“Come, come!” interrupted the officer in command of the execution party; “time is up. As I was told not to fasten your hands, you shall have your wish. Confess now, that is accommodating?”
“Thanks,” returned Mauville carelessly, relapsing into his old manner. “You are an obliging fellow! I would do as much for you.”
“Not much danger of that,” growled the other. “But we’ll take the will for the deed. Forward, march!”
After the reverberations, carried from rock to rock with menacing reiteration, had ceased, the stillness was absolute. Even the song-bird remained frightened into silence by those awful echoes. Then the sun rested like a benediction on the land and the white cross of Cortez was distinctly outlined against the blue sky. But soon the long roll of drums followed this interval of quiet.
“Fall in!” “Attention; shoulder arms!” And the sleeping spirit of the Aztec war-god floated in the murmur which, increasing in volume, arose to tumultuous shout.
“On to Chapultepec! On to Chapultepec!” came from a thousand throats; arms glistened in the sun, bugles sounded resonant in the air, and the pattering noise of horses’ hoofs mingled with the stentorian voices of the rough teamsters and the cracking of the whips. Like an irresistible, all-compelling wave, the troops swept out of the valley to hurl themselves against castle and fortress and to plant their colors in the heart of the capital city.