So saying, the chief dropped back into his seat, and held the sore hand to Olmedo for further care,—never speech more bluff, never face more calm. For a time, nothing was heard but the silvery tinkle of the falling water. At length one was found sturdy enough to speak; others followed him; and, at last, when the opinion was taken, not a voice said stay; on the contrary, the clamor to go was, by some, indecently loud.
Cortes then stood up.
“The opinion is all one way. Hast thou so written, Señor Duero?”
The secretary bowed.
“Then write again,—write that I, Hernan Cortes, to this retreat said, No; write that, if I yield my judgment, it is not to any necessity of which we have heard as coming from the enemy, but to the demand of my people. Hast thou so written?”
The secretary nodded.
“Write again, that upon this demand I ordered Alonzo Avila and Gonzalo Mexia to take account of all the treasure belonging to our master, the most Christian king; with leave to the soldiers, when the total hath been perfected and the retreat made ready, to help themselves from the balance, as each one may wish. Those gentlemen will see that their task be concluded by noon to-morrow. Hast written, Duero?”
“Word for word,” answered the secretary.
“Very well. And now,”—Cortes raised his head, and spoke loudly,—“and now, rest and sleep who can. This business is bad. Get ye gone!”
And when they were alone, he said to Olmedo,—