Montoro was the first to reach the threshold of the palace, and with a low, terrible cry he fell back upon his comrades.
"What is it?" gasped Cortes; and, pushing to the front, he received a ghastly answer to his query.
Spiked upon Indian lances, and held aloft by Indian hands, was an immense human head, crowned with heavy dark locks matted and stiffened with gore. A crowd of Indians, warriors and women, trooped along behind it, rending the air with their yells of triumph.
For the space of ten seconds it might be that the bronzed cheek of Cortes blanched; then he made a dash forward, caught one of the yelling youths, and dragging him back with him to the doorway, questioned him rapidly.
"Whose was that head yonder? Was it the head of an enemy of the Mexicans? a Tlascalan, or whose?"
The Indian boy cringed and trembled in that tightening grip.
"It is not the head of one of the white men here with the great white chief."
"It is the head of poor Morla, whom we left behind at Vera Cruz as one of Escalante's garrison," said Montoro sadly. "I should know it anywhere, and under any circumstances."
"Ay, truly," added Alvarado, in confirmation; "it is doubtless his. I did but save the poor fellow from hanging to leave him to a fate still worse. But what of the rest of the garrison? How comes he to have suffered? What is the meaning of this dismal matter? Was he sent out by Escalante as a messenger?"
All these questions, asked as they were by the lips of Alvarado, were indeed asked by the entire party in their thoughts. Montoro, resolved to know the worst at once, hurriedly obtained permission from Cortes, and, regardless of personal risk, he made his way, with his faithful interpreter, to the strangers, who were still bearing on high their ghastly trophy.