CORTES BURNS HIS SHIPS.
It was night, and sleep reigned throughout the camp of the Spaniards, for the new city of Villa Rica de Vera Cruz could as yet be considered little better than a camp, in spite of its grand-sounding name, and the crowd of duly-appointed officers with which Cortes had endeavoured to give it sudden dignity.
Even the sentinels were drowsy at their posts, and scarcely feared rebuke, for peace had prevailed both within and without for some days past, at any rate on the surface of events, and Cortes had been indulging in a short breathing space.
Montoro de Diego was in his tent, asleep like his comrades, dreaming of his boyhood, and of the gentle-spirited and lovely young mother who had made poverty and hard usage endurable to him in the past, honour and righteous dealing his firm principles in the present. But his dreams were to be disturbed.
Slowly, and in almost breathless silence, a fold of his tent was pushed aside, and a man crept within, holding back the canvas for a moment, that by the faint light he might discover the object of his search. Then he dropped it again, and moved on the two or three paces in the darkness, until he dropped on his knees beside the low bed on which Montoro lay, and bent his mouth to the sleeper's ear.
"My Señor—Señor Diego," he whispered urgently. "Rouse you, my Señor."
And, with a soldier's watchful spirit, Montoro needed no second bidding to arouse him. Grasping his sword even before he was fully awake, he would have sprung to his feet the next instant, with a shout to banish slumber from the whole band, but that his probable conduct had been divined, and prudently guarded against.
One firm, hard hand was pressed down upon the nobleman's chest, another closely covered his mouth, while the hushed voice beside him muttered hurriedly—
"Nay then, my Señor, nay then. Lie still, and be silent, or you will render my care fruitless. I have come to you with the discovery I have made, before all others, for your prudence's sake, and now you are eager as the Don Juan de Cabrera himself could be, to publish the whole matter to the very winds, methinks."
In spite of this expostulation, which was in truth intended more as a warning than an expression of real belief, its speaker trustfully enough withdrew both his detaining hands at its conclusion, and permitted his companion to rise into a sitting posture on his bed, and to speak.