GUATAMOZIN took little rest that night. The very
uncertainty of the combat multiplied his cares. It
was not to be supposed that his enemy would keep to the
palace, content day after day with receiving assaults; that
was neither his character nor his policy. To-morrow he would
certainly open the gates, and try conclusions in the streets.

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The first duty, therefore, was to provide for such a contingency.
So the 'tzin went along all the streets leading
to the old palace, followed by strong working-parties; and
where the highest houses fronted each other, he stopped,
and thereat the details fell to making barricades, and carrying
stones and logs to the roofs. As a final measure of importance,
he cut passages through the walls of the houses
and gardens, that companies might be passed quickly and
secretly from one thoroughfare to another.

Everywhere he found great cause for mourning; but the
stories of the day were necessarily lost in the demands of
the morrow.

He visited his caciques, and waited on the lord Cuitlahua
to take his orders; then he passed to the temples, whence,
as he well knew, the multitudes in great part derived their
inspiration. The duties of the soldier, politician, and devotee
discharged, he betook himself to the chinampa, and to Tula
told the heroisms of the combat, and his plans and hopes;
there he renewed his own inspirations.

Toward morning he returned to the great temple. Hualpa
and Io', having followed him throughout his round, spread
their mantles on the roof, and slept: he could not; between
the work of yesterday and that to come, his mind played
pendulously, and with such forceful activity as forbade
slumber. From the quarters of the strangers, moreover, he
heard constantly the ringing of hammers, the neighing and
trampling of steeds, and voices of direction. It was a long
night to him; but at last over the crown of the White
Woman the dawn flung its first light into the valley; and
then he saw the palace, its walls manned, the gunners by
their pieces, and in the great court lines of footmen, and at
the main gate horsemen standing by their bridles.

“Thanks, O gods!” he cried. “Walls will not separate
my people from their enemies to-day!”

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With the sunrise the assault began, — a repetition of that
of the day before.

Then the guns opened; and while the infidels reeled
under the fire, out of the gates rode Cortes and his chivalry,
a hundred men-at-arms. Into the mass they dashed. Space
sufficient having been won, they wheeled southward down
the beautiful street, followed by detachments of bowmen
and arquebusiers and Tlascalans. With them also went
Mesa and his guns.

When fairly in the street, environed with walls, the 'tzin's
tactics and preparation appeared. Upon the approach of
the cavalry, the companies took to the houses; only those
fell who stopped to fight or had not time to make the exit.
All the time, however, the horsemen were exposed to the
missiles tossed upon them from the roofs. Soon as they
passed, out rushed the infidels in hordes, to fall upon the
flanks and rear of the supporting detachments. Never was
Mesa so hard pressed; never were helm and corselet so
nearly useless; never gave up the ghost so many of the
veteran Tlascalans.

At length the easy way of the cavalry was brought to a
stop; before them was the first barricade, — a work of earth
and stones too high to be leaped, and defended by Chinantlan
spears, of all native weapons the most dreaded. Nevertheless,
Cortes drew rein only at its foot. On the instant
his shield and mail warded off a score of bronzed points,
whirled his axe, crash went the spears, — that was all.

Meantime, the eager horsemen in the rear, not knowing
of the obstacle in front, pressed on; the narrow space became
packed; then from the roofs on the right hand and
the left descended a tempest of stones and lances, blent
with beams of wood, against which no guard was strong
enough. Six men and horses fell there. A cry of dismay
arose from the pack, and much calling was there on patron

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saints, much writhing and swaying of men and plunging of
steeds, and vain looking upward through bars of steel.
Cortes quitted smashing spears over the barricade.

“Out! out! Back, in Christ's name!” he cried.

The jam was finally relieved.

Again his voice, —

“To Mesa, some of ye; bring the guns! Speed!”

Then he, too, rode slowly back, and sharper than the
shame of the retreat, sharper than the arrows or the taunts
of the foe, sharper than all of them together, was the sight
of the six riders in their armor left to quick despoilment, —
they and their good steeds.

It was not easy for Mesa to come; but he did, opening
within a hundred feet of the barricade. Again and again
he fired; the smoke wreathed blinding white about him.

“What sayest thou now?” asked Cortes, impatiently.

“That thou mayest go, and thou wilt. The saints go with
thee!”

The barricade was a ruin.

At the first bridge again there was a fierce struggle; when
taken, the floor was heaped with dead and wounded infidels.

And so for hours. Only at the last gate, that opening on
the causeway to Iztapalapan, did Cortes stay the sally. There,
riding to the rear, now become the front, he started in return.
Needless to tell how well the Christians fought, or
how devotedly the pagans resisted and perished. Enough
that the going back was more difficult than the coming.
Four more of the Spaniards perished on the way.

At a late hour that night Sandoval entered Cortes' room,
and gave him a parchment. The chief went to the lamp and
read; then, snatching his sword from the table, he walked
to and fro, as was his wont when much disturbed; only his
strides were longer, and the gride of the weapon on the tiled
floor more relentless than common.

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He stopped abruptly.

“Dead, ten of them! And their horses, captain?”

“Three were saved,” replied Sandoval.

“By my conscience, I like it not! and thou?”

“I like it less,” said the captain, naïvely.

“What say the men?”

“They demand to be led from the city while yet they
have strength to go.”

Cortes frowned and continued his walk. When next he
stopped, he said, in the tone of a man whose mind was
made up, —

“Good night, captain. See that the sentinels sleep not;
and, captain, as thou goest, send hither Martin Lopez, and
mind him to bring one or two of his master carpenters.
Good night.”

The mind of the leader, never so quick as in time of
trouble, had in the few minutes reviewed the sortie. True,
he had broken through the barricades, taken bridge after
bridge, and driven the enemy often as they opposed him;
he had gone triumphantly to the very gates of the city, and
returned, and joined Olmedo in unctuous celebration of the
achievement; yet the good was not as clear and immediate
as at first appeared.

He recalled the tactics of his enemy: how, on his approach,
they had vanished from the street and assailed him
from the roofs; how, when he had passed, they poured into
the street again, and flung themselves hand to hand upon
the infantry and artillery. And the result, — ten riders and
seven horses were dead; of the Tlascalans in the column
nearly all had perished; every Christian foot-soldier had one
or more wounds. At Cempoalla he himself had been hurt
in the left hand; now he was sore with contusions. He set
his teeth hard at thought of the moral effect of the day's
work; how it would raise the spirit of the infidels, and

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depress that of his own people. Already the latter were
clamoring to be led from the city, — so the blunt Captain
Sandoval had said.

The enemy's advantage was in the possession of the
houses. The roofs dominated the streets. Were there no
means by which he could dominate the roofs? He bent
his whole soul to the problem. Somewhere he had read or
heard of the device known in ancient warfare as mantelets,—
literally, a kind of portable roof, under which besiegers
approached and sapped or battered a wall. The recollection
was welcome; the occasion called for an extraordinary resort.
He laid the sword gently upon the table, gently as he
would a sleeping child, and sent for Lopez.

That worthy came, and with him two carpenters, each as
rough as himself. And it was a picture, if not a comedy,
to watch the four bending over the table to follow Cortes,
while, with his dagger-point, he drew lines illustrative of the
strange machine. They separated with a perfect understanding.
The chief slept soundly, his confidence stronger than
ever.

Another day, — the third. From morn till noon and
night, the clamor of assault and the exertion of defence, the
roar of guns from within, the rain of missiles from without,—
Death everywhere.

All the day Cortes held to the palace. On the other side,
the 'tzin kept close watch from the teocallis. That morning
early he had seen workmen bring from the palace some stout
timbers, and in the great court-yard proceed to frame them.
He plied the party with stones and arrows; again and again,
best of all the good bowmen of the valley, he himself sent
his shafts at the man who seemed the director of the
work; as often did they splinter upon his helm or corselet, or
drop harmless from the close links of tempered steel defending
his limbs. The work went steadily on, and by noon

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had taken the form of towers, two in number, and high
as ordinary houses. By sunset both were under roof.

When the night came, the garrison were not rested; and
as to the infidels, the lake received some hundreds more of
them, which was only room made for other hundreds as brave
and devoted.

Over the palace walls the besiegers sent words ominous and
disquieting, and not to be confounded with the half-sung
formulas of the watchers keeping time on the temples by the
movement of the stars.

“Malinche, Malinche, we are a thousand to your one.
Our gods hunger for vengeance. You cannot escape
them.”

So the Spaniards heard in their intervals of unrest.

“O false sons of Anahuac, the festival is making ready;
your hearts are Huitzil's; the cages are open to receive you.”

The Tlascalans heard, and trembled.

The fourth day. Still Cortes kept within the palace, and
still the assault; nor with all the slaughter could there be
perceived any decrease either in the number of the infidels
or the spirit of their attack.

Meantime the workmen in the court-yard clung to the
construction of the towers. Lopez was skilful, Cortes impatient.
At last they were finished.

That night the 'tzin visited Tula. At parting, she followed
him to the landing. Yeteve went with her. “The blessing
of the gods be upon you!” she said; and the benediction, so
trustful and sweetly spoken, was itself a blessing. Even
the slaves, under their poised oars, looked at her and forgot
themselves, as well they might. The light of the great
torch, kindled by the keeper of the chinampa, revealed her
perfectly. The head slightly bent, and the hands crossed
over the breast, helped the prayerful speech. Her eyes were
not upon the slaves, yet their effect was; and they were

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such eyes as give to night the beauty of stars, while taking
nothing from it, neither depth nor darkness.

The canoe put off.

“Farewell,” said Io'. His warrior-life was yet in its
youth.

“Farewell,” said Hualpa. And she heard him, and knew
him thinking of his lost love.

In the 'tzin's absence the garrison of the temple had been
heavily reinforced. The azoteas, when he returned, was
covered with warriors, asleep on their mantles, and pillowed
on their shields. He bade his companions catch what
slumber they could, and went into the grimy but full-lighted
presence-chamber, and seated himself on the step of the
altar. In a little while Hualpa came in, and stopped before
him as if for speech.

“You have somewhat to say,” said the 'tzin, kindly.
“Speak.”

“A word, good 'tzin, a single word. Io' lies upon his
mantle; he is weary, and sleeps well. I am weary, but cannot
sleep. I suffer —”

“What?” asked the 'tzin.

“Discontent.”

“Discontent!”

“O 'tzin, to follow you and win your praise has been
my greatest happiness; but as yet I have done nothing by
myself. I pray you, give me liberty to go where I please,
if only for a day.”

“Where would you go?”

“Where so many have tried and failed, — over the wall,
into the palace.”

There was a long silence, during which the supplicant
looked on the floor, and the master at him.

“I think I understand you,” the latter at length said.
“To-morrow I will give you answer. Go now.”

p733-500

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