Afterwhile from the palace issued a procession which no man, uninformed, might look upon and say was not a funeral: in the palanquin, the dead; on its right and left, the guard of honor; behind, the friends, a long train, speechless and sorrowing. The movement was quiet and solemn; three squares and as many bridges were passed, when, from down the street, a man came running with all speed. He gained the rear of the cortege, and spoke a few hurried words there; a murmur arose, and spread, and grew into a furious outcry,—a moment more, and the cortege was dissolved in tumult. At the last corner on the way, the cavaliers had been joined by some of the armed parties, who, for the purpose, had preceded them into the city in the early morning; these closed firmly around, a welcome support.
“Mirad!” cried Cortes, loudly. “The varlets are without arms. Let no one strike until I say so.”
The demonstration increased. Closer drew the mob, some adjuring the monarch, some threatening the Christians. That an understanding of the situation was abroad was no longer doubtful; still Cortes held his men in check, for he knew, if blood were shed now, the common-sense of the people would refuse the story he so relied upon,—that the king’s coming was voluntary.
“Can our guest,” he asked of Sandoval, “be sleeping the while?”
“Treachery, Señor.”
“By God’s love, captain, if it so turn out, drive thy sword first of all things through him!”
While yet he spoke, the curtains of the carriage were drawn aside; the carriers halted instantly; and of the concourse, all the natives fell upon their knees, and became still, so that the voice of the monarch was distinctly heard.
“The noise disturbs me,” he said, in ordinary tone. “Let the street be cleared.”
The lords whom he addressed kept their faces to the ground.
“What is the cause of the clamor?”