They laid hold of the mare, and rolled her away. The morning light rested upon the place feebly, as if afraid of its own revelations. On the causeway, in the lake, in the canal, were many horrors to melt a heart of stone; one fixed Alvarado’s gaze,—
“Dead! she is dead!” he said, falling upon his knees, and covering his eyes with his hands, “O mother of Christ! What have I done that this should befall me?”
Under the palanquin,—its roof of aromatic cedar, thin as tortoise shell, and its frame of bamboo, light as the cane of the maize, all a heap of fragments now,—under the wreck lay Nenetzin. About her head the blue curtains of the carriage were wrapped in accidental folds, making the pallor of the face more pallid; the lips so given to laughter were dark with flowing blood; and the eyes had looked their love the last time; one little hand rested palm upward upon the head of a dead warrior, and in it shone the iron cross of Christ. Bradamante had crushed her to death! And this, the crowning horror of the melancholy night, was what the good mare saw on the way that her master did not,—so the master ever after believed.
The pain of grief was new to the good captain; while yet it so overcame him, a man laid a hand roughly on his shoulder, and said,—
“Look thou, Señor! She is in Paradise, while of those who, at thy call, stayed to help thee save her but seven are left. If not thyself, up and help us!”
The justice of the rude appeal aroused him, and he retook his sword and shield, and joined in the fight,—eight against the many. About them closed the lancers; facing whom one by one the brave men died, until only Alvarado remained. Over the clashing of arms then rang the ’tzin’s voice,—
“It is the Tonatiah! Take him, O my children, but harm him not; his life belongs to the gods!”
Fortunately for Alvarado a swell of Christian war-cries and the beat of galloping horses came, about the same time, from the further side of the canal to distract the attention of his foemen. Immediately Cortes appeared, with Sandoval, Morla, Avila, and others,—brave gentlemen come back from the land, which they had safely gained, to save whom they might of the rear-guard. At the dread passage all of them drew rein except Morla; down the slope of the dyke he rode, and spurring into the lake, through the canoes and floating débris, he headed to save his friend. Useless the gallantry! The assault upon Alvarado had ceased,—with what purpose he knew. Never should they take him alive! Hualpa’s lance, of great length, was lying at his feet. Suddenly, casting away his sword and shield, he snatched up his enemy’s weapon, broke the ring that girdled him, ran to the edge of the canal, and vaulted in air. Loud the cry of the Christians, louder that of the infidels! An instant he seemed to halt in his flight; an instant more, and his famous feat was performed,—the chasm was cleared, and he stood amongst his people saved.
Alas for Morla! An infidel sprang down the dike, and by running and leaping from canoe to canoe overtook him while in the lake.
“Sword and shield, Señor Francisco! Sword and shield! Look! The foe is upon thee!”