“Of the Christians, all who are able will take their places in the line; the very sick will be borne by Tlascalans; the litters are ready for them.”
“Very well,” said Cortes.
“The Tlascalans—”
“Cierto, there the trouble began!” and Cortes laid his hand heavily on the priest’s shoulder. “Three hundred and more of them too weak to rise from the straw, which yet hath not kept their bones from bruising the stony floor! Good heart, what didst thou with them?”
“They are dead.”
“Mother of God! Didst thou kill them?” Cortes griped the shoulder until Olmedo groaned. “Didst thou kill them?”
The father shook himself loose, saying, “There is no blood on my hands. The Holy Mother came to my help; and this was the way. Remembrance of the love of Christ forbade the leaving one Christian behind; but the heathen born had no such appeal; they must be left,—necessity said so. I could not kill them. By priestly office, I could prepare them for death; and so I went from man to man with holy formula and sacramental wafer. The caciques were with me the while, and when I had concluded, they spoke some words to the sufferers: then I saw what never Christian saw before. Hardly wilt thou believe me, but, Señor, I beheld the poor wretches, with smiles, bare their breasts, and the chiefs begin and thrust their javelins into the hearts of all there lying.”
An exclamation of horror burst from Cortes,—
“’Twas murder, murder! What didst thou?”
Olmedo replied quickly, “Trust me, my son, I rushed in, and stayed the work until the victims themselves prayed the chiefs to go on. Not even then did I give over my efforts,—not until they made me understand the purpose of the butchery.”