited for him to speak; even the air seemed waiting, it was so very hushed. He looked to the sky, flecked with unhallowed smoke; to the sun, whose heaven, just behind the curtain of brightness, was nearer to him than ever before; to the temple, place of many a royal ceremony, his own coronation the grandest of all; to the city, beautiful in its despoilment; to the people, for whom, though they knew it not, he had come to die; at last his gaze settled upon Guatamozin, and as their eyes met, he smiled; then shaking the tilmatli from his shoulder, he raised his head, and said, in a voice from which all weakness was gone, his manner never so kingly,—

“I know, O my people, that you took up arms to set me free, and that was right; but how often since then have I told you that I am not a prisoner; that the strangers are my guests; that I am free to leave them when I please, and that I live with them because I love them?”

As in a calm a wind sometimes blows down, and breaks the placid surface of a lake into countless ripples, driving them hither and thither in sparkling confusion, these words fell upon the listening mass; a yell of anger rose, and from the temple descended bitter reproaches.

Yet the ’tzin was steady; and when the outcry ended, the king went on,—

“I am told your excuse now is, that you want to drive my friends from the city. My children, here stands Malinche himself. He hears me say for him that, if you will open the way, he and all with him will leave of their own will.”

Again the people broke out in revilements, but the monarch waved his hand angrily, and said,—

“As I am yet your king, I bid you lay down your arms—”

Then the ’tzin took the ready bow from Hualpa; full to the ear he drew the arrow. Steady the arm, strong the hand,—an instant, and the deed was done! In the purple shadow of the canopy, amidst his pomp of royalty, Montezuma fell down, covered, when too late, by a score of Christian shields. Around him at the same time fell a shower of stones from the temple.

Then, with a shout of terror, the companies arose as at a word and fled, and, panic-blind, tossed the ’tzin here and there, and finally left him alone in the square with Hualpa.

“All is lost!” said the latter, disconsolately.

“Lost!” said the ’tzin. “On the temple yonder lies Malinche’s last hope. No need now to assail the palace. When the king comes out, hunger will go in and fight for us.”

“But the people,—where are they?”

The ’tzin raised his hand and pointed to the palace,—

“So the strangers have asked. See!”

Hualpa turned, and saw the gate open and the cavaliers begin to ride forth.

“Go they this way, or yon,” continued the ’tzin, “they will find the same answer. Five armies hold the city; a sixth keeps the lake.”

Down the beautiful street the Christians rode unchallenged until they came to the first canal. While restoring the bridge there, they heard the clamor of an army, and lo! out of the gardens, houses, and temples, far as the vision reached, the infidels poured and blocked the way.

Then the cavaliers rode back, and took the way to Tlacopan. There, too, the first canal was bridgeless; and as they stood looking across the chasm, they heard the same clamor and beheld the same martial apparition.

Once more they rode, this time up the street toward the northern dike, and with the same result.

“Ola, father!” said Cortes, returned to the palace, “we may not stay here after to-morrow.”

“Amen!” cried Olmedo.

“Look thou to the sick and wounded; such as can march or move, get them ready.”

“And the others?” asked the good man.

“Do for them what thou dost for the dying. Shrieve them!”

So saying, the Christian leader sank on his seat, and gave himself to sombre thought.

He had sped his second and—LAST BOLT!

The rest of the day was spent in preparation for retreat.

CHAPTER XV
THE DEATH OF MONTEZUMA

“Now, Señores Avila and Mexia, follow my chamberlain, and in his presence and that of these gentlemen, take from the treasure the portion belonging to his Majesty, the emperor. Of our wounded horses, then choose ye eight, and of the Tlascalans, eighty, and load them with the royal dividend, and what more they can carry; and have them always ready to go. And as leaving anything of value where the infidels may be profited is sinful, I direct,—and of this let all bear witness, Hernandez for me, and the secretaries for his Majesty,—I direct, I say, that ye set the remainder apart accessible to the soldiers, with leave to each one of them to take therefrom as much as he may wish. Make note, further, that what is possible to save all this treasure hath been done. Write it, good gentlemen, write it; for if any one thinketh differently, let him say what more I can do. I am waiting to hear. Speak!”

No one spoke.

And while the division of the large plunder went on, and afterwards the men scrambled for the remainder, Montezuma was dying.

In the night a messenger sought Cortes.

“Señor,” he said, “the king hath something to ask of you. He will not die comforted without seeing you.”

“Die, say’st thou?” and Cortes arose hastily. “I had word that his hurts were not deadly.”

“If he die, Señor, it will be by his own hand. The stones wrought him but bruises; and if he would let the bandages alone the arrow-cut would shortly stop bleeding.”

“Yes, yes,” said Cortes. “Thou wouldst tell me that this barbarian, merely from being long a king, hath a spirit of such exceeding fineness that, though the arrow had not cut him deeper than thy dull rowel marketh thy horse’s flank, yet would he die. Where is he now?”

“In the audience chamber.”

“Bastante! I will see him. Tell him so.”

Cortes stood fast, thinking.

“This man hath been useful to me; may not some profit be eked out of him dead? So many saw him get his wounds, and so many will see him die of them, that the manner of his taking off may not be denied. What if I send his body out and indict his murderers? If I could take from them the popular faith even, then—By my conscience, I will try the trick!”

And taking his sword and plumed hat and tossing a cloak over his shoulder he sought the audience chamber.

There was no guard at the door. The little bells, as he threw aside the curtains, greeted him accusingly. Within, all was shadow, except where a flickering lamplight played over and around the dais; nevertheless, he saw the floor covered with people, some prostrate, others on their knees or crouching face down; and the grim speculator thought, as he passed slowly on, Verily, this king must also have been a good man and a generous.

The couch of the dying monarch was on the dais in the accustomed place of the throne. At one side stood the ancients; at the other his queens knelt, weeping. Nenetzin hid her face in his hand, and sobbed as if her heart were breaking; she had been forgiven. Now and then Maxtla bent over him to cleanse his face of the flowing blood. A group of cavaliers were off a little way, silent witnesses; and as Cortes drew near, Olmedo, who had been in prayer, extended toward the sufferer the ivory cross worn usually at his girdle.

“O king,” said the good man imploringly, “thou hast yet a moment of life, which, I pray thee, waste not. Take this holy symbol upon thy breast, cross thy hands upon it, and say after me: I believe in One God, the Father Almighty, in our Lord Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of God, and in the Holy Ghost, the Lord and Giver of Life. Then pray thou: O God the Father of Heaven, O God the Son, Redeemer of the World, O God the Holy Ghost, O Holy Trinity, One God, have mercy upon my soul! Do these things, say these words, O king, and thou shalt live after thy bones have gone to dust. Thou shalt live forever, eternally happy.”

Courtiers and cavaliers, the queens, Nenetzin, even Cortes, watched the monarch’s waning face; never yet were people indifferent to the issue—the old, old issue—of true god against false. Marina finished the interpretation; then he raised his hand tremulously, and put the holy sign away, saying,—

“I have but a moment to live, and will not desert the faith of my fathers now.”

A great sigh of relief broke from the infidels; the Christians shuddered, and crossed themselves; then Cortes stepped to Olmedo’s side.

“I received your message, and am here,” said he, sternly. He had seen the cross rejected.

The king turned his pale face, and fixed his glazing eyes upon the conqueror; and such power was there in the look that the latter added, with softening manner, “What I can do for thee I will do. I have always been thy true friend.”

“O Malinche, I hear you, and your words make dying easy,” answered Montezuma, smiling faintly.

With an effort he sought Cortes’ hand, and looking at Acatlan and Tecalco, continued,—

“Let me intrust these women and their children to you and your lord. Of all that which was mine but now is yours,—lands, people, empire,—enough to save them from want and shame were small indeed. Promise me; in the hearing of all these, promise, Malinche.”

Taint of anger was there no longer on the soul of the great Spaniard.

“Rest thee, good king!” he said, with feeling. “Thy queens and their children shall be my wards. In the hearing of all these, I so swear.”

The listener smiled again; his eyes closed, his hand fell down; and so still was he that they began to think him dead. Suddenly he stirred, and said faintly, but distinctly,—

“Nearer, uncles, nearer.”

The old men bent over him, listening.

“A message to Guatamozin,—to whom I give my last thought as king. Say to him, that this lingering in death is no fault of his; the aim was true, but the arrow splintered upon leaving the bow. And lest the world hold him to account for my blood, hear me say, all of you, that I bade him do what he did. And in sign that I love him, take my sceptre, and give it to him—”

The voice fell away, yet the lips moved; lower the ancients stooped,—

“Tula and the empire go with the sceptre,” he murmured, and they were his last words,—his will.

A wail from the women proclaimed him dead.

The unassoilzied great may not see heaven; they pass from life into history, where, as in a silent sky, they shine for ever and ever. So the light of the Indian King comes to us, a glow rather than a brilliance; for, of all fates, his was the saddest. Better not to be than to become the ornament of another’s triumph. Alas for him whose death is an immortal sorrow!

Out of the palace-gate in the early morning passed the lords of the court in procession, carrying the remains of the monarch. The bier was heavy with royal insignia; nothing of funeral circumstance was omitted; honor to the dead was policy. At the same time the body was delivered, Cortes indicted the murderers; the ancients through whom he spoke were also the bearers of the dead king’s last will; back to the bold Spaniard, therefore, came the reply,—

“Cowards, who at the last moment beg for peace! you are not two suns away from your own graves! Think only of them!”

And while Cortes was listening to the answer, the streets about the palace filled with companies, and crumbling parapet and solid wall shook under the shock of a new assault.

Then Cortes’ spirit arose.

“Mount, gentlemen!” he cried. “The hounds come scrambling for the scourge; shame on us, if we do not meet them. And hearken! The prisoners report a plague in the city, of which the new king is dying, and hundreds are sick. It is the small-pox.”

“Viva la viruela!” shouted Alvarado.

The shout spread through the palace.

“Where God’s curse is,” continued Cortes, “Christians need not stay. To-night we will go. To clear the way and make this day memorable let us ride. Are ye ready?”

They answered joyously.

Again the gates were opened, and with a goodly following of infantry, into the street they rode. Nothing withstood them; they passed the canals by repairing the bridges or filling up the chasms; they rode the whole length of the street until the causeway clear to Tlacopan was visible. St. James fought at their head; even the Holy Mother stooped from her high place, and threw handfuls of dust in the enemy’s eyes.

In the heat of the struggle suddenly the companies fell back, and made open space around the Christians; then came word that commissioners from king Cuitlahua waited in the palace to treat of peace.

“The heathen is an animal!” said Cortes, unable to repress his exultation. “To cure him of temper and win his love, there is nothing like the scourge. Let us ride back, gentlemen.”

In the court-yard stood four caciques, stately men in peaceful garb. They touched the pavement with their palms.

“We are come to say, O Malinche, that the lord Cuitlahua, our king, yields to your demand for peace. He prays you to give your terms to the pabas whom you captured on the temple, that they may bring them to him forthwith.”

The holy men were brought from their cells, one leaning upon the other. The instructions were given; then the two, with the stately commissioners, were set without the gate, and Cortes and his army went to rest, never so contented.

They waited and waited; but the envoys came not. When the sun went down, they knew themselves deceived; and then there were sworn many full, round, Christian oaths, none so full, so round, and so Christian as Cortes’.

A canoe, meantime, bore Io’ to Tula. In the quiet and perfumed shade of the chinampa he rested, and soothed the fever of his wound.

Meanwhile, also, a courier from the teotuctli passed from temple to temple; short the message, but portentous,—

“Blessed be Huitzil’, and all the gods of our fathers! And, as he at last saved his people, blessed be the memory of Montezuma! Purify the altars, and make ready for the sacrifice, for to-morrow there will be victims!”

CHAPTER XVI
ADIEU TO THE PALACE

Under the walls the sentinels cowered shivering and listening and, as is the habit of wanderers surrounded by discomforts and miseries, musing of their homes so far away, and of the path thither; on the land so beset, on the sea so viewless. Recalled to present duty, they saw nothing but the fires of the nearest temple faintly iridescent, and heard only the moans of the blast and the pattering of the rain, always so in harmony with the spirit when it is oppressed by loneliness and danger.

Meantime, the final preparation for retreat went on with the completeness of discipline.

About the close of the second watch of the night, Cortes, with his personal attendants,—page, equerry, and secretaries,—left his chamber and proceeded to the eastern gate, where he could best receive reports, and assure himself, as the divisions filed past him, that the column was formed as he had ordered. The superstructure of the gate offered him shelter; but he stood out, bridle in hand, his back to the storm. There he waited, grimly silent, absorbed in reflections gloomy as the night itself.

Everything incident to the preparation which required light had been done before the day expired; outside the house, therefore, there was not a spark to betray the movement to the enemy; in fact, nothing to betray it except the beat of horses’ hoofs and the rumble of gun-carriages, and they were nigh drowned by the tempest. If the saints would but help him clear of the streets of the city, would help him to the causeway even, without bringing the infidels upon him, sword and lance would win the rest: so the leader prayed and trusted the while he waited.

“My son, is it thou?” asked a man, close at his side.

He turned quickly, and replied, “Father Bartolomé! Welcome! What dost thou bring?”

“Report of the sick and wounded.”

“I remember, I remember! Of all this bad business, by my conscience! no part so troubled me as to say what should be done with them. At the last moment thou wert good enough to take the task upon thyself. Speak: what did thy judgment dictate? What did thy conscience permit?”

The good man arranged his hood, the better to shield his face from the rain, and answered,—

“Of the Christians, all who are able will take their places in the line; the very sick will be borne by Tlascalans; the litters are ready for them.”

“Very well,” said Cortes.

“The Tlascalans—”

“Cierto, there the trouble began!” and Cortes laid his hand heavily on the priest’s shoulder. “Three hundred and more of them too weak to rise from the straw, which yet hath not kept their bones from bruising the stony floor! Good heart, what didst thou with them?”

“They are dead.”

“Mother of God! Didst thou kill them?” Cortes griped the shoulder until Olmedo groaned. “Didst thou kill them?”

The father shook himself loose, saying, “There is no blood on my hands. The Holy Mother came to my help; and this was the way. Remembrance of the love of Christ forbade the leaving one Christian behind; but the heathen born had no such appeal; they must be left,—necessity said so. I could not kill them. By priestly office, I could prepare them for death; and so I went from man to man with holy formula and sacramental wafer. The caciques were with me the while, and when I had concluded, they spoke some words to the sufferers: then I saw what never Christian saw before. Hardly wilt thou believe me, but, Señor, I beheld the poor wretches, with smiles, bare their breasts, and the chiefs begin and thrust their javelins into the hearts of all there lying.”

An exclamation of horror burst from Cortes,—

“’Twas murder, murder! What didst thou?”

Olmedo replied quickly, “Trust me, my son, I rushed in, and stayed the work until the victims themselves prayed the chiefs to go on. Not even then did I give over my efforts,—not until they made me understand the purpose of the butchery.”

“And that? Haste thee, father. What thou tellest will stagger Christendom!”

Again Cortes caught the priest’s shoulder.

“Nay,” said the latter, shrinking back, “thy hand is hard enough without its glove of steel.”

“Pardon, father; but,—”

“In good time, my son, in good time! What, but for thy impatience, I would have said ere this is, that the object was to save the honor of the tribe, and, by killing the unfortunates, rescue them from the gods of their enemy. Accordingly, the bands who are first to enter the palace to-night or to-morrow will find treasure,—much treasure as thou knowest,—but not one victim.”

The father spoke solemnly, for in the circumstance there was a strain of pious exaltation that found an echo in his own devoted nature; greatly was he shocked to hear Cortes laugh.

“Valgame Dios!” he cried, crossing himself; “the man blasphemes!”

“Blasphemes, saidst thou?” and Cortes checked himself. “May the saints forget me forever, if I laughed at the tragedy thou wert telling! I laughed at thy simplicity, father.”

“Is this a time for jesting?” asked Olmedo.

“Good father,” said Cortes, gravely, “the bands that take the palace to-night or to-morrow will find no treasure,—not enough to buy a Christmas ribbon for a country girl. Look now. I went to the treasure-room a little while before coming here, and there I found the varlets of Narvaez loading themselves with bars of silver and gold; they had sacks and pouches belted to their waists and shoulders, and were filling them to bursting. Possibly some gold-dust spilled on the floor may remain for those who succeed us; but nothing more. Pray thou, good priest, good friend, pray thou that the treasure be not found in the road we travel to-night.”

A body of men crossing the court-yard attracted Cortes; then four horsemen approached, and stopped before him.

“Is it thou, Sandoval?” he asked.

“Yes, Señor.”

“And Ordas, Lugo, and Tapia?”

“Here,” they replied.

“And thy following, Sandoval?”

“The cavaliers of Narvaez whom thou gavest me, one hundred chosen soldiers, and the Tlascalans to the number thou didst order.”

“Bien! Lead out of the gate, and halt after making what thou deemest room for the other divisions. Christ and St. James go with thee!”

“Amen!” responded Olmedo.

And so the vanguard passed him,—a long succession of shadowy files that he heard rather than saw. Hardly were they gone when another body approached, led by an officer on foot.

“Who art thou?” asked Cortes.

“Magarino,” the man replied.

“Whom have you?”

“One hundred and fifty Christians, and four hundred Tlascalans.”

“And the bridge?”

“We have it here.”

“As thou lovest life and honor, captain, heed well thine orders. Move on, and join thyself to Sandoval.”

The bridge spoken of was a portable platform of hewn plank bolted to a frame of stout timbers, designed to pass the column over the three canals intersecting the causeway to Tlacopan, which, in the sally of the afternoon, had been found to be bridgeless. If the canals were deep as had been reported, well might Magarino be charged with particular care!

In the order of march next came the centre or main body, Cortes’ immediate command. The baggage was in their charge, also the greater part of the artillery, making of itself a long train, and one of vast interest; for, though in the midst of a confession of failure, the leader did not abate his intention of conquest,—such was a peculiarity of his genius.

“Mexia, Avila, good gentlemen,” he said, halting the royal treasurers, “let me assure myself of what beyond peradventure ye are assured.”

And he counted the horses and men bearing away the golden dividend of the emperor, knowing if what they had in keeping were safely lodged in the royal depositaries, there was nothing which might not be condoned,—not usurpation, defeat even. Most literally, they bore his fortune.

A moment after there came upon him a procession of motley composition: disabled Christians; servants, mostly females, carrying the trifles they most affected,—here a bundle of wearing apparel, there a cage with a bird; prisoners, amongst others the prince Cacama, heart-broken by his misfortunes; women of importance and rank, comfortably housed in curtained palanquins. So went Marina, her slaves side by side with those of Nenetzin, in whose mind the fears, sorrows, and emotions of the thousands setting out in the march had no place, for Alvarado had wrapped her in his cloak, and lifted her into the carriage, and left a kiss on her lips, with a promise of oversight and protection.

As if to make good the promise, almost on the heels of her slaves rode the deft cavalier, blithe of spirit, because of the happy chance which made the place of the lover that of duty also. Behind him, well apportioned of Christians and Tlascalans and much the largest of the divisions, moved the rear-guard, of which he and Leon were chiefs. His bay mare, Bradamante, however, seemed not to share his gayety, but tossed her head, and champed the bit, and frequently shied as if scared.

“Have done, my pretty girl!” he said to her. “Frightened, art thou? ’Tis only the wind, ugly enough, I trow, but nothing worse. Or art thou jealous? Verguenza! To-morrow she shall find thee in the green pasture, and kiss thee as I will her.”

“Ola, captain!” said Cortes, approaching him. “To whom speakest thou?”

“To my mistress, Bradamante, Señor,” he replied, checking the rein impatiently. “Sometimes she hath airs prettier, as thou knowest, than the prettinesses of a woman; but now,—So ho, girl!—now she—Have done, I say!—now she hath a devil. And where she got it I know not, unless from the knave Botello.”[52]

“What of him? Where is he?” asked Cortes, with sudden interest.

“Back with Leon, talking, as is his wont, about certain subtleties, nameless by good Christians, but which he nevertheless calleth prophecies.”

“What saith the man now?”

“Out of the mass of his follies, I remember three: that thou, Señor, from extreme misfortune, shalt at last attain great honor; that to-night hundreds of us will be lost,—which last I can forgive in him, if only his third prediction come true.”

“And that?”

“Nay, Señor, except as serving to show that the rogue hath in him a savor of uncommon fairness, it is the least important of all; he saith he himself will be amongst the lost.”

Then Cortes laughed, saying, “Wilt thou never be done with thy quips? Lead on. I will wait here a little longer.”

Alvarado vanished, being in haste to recover his place behind Nenetzin. Before Cortes then, with the echoless tread of panthers in the glade, hurried the long array of Tlascalans; after them, the cross-bowmen and arquebusiers, their implements clashing against their heavy armor; yet he stood silent, pondering the words of Botello. Not until, with wheels grinding and shaking the pavement, the guns reached him did he wake from his thinking.

“Ho, Mesa, well met!” he said to the veteran, whom he distinguished amid a troop of slaves dragging the first piece. “This is not a night like those in Italy where thou didst learn the cunning of thy craft; yet there might be worse for us.”

“Mira, Señor!” and Mesa went to him, and said in a low voice, “What thou saidst was cheerily spoken, that I might borrow encouragement; and I thank thee, for I have much need of all the comfort thou hast to give. A poor return have I, Señor. If the infidels attack us, rely not upon the guns, not even mine: if the wind did not whisk the priming away, the rain would drown it,—and then,”—his voice sunk to a whisper; “our matches will not burn!”

At that moment a gust dashed Cortes with water, and for the first time he was chilled,—chilled until his teeth chattered; for simultaneously a presentiment of calamity touched him with what in a man less brave would have been fear. He saw how, without the guns, Botello’s second prediction was possible! Nevertheless, he replied,—

“The saints can help their own in the dark as well as in the light. Do thy best. To-morrow thou shalt be captain.”

Then Cortes mounted his horse, and took his shield, and to his wrist chained his battle-axe: still he waited. A company of horsemen brushed past him, followed by a solitary rider.

“Leon!” said Cortes.

The cavalier stopped, and replied,—

“What wouldst thou, Señor?”

“Are the guards withdrawn?”

“All of them.”

“And the sentinels?”

“I have been to every post; not a man is left.”

Cortes spoke to his attendants and they, too, rode off; when they were gone he said to Leon,—

“Now we may go.”

And with that together they passed out into the street. Cortes turned, and looked toward the palace, now deserted; but the night seemed to have snatched the pile away, and in its place left a blackened void. Fugitive as he was, riding he knew not to what end, he settled in his saddle again with a sigh—not for the old house itself, nor for the comfort of its roof, nor for the refuge in time of danger; not for the Christian dead reposing in its gardens, their valor wasted and their graves abandoned, nor for that other victim there sacrificed in his cause, whose weaknesses might not be separated from a thousand services, and a royalty superbly Eastern: these were things to wake the emotions of youths and maidens, young in the world, and of poets, dreamy and simple-minded; he sighed for the power he had there enjoyed,—the weeks and months when his word was law for an empire of shadowy vastness, and he was master, in fact, of a king of kings,—immeasurable power now lost, apparently forever.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE PURSUIT BEGINS.

If the shade of Mualox lingered about the altar of the peaceful god, no doubt it thrilled to see the profanation of the holy place; if it sought refuge in the cells below, alas! they were filled by an army in concealment; and if it went further, down to what the paba, in his poetic madness, had lovingly called his World, alas again! the birds were dead, the shrubs withered, the angel gone; only the fountain lived, of Darkness a sweet voice singing in the ear of Silence.

So the ’tzin being found, this was the message delivered to him from the king Cuitlahua:—

“May the gods love you as I do! I am sick with the sickness of the strangers. Come not near me, lest you be taken also. I go to Chapultepec to get ready for death. If I die, the empire is yours. Meantime, I give you all power.”

Guatamozin took the signet, and was once more master, if not king, in the city of his fathers. The deputies kissed his hand; the chiefs saluted him; and when the tidings reached the companies below, the cells rang as never before, not even with the hymns of their first tenants.

While yet the incense of the ovation sweetened the air about him, he looked up at the image of the god,—web of spider on its golden sceptre, dust on its painted shield, dust bending its plumes of fire; he looked up into the face, yet fair and benignant, and back to him rushed the speech of Mualox, clear as if freshly spoken,—“Anahuac, the beautiful,—her existence, and the glory and power that make it a thing of worth, are linked to your action. O ’tzin, your fate and hers, and that of the many nations, is one and the same!” and the beating of his pulse quickened thrice; for now he could see that the words were prophetic of his country saved by him.

Then up the broad steps of the Cû, into the sanctuary, and through the crowd, rushed Hualpa; the rain streamed from his quilted armor; and upon the floor in front of the ’tzin, with a noise like the fall of a heavy hammer, he dropped the butt of a lance to which was affixed a Christian sword-blade.

“At last, at last, O ’tzin!” he said, “the strangers are in the street, marching toward Tlacopan.”

The company hushed their very breathing.

“All of them?” asked the ’tzin.

“All but the dead.”

Then on the ’tzin’s lip a smile, in his eyes a flash as of flame.

“Hear you, friends?” he said. “The time of vengeance has come. You know your places and duty. Go, each one. May the gods go with you!”

In a moment he and Hualpa were alone. The latter bent his head, and crossing his hands upon his breast said,—

“When the burthen of my griefs has been greatest, and I cried out continually, O ’tzin, you have held me back, promising that my time would come. I doubt not your better judgment, but—but I have no more patience. My enemy is abroad, and she, whom I cannot forget, goes with him. Is not the time come?”

Guatamozin laid his hand on Hualpa’s:—

“Be glad, O comrade! The time has come; and as you have prepared for it like a warrior, go now, and get the revenge so long delayed. I give you more than permission,—I give you my prayers. Where are the people who are to go with you?”

“In the canoes, waiting.”

They were silent awhile. Then the ’tzin took the lance, and looked at the long, straight blade admiringly; under its blue gleam lay the secret of its composition, by which the few were able to mock the many, and ravage the capital and country.

“Dread nothing; it will conquer,” he said, handing the weapon back.

Hualpa kissed his hand, and replied, “I thought to make return for your preferments, O ’tzin, by serving you well when you were king; but the service need not be put off so long. I thank the gods for this night’s opportunity. If I come not with the rising of the sun to-morrow, Nenetzin can tell you my story. Farewell!”

With his face to his benefactor, he moved away.

“Have a care for yourself!” said the ’tzin, regarding him earnestly; “and remember there must be no sign of attack until the strangers have advanced to the first causeway. I will look for you to-morrow. Farewell!”

While yet the ’tzin’s thoughts went out compassionately after his unhappy friend, up from their irksome hiding in the cells came the companies he was to lead,—a long array in white tunics of quilted cotton. At their head, the uniform covering a Christian cuirass, and with Christian helm and battle-axe, he marched; and so, through the darkness and the storm, the pursuit began.

CHAPTER XVIII
LA NOCHE TRISTE

The movement of the fugitive army was necessarily slow. Stretched out in the street, it formed a column of irregular front and great depth. A considerable portion was of non-combatants, such as the sick and wounded, the servants, women, and prisoners; to whom might be added the Indians carrying the baggage and ammunition, and laboriously dragging the guns. The darkness, and the rain beaten into the faces of the sufferers by the wind, made the keeping order impossible; at each step the intervals between individuals and between the divisions grew wider and wider. After crossing two or three of the bridges, a general confusion began to prevail; the officers, in dread of the enemy, failed to call out, and the soldiers, bending low to protect their faces, and hugging their arms or their treasure, marched in dogged silence, indifferent to all but themselves. Soon what was at first a fair column in close order became an irregular procession; here a crowd of all the arms mixed, there a thin line of stragglers.

It is a simple thing, I know, yet nothing has so much to do with what we habitually call our spirits as the condition in which we are at the time. Under an open sky, with the breath of a glowing morning in our nostrils, we sing, laugh, and are brave; but let the cloud hide the blue expanse and cover our walk with shadow, and we shrink within ourselves; or worse, let the walk be in the night, through a strange place, with rain and cold added, and straightway the fine thing we call courage merges itself into a sense of duty or sinks into humbler concern for comfort and safety. So, not a man in all the column,—not a cavalier, not a slave,—but felt himself oppressed by the circumstances of the situation; those who, only that afternoon, had charged like lions along that very street now yielded to the indefinable effect, and were weak of heart even to timidity. The imagination took hold of most of them, especially of the humbler class, and, lining the way with terrors all its own, reduced them to the state when panic rushes in to complete what fear begins. They started at the soughing of the wind; drew to strike each other; cursed the rattle of their arms, the hoof-beats of the horses, the rumble of the carriage-wheels; on the houses, vaguely defined against the sky, they saw sentinels ready to give the alarm, and down the intersecting streets heard the infidel legions rushing upon them; very frequently they stumbled over corpses yet cumbering the way after the day’s fight, and then they whispered the names of saints, and crossed themselves: the dead, always suggestive of death, were never so much so to them.

And so, for many squares, across canals, past palaces and temples, they marched, and nothing to indicate an enemy; the city seemed deserted.

“Hist, Señor!” said Duero, speaking with bated breath. “Hast thou not heard of the army of unbelievers that, in the night, while resting in their camp, were by a breath put to final sleep? Verily, the same good angel of the Lord hath been here also.”

“Nay, compadre mio,” replied Cortes, bending in his saddle, “I cannot so persuade myself. If the infidels meant to let us go, the going would not be so peaceful. From some house-top we should have had their barbarous farewell,—a stone, a lance, an arrow, at least a curse. By many signs,—for that matter, by the rain which, driven through the visor bars, is finding its way down the doublet under my breastplate,—by many signs, I know we are in the midst of a storm. Good Mother forfend, lest, bad as it is, it presage something worse!”

At that moment a watcher on the azoteas of a temple near by chanted the hour of midnight.

“Didst hear?” asked Cortes. “They are not asleep! Olmedo! father! Where art thou?”

“What wouldst thou, my son?”

“That thou shouldst not get lost in this Tophet; more especially, that thou shouldst keep to thy prayers.”

And about that time Sandoval, at the head of his advanced guard, rode from the street out on the open causeway. Farther on, but at no great distance, he came to the first canal. While there, waiting for the bridge to be brought forward, he heard from the lake to his right the peal long and loud of a conch-shell. His heart, in battle steadfast as a rock, throbbed faster; and with raised shield and close-griped sword, he listened, as did all with him, while other shells took up and carried the blast back to the city, and far out over the lake.

In the long array none failed to interpret the sound aright; all recognized a signal of attack, and halted, the slave by his prolong, the knight on his horse, each one as the moment found him. They said not a word, but listened; and as they heard the peal multiply countlessly in every direction,—now close by, now far off,—surprise, the first emotion, turned to dismay. Flight,—darkness,—storm,—and now the infidels! “May God have mercy on us!” murmured the brave, making ready to fight. “May God have mercy on us!” echoed the timid, ready to fly.

The play of the wind upon the lake seemed somewhat neutralized by the density of the rain; still the waves splashed lustily against the grass-grown sides of the causeway; and while Sandoval was wondering if there were many, who, in frail canoes, would venture upon the waste at such a time, another sound, heard, as it were, under that of the conchs, yet too strong to be confounded with wind or surging water, challenged his attention; then he was assured.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, “get ye ready; they are coming. Pass the word, and ride one to Magarino,—speed to him, speed him here! His bridge laid now were worth a hundred lives!”

As the yells of the infidels—or, rather, their yell, for the many voices rolled over the water in one great volume—grew clearer their design became manifest.

Cortes touched Olmedo:—

“Dost thou remember the brigantines?”

“What of them?”

“Only, father, that what will happen to-night would not if they were afloat. Now shall we pay the penalty of their loss. Ay de mi!” Then he said aloud to the cavaliers, Morla, Olid, Avila, and others. “By my conscience, a dark day for us was that in which the lake went back to the heathen,—brewer, it, of this darker night! An end of loitering! Bid the trumpeters blow the advance! One ride forward to hasten Magarino; another to the rear that the division may be closed up. No space for the dogs to land from their canoes. Hearken!”

The report of a gun, apparently back in the city, reached them.

“They are attacking the rear-guard! Mesa spoke then. On the right hear them, and on the left! Mother of God, if our people stand not firm now, better prayers for our souls than fighting for our lives!”

A stone then struck Avila, startling the group with its clang upon his armor.

“A slinger!” cried Cortes. “On the right here,—can ye see him?”

They looked that way, but saw nothing. Then the sense of helplessness in exposure smote them, and, knightly as they were, they also felt the common fear.

“Make way! Room, room!” shouted Magarino, rushing to the front, through the advance-guard. His Tlascalans were many and stout; to swim the canal,—with ropes to draw the bridge after them,—to plant it across the chasm, were things achieved in a moment.

“Well done, Magarino! Forward, gentlemen,—forward all!” so saying, Sandoval spurred across; after him, in reckless haste, his whole division rushed. The platform, quivering throughout, was stancher than the stone revetments upon which its ends were planted; calcined by fire, they crumbled like chalk. The crowd then crossing, sensible that the floor was giving way under them, yelled with terror, and in their frantic struggle to escape toppled some of them into the canal. None paused to look after the unfortunates; for the shouting of the infidels, which had been coming nearer and nearer, now rose close at hand, muffling the thunder of the horses plunging on the sinking bridge. Moreover, stones and arrows began to fall in that quarter with effect, quickening the hurry to get away.

Cortes reached the bridge at the same time the infidels reached the causeway. He called to Magarino; before the good captain could answer, the waves to the right hand became luminous with the plashing of countless paddles, and a fleet of canoes burst out of the darkness. Up rose the crews, ghost-like in their white armor, and showered the Christians with missiles. A cry of terror,—a rush,—and the cavaliers were pushed on the bridge, which they jammed deeper in the rocks. Some horses, wild with fright, leaped into the lake, and, iron-clad, like their riders, were seen no more.

On the further side, Cortes wheeled about, and shouted to his friends. Olmedo answered, so did Morla; then they were swept onward.

Alone, and in peril of being forced down the side of the dike, Cortes held his horse to the place. The occasional boom of guns, a straggling fire of small arms, and the unintermitted cries of the infidels, in tone exultant and merciless, assured him that the attack was the same everywhere down the column. One look he gave the scene near by,—on the bridge, a mass of men struggling, cursing, praying; wretches falling, their shrieks shrill with despair; the lake whitening with assailants! He shuddered, and called on the saints; then the instinct of the soldier prevailed:—

“Ola, comrades!” he cried. “It is nothing. Stand, if ye love life. Stand, and fight, as ye so well know how! Holy Cross! Christo y Santiago!”

He spurred into the thick of the throng. In vain: the current was too strong; the good steed seconded him with hoof and frontlet; now he prayed, now cursed; at last he yielded, seeing that on the other side of the bridge was Fear, on his side Panic.

When the signal I have described, borne from the lake to the city, began to resound from temple to temple, the rear-guard were yet many squares from the causeway, and had, for the most part, become merely a procession of drenched and cowering stragglers. The sound alarmed them; and divining its meaning, they assembled in accidental groups, and so hurried forward.

Nenetzin and Marina, yet in company, were also startled by the noisy shells. The latter stayed not to question or argue; at her word, sharply spoken, her slaves followed fast after the central division, and rested not until they had gained a place well in advance of the non-combatants, whose slow and toilsome progress she had shrewdly dreaded. Not so Nenetzin: the alarm proceeded from her countrymen; feared she, therefore, for her lover; and when, vigilant as he was gallant, he rode to her, and kissed her hand, and spoke to her in lover’s phrase, she laughed, though not understanding a word, and bade her slaves stay with him.

Last man in the column was Leon, brave gentleman, good captain. With his horsemen, he closed upon the artillery.

“Friend,” he said to Mesa, “the devil is in the night. As thou art familiar with wars as Father Olmedo with mass, how readest thou the noise we hear?”

The veteran, walking at the moment between two of his guns, replied,—

“Interpret we each for himself, Señor. I am ready to fight. See!”

And drawing his cloak aside, he showed the ruddy spark of a lighted match.

“As thou seest, I am ready; yet”—and he lowered his voice—“I shame not to confess that I wish we were well out of this.”

“Good soldier art thou!” said Leon. “I will stay with thee. A la Madre todos!”

The exclamation had scarcely passed his lips when to their left and front the darkness became peopled with men in white, rushing upon them, and shouting, “Up, up, Tlateloco! O, O luilones, luilones!”[53]

“Turn thy guns quickly, Mesa, or we are lost!” cried Leon; and to his comrades, “Swords and axes! Upon them, gentlemen! Santiago, Santiago!”

The veteran as promptly resolved himself into action. A word to his men,—then he caught a wheel with one hand, and swung the carriage round, and applied the match. The gun failed fire, but up sprang a hissing flame, and in its lurid light out came all the scene about: the infidels pouring into the street, the Tlascalans and many Spaniards in flight, Leon charging almost alone, and right amongst the guns a fighting man,—by his armor, half pagan, half Christian,—all this Mesa saw, and more,—that the slaves had abandoned the ropes, and that of the gunners the few who stood their ground were struggling for life hand to hand; still more, that the gun he was standing by looked point-blank into the densest ranks of the foe. Never word spoke he; repriming the piece, he applied the match again. The report shook the earth, and was heard and recognized by Cortes out on the causeway; but it was the veteran’s last shot. To his side sprang the ’tzin: in his ear a war-cry, on his morion a blow, and under the gun he died. When Duty loses a good servant Honor gains a hero.

The fight—or, rather, the struggle of the few against the many—went on. The ’tzin led his people boldly, and they failed him not. Leon drew together all he could of Christians and Tlascalans; then, as game to be taken at leisure, his enemy left him. Soon the fugitives following Alvarado heard a strange cry coming swiftly after them, “O, O luilones! O luilones!”

And through the rain and the night, doubly dark in the canals, Hualpa sped to the open lake, followed by nine canoes, fashioned for speed, each driven by six oarsmen, and carrying four warriors; so there were with him nine and thirty chosen men, with linked mail under their white tunics, and swords of steel on their long lances,—arms and armor of the Christians.

Off the causeway, beyond the first canal, he waited, until the great flotillas, answering his signal, closed in on the right hand and left; then he started for the canal, chafing at the delay of his vessels.

“Faster, faster, my men!” he said aloud; then to himself, “Now will I wrest her from the robber, and after that she will give me her love again. O happy, happy hour!”

He sought the canal, thinking, doubtless, that the Christians would find it impassable, and that in their front, as the place of safety, they would most certainly place Nenetzin. There, into the press he drove.

“Not here! Back, my men!” he shouted.

The chasm was bridged.

And marvelling at the skill of the strangers, which overcame difficulties as by magic, and trembling lest they should escape and his love be lost to him after all, he turned his canoe,—if possible, to be the first at the next canal. Others of his people were going in the same direction, but he out-stript them.

“Faster, faster!” he cried; and the paddles threshed the water,—wings of the lake-birds not more light and free. Into the causeway he bent, so close as to hear the tramp of horses; sometimes shading his eyes against the rain, and looking up, he saw the fugitives, black against the clouds,—strangers and Tlascalans,—plumes of men, but never scarf of woman.

Very soon the people on the causeway heard his call to the boatmen, and the plash of the paddles, and they quickened their pace.

“Adelante! adelante!” cried Sandoval, and forward dashed the cavaliers.

“O my men, land us at the canal before the strangers come up, and in my palace at ease you shall eat and drink all your lives! Faster, faster!”

So Hualpa urged his rowers, and in their sinewy hands the oaken blades bent like bows.

Behind dropped the footmen,—even the Tlascalans; and weak from hunger and wounds, behind dropped some of the horses. Shook the causeway, foamed the water. A hundred yards,—and the coursers of the lake were swift as the coursers of the land; half a mile,—and the appeal of the infidel and the cheering cry of the Christian went down the wind on the same gale. At last, as Hualpa leaped from his boat, Sandoval checked his horse,—both at the canal.

Up the dike the infidels clambered to the attack. And there was clang of swords and axes, and rearing and plunging of steeds; then the voice of the good captain,—

“God’s curse upon them! They have our shields!”

A horse, pierced to the heart, leaped blindly down the bank, and from the water rose the rider’s imploration: “Help, help, comrades! For the love of Christ, help! I am drowning!”

Again Sandoval,—

“Cuidado,—beware! They have our swords on their lances!” Then, observing his horsemen giving ground, “Stand fast! Unless we hold the canal for Magarino, all is lost! Upon them! Santiago, Santiago!”

A rally and a charge! The sword-blades did their work well; horses, wounded to death or dead, began to cumber the causeway, and the groans and prayers of their masters caught under them were horrible to hear. Once, with laughter and taunting jests, the infidels retreated down the slope; and once, some of them, close pressed, leaped into the canal. The lake received them kindly; with all their harness on they swam ashore. Never was Sandoval so distressed.

Meantime, the footmen began to come up; and as they were intolerably galled by the enemy, who sometimes landed and engaged them hand to hand, they clamored for those in front to move on. “Magarino! The bridge, the bridge! Forward!” With such cries, they pressed upon the horsemen, and reduced the space left them for action.

At length Sandoval shouted,—

“Ola, all who can swim! Follow me!”

And riding down the bank, he spurred into the water. Many were bold enough to follow; and though some were drowned, the greater part made the passage safely. Then the cowering, shivering mass left behind without a leader, became an easy prey; and steadily, pitilessly, silently, Hualpa and his people fought,—silently, for all the time he was listening for a woman’s voice, the voice of his beloved.

And now, fast riding, Cortes came to the second canal, with some cavaliers whom he rallied on the way; behind him, as if in pursuit, so madly did they run, followed all of the central division who succeeded in passing the bridge. The sick and wounded, the prisoners, even king Cacama and the women, abandoned by their escort, were slain and captured,—all save Marina, rescued by some Tlascalans, and a Spanish Amazon, who defended herself with sword and shield.

At points along the line of flight the infidels intercepted the fugitives. Many terrible combats ensued. When the Christians kept in groups, as did most of the veterans, they generally beat off the assailants. The loss fell chiefly upon the Tlascalans, the cross-bowmen, and arquebusiers, whose arms the rain had ruined, and the recruits of Narvaez, who, weighted down by their treasure and overcome by fear, ran blindly along, and fell almost without resistance.

One great effort Cortes made at the canal to restore order before the mob could come up.

“God help us!” he cried at last to the gentlemen with him. “Here are bowmen and gunners without arms, and horsemen without room to charge. Nothing now but to save ourselves! And that we may not do, if we wait. Let us follow Sandoval. Hearken to the howling! How fast they come! And by my conscience, with them they bring the lake alive with fiends! Olmedo, thou with me! Come, Morla, Avila, Olid! Come, all who care for life!”

And through the mêlée they pushed, through the murderous lancers, down the bank,—Cortes first, and good knights on the right and left of the father. There was plunging and floundering of horses, and yells of infidels, and the sound of deadly blows, and from the swimmers shrieks for help, now to comrades, now to saints, now to Christ.

“Ho, Sandoval, right glad am I to find thee!” said Cortes, on the further side of the canal. “Why waitest thou?”

“For the coming of the bridge, Señor.”

“Bastante! Take what thou hast, and gallop to the next canal. I will do thy part here.”

And dripping from the plunge in the lake, chilled by the calamity more than by the chill wind, and careless of the stones and arrows that hurtled about him, he faced the fight, and waited, saying simply,—“O good Mother, hasten Magarino!”

Never prayer more hearty, never prayer more needed! For the central division had passed, and Alvarado had come and gone, and down the causeway to the city no voice of Christian was to be heard; at hand, only the infidels with their melancholy cry, of unknown import, “O, O luilones! O, O luilones!” Then Magarino summoned his Tlascalans and Christians to raise the bridge. How many of them had died the death of the faithful, how many had basely fled, he knew not; the darkness covered the glory as well as the shame. To work he went. And what sickness of the spirit, what agony ineffable seized him! The platform was too fast fixed in the rocks to be moved! Awhile he fought, awhile toiled, awhile prayed; all without avail. In his ears lingered the parting words of Cortes, and he stayed though his hope was gone. Every moment added to the dead and wounded around him, yet he stayed. He was the dependence of the army: how could he leave the bridge? His men deserted him; at last he was almost alone; before him was a warrior whose shield when struck gave back the ring of iron, and whose blows came with the weight of iron; while around closer and closer circled the white uniforms of the infidels; then he cried,—