heads of decapitated Spaniards, cried tauntingly
the name "Malintzin," which was that by which Cortes was known among
the Mexicans. Men and horses rolled into the lake; dead bodies filled
the breaches; the Christians and their allies were beaten back, and "as
we were all wounded it was only the help of God which saved us from
destruction," wrote Bernal Diaz. Indeed, both Cortes and the Spaniards
only escaped, on these and other occasions, from the Aztecs' desire to
take them alive for sacrifice.

Once more, after disastrous retreats and heavy loss, the bleeding and
discouraged Spaniards lay in their camp, as evening fell. Of dead,
wounded, and captured the Spaniards missed more than a hundred and
twenty of their comrades, and the Tlascalans a thousand, whilst
valuable artillery, guns, and horses were lost. But listen! what is
that mournful, penetrating sound which smites the Christians' ears? It
is the war-god's drum, and even from where the Spaniards stand there is
visible a procession ascending the steps of the _teocalli_, and, to
their horror, the forms of their lost comrades are seen within it:
whose hearts are doomed to be torn out living from their breasts to
smoke before the shrine of Huitzilopochtli, the war-devil of their
enemies. From that high and fearful place their comrades' eyes must be
gazing with despairing look towards the impotent Spanish camp, glazing
soon in death as the obsidian knives of the priests performed their
fiendish work. The disastrous situation of the Spaniards was made worse
by the desertion, at this juncture, of the Tlascalan and other allies.
Awed by a prophecy sent out confidently by the Aztec priests, that both
Christians and allies should be delivered into their hands before eight
days had passed (prophecy or doom, which the priests said, was from the
mouth of the war-god, appeased by the late victory), the superstitious
Indians of Cortes's forces sneaked off in the night.

Continued reverses, in the face of long-continued action and desire for
the attaining a given end, forges in the finer calibre of mind a spirit
of unremitting purpose. Blow after blow, which would turn away the
ordinary individual from his endeavour, serves to steel the real hero
to a dispassionate and persistent patience, and the purpose from its
very intensity becomes almost a sacred cause, and seems to obtain from
the unseen powers of circumstance success at last. So with Cortes and
others of the Spaniards.