“And whom blame they for the failure now?”
“The captain Alvarado.”
Cortes’ brows dropped, and he became thoughtful again, and in such temper rode into the city.
Within the walls, everywhere the visitors looked, were signs of life, but nowhere a living thing; neither on the street, nor in the houses, nor on the housetops,—not even a bird in the sky. A stillness possessed the place, peculiar in that it seemed to assert a presence, and palpably lurk in the shade, lie on the doorsteps, issue from the windows, and pervade the air; giving notice so that not a man, new or veteran, but was conscious that, in some way, he was menaced with danger. There is nothing so appalling as the unaccountable absence of life in places habitually populous; nothing so desolate as a deserted city.
“Por Dios!” said Olmedo, toying with the beads at his side, “I had rather the former reception than the present. Pleasanter the sullen multitude than the silence without the multitude.”
Cortes made him no answer, but rode on abstractedly, until stopped by his advance-guard.
“At rest!” he said, angrily. “Had ye the signal? I heard it not.”
“Nor did we, Señor,” replied the officer in charge. “But, craving thy pardon, approach, and see what the infidels have done here.”
Cortes drew near, and found himself on the brink of the first canal. He swore a great oath; the bridge was dismantled. On the hither side, however, lay the timbers, frame and floor. The tamanes detailed from the guns replaced them.
“Bartolomé, good father,” said Cortes, confidentially, when the march was resumed, “thou hast a commendable habit of holding what thou hearest, and therefore I shame not to confess that I, too, prefer the first reception. The absence of the heathen and the condition of yon bridge are parts of one plan, and signs certain of battle now ready to be delivered.”