dying, a prisoner in the power of the foreign wolves who were tearing
out his country's heart. It is little wonder indeed that Montezuma
rent the bandages from his wounds and would not suffer them to tend his
hurts. For the real hurt was in his soul; there the iron had entered
deeply, and no leech could cure it except one called Death. And yet
the fault was not all his, the devils whom he worshipped as gods were
revenged upon him, for they had filled him with the superstitions of
their wicked faith, and because of these the gods and their high priest
must sink into a common ruin. Were it not for these unsubstantial
terrors that haunted him, the Spaniards had never won a foothold in
Tenoctitlan, and the Aztecs would have remained free for many a year to
come. But Providence willed it otherwise, and this dead and disgraced
monarch was but its instrument.

Such were the thoughts that passed through my mind as I gazed upon the
body of the great Montezuma. But Otomie, ceasing from her tears, kissed
his clay and cried aloud:

'O my father, it is well that you are dead, for none who loved you
could desire to see you live on in shame and servitude. May the gods you
worshipped give me strength to avenge you, or if they be no gods, then
may I find it in myself. I swear this, my father, that while a man is
left to me I will not cease from seeking to avenge you.'

Then taking my hand, without another word she turned and passed thence.
As will be seen, she kept her oath.


On that day and on the morrow there was fighting with the Spaniards, who
sallied out to fill up the gaps in the dykes of the causeway, a task