death in the mud.
Hundreds of the Aztecs perished also, for the most part beneath the
weapons of their own friends, who struck and shot not knowing on whom
the blow should fall or in whose breast the arrow would find its home.

For my part I fought on with a little band of men who had gathered about
me, till at last the dawn broke and showed an awful sight. The most of
those who were left alive of the Spaniards and their allies had crossed
the second canal upon a bridge made of the dead bodies of their fellows
mixed up with a wreck of baggage, cannon, and packages of treasure. Now
the fight was raging beyond it. A mob of Spaniards and Tlascalans were
still crossing the second breach, and on these I fell with such men
as were with me. I plunged right into the heart of them, and suddenly
before me I saw the face of de Garcia. With a shout I rushed at him. He
heard my voice and knew me. With an oath he struck at my head. The heavy
sword came down upon my helmet of painted wood, shearing away one side
of it and felling me, but ere I fell I smote him on the breast with the
club I carried, tumbling him to the earth. Now half stunned and blinded
I crept towards him through the press. All that I could see was a gleam
of armour in the mud. I threw myself upon it, gripping at the wearer's
throat, and together we rolled down the side of the causeway into the
shallow water at the edge of the lake. I was uppermost, and with a
fierce joy I dashed the blood from my eyes that I might see to kill my
enemy caught at last. His body was in the lake but his head lay upon the
sloping bank, and my plan was to hold him beneath the water till he was
drowned, for I had lost my club.

'At length, de Garcia!' I cried in Spanish as I shifted my grip.

'For the love of God let me go!' gasped a rough voice beneath me. 'Fool,
I am no Indian dog.'

Now I peered into the man's face bewildered. I had seized de Garcia, but
the voice was not his voice, nor was the face his face, but that of a
rough Spanish soldier.

'Who are you?' I asked, slackening my hold. 'Where is de Garcia--he whom
you name Sarceda?'

'Sarceda? I don't know. A minute ago he was on his back on the causeway.
The fellow pulled me down and rolled behind me. Let me be I say. I am
not Sarceda, and if I were, is this a time to settle private quarrels?
I am your comrade, Bernal Diaz. Holy Mother! who are you? An Aztec who
speaks Castilian?'

'I am no Aztec,' I answered. 'I am an Engl