So Cortes said as he sat in his chamber, resting his arm on the table, the while Olmedo poured cold water on his wounded hand.
The father answered without lifting his face,—
“Go, I say, that we may come back assured of holding what we have won.”
“Sayest thou so,—thou! By my conscience, here are honor, glory, empire! Abandon them, and the treasure, a part of which, as thou knowest, I have already accounted to his Majesty? No, no; not yet, father! I cannot—though thou may’st—forget what Velasquez and my enemies, the velveted minions of the court, would say.”
“Then it is as I feared,” said Olmedo, suspending his work, and tossing his hood farther back on his shoulders. “It is as I feared. The good judgment which hath led us so far so well, and given riches to those who care for riches, and planted the Cross over so many heathen temples is, at last, at fault.”
The father’s manner was solemn and reproachful. Cortes turned to him inquiringly.
“Señor, thou knowest I may be trusted. Heed me. I speak for Christ’s sake,” continued Olmedo. “Leave the city we must. There is not corn for two days more; the army is worn down with wounds and watching; scarcely canst thou thyself hold an axe; the men of Narvaez are mutineers; the garden is full of graves, and it hath been said of me that, for want of time, I have shorn the burial service of essential Catholic rites. And the enemy, Señor, the legions that broke through the wall last evening, were new tribes for the first time in battle. Of what effect on them were yesterday’s defeats? The gods tumbled from the temple have their altars and worship already. Thou may’st see them from the central turret.”
The good man was interrupted. Sandoval appeared at the door.
“Come,” said Cortes, impatiently.
The captain advanced to the table, and saluting, said, in his calm, straightforward way,—