“To the sanctuaries!” he shouted, to the cavaliers. “We have come for the false gods: let us at them. Charge, gentlemen, Christ with us! Forward all!”
Back came their response, “Forward! Christo y Santiago!”
They advanced their shields suddenly; the play of their swords redoubled; the weapons in front of them splintered like reeds; war-cries half uttered turned to screams; under foot blood ran like water, and feathered panoply and fallen men, dying and dead, blotted out the pavement. Surprised, bewildered, baffled, the bravest of the infidels perished; the rest gave way or were pushed helplessly back; and the dismay thus excited rose to panic when the bowmen and arquebusiers joined in the combat. A horrible confusion ensued. Hundreds threw away their arms, and ran wildly around the azoteas; some flung themselves from the height; some climbed the sanctuaries; some took to piteous imploration of the doomed idols; others, in blind fury, rushed empty-handed upon the dripping swords.
Steadily, as a good craft divides the current and its eddies, Cortes made way to the sanctuaries, impatient to possess the idols, that, at one blow, he might crush the faith they represented, after which he made no doubt of the submission of the nations in arms. A rare faculty that which, in the heat of battle, can weave webs of policy, and in the mind’s eye trace out lines of wise conduct.
When, at last, the end was nigh, such of the pabas as survived withdrew themselves from the delirious mob, and assembled around the sacrificial stones. Some of them were wounded; on many the black gowns hung in shreds; all of them had one purpose more, usually the last to linger in an enthusiast’s heart. There, where they had witnessed so many sacrifices, and, in eager observance of auguries, overlooked or savagely enjoyed the agony of the victims, they came themselves to die,—there the sword found them; and from their brave, patient death we may learn that Satan hath had his martyrs as well as Christ.
About the same time another body collected in the space before the presence chamber of Huitzil’. They were the surviving caciques, with Io’ in their midst. Having borne him out of the fray, they now took up a last position to defend him and the gods.
Upon them also the battle had laid a heavy hand; most of them were hurt and bleeding; of their beautiful regalia only fragments remained; some were without arms of any kind, some bore headless javelins or spears; a few had maquahuitls. Not a word was spoken: they, too, had come to die, and the pride of their race forbade repining.
They saw the last of the pabas fall; then the rapacious swords, to complete the work, came to them. In the front strode Cortes. His armor shone brightly, and his shield, though spotted with blood, was as a mirror from which the sun’s rays shot, like darts, into the eyes of the infidels attracted by its brightness.
Suddenly, three warriors, unarmed, rushed upon him; his sword passed through one of them; the others caught him in their arms. So quick, so bold and desperate was the action that, before he could resist or his captains help him, he was lifted from his feet and borne away.
“Help, gentlemen! Rescue!” he cried.