Roger the Bold: A Tale of the Conquest of Mexico

by F. S. Brereton

"Here is a carving of some sort," he called out, "and made of stone, too. We must get it to the door. One moment, though."

In a twinkling he wrenched the arms from the hand and belt of his captive and flung him into a corner. Then he seized the object—one of the Mexican deities—while Tamba came eagerly to his help. They put their whole strength into the task, causing the idol to totter on its pedestal. It moved a few inches across the paved floor, and encouraged by this, Roger bent to the work with all his might.

"Now, together!" he shouted. "Shove with all your might. It moves! It is sliding along the floor. Again, and we have it in position."

At any other time it would have taken them at least a quarter of an hour to have moved this mass of stone, but fear and desperation had given them power which they could not have summoned on another occasion. As Roger's grasp riveted itself about the thigh and neck of the inanimate figure the whole idol swayed, and when Tamba pushed with his shoulder it glided with a grating sound across the tiles. Once they had got it to move they never rested till it was in the doorway, where it struck with a thud, presenting an almost impenetrable barrier to the enemy, and a face which was even more hideous than that of the god of war, to which the Mexicans had given such an unpronounceable name. However, though the mass of stone effectively checked a rush, it was still possible to reach the inmates of the chapel over the head and shoulders of the idol; and very soon those without showed that that was their intention. A head darkened the bright patch close to the top of the door, and a second followed. They were priests, and Roger determined to read them a lesson.

"Stand back, and watch this prisoner of mine," he said to Tamba. "Now see me deal with these butchers."

The sight of the priests seemed to madden him and stir his desperation, and as Tamba hastened to obey him, Roger stepped coolly across the tiles, and, with a quick movement, snatched at one of the priests. He was a tall, thin man, and our hero's grasp closed on his neck. With a wrench he drew him through the entrance, and with his other hand arrested the blow which the Mexican aimed at him. Then he caught him up, and, stepping closer, threw him with all his force at the head of his comrade. There was a thud. The body of the priest struck half against the one who was staring into the chapel, and half against the head and neck of the idol. But Roger had used all his force, and followed it up by a push which completed the task. A second later there was a dull thud, as the man he had just dealt with crashed through the narrow space and fell on the flags outside. Then, indeed, did Roger know of the presence of the crowd, for, from every quarter of the lake city, from the courtyards below, from the scented gardens on the roofs, and from the summit of a hundred towers, a hoarse roar of indignation and of rage came to his ears. It swelled into a fanatical shriek, which silenced the cries of those on the summit of the tower on which the war god stood, and it filled the tiny chapel in which the two fugitives had taken up their quarters. Even their prisoner heard it, though he was half dazed by the suddenness of the action which had snatched him from the middle of his friends. He heard, and lifted a face which showed the utmost consternation.

"The gods are indeed furious, and must be appeased," he said. "Why did you do such a thing? Surely you and your comrades have already caused sufficient suffering to us!"

He spoke in Spanish—in poor Spanish, it is true; but Roger could understand him, and at the sound of his voice turned with a flush on his cheek.

"Then you can speak the language?" he said angrily. "Why did you not offer to interpret when we were in the cage? I asked for some one to make us known to your friends, and to explain that we were not Spanish, but no one came forward. You were there. Why did you not proffer your services?"

It looked for a moment as if he would have done some injury to the noble, for that this Mexican undoubtedly was. But whatever his intention, it was frustrated within a second, for there was a shout outside, a mass of men threw themselves against the idol, and, using all their force, hurled it into the chapel. It fell backward on to the tiled floor with a crash, which split fragments from it. Then it rolled sideways and lay across the entrance, leaving a wide chasm above, through which a couple of men, or even three, could enter abreast; and on the far side it exposed a crowd of jewelled Mexicans and five furious priests, whose faces showed their animosity. At their feet, feebly endeavouring to rise to his knees, was the one whom Roger had treated so roughly.