"There is my informant, Captain, and—I fully trust him."
A lamp was burning in the commander's tent, or rather hut of palm-branches and native cotton-mats, and as Montoro stepped to one side a man, hitherto unnoticed behind him, came forward into its light, and, falling on his knees before a small crucifix, called it to witness that his tale was true.
Cortes looked at him closely for a few moments and then said drily—
"If it be but as true as that thou wast not hung, friend Morla, then will it be true indeed."
"It had needs be truer than that, Hernan Cortes," returned Montoro: "for he was hung, as I know to my cost, as I had the hanging of him. And at the end of half-an-hour he was cut down, according to thy orders."
"Ah! I see," exclaimed Cortes, with a glimmer of a smile. "And no doubt our worthy Don Juan de Cabrera found it needful to give thee a lesson in hanging, by which thou profitedst. Is it not so, friend Toro?"
Montoro laughed.
"Partly so. But, to confess the truth, Pedro de Alvarado declared that if this Morla were hung to death he should, himself, evermore go about the world feeling as though there were a cord about his own neck, only waiting to be used."
That glimmer of a smile broadened for a moment, but the time was too serious for its cherishing.
"Enough!" said Cortes, with returning gravity. "Rise, fellow, and come nearer. And hearken! Should these charges prove true, well; if false, then will I myself hang thee ere to-morrow's sunset, and thou hadst best make thy peace with Heaven, for I warn thee thou wilt not live to laugh at me as having 'prentice hands at my new work."