Just then he comes to one of the crossings formed by his party at a channel ten to twelve paces wide, and over ten feet deep. It seems insecure, and on looking he finds it constructed of some loosely thrown pieces of wood and reed, covered with a little earth. He at once orders the auxiliaries in his following to rebuild the structure. Scarcely is the order uttered before he sees his forces coming down the causeway in disorderly flight, led by the allies. Cortés makes frantic efforts to stay the current. None heed him. Fears lend wings and drown all appeal. On come the pressing throng, on to the frail bridge, which sinks with its living freight into the deep water. Still onward rush the mass behind, impelled by their mad momentum, tumbling on the heads of these, scrambling and wading, adding their cries for help to the shrieks of despair beneath, while from the rear roll the terrifying shouts of hot pursuers. Already the house-tops teem with slingers and archers; the lanes pour forth their warriors with swords and long pikes to pierce the flanks, and the canals are alive with canoes whose crews secure the struggling fugitives for sacrifice, or deal the more grateful coup de grace. The Spanish soldiers are among the last to come up, and a terrible gauntlet they have had to run. Regardless of the showering missiles or the pressing foe, Cortés stands on the brink to strike back the hungry crew and lend a helping hand to his floundering men. “I was determined to remain there and die fighting,” he writes. But so many are beyond his reach, and there he must stand helpless to watch the struggle; to behold now this soldier felled, now the other carried off; and more, to see the banner torn from the hands of his alférez. Tlapanecatl is the name given by the records to the doughty captor of so esteemed a prize.
Standing there conspicuously on the brink, Cortés becomes the target for hundreds of missiles, though protected by his mail; but soon the foe