From Puebla to Mexico.—The Dread of Robbers.—The Escort—Tlascala.—The Exaggerations of Cortéz and Bernal Diaz.—The Truth about Tlascala.—The Advantages of Tlascala to Cortéz.—Who was Bernal Diaz.—Who wrote his History.—First View of Mexico.
At early twilight, two stage-loads of passengers, drawn rapidly by twelve wild horses through the now deserted streets of Puebla, approached the gate that opened out upon the road to Mexico. The rattle of the wheels and the clatter of so many hoofs had awakened the gatekeeper, and at our approach the ponderous portals that inclosed the city by night flew open, and away we whirled out into the beautiful vega of Puebla.
In times of civil disorder, this is a fine field for robbers to ply their vocation in; and even now, when all was quiet, there was no little apprehension of a visit from these sovereigns of the road.
The passengers had noticed my unmistakable Anglo-Saxon name, as it was called at the stage-door, and, when I had taken my seat, an elegant, long Colt's revolver was passed to me by a passenger in full uniform.
Such is one of the advantages that a traveler enjoys who belongs to a race of men of acknowledged courage—an advantage that enabled we to travel alone across the continent without encumbering myself with a weapon; for, where all supposed me fully armed, and skilled in the use of weapons by instinct, I found it convenient to go unarmed.
Upon the present occasion, I did not wish to raise a smile of incredulity by protesting that I had never fired a pistol in my life, so I quietly consented to play the part of hero.