CHAPTER XI. THE SINKING OF THE FLEET. July-August, 1519.

Cortés’ brain was in a whirl during that ride. It was a horrible thing, this hanging of Spaniards, cutting off feet, and flogging. Viewed in one light it was but a common piece of military discipline; from another stand-point it was the act of an outlaw. The greater part of the little army was with the commander; to this full extent the men believed in him, that on his valor and discretion they would adventure their lives. With most men beliefs are but prejudices, and opinions tastes. These Spaniards not only believed in their general, but they held to a most impetuous belief in themselves. They could do not only anything that any one else ever had done or could do, but they could command the supernatural, and fight with or against phantoms and devils. They were a host in themselves; besides which the hosts of Jehovah were on their side. And Cortés measured his men and their capabilities, not as Xerxes measured his army, by filling successively a pen capable of holding just ten thousand; he measured them rather by his ambition, which was as bright and as limitless as the firmament. Already they were heroes, whose story presently should vie in thrilling interest with the most romantic tales of chivalry and knight-errantry, and in whom the strongest human passions were so blended as to lift them for a time out of the hand of fate and make their fortunes their own. The thirst for wealth, the enthusiasm of religion, the love of glory, united with reckless daring and excessive loyalty, formed the most powerful incentives to action. Life to them without the attainment of their object was valueless; they would do or die; for to die in doing was life, whereas to live failing was worse than death.