At last he persuaded Montezuma to ascend to the azotea, a flat roof of the palace, in order there to address his subjects and exhort them to suspend the attack. With repugnance the humbled monarch yielded, and emerged on the parapet. Opposite to him, he could easily discern animating the crowd who surged below, Cuitlahuatzin, his own brother, according to custom the general in chief, and probable successor to the throne.
Montezuma was clothed in his imperial robes; his mantle of white and blue flowed over his shoulders, held together by a rich clasp of green stone. Emeralds set in gold profusely ornamented his dress. The royal diadem was on his brow, and golden sandals on his feet. He was preceded by the golden wand of office, and surrounded by a few Aztec nobles. His presence was instantly recognized by the people, and a sudden change came over the scene. A death-like stillness pervaded the whole assembly, so that the voice of the monarch was distinctly heard. He addressed the people mildly, but when they found that he was urging mercy toward the stranger, the calm was turned to fury, the populace redoubled its cries and threats, and arrows and stones were aimed even at the Emperor, one of which wounded him fatally in the head.
The unhappy prince was borne to his apartment below. He had tasted the bitter cup of degradation. It may have been the simple effect of the wound, or his despair, which determined him to tear off the bandages, or, as the Aztecs think, a Spanish dagger which finally despatched him. Not many days after this supreme insult by his people, he died on the 30th of June, 1520.
Due respect was shown to his memory; his body was committed to the charge of his subjects, and borne by nobles, it is said, to Chapultepec, to be laid among the tombs of his ancestors, under the sad ahuehuetes. At least, this is the received account. A Mexican story says that on the night of the departure of the Spaniards the corpse of the monarch was dashed to pieces, by his enraged people, upon a tortoise of stone which stood in a corner of the palace of Axayacatl. And here, say the indios, wanders the melancholy spirit of Montezuma, under the gloomy cypress, restless and unable to sleep the sleep of death, lamenting the lost Tenochtitlan and the happy days of the Aztecs. Here comes also Malintzi, whom, when she meets him, the sad shade accosts: "Why, Malintzi, didst thou betray me to the stranger why didst thou plead with me for his cause?"
And the other sighs and wrings her hands and asks herself the same vain question.
There are other shadows, too, that frequent the moss-hung alleys of Chapultepec, but these are creatures of a later day and unheeded by the sorrowful phantoms of the victims of the Conquest.
As this is the story of the Mexicans, and not of the Conquest only, and as moreover that period of Mexican history is fully elsewhere described, we must pass slightly over the continued adventures of Cortés.
When the adventurer saw that the presence of the monarch had produced no good effect upon his subjects, he withdrew to head-quarters, and after a consultation with his captains, resolved to abandon the city and to cut a passage for himself and his army, through the enraged assemblage of his enemies. This difficult and dangerous task was effected on the night of July 1, 1520.
It was impossible to conceal so great a movement from the Mexicans. As soon as they became aware of it, they attacked the little army on its march, destroyed bridges before them, while suddenly the lagoons were covered with canoas from which showered arrows upon the Spaniards. Many soldiers were killed or drowned. They set out loaded with booty which they had seized in their palace, and their treasures impeded their progress, so that every Spaniard had to choose between abandoning these precious objects or saving his life. Quantities of gold and precious things according to the report, were thrown into the canals.