University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.

While these scenes of blood were passing in the
centre of the army, and a hideous mystery concealed
the fate of the rear, the condition of the advanced
guard, though not altogether hopeless, was scarce less
terrific. When the forces of Sandoval, comprising
many of the followers, both common soldiers and captains,
of Narvaez, were made acquainted with the fate
of the bridge, and beheld the vast number of foes that
impelled their canoes towards the further bank of
the second ditch, as if to secure the passage, they
waited not for directions to cross over, by swimming.

They imitated the example of their commander,
Sandoval, who, leaping from his horse, and leading
him into the water, passed over by the beam, while
still holding and guiding the swimming animal. This
mode of proceeding being necessarily very slow, and
the barbarians rushing, in the meanwhile, against
them with unspeakable fury, the impatience of the
cavaliers became so great, that many of them spurred
their steeds down the sides of the dike, and thus,
swimming them along by the beam, passed to the
other side. Divers of the footmen, seduced by the
example, leaped, in like manner, into the lake; and
the Tlascalans, at all times less formidable opponents
than their armed allies, being, at the same moment
violently assaulted, sprang also into the water, so
that it became alive with the bodies of man and
horse,—as if a herd of caymans, such as haunt the
lower rivers of that climate, were disporting and
battling in the tide. While thus embarrassed and
entangled together in the water, the swimmers were
set upon by the Mexicans, who, pushing their canoe
among them, and handling their heavy paddles, as
well as war-clubs, despatched them, almost without
labour, and with roars of exultation.

It was at this instant of confusion, and while those
Tlascalans who still remained on the dike, contended
but feebly with the augmenting assailants, that Don
Hernan, followed closely by De Morla, and others,
dashed over friend and foe, and reached the ditch.
The scene of horror there disclosed, the miserable
shrieks of Christian comrades, perishing in the gap
and the neighbouring parts of the lake, the increasing
yells of infidels behind, touched the stout heart
of Cortes with fear. He descended from his steed,
sprang upon the beam, and crossed, crying out,
the same time, to those who followed,—

“Hold, cavaliers! Wait ye here for the artillery:
leave not this gap to the murderers. Fight ye he
well, and ye shall have help from the van.”

So saying, he sprang again upon his horse. I

Morla was at his heels, bearing Minnapotzin in his
arms, but on foot: the chestnut gelding was left
drowning in the sluice, entangled and sinking under
the weight of a dozen men, who had seized upon
him, in their terror.

“God forgive thee, cavalier!” cried Cortes, as he
caught the eye of Francisco; “for, for this barbarian
puppet, thou playest the coward, and leavest thy
friend to perish, without the aid of a blow!”

De Morla answered not, but, with a ghastly smile,
uncovered and pointed at the features of the unconscious
princess.

“If she be dead,” cried the general, “give her body
to the waters of her native lake; if she live, commit
her to the care of the Tlascalans; then call on thy
saints, and show that thou art not a craven!”

Then, without waiting for an answer, Don Hernan
spurred onwards, striking down, almost at every
step,—for the whole causeway was beset,—some
luckless savage; and, now and then, in his desperation,
smiting at the hands of certain of his own countrymen,
who strove to arrest the galloping steed,
and spring behind him.

He reached the third and last ditch; it was bridgeless,
like the others, and, like the others, a theatre of
disorder and massacre. The pillar of fire, here,
revealed its figure but luridly and faintly, through
the thick mists and the cannon-smoke, sluggishly
driving over the lake; but he thought he could trace,
in the distant gloom, in front, the outline of those
rugged hills, which lie along the western borders of
the lake. He turned his face backwards to the city;
a tempest of yells—the pagan shouts of victory, and
the last cries of Spaniards to God,—came mingling
on a gust, that waved the distant flame to and fro,
like a sword of fire in the hands of some colossal
fiend. A bolt of ice smote through his bosom; and
when he plunged into the sluice, and, rising on the
opposite bank, drove the sharp spurs into the flanks

of his charger, no man, of all the army, fled with
more craven horror than himself.

An hour afterwards, the moon, diminished to the
thinnest crescent, crept with a sickly and cadaverous
visage, to the summit of the eastern hills, and peeped
down into the valley, preceding the dawn that was
soon to look upon its scenes of death.

At this moment of moonrise, those few Christians
who had escaped from the battle, were grouped at
the end of the dike, deliberating, in unspeakable agitation,
upon the course they were to pursue. Many
advised that they should instantly resume their flight,
and trust to their speed to put them, before morning,
beyond the reach of their merciless enemies;
some insisted upon remaining, to give help to such
wretches as, ever and anon, made their way from
the causeway, and, with tears of joy and loud thanks-givings,
threw themselves among their friends; a
few, more honourable, or more insane, among whom
were Sandoval and Don Christobal de Olid, (a very
valiant cavalier, to whom other histories have been
juster than this,) demanded, with stern reproaches,
that their leader should conduct them again to the
combat, which was still raging on the lake, and rescue
their countrymen out of that fiery furnace, or, at
once, honourably and justly, perish with them.

“Is there one here, who, if I refuse this most mad
counsel, will say I do it from fear?” demanded the
general, with a voice broken by agony and despair.
“What I do, I do for the good of heaven, the king,
and yourselves. If I suffer you to return, then
will ye perish, Spain lose an appanage worthy the
first-born of an emperor, and, in that accursed city,
God be daily grieved by the sight of idolatry and
sacrifice. By remaining where we are, we shall
save many lives; and this land of milk and honey, of
corn and of gold, though now torn from us for our
sins, will be yet the guerdon of our resolution. I
aver and protest, that if we return to the hell that is

on the lake, we shall be lost, to a man. Is there one,
then, who says I remain here from fear?”

Notwithstanding the deep grief and agitation which
gave their tone to the words of the general, there was
mingled withal a touch of such sternness, as forbade
even the boldest to reply. Great, therefore, was the
surprise of all, when a hollow and broken voice
murmured, in answer, from the causeway,—

“There is ONE,—there are an hundred,—there
have been (but now they are not,) a thousand men,
who say that, this night, Cortes hath proved a craven,
a deserter of his friends, a traitor to his king, a
betrayer of his God,—and, therefore, a villain!”

As these words were uttered, there staggered up
the bank, on which the party rested, a figure, seemingly
of a cavalier, but his armour so rent and demolished,
as, in many places, to leave his body naked.
His helmet was gone, and his locks, dripping with
water and blood, fell over his breast, leaving their
crimson stains on the white mantle muffling the body
of some slighter figure, which he bore in his arms.

“I forgive thee, De Morla!” cried the general,
rushing forwards, and then recoiling, as Don Francisco
deposited the burden at his feet, and, removing
the cloth reeking with water as with gore, disclosed
to the view of all, gently touched by the ray of that
wasted and melancholy moon, the countenance of
the dead princess. “Who hath struck the daughter
of Montezuma?—who hath done this deed?”

“He who hath smitten the hearts of a thousand
Christians, by leading them into peril, and deserting
them in their need!” said the cavalier, with a tranquillity
that struck all with terror, for it was unnatural;
“he, who commanded me to fling, while living,
this child of a murdered king into the lake, or upon the
spears of Tlascalans, and then get me back to the foe,
that be might himself fly in safety!”

“Thou art mad, Francisco! and thou doest me foul
injustice!” said Don Hernan, hurriedly. “I fled not;
nor did I bid thee do aught but entrust this hapless

maiden to some strong band of allies, thou being
thyself on foot, and, therefore, incompetent to protect
her.”

“You called me craven, too!” said the cavalier,
with a hoarse laugh, raising his voice aloud. “Thou
liest!—I am braver than thou; for my body is covered
with wounds—from the crown to the sole, there is no
part but is mangled;—and yet thou hast not a
limb but is untouched! You call me craven! God
smite you with punishment, for you are all cravens,
knaves, and murderers together! You wait on the
banks, while we are dying, and you call us cravens!
God will do us right! God will avenge us! God will
hear our prayers! and so God curse you all, and
keep your bones for the maws of infidels!”

Thus speaking, and concluding with the voice of a
madman, the young cavalier cast a look on the dead
princess, and, uttering a horrid scream, ran back,
distracted, to the causeway.

“In the name of God, on!” exclaimed an hundred
voices; “we are not cravens and murderers, and
Spaniards shall not fall unaided!”

Don Hernan himself, stung by the sarcasms of the
unhappy and well-beloved cavalier, was the first to
clap spurs to his horse; and again the thunder of
cavalry, and the quick tread of footmen moving in
order, were heard on the dike of Tacuba.