carried a double meaning. Olmedo and Olid, who had come to urge the request, had recourse to soothing words and persuasion, and succeeded in mollifying him somewhat.4 He replied, however, that it was probably too late to appease the Mexicans by promises. “They have now a new leader,” he said, “who is resolved to spare no Spaniard, and I believe that you have all to die in this city.”5 Nevertheless he yielded, and as befitted the momentous point at issue, he arrayed himself in the richly bejewelled robes of state, and placed upon his head the mitred copilli, beneath whose precious feathers gleamed the golden plate.6 Carefully guarded he ascended to the roof and stepped to the parapet, preceded by a courtier who bore the triple wand of the empire, as was customary on such occasions. Instantly the tumult was hushed, even before the leaders could issue orders for a stay of hostilities; instantly a thousand heads were bent in humble adoration before the august majesty of their sovereign. This attitude, however, was assumed but for a moment; soon these same heads were held higher than ever. Then the chiefs drew near to listen to the unhappy monarch.
Montezuma had appeared with a feeling of mingled fear and doubt as to what his reception might be, and he did not fail to observe that the accustomed reverence was shown only for an instant, involuntarily, as it were, and that silence was prompted rather by curiosity than respect. The urgency of the moment demanded that he should speak, but it was rather as supplicant than ruler that he turned to his people.
“You are in arms, my children,” he said, “in hot battle. Why is this? You will be slain, and there will be heard throughout the land for many years the wail of wives and little ones. You would give me my liberty, and I thank you. You do not turn from me in anger, and I thank you. You have not chosen another king in my stead, and I thank you. Such an act would displease the gods, and bring destruction