University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

At midnight, the Mexican spy, looking over the
broken wall, beheld in the court-yard which it environed,
a scene of singular devotion;—or rather he
caught with his ears—for the grave was not blacker
than that midnight—the smothered accents of supplication.
The Christians were upon their knees, listening,
with a silence broken only by the fretful champing
of steeds, and the suppressed moans of wounded
men, to a prayer, pronounced in a whispering voice,
wherein the father Olmedo implored of Heaven to regard
them in pity, to stupify the senses of their enemies,
and surround his servants with the shields of
mercy, so that, this night, they might walk out of the
city which was their prison-house, and from the
island which had been their charnel, oppressed no
more by the weight of His anger.

The prostrate soldiers, to that moment, full of confident

hope, and not anticipating the danger of any
opposition, hearkened with solicitude to the humble
and earnest supplication; and when the padre besought
the deity to endow their arms with strength,
and their hearts with courage, to sustain the toils,
and perhaps the perils, of retreat, they were struck
with a vague but racking fear. The petition which
was meant to embolden, deprived them of hope; and
they rose from their vain devotions, in unexpected
horror.

The gloom that invested the ruinous palace, prevailed
equally over the pagan city. No torch shone
from the casements or house-tops, no taper flickered
in the streets; and the urns of fire on the neighbouring
pyramid, the only light visible,—save, now and
then, a ghastly gleam of lightning bursting up from the
south,—burned with a dull and sickened glare, as if
neglected by their watchers. A silence, in character
with the obscurity, reigned over the slumbering city;
and when, at last, the steps of those who bore the
ponderous bridge, and the creaking of artillery wheels,
were heard ringing and rolling over the square, the
sounds smote on the hearts of all like the tolling of
distant funeral bells.

The plan of retreat, determined after anxious deliberation,
and carefully made known to all, was
adopted with readiness, as these footsteps and this
rolling sound of wheels,—the only signals made,—
were heard; each man knew his place, and, without
delay, assumed it. In little more than half an hour,
the whole train of invaders, Christian principals and
Tlascalan abettors, was in motion, creeping, with the
slow and stealthy pace of malefactors, over the street
that led to the dike of Tacuba. Few glances were sent
back to the palace, as those dim sheets of lightning,
flashing up over the path they were pursuing, revealed
obscurely, ever and anon, its broken and deserted
turrets. Its gloomy pile associated nothing but the
memory of disaster and grief. Fearful looks, however,
were cast upon the dusky fabrics on either side

of the street, as if the fugitives apprehended that each
creak of a wheel, each clattering of horses' hoofs,
or the rattling of armour, might draw the infidel from
his slumbers; and many an ear was directed anxiously
towards the van, in fear lest the trumpet should,
at last, be sounded, with the signal of enemies already
drawn up, a thousand deep, on the path they
were treading. But no sounds were heard, save
those which denoted the continued progress of their
own bands; no wakeful barbarian was seen lurking
in the streets; and hope again slowly returned to the
bosoms of the tremblers.

Before they had yet reached the borders of the island,
the night became still more dark than at their
outset; for the lightning grew fainter at each flash,
and finally sank beneath the horizon, to continue its
lurid gambols among the depths of the South Sea.
This was witnessed with secret satisfaction; for, with
these treacherous scintillations, departed the dread
that many felt, lest they should betray the march of
the army.

It has been mentioned, that the people of Tenochtitlan
had not only covered the surface of the island
with their dwellings, but had extended them, on foundations
of piles, into the lake, wherever the shallowness
of the water permitted. This was especially
the case in the neighbourhood of the great dikes; in
which places, not only single houses, but entire
blocks, deserving the name of suburbs, were constructed.
Such a suburb jutted out, for some distance,
along the causeway of Tacuba.

The van of the army had already passed beyond
the furthest of these black and silent structures, and
yet no just cause existed to suppose the retreat had
been discovered; though many men of sharper ears
or fainter hearts than their fellows, had averred that
they could, at times, distinguish, on the rear, a dull
sound, as of men moving behind them in heavy
masses. The wiser, however, were satisfied, that no
such sounds could prevail even over the subdued

noise of their own footsteps; but some of these bent
their ears anxiously towards the front, as if afraid of
danger in that quarter. The reason of this was not
concealed. All day, sounds of lamentation had been
heard coming from the dike, upon which they were
now marching, or from its neighbourhood. It was
rumoured, that the cemetery of the Mexican kings
lay on the hill of Chapoltepec, under the huge and
melancholy cypresses, which overshadow that green
promontory; and that there, this day, Montezuma
had been laid among his ancestors. A whole people
had gone forth to lament him; and how many of the
mourners might be now returning by the causeway,
was a question which disturbed the reflections of all.

But this apprehension was dispelled, when the front
of the army had reached the first of the three ditches
which intersected the dike to Tacuba. Its bridge
was removed and gone, and the deep water lay tranquilly
in the chasm. The foe, relying on this simple
precaution, had left the dike to its solitude; and the
expedient for continuing the imprisonment of the
Spaniards, was the warrant of their security.

A little breeze, dashing occasionally drops of rain,
began to puff along the lake, as the bridge-bearers
deposited their burden over the abyss. This was not
the labour of a moment; the heavy artillery, which
still preceded the train of discomfited slayers, like a
troop of jackals in the path of other destroyers,
required that the ponderous frame should be adjusted
with the greatest care. While the carriers, assisted
by a body of Tlascalans, who slipped into the ditch
and swam to the opposite side, were busy with their
work, the long train of fugitives behind, halted, and
remained silent with expectation. The rumbling of
the wood over the flags of the causeway, the suppressed
murmurs of the labourers, and, now and then,
the dropping of some stone loosened by their feet,
into the ditch,—added to the sighs of the breeze, whispering
faintly over casque and spear,—were the only
sounds that broke the dismal quiet of the scene; and

there was something in these, as well as in the occurrence
itself, which caused many to think of the
characteristics of a funeral;—the mute and solemn
expectation of the lookers-on,—the smothered expressions
of the few,—and the occasional rattle of clods,
dropping, by accident, upon the coffin.

The bridge was, at last, fixed, and the loud clang
of hoofs was heard, as Cortes, himself, made trial of
its strength. The breath of those behind, came more
freely, when these sounds reached their ears; and
they waited impatiently till the advance of those who
preceded them, should give motion to their own
ranks.

The post of Don Amador de Leste had been assigned,
at his own demand, in the vanguard,—which
was a force consisting of twenty horsemen, two hundred
foot, and ten times that number of Tlascalan
warriors, commanded by Sandoval, the valiant; and,
up to this moment, he had ridden at that leader's side,
without much thought of unhealed wounds and feebleness,
willing, and fully prepared, to divide the
danger and the honour of any difficulty, which might
be presented. But being now convinced, by the sign
we have mentioned,—that is to say, the removal of
the original bridge,—that no enemies lay in wait on
the causeway, he descended from the back of Fogoso,
giving the rein to Lazaro, and commanding him
to proceed onward with the party. In this, he was,
perhaps, not so much governed by a desire to escape
the tedium of riding in company with the ever taciturn
Sandoval, as to be nearer to the forlorn boy,
Jacinto, who had, until this moment, trudged along
at his side. Some little curiosity to witness the passage
of the rout of fugitives, had also its influence;
for, taking the page by the hand, he led him to the
edge of the bridge, where he could observe every
thing without inconvenience, and without obstructing
the course of others.

The dike of Tacuba was, like that of Iztapalapan,
of stone, and so broad, that ten horsemen could easily

ride on it abreast. Its base was broad, shelving, and
rugged, and the summit was, perhaps, six feet above
the surface of the water.

The thunder of the twenty horsemen, as they rode
over the bridge, interrupted the consolation which
the neophyte was about to give to Jacinto; who,
hanging closely to his patron's arm, yet looked back
towards the city, with many sobs for his exiled father.
In the gloomy obscurity of the hour, the cavaliers of
the van, as they passed, seemed rather like spectres
than men;—in an instant of time, they were hidden
from sight among the thick shadows in front. Not
less phantom-like appeared the two hundred foot,
stealing over the chasm, and vanishing like those
who had preceded them. Then came the two thousand
Tlascalans, their broken and drooping plumes
rustling over their dusky backs, as they strode onwards,
with steps quickened, but almost noiseless.

After these, came the cannon,—eighteen pieces of
different sizes, dragged by rows of pagans, commanded
by the gunners. The bridge groaned under
their weight; and a murmur of joy crept over the
compacted multitude behind, when they had counted
them, one by one, rumbling over the sonorous wood,
and knew that the last had crossed in safety.

Much time was necessarily occupied in the passage
of these cumbrous instruments; and an interval of
several minutes was allowed to intervene betwixt the
passage of each, while the cannoniers were looking
to the condition of the bridge and the ropes.

It was on these occasions, that the greatest quiet
prevailed; for, then, even breath was hushed in suspense;
and it was on these occasions also, that the ears
of the neophyte were struck by a sound, which had
not, perhaps, at that time, attracted the attention of
any other person. The breeze, which occasionally
whispered on his cheek, was so light, as scarcely to
disturb the serenity of the lake; and yet, it appeared
to him, notwithstanding all this, that, in these moments
of calm, he could plainly distinguish, upon

either hand, and at a little distance, the rippling of
water, as if agitated by a moderate wind. He strained
his eyes, endeavouring to pierce the gloom, and
unravel the cause of this singular commotion,—but
wholly in vain. The circle of vision was circumscribed
into the narrowest bounds; and wo betide
the infidel, who, fishing in the lake, that night, should
fall from his canoe in slumber, and be parted from
it but twenty feet, in his confusion.—The cavalier
looked up to the heavens; but the few drops discharged
from their stony vault, pattered with a sound
almost inaudible upon the water. While he was yet
wondering, he heard the voice of one passing him,
say to a comrade,—

“Art thou not wroth, Iago, man, to give up yonder
rich town to the kites, and this fair water to the
ducks of Mexico?”

This trivial question gave, at once, a new colour
to his thoughts, for he remembered what millions of
wild fowl brooded every night on the lakes; and, almost
ashamed that he should have yielded a moment
to the suggestions of fear, he turned, once more, to
watch the progress of the army.

The centre division consisted of but an hundred
Christian footmen, and half a score cavaliers; but
two thousand Tlascalans were added to it, and it was
commanded by Cortes in person; who, having ridden
across the bridge, as has been said, to prove its
strength, now waited for the coming of his party,
beyond the breach. Along with this division, were
conducted the prisoners, and the king's spoil,—the
latter being carried on the backs of wounded steeds,
unfit for other service, as well as on the shoulders of
Tlamémé. The prisoners, comprising all the family
of Montezuma, whom evil fortune had thrown into
the hands of Don Hernan, were environed by the
hereditary foes of their race, but protected from any
secret stroke of malice, by three or four cavaliers
who rode with them.

Among these few horsemen, the neophyte perceived

one, across whose saddle-bow there sat what
seemed a female, enveloped in thick mantles. In this
cavalier, he thought, by the murmur of the voice with
which he addressed his muffled companion, that he
detected his friend, the señor De Morla.

“Is it thou, Francisco, my brother?” he whispered,
inclining towards the cavalier; “and hast thou Benita
thus under thy protection?”

“I thank heaven, yes!” replied De Morla. “But
what doest thou on foot, and so far removed from
the van? Has Fogoso cast thee again? I prythee,
walk thou by me a little.—Dost thou remember thy
promise?”

“Surely, I do: but speak not of it now; for, this
moment, my heart is very heavy, and I cannot think
with pleasure of a contest with Christian man. I will
presently follow thee.”

“Speak me not what I have told thee to mortal
man, for the sake of her whom I hold in my arms,
and who already owes thee a life. To-morrow,”
he continued, exultingly, as he passed,—“to-morrow
we shall tread upon the lake side; and, then, God be
with him who strikes for the honour and innocence
of woman!”

“Art thou there too, Lorenzo?” said the novice,
perceiving the secretary riding at the heels of the
young cavalier of Cuenza, and burthened in like manner
with the freight of affection. “Guard thy princess
well, and have great care of the bridge, and the
rough edge of the dike; for thy horsemanship is not
yet so perfect as De Morla's, nor can thy charger at
all compare with the chestnut gelding. Ride on with
care, and God be thy speed!”

The centre of the army was, at last, over the
bridge. The neophyte cast his eye to the black
mass of the rear-guard, which contained the greater
part of the troops, both Christian and allied, commanded
by Velasquez de Leon and the Tonatiuh; the
latter of whom, to show his affection for the island
of which he had been, as he said, a king, and to prove

his contempt for his late subjects, chose to ride the
very last man in the army; while De Leon conducted
the front of the division. The latter, stern, decided,
and self-willed in all cases, deferred, for a moment,
to give the signal to march, in order that the centre
might be well cleared of the bridge; but more, perhaps,
from a natural love of tyranny, to torture with
delay the spirits of his impatient followers.

In this moment of quiet, the sounds, which Don
Amador had forgotten, were repeated with more distinctness
than at first; but still they were of so vague
a character, that he could not be certain they were
produced by any cause more important than the
diving and flapping of water-fowl. Nevertheless,
feeling a little uneasiness, he clasped the hand of Jacinto
tighter in his own, and strode with him over the
bridge. He paused again, when he had crossed, and
was about to give his whole attention to the mysterious
sounds; when, suddenly, he was amazed and
startled by the spectre of a man, rising up as from
the lake, and springing on the causeway close by his
side.

He drew his sword, demanding quickly, but with
perturbation,—

“Who and what art thou, that comest thus from
the depths of the waters?”

“Tetragrammaton! peace!—Dost thou not hear?”

“Hear what, sir conjurer? Hast thou been listening
likewise to the wild fowl. By my troth, I thought
thou wert a spirit!”

“Wild fowl!” muttered Botello, with a horse-laugh.
“Such wild fowl as eat carrion, and flap the water
like crocodiles.—Hah! dost thou not hear? Lay
thine ear upon the causeway at the water's edge—
But thou hast not time. Get thee to thy horse, and
delay not; and if thou seest Cortes, or any other
discreet cavalier, bid him draw and be ready. I
said, that some should escape, but not all!—God be
with thee! follow quickly, and sheath not thy sword.”

“Surely, this time, thou art mad, Botello! Here
are no foes.”

But the remonstrance of the cavalier was cut short
by the instant flight of the magician; and ere the
words were out of his mouth, a horseman, crossing
the bridge, and riding up to him, said sternly,—

“Who art thou, Sir Knave and Sir Witless! that
babblest thus aloud, in time of peril, contrary to—”

“I am thy very good friend, señor De Leon,” said
the novice, abruptly; “and, waiving any difficulty
which might spring from the heat of thy words, if duly
considered, I think fit to assure thee, that I have but
just parted from the necromancer, Botello; by whom
I am advised to bid thee, as well as all other discreet
officers whom I may see, to draw sword, and remain
in readiness for a foe; there being certain sounds on
the water, which, in his opinion, are ominous of evil.
For myself, I bid God guard thee, meaning, in person,
to join the van, as soon as possible.”

The cavaliers parted,—De Leon riding back to
his party, without uttering a word; and Don Amador,
with the page, stepping forwards so fleetly, as
soon to find himself among the Tlascalans of the
centre. Through these he made his way, ever and
anon casting his eye to the lake, and looking for the
tokens of a foe, but without perceiving anything at
all unusual. He gained the midst of this band of
allies, reached the side of his friend, and laid his hand
on De Morla's arm. A low wailing voice came from
the folds of the garments, which veiled the countenance
of Minnapotzin; and some strong agitation
shook the frame of his friend.

“Think not of love now, my brother!” cried the
neophyte, hurriedly; “but be warned that thou art
in danger, and Minnapotzin with thee. It is thought,
that enemies are at hand.”

Having thus spoken, and without waiting for an
answer, Don Amador, still urging Jacinto along,
endeavoured to make his way through the dense
bodies of Tlascalans, which separated him from Don

Hernan. He reached their front, he stepped upon
the little space left between them and the general,
and placed his eyes upon Cortes. But before he had
yet spoken, it seemed as if the whole moving mass
of the army had been converted into marble, on the
causeway; for instantly, as if with one consent, the
train came to a dead halt, and a cry, low, but breathed
from the hearts of men struck with mortal dread, rose
from the van to the rear, in one universal groan.

The cavalier turned where all eyes were turned,
and beheld a sudden pyramid of fire, like one of the
many gushes of flame he had already seen in this
volcanic land, save that the blaze was steadier, shoot
up, from a vast height in the air, over the distant city,
and plunge its sanguine point against the heavens;
while, at the same moment, its lurid mass, reflected
and reversed on the lake, darted over the water to
his feet, in a path of blood,—as if Mexitli, the Terrible
God, had, at last, roused from slumber, and couched
his gigantic spear against the slayers of his children.
The blaze illumined the lake far round, and, shining
on the casques of cavaliers and the plumes of Tlascalans,
disclosed the whole line of the army, stretched
along the calzada. In an instant more, the neophyte,
petrified with awe, perceived that this mighty balefire
was kindled on the top of the great temple; and,
in the strong and glaring line, which it struck out
upon the water, there was revealed a mass of living
objects, floating, like birds, upon the element, yet
speckled with the human colours of Mexico. At the
same moment, and while his eye yet wavered between
the flaming pillar and the moving objects on
the water, there came from the pyramid a sound,
heard once before, and never more to be forgotten.
The horn of the gods was winded;—the doleful and
dismal note came booming with hideous uproar over
the waters; and before the hills had caught up its
echoes, the whole lake, right and left, in front and
on the rear, rung, roared, and trembled, under the
yells of an hundred thousand infidels.