15. CHAPTER XV.
Whether it was that this attack was caused by
an ebullition of popular fury, which yielded to some
mysterious and religious revulsion of feeling, or whether,
indeed, the leaders of the barbarians, persuaded
of the madness of fighting the Christians hand to
hand, and resolved to conquer them rather by famine
than arms, had called off their forces,—was a secret
the Spaniards could never penetrate. No sacred
horn was sounded on the pyramid; but, in the very
midst of what seemed their triumph, when the cavaliers
were nearly exhausted and despairing, it became
manifest that the Mexicans were giving way, and
vanishing, not one by one, but in great clusters, from
the field.
The Christians had no longer the spirit to pursue.
They found the street open; and, dashing through
the few foemen that lingered on the field, they made
their way good to the palace. Before they reached
it, they were joined by a powerful detachment, sent
out to their assistance. They returned together. At
the gate of the court-yard, stood Baltasar, Lazaro,
and the secretary, looking eagerly for the appearance
of Don Amador. His horse was led by a cavalier,
whose countenance was more dejected than the rest.
It was De Morla; and as he flung the bridle to Lazaro,
he said,—
“Hadst thou been with thy master, this thing had
not happened; for, though a serving-man, thou
wouldst have remained behind him, when a cavalier
deserted.”
“Dost thou accuse me of deserting the noble
youth?” said Alvarado, fiercely. “God forbid, I
should shed Christian blood! but, with my sword's
point, I will prove upon thy body, that thou liest!”
“And upon thine,” said De Morla, with calm indignation,
“I will make good the charge I have uttered,
that thou didst abandon in extremity, when he called
upon thee for aid, the man who had just preserved
thine own life.”
“Are there not deaths enow among the infidels?”
cried Cortes, angrily, “that ye must lust after one
another's blood?—Peace! and be ye friends, lamenting
our valiant companion together; for, De Morla,
thou doest a wrong to Alvarado; and, Don Pedro,
thou art a fool, to quarrel with the peevishness of a
mourning friend.”
The secretary listened to the cavaliers with a face
of horror; not a word said Lazaro, but as he wiped
the foam from the steed, and, with it, the blood of his
master, he eyed Don Pedro with a dark and vindictive
scowl. As for Baltasar, his rugged features quivered,
and he did not hesitate to stand in the way of
the Tonatiuh, saying,—
“If any cavalier have, indeed, been false to my
young lord, I, who am but a serving-man, will make
bold to say, he has played false to a gentleman
who would have perilled his life for any Christian in
need; and the act, though it be answered to man,
God will not forgive.—Who will tell this to my master,
Don Gabriel?”
Alvarado, extremely enraged, had raised his spear
to strike the old soldier; but he dropped his arm, at
the last words, and said with great mildness,—
“Thou art a fool to say this.—I lament thy lord;
I loved him, and I did not desert him.”—
For the remainder of that day, the garrison were
left in peace. No foes appeared on the square; but,
twice or thrice, when parties were sent out to reconnoitre,
they were met, at a distance from the palace,
by herds of Mexicans, and driven back to their
quarters.
The desperate situation of the army was now evident
to the dullest comprehension. The barbarians
had removed from the reach of the artillery, and
drawn, with their bodies, a line of circumvallation
round their victims, patiently waiting for the moment,
when famine should bring them a secure vengeance.
All day, there were seen, on the top of the pyramid,
priests and nobles, now engaged in some rite of devotion,
and now looking down, on the besieged, like
vultures on their prey; but without attempting any
annoyance.
The murmurs of the garrison, exasperated by despair
and want of food, were loud and stern; but Don
Hernan received them only with biting sarcasms.
He bade those who were most mutinous, to depart if
they would; and laughed scornfully at their confessions
of inability. To those who cried for food, he
answered by pointing grimly to the stone walls, and
the carcasses that lay on the square; or he counselled
them to seek it among their foes. In truth, the general
knew their helplessness, and in the bitterness of
his heart at being thus foiled and jeoparded, he did
not scruple to punish their discontent, by disclosing
the full misery of their situation. They were dependent
upon him for life and hope, and he suffered this
dependence to be made apparent. He revealed to
them no scheme of relief or escape; for, in fact, he
had framed none. He was, himself, as desperate as
the rest, seeing nothing before him but destruction,
and not knowing how to avoid it; and what measures
he did take, during these sorrowful hours, were rather
expedients to divert his thoughts, than plans to diminish
the general distress.
Notwithstanding the memorable fate of the burro,
and the disinclination of the soldiers to die the death
of its garrison, he obstinately commanded those which
were unfinished to be completed, with some additional
contrivances to increase their strength and mobility.
He sent out parties to ransack the deserted houses in
the vicinity, for provisions, though hopeless of obtaining
any; and he set the idlers to mending their
armour of escaupil, and the smiths to making arrow-heads,
as if still determined rather to fight than fly.
He held no councils with his officers, for he knew
they had no projects to advise; and the desperate
resort over which he pondered, of sallying out with
his whole force, and cutting his way through the
opposing foe, was too full of horror to be yet spoken.
Moreover, while Montezuma yet lived, he could not
think his situation entirely hopeless. The surgeon, upon
a re-examination of the king's wounds, had formed
a more favourable prognostic; and this was strengthened,
when Montezuma at last awoke from stupor,
and recovered the possession of his intellects. It was
told him, indeed, that the royal Indian, as if resuming
his wits only to cast them away again, had no sooner
become sensible of his condition, and remembered
that his wounds had been inflicted by his people, than
he fell into a frenzy of grief and despair, tearing
away the bandages from his body, and calling upon
his gods to receive him into Tlacocan, the place of
caverns and rivers, where wandered those who died
the death of the miserable. Don Hernan imagined
that these transports would soon rave themselves
away, and persuaded himself that his captive, yielding
at last to the natural love of life, would yet remain
in his hands, the hostage of safety, and perhaps the
instrument of authority.
Sorrow dwelt in the palace of Axajacatl; but her
presence was more deeply acknowledged in the chamber
of Calavar. From the lips of Baltasar,—and the
rude veteran wept, when he narrated the fall of the
young cavalier, whom he had himself first taught the
knowledge of arms,—Don Gabriel learned the fate of
his kinsman. But he neither wept like Baltasar, nor
joined in the loud lamentations of Marco. His eyes
dilated with a wild expression, his lip fell, he drooped
his head on his breast, and clasping his hands over
his heart, muttered an unintelligible prayer,—perhaps
the ejaculation which so often, and so piteously,
expressed his desolation. Then falling down upon his
couch, and turning his face to the wall, he remained
for the whole day and night without speaking a word.
