Loe raamatut: «The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins», lehekülg 36

CHAPTER XVII.
THE PURSUIT BEGINS

In the afternoon the king Cuitlahua, whose sickness had greatly increased, caused himself to be taken to Chapultepec, where he judged he would be safer from the enemy and better situated for treatment by his doctors and nurses. Before leaving, however, he appointed a deputation of ancients, and sent them, with his signet and a message, to Guatamozin.

The ’tzin, about the same time, changed his quarters from the teocallis, now but a bare pavement high in air, to the old Cû of Quetzal’. That the strangers must shortly attempt to leave the city he knew; so giving up the assault on the palace, he took measures to destroy them, if possible, while in retreat. The road they would move by was the only point in the connection about which he was undecided. Anyhow, they must seek the land by one of the causeways. Those by Tlacopan and Tepejaca were the shortest; therefore, he believed one or the other of them would be selected. Upon that theory, he accommodated all his preparations to an attack from the lake, while the foe were outstretched on the narrow dike. As sufficient obstructions in their front, he relied upon the bridgeless canals; their rear he would himself assail with a force chosen from the matchless children of the capital, whose native valor was terribly inflamed by the ruin and suffering they had seen and endured. The old Cû was well located for his part of the operation; and there, in the sanctuary, surrounded by a throng of armed caciques and lords, the deputies of the king Cuitlahua found him.

If the shade of Mualox lingered about the altar of the peaceful god, no doubt it thrilled to see the profanation of the holy place; if it sought refuge in the cells below, alas! they were filled by an army in concealment; and if it went further, down to what the paba, in his poetic madness, had lovingly called his World, alas again! the birds were dead, the shrubs withered, the angel gone; only the fountain lived, of Darkness a sweet voice singing in the ear of Silence.

So the ’tzin being found, this was the message delivered to him from the king Cuitlahua:—

“May the gods love you as I do! I am sick with the sickness of the strangers. Come not near me, lest you be taken also. I go to Chapultepec to get ready for death. If I die, the empire is yours. Meantime, I give you all power.”

Guatamozin took the signet, and was once more master, if not king, in the city of his fathers. The deputies kissed his hand; the chiefs saluted him; and when the tidings reached the companies below, the cells rang as never before, not even with the hymns of their first tenants.

While yet the incense of the ovation sweetened the air about him, he looked up at the image of the god,—web of spider on its golden sceptre, dust on its painted shield, dust bending its plumes of fire; he looked up into the face, yet fair and benignant, and back to him rushed the speech of Mualox, clear as if freshly spoken,—“Anahuac, the beautiful,—her existence, and the glory and power that make it a thing of worth, are linked to your action. O ’tzin, your fate and hers, and that of the many nations, is one and the same!” and the beating of his pulse quickened thrice; for now he could see that the words were prophetic of his country saved by him.

Then up the broad steps of the Cû, into the sanctuary, and through the crowd, rushed Hualpa; the rain streamed from his quilted armor; and upon the floor in front of the ’tzin, with a noise like the fall of a heavy hammer, he dropped the butt of a lance to which was affixed a Christian sword-blade.

“At last, at last, O ’tzin!” he said, “the strangers are in the street, marching toward Tlacopan.”

The company hushed their very breathing.

“All of them?” asked the ’tzin.

“All but the dead.”

Then on the ’tzin’s lip a smile, in his eyes a flash as of flame.

“Hear you, friends?” he said. “The time of vengeance has come. You know your places and duty. Go, each one. May the gods go with you!”

In a moment he and Hualpa were alone. The latter bent his head, and crossing his hands upon his breast said,—

“When the burthen of my griefs has been greatest, and I cried out continually, O ’tzin, you have held me back, promising that my time would come. I doubt not your better judgment, but—but I have no more patience. My enemy is abroad, and she, whom I cannot forget, goes with him. Is not the time come?”

Guatamozin laid his hand on Hualpa’s:—

“Be glad, O comrade! The time has come; and as you have prepared for it like a warrior, go now, and get the revenge so long delayed. I give you more than permission,—I give you my prayers. Where are the people who are to go with you?”

“In the canoes, waiting.”

They were silent awhile. Then the ’tzin took the lance, and looked at the long, straight blade admiringly; under its blue gleam lay the secret of its composition, by which the few were able to mock the many, and ravage the capital and country.

“Dread nothing; it will conquer,” he said, handing the weapon back.

Hualpa kissed his hand, and replied, “I thought to make return for your preferments, O ’tzin, by serving you well when you were king; but the service need not be put off so long. I thank the gods for this night’s opportunity. If I come not with the rising of the sun to-morrow, Nenetzin can tell you my story. Farewell!”

With his face to his benefactor, he moved away.

“Have a care for yourself!” said the ’tzin, regarding him earnestly; “and remember there must be no sign of attack until the strangers have advanced to the first causeway. I will look for you to-morrow. Farewell!”

While yet the ’tzin’s thoughts went out compassionately after his unhappy friend, up from their irksome hiding in the cells came the companies he was to lead,—a long array in white tunics of quilted cotton. At their head, the uniform covering a Christian cuirass, and with Christian helm and battle-axe, he marched; and so, through the darkness and the storm, the pursuit began.

CHAPTER XVIII
LA NOCHE TRISTE

The movement of the fugitive army was necessarily slow. Stretched out in the street, it formed a column of irregular front and great depth. A considerable portion was of non-combatants, such as the sick and wounded, the servants, women, and prisoners; to whom might be added the Indians carrying the baggage and ammunition, and laboriously dragging the guns. The darkness, and the rain beaten into the faces of the sufferers by the wind, made the keeping order impossible; at each step the intervals between individuals and between the divisions grew wider and wider. After crossing two or three of the bridges, a general confusion began to prevail; the officers, in dread of the enemy, failed to call out, and the soldiers, bending low to protect their faces, and hugging their arms or their treasure, marched in dogged silence, indifferent to all but themselves. Soon what was at first a fair column in close order became an irregular procession; here a crowd of all the arms mixed, there a thin line of stragglers.

It is a simple thing, I know, yet nothing has so much to do with what we habitually call our spirits as the condition in which we are at the time. Under an open sky, with the breath of a glowing morning in our nostrils, we sing, laugh, and are brave; but let the cloud hide the blue expanse and cover our walk with shadow, and we shrink within ourselves; or worse, let the walk be in the night, through a strange place, with rain and cold added, and straightway the fine thing we call courage merges itself into a sense of duty or sinks into humbler concern for comfort and safety. So, not a man in all the column,—not a cavalier, not a slave,—but felt himself oppressed by the circumstances of the situation; those who, only that afternoon, had charged like lions along that very street now yielded to the indefinable effect, and were weak of heart even to timidity. The imagination took hold of most of them, especially of the humbler class, and, lining the way with terrors all its own, reduced them to the state when panic rushes in to complete what fear begins. They started at the soughing of the wind; drew to strike each other; cursed the rattle of their arms, the hoof-beats of the horses, the rumble of the carriage-wheels; on the houses, vaguely defined against the sky, they saw sentinels ready to give the alarm, and down the intersecting streets heard the infidel legions rushing upon them; very frequently they stumbled over corpses yet cumbering the way after the day’s fight, and then they whispered the names of saints, and crossed themselves: the dead, always suggestive of death, were never so much so to them.

And so, for many squares, across canals, past palaces and temples, they marched, and nothing to indicate an enemy; the city seemed deserted.

“Hist, Señor!” said Duero, speaking with bated breath. “Hast thou not heard of the army of unbelievers that, in the night, while resting in their camp, were by a breath put to final sleep? Verily, the same good angel of the Lord hath been here also.”

“Nay, compadre mio,” replied Cortes, bending in his saddle, “I cannot so persuade myself. If the infidels meant to let us go, the going would not be so peaceful. From some house-top we should have had their barbarous farewell,—a stone, a lance, an arrow, at least a curse. By many signs,—for that matter, by the rain which, driven through the visor bars, is finding its way down the doublet under my breastplate,—by many signs, I know we are in the midst of a storm. Good Mother forfend, lest, bad as it is, it presage something worse!”

At that moment a watcher on the azoteas of a temple near by chanted the hour of midnight.

“Didst hear?” asked Cortes. “They are not asleep! Olmedo! father! Where art thou?”

“What wouldst thou, my son?”

“That thou shouldst not get lost in this Tophet; more especially, that thou shouldst keep to thy prayers.”

And about that time Sandoval, at the head of his advanced guard, rode from the street out on the open causeway. Farther on, but at no great distance, he came to the first canal. While there, waiting for the bridge to be brought forward, he heard from the lake to his right the peal long and loud of a conch-shell. His heart, in battle steadfast as a rock, throbbed faster; and with raised shield and close-griped sword, he listened, as did all with him, while other shells took up and carried the blast back to the city, and far out over the lake.

In the long array none failed to interpret the sound aright; all recognized a signal of attack, and halted, the slave by his prolong, the knight on his horse, each one as the moment found him. They said not a word, but listened; and as they heard the peal multiply countlessly in every direction,—now close by, now far off,—surprise, the first emotion, turned to dismay. Flight,—darkness,—storm,—and now the infidels! “May God have mercy on us!” murmured the brave, making ready to fight. “May God have mercy on us!” echoed the timid, ready to fly.

The play of the wind upon the lake seemed somewhat neutralized by the density of the rain; still the waves splashed lustily against the grass-grown sides of the causeway; and while Sandoval was wondering if there were many, who, in frail canoes, would venture upon the waste at such a time, another sound, heard, as it were, under that of the conchs, yet too strong to be confounded with wind or surging water, challenged his attention; then he was assured.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, “get ye ready; they are coming. Pass the word, and ride one to Magarino,—speed to him, speed him here! His bridge laid now were worth a hundred lives!”

As the yells of the infidels—or, rather, their yell, for the many voices rolled over the water in one great volume—grew clearer their design became manifest.

Cortes touched Olmedo:—

“Dost thou remember the brigantines?”

“What of them?”

“Only, father, that what will happen to-night would not if they were afloat. Now shall we pay the penalty of their loss. Ay de mi!” Then he said aloud to the cavaliers, Morla, Olid, Avila, and others. “By my conscience, a dark day for us was that in which the lake went back to the heathen,—brewer, it, of this darker night! An end of loitering! Bid the trumpeters blow the advance! One ride forward to hasten Magarino; another to the rear that the division may be closed up. No space for the dogs to land from their canoes. Hearken!”

The report of a gun, apparently back in the city, reached them.

“They are attacking the rear-guard! Mesa spoke then. On the right hear them, and on the left! Mother of God, if our people stand not firm now, better prayers for our souls than fighting for our lives!”

A stone then struck Avila, startling the group with its clang upon his armor.

“A slinger!” cried Cortes. “On the right here,—can ye see him?”

They looked that way, but saw nothing. Then the sense of helplessness in exposure smote them, and, knightly as they were, they also felt the common fear.

“Make way! Room, room!” shouted Magarino, rushing to the front, through the advance-guard. His Tlascalans were many and stout; to swim the canal,—with ropes to draw the bridge after them,—to plant it across the chasm, were things achieved in a moment.

“Well done, Magarino! Forward, gentlemen,—forward all!” so saying, Sandoval spurred across; after him, in reckless haste, his whole division rushed. The platform, quivering throughout, was stancher than the stone revetments upon which its ends were planted; calcined by fire, they crumbled like chalk. The crowd then crossing, sensible that the floor was giving way under them, yelled with terror, and in their frantic struggle to escape toppled some of them into the canal. None paused to look after the unfortunates; for the shouting of the infidels, which had been coming nearer and nearer, now rose close at hand, muffling the thunder of the horses plunging on the sinking bridge. Moreover, stones and arrows began to fall in that quarter with effect, quickening the hurry to get away.

Cortes reached the bridge at the same time the infidels reached the causeway. He called to Magarino; before the good captain could answer, the waves to the right hand became luminous with the plashing of countless paddles, and a fleet of canoes burst out of the darkness. Up rose the crews, ghost-like in their white armor, and showered the Christians with missiles. A cry of terror,—a rush,—and the cavaliers were pushed on the bridge, which they jammed deeper in the rocks. Some horses, wild with fright, leaped into the lake, and, iron-clad, like their riders, were seen no more.

On the further side, Cortes wheeled about, and shouted to his friends. Olmedo answered, so did Morla; then they were swept onward.

Alone, and in peril of being forced down the side of the dike, Cortes held his horse to the place. The occasional boom of guns, a straggling fire of small arms, and the unintermitted cries of the infidels, in tone exultant and merciless, assured him that the attack was the same everywhere down the column. One look he gave the scene near by,—on the bridge, a mass of men struggling, cursing, praying; wretches falling, their shrieks shrill with despair; the lake whitening with assailants! He shuddered, and called on the saints; then the instinct of the soldier prevailed:—

“Ola, comrades!” he cried. “It is nothing. Stand, if ye love life. Stand, and fight, as ye so well know how! Holy Cross! Christo y Santiago!”

He spurred into the thick of the throng. In vain: the current was too strong; the good steed seconded him with hoof and frontlet; now he prayed, now cursed; at last he yielded, seeing that on the other side of the bridge was Fear, on his side Panic.

When the signal I have described, borne from the lake to the city, began to resound from temple to temple, the rear-guard were yet many squares from the causeway, and had, for the most part, become merely a procession of drenched and cowering stragglers. The sound alarmed them; and divining its meaning, they assembled in accidental groups, and so hurried forward.

Nenetzin and Marina, yet in company, were also startled by the noisy shells. The latter stayed not to question or argue; at her word, sharply spoken, her slaves followed fast after the central division, and rested not until they had gained a place well in advance of the non-combatants, whose slow and toilsome progress she had shrewdly dreaded. Not so Nenetzin: the alarm proceeded from her countrymen; feared she, therefore, for her lover; and when, vigilant as he was gallant, he rode to her, and kissed her hand, and spoke to her in lover’s phrase, she laughed, though not understanding a word, and bade her slaves stay with him.

Last man in the column was Leon, brave gentleman, good captain. With his horsemen, he closed upon the artillery.

“Friend,” he said to Mesa, “the devil is in the night. As thou art familiar with wars as Father Olmedo with mass, how readest thou the noise we hear?”

The veteran, walking at the moment between two of his guns, replied,—

“Interpret we each for himself, Señor. I am ready to fight. See!”

And drawing his cloak aside, he showed the ruddy spark of a lighted match.

“As thou seest, I am ready; yet”—and he lowered his voice—“I shame not to confess that I wish we were well out of this.”

“Good soldier art thou!” said Leon. “I will stay with thee. A la Madre todos!”

The exclamation had scarcely passed his lips when to their left and front the darkness became peopled with men in white, rushing upon them, and shouting, “Up, up, Tlateloco! O, O luilones, luilones!”⁵³

“Turn thy guns quickly, Mesa, or we are lost!” cried Leon; and to his comrades, “Swords and axes! Upon them, gentlemen! Santiago, Santiago!”

The veteran as promptly resolved himself into action. A word to his men,—then he caught a wheel with one hand, and swung the carriage round, and applied the match. The gun failed fire, but up sprang a hissing flame, and in its lurid light out came all the scene about: the infidels pouring into the street, the Tlascalans and many Spaniards in flight, Leon charging almost alone, and right amongst the guns a fighting man,—by his armor, half pagan, half Christian,—all this Mesa saw, and more,—that the slaves had abandoned the ropes, and that of the gunners the few who stood their ground were struggling for life hand to hand; still more, that the gun he was standing by looked point-blank into the densest ranks of the foe. Never word spoke he; repriming the piece, he applied the match again. The report shook the earth, and was heard and recognized by Cortes out on the causeway; but it was the veteran’s last shot. To his side sprang the ’tzin: in his ear a war-cry, on his morion a blow, and under the gun he died. When Duty loses a good servant Honor gains a hero.

The fight—or, rather, the struggle of the few against the many—went on. The ’tzin led his people boldly, and they failed him not. Leon drew together all he could of Christians and Tlascalans; then, as game to be taken at leisure, his enemy left him. Soon the fugitives following Alvarado heard a strange cry coming swiftly after them, “O, O luilones! O luilones!”

And through the rain and the night, doubly dark in the canals, Hualpa sped to the open lake, followed by nine canoes, fashioned for speed, each driven by six oarsmen, and carrying four warriors; so there were with him nine and thirty chosen men, with linked mail under their white tunics, and swords of steel on their long lances,—arms and armor of the Christians.

Off the causeway, beyond the first canal, he waited, until the great flotillas, answering his signal, closed in on the right hand and left; then he started for the canal, chafing at the delay of his vessels.

“Faster, faster, my men!” he said aloud; then to himself, “Now will I wrest her from the robber, and after that she will give me her love again. O happy, happy hour!”

He sought the canal, thinking, doubtless, that the Christians would find it impassable, and that in their front, as the place of safety, they would most certainly place Nenetzin. There, into the press he drove.

“Not here! Back, my men!” he shouted.

The chasm was bridged.

And marvelling at the skill of the strangers, which overcame difficulties as by magic, and trembling lest they should escape and his love be lost to him after all, he turned his canoe,—if possible, to be the first at the next canal. Others of his people were going in the same direction, but he out-stript them.

“Faster, faster!” he cried; and the paddles threshed the water,—wings of the lake-birds not more light and free. Into the causeway he bent, so close as to hear the tramp of horses; sometimes shading his eyes against the rain, and looking up, he saw the fugitives, black against the clouds,—strangers and Tlascalans,—plumes of men, but never scarf of woman.

Very soon the people on the causeway heard his call to the boatmen, and the plash of the paddles, and they quickened their pace.

“Adelante! adelante!” cried Sandoval, and forward dashed the cavaliers.

“O my men, land us at the canal before the strangers come up, and in my palace at ease you shall eat and drink all your lives! Faster, faster!”

So Hualpa urged his rowers, and in their sinewy hands the oaken blades bent like bows.

Behind dropped the footmen,—even the Tlascalans; and weak from hunger and wounds, behind dropped some of the horses. Shook the causeway, foamed the water. A hundred yards,—and the coursers of the lake were swift as the coursers of the land; half a mile,—and the appeal of the infidel and the cheering cry of the Christian went down the wind on the same gale. At last, as Hualpa leaped from his boat, Sandoval checked his horse,—both at the canal.

Up the dike the infidels clambered to the attack. And there was clang of swords and axes, and rearing and plunging of steeds; then the voice of the good captain,—

“God’s curse upon them! They have our shields!”

A horse, pierced to the heart, leaped blindly down the bank, and from the water rose the rider’s imploration: “Help, help, comrades! For the love of Christ, help! I am drowning!”

Again Sandoval,—

“Cuidado,—beware! They have our swords on their lances!” Then, observing his horsemen giving ground, “Stand fast! Unless we hold the canal for Magarino, all is lost! Upon them! Santiago, Santiago!”

A rally and a charge! The sword-blades did their work well; horses, wounded to death or dead, began to cumber the causeway, and the groans and prayers of their masters caught under them were horrible to hear. Once, with laughter and taunting jests, the infidels retreated down the slope; and once, some of them, close pressed, leaped into the canal. The lake received them kindly; with all their harness on they swam ashore. Never was Sandoval so distressed.

Meantime, the footmen began to come up; and as they were intolerably galled by the enemy, who sometimes landed and engaged them hand to hand, they clamored for those in front to move on. “Magarino! The bridge, the bridge! Forward!” With such cries, they pressed upon the horsemen, and reduced the space left them for action.

At length Sandoval shouted,—

“Ola, all who can swim! Follow me!”

And riding down the bank, he spurred into the water. Many were bold enough to follow; and though some were drowned, the greater part made the passage safely. Then the cowering, shivering mass left behind without a leader, became an easy prey; and steadily, pitilessly, silently, Hualpa and his people fought,—silently, for all the time he was listening for a woman’s voice, the voice of his beloved.

And now, fast riding, Cortes came to the second canal, with some cavaliers whom he rallied on the way; behind him, as if in pursuit, so madly did they run, followed all of the central division who succeeded in passing the bridge. The sick and wounded, the prisoners, even king Cacama and the women, abandoned by their escort, were slain and captured,—all save Marina, rescued by some Tlascalans, and a Spanish Amazon, who defended herself with sword and shield.

At points along the line of flight the infidels intercepted the fugitives. Many terrible combats ensued. When the Christians kept in groups, as did most of the veterans, they generally beat off the assailants. The loss fell chiefly upon the Tlascalans, the cross-bowmen, and arquebusiers, whose arms the rain had ruined, and the recruits of Narvaez, who, weighted down by their treasure and overcome by fear, ran blindly along, and fell almost without resistance.

One great effort Cortes made at the canal to restore order before the mob could come up.

“God help us!” he cried at last to the gentlemen with him. “Here are bowmen and gunners without arms, and horsemen without room to charge. Nothing now but to save ourselves! And that we may not do, if we wait. Let us follow Sandoval. Hearken to the howling! How fast they come! And by my conscience, with them they bring the lake alive with fiends! Olmedo, thou with me! Come, Morla, Avila, Olid! Come, all who care for life!”

And through the mêlée they pushed, through the murderous lancers, down the bank,—Cortes first, and good knights on the right and left of the father. There was plunging and floundering of horses, and yells of infidels, and the sound of deadly blows, and from the swimmers shrieks for help, now to comrades, now to saints, now to Christ.

“Ho, Sandoval, right glad am I to find thee!” said Cortes, on the further side of the canal. “Why waitest thou?”

“For the coming of the bridge, Señor.”

“Bastante! Take what thou hast, and gallop to the next canal. I will do thy part here.”

And dripping from the plunge in the lake, chilled by the calamity more than by the chill wind, and careless of the stones and arrows that hurtled about him, he faced the fight, and waited, saying simply,—“O good Mother, hasten Magarino!”

Never prayer more hearty, never prayer more needed! For the central division had passed, and Alvarado had come and gone, and down the causeway to the city no voice of Christian was to be heard; at hand, only the infidels with their melancholy cry, of unknown import, “O, O luilones! O, O luilones!” Then Magarino summoned his Tlascalans and Christians to raise the bridge. How many of them had died the death of the faithful, how many had basely fled, he knew not; the darkness covered the glory as well as the shame. To work he went. And what sickness of the spirit, what agony ineffable seized him! The platform was too fast fixed in the rocks to be moved! Awhile he fought, awhile toiled, awhile prayed; all without avail. In his ears lingered the parting words of Cortes, and he stayed though his hope was gone. Every moment added to the dead and wounded around him, yet he stayed. He was the dependence of the army: how could he leave the bridge? His men deserted him; at last he was almost alone; before him was a warrior whose shield when struck gave back the ring of iron, and whose blows came with the weight of iron; while around closer and closer circled the white uniforms of the infidels; then he cried,—

“God’s curse upon the bridge! What mortals can, my men, we have done to save it; enough now, if we save ourselves!”

And drawn by the great law, supreme in times of such peril, they came together, and retired across the bridge.

Then rose the cry, “Todo es perdido! All is lost! The bridge cannot be raised!” And along the causeway from mouth to mouth the warning flew, of such dolorous effect as not merely to unman all who heard it, but to take from them the instincts to which life so painfully intrusts itself when there is no judgment left. Those defending themselves quitted fighting, and turned to fly; except the gold, which they clutched all the closer, many flung away everything that impeded them, even the arquebuses, so precious in Cortes’ eyes; guns dragged safely so far were rolled into the lake or left on the road; the horses caught the contagion, and, becoming unmanageable, ran madly upon the footmen.

When the cry, outflying the fugitives with whom it began, reached the thousands at the second canal, it had somewhere borrowed a phrase yet more demoralizing. “The bridge cannot be raised! All is lost! Save yourselves, save yourselves!” Such was its form there. And about that time, as ill-fortune ordered, the infidels had gathered around the fatal place until, by their yells and missiles there seemed to be myriads of them. Along the causeway their canoes lay wedged in, like a great raft; and bolder grown, they flung themselves bodily on the unfortunates, and strove to carry them off alive. Enough if they dragged them down the slope,—innumerable hands were ready at the water’s edge to take them speedily beyond rescue. Momentarily, also, the yell of the fighting men of Tenochtitlan, surging from the city under the ’tzin, drew nearer and nearer, driving the rear upon the front, already on the verge of the canal with barely room for defense against Hualpa and his people. All that held the sufferers passive, all that gave them endurance, the virtue rarer and greater than patience, was the hope of the coming of Magarino; and the announcement, at last, that the bridge could not be raised, was as the voice of doom over their heads. Instantly, they saw death behind them, and life nowhere but forward,—so always with panic. An impulse moved them,—they rushed on, they pushed each with the might of despair. “Save yourselves, save yourselves!” they screamed, at the same time no one thought of any but himself.

To make the scene clear to the reader, he should remember that the causeway was but eight yards across its superior slope; while the canal, about as wide, and crossing at right angles, was on both sides walled with dressed masonry to the height, probably, of twelve feet, with, water at least deep enough to drown a horse. Ordinarily, the peril of the passage would have been scorned by a stout swimmer; but, alas! such were not all who must make the attempt now.

The first victims of the movement I have described were those in the front fighting Hualpa. No time for preparation: with shields on their arms, if footmen, on their horses, if riders,—a struggle on the verge, a cry for pity, a despairing shriek, and into the yawning chasm they were plunged; nor had the water time to close above their heads before as many others were dashed in upon them.