“Who is he? who is he?” asked the bystanders, eagerly.
“Him! Not know him! It is the brave lad who slew the tiger and saved the king’s life.”
And the answer was to the exposition like an illuminated seal to a royal writ.
Morning advanced, curtained with clouds; and, as the account of the spectacle flew, the multitude in the tianguez increased, until there was not room left for business. All who caught the news hurried to see the sight, and for themselves read the miraculous message of Huitzil’. The clamor of tongues the while was like the clamor of waves, and not singularly; for thus was fought the first great battle,—the battle of the mysteries,—and with this result: if a believer in the divinity of Cortes looked once at the rotting head on the lance, he went away of the ’tzin’s opinion, impatient for war.
About noon a party of Spaniards, footmen, armed and out inspecting the city, entered the square. The multitude daunted them not the least. Talking, sometimes laughing, they sauntered along, peering into the open booths and stalls, and watching with practised eyes for gold.
“Holy mass!” exclaimed one of them, stopping. “The heathen are at sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice, saidst thou? This is their market-place.”
“That as thou wilt. I tell thee they have been at worship. My eyes are not dim as my mother’s, who was past fifty the day we sailed from Cuba,—may the saints preserve her! If they were, yet could I swear that yonder hangs the head of a victim.”
Over the restless crowd they looked at the ghastly object, eager yet uncertain.
“Now I bethink me, the poor wretch who hath suffered the death may have been one of the half-assoilzied sons of Tlascala. If we are in a stronghold of enemies, as I have concluded from the wicked, Carib looks of these savages, Heaven and St. James defend us! We are a score with weapons; in the Mother’s name, let us to the bloody sign!”