But this was not enough for Cortes. He decided by one great theft, made at once, to gain a bloodless victory. He decided to steal from them their king.
[CHAPTER XXXVII.]
ESCALANTE'S FATE DECIDES IT.
"I cannot help it, Diego. It is the force of circumstances. Either we must be the aggressors or the victims. And how, thinkest thou, I could then answer it to myself, were I to see these men, who have with so full a trust followed me, butchered before mine eyes?"
Hernando Cortes was striding up and down the enormous apartment of the palace appointed him for a residence by Montezuma. His whole bearing, his face, his voice, betokened excessive agitation. He had only one companion with him at that hour, Montoro de Diego, and Montoro also looked very sorely troubled.
"We have received nought at the hands of this heathen monarch," he murmured, in tones of heartfelt grief; "nought but the noblest generosity, the most chivalrous respect."
"That is true," was the stern reply. "And we are going to return it with—with——"
"The basest treachery and black ingratitude."
There was silence in the apartment, but for those tramping feet, and the somewhat heavy breathing of the men. At last Cortes turned aside, and came to where his friend sat with clasped hands and bowed head, pondering over the inscrutable ways of Providence. He stood before him, looking down upon him with an expression of impatient sorrow.