Cortés felt all this, though it scarcely lay on his mind in threads of tangible thought. There was enough however that was tangible in his thinkings, and exceedingly troubling. Unfortunately the mind and heart of all his people were not of the complexion he would have them. And those ships. And the disaffected men lying so near them, looking wistfully at them every morning, and plotting, and plotting all the day long. Like the Palatinate to Turenne, like anything that seduced from the stern purposes of Cortés, it were better they were not.
This thought once flashed into his mind fastened itself there. And it grew. And Cortés grew with it, until the man and the idea filled all that country, and became the wonder and admiration of the world.
Destroy the ships! Cut off all escape, should such be needed in case of failure! Burn the bridge that spans time, and bring to his desperate desire the aid of the eternities!
The thought of it alone was daring; more fearfully fascinating it became as Cortés dashed along toward Cempoala, and by the time he had reached his destination the thing was determined, and he might with Cæsar at the Rubicon exclaim, Jacta est alea!
But what would his soldiers say? They must be made to feel as he feels, to see with his eyes, and to swell with his ambition.
The confession of the conspirators opened the eyes of Cortés to a fact which surely he had seen often enough before, though by reason of his generous nature which forgot an injury immediately it was forgiven, it had not been much in his mind of late, namely, that too many of his companions were lukewarm, if not openly disaffected. They could not forget that Cortés was a common man like themselves, their superior in name only, and placed over them for the accomplishment of this single purpose. They felt they had a right to say