"On the first night of storm-clouded blackness," repeated the old woman, slowly, as though committing the words to memory.
Thus it happened that the very night selected by the Spaniards for their escape from Tenochtitlan was also the one chosen by the aged Tlascalan couple for their flight from slavery. After dark, and moving with the utmost caution, the old man secured the canoe in which they had been wont, though not for many months, to carry flowers to the city, and brought it to the beach near their hut. To it he conveyed their few poor treasures, some bits of rude pottery fashioned by himself, a bundle of gay feathers, a battered javelin such as he had used when a young man and a Tlascalan warrior, and the blanket woven of rabbit's fur, on which the old woman had spent the scant leisure of years. Then they set forth, guided by the faint altar fires of the distant city. They knew not how nor where they should find him whom they sought, but they had a simple faith that, once near him, they would be safe.
A long time they labored at the paddles, until at length they neared the city. Suddenly a startling clamor arose from it. There were shouts as of a mighty host, the discordant notes of priest-blown shells, and, above all, the dread booming of the great serpent drum. They rested on their paddles and listened in frightened bewilderment. Now red beacon flames blazed from every temple, and by this light they perceived a myriad of canoes sweeping past them, all hurrying toward the causeway of Tlacopan. To lessen the chances of being run down, the old man headed his canoe in the same direction, and drifted with the others.
Then came the sound of fighting, the terrifying roar of guns, the clashing of weapons, and the screams of those who fell; but, above all, they heard a sound that recalled their own youth and their own country, the shrill war-cry of the Tlascalans.
"Let us approach closer," urged the brave old wife. "Some of our own may be in the fight, and so sorely pressed that even our feeble aid may prove of value."
So they approached as close as they dared, to where the uproar was loudest. As they lingered, terrified but held by an awful fascination, there came a voice, seemingly that of a girl, to their ears.
MARINA IS SAVED BY THE TLASCALA SLAVES.
"Save me, Huetzin! Save me, son of Tlahuicol!" it cried, shrilly. Then, in softer tones, "Steady, Cocotin! Dear Cocotin! Good Cocotin! If thou wouldst but turn thy poor bleeding head the other way! Oh! Holy Mother of the Christians! She is sinking! She is dying, and I am lost!"
Then a dark form struggled out of the blackness beside them; both the old man and the old woman reached out toward it; and in another minute Marina lay, hysterically sobbing, in the bottom of the canoe.