done to stay the onslaught, lest the building fall about their ears. It was exceedingly disagreeable, but it must be done; the proud Spanish general must sue to the greatly injured captive king, pleading for his influence in behalf of peace.3 Montezuma had all these days been closely confined to his rooms brooding over the insults offered him, and apparently indifferent to the danger from without. When the message was brought he sullenly said, “Why does Malinche address himself to me, who care no longer for life? I will not listen to him, for he it is who has brought me into this plight.” He intimated further that the promises of the general could not be relied upon, and that his words 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