All day and night the public resorts—streets, houses, temples—were burdened with the multitude, whose fear, as the hour of entry drew nigh, yielded to their curiosity. And when, at last, the road the visitors would come by was settled, the whole city seemed to breathe easier. From the village of Iscalpan, so ran the word, they had boldly plunged into the passes of the Sierra, and thence taken the directest route by way of Tlalmanalco. And now they were at Ayotzinco, a town on the eastern shore of lake Tezcuco; to-morrow they would reach Iztapalapan, and then Tenochtitlan. Not a long time to wait, if they brought the vengeance of Quetzal’; yet thousands took canoes, and crossed to the village, and, catching the first view, hurried back, each with a fancy more than ever inflamed.
A soldier, sauntering down the street, is beset with citizens.
“A pleasant day, O son of Huitzil’!”
“A pleasant day; may all that shine on Tenochtitlan be like it!” he answers.
“What news?”
“I have been to the temple.”
“And what says the teotuctli now?”
“Nothing. There are no signs. Like the stars, the hearts of the victims will not answer.”
“What! Did not Huitzil’ speak last night?”
“O yes!” And the warrior smiles with satisfaction. “Last night he bade the priests tell the king not to oppose the entry of Malinche.”