“That thou mayest go, and thou wilt. The saints go with thee!”
The barricade was a ruin.
At the first bridge again there was a fierce struggle; when taken, the floor was heaped with dead and wounded infidels.
And so for hours. Only at the last gate, that opening on the causeway to Iztapalapan, did Cortes stay the sally. There, riding to the rear, now become the front, he started in return. Needless to tell how well the Christians fought, or how devotedly the pagans resisted and perished. Enough that the going back was more difficult than the coming. Four more of the Spaniards perished on the way.
At a late hour that night Sandoval entered Cortes’ room, and gave him a parchment. The chief went to the lamp and read; then, snatching his sword from the table, he walked to and fro, as was his wont when much disturbed; only his strides were longer, and the gride of the weapon on the tiled floor more relentless than common.
“Dead, ten of them! And their horses, captain?”
“Three were saved,” replied Sandoval.
“By my conscience, I like it not! and thou?”
“I like it less,” said the captain, naïvely.