were rushing, heedless of the groans beneath them, across this gory support, still narrow and full of gaps, to be filled by the next tripping fugitive. Scattered pell-mell on the bank lay the baggage and artillery, abandoned by the fleeing carriers, which, proving only an obstruction, Cortés ordered it thrown into the channel in order to widen the crossing.
But the end was not yet. Great as had been the woe, it was yet to be increased at the last and wider channel. Here was indeed a yawning abyss, having likewise a single remaining beam, whose narrow slippery surface served rather as a snare than a support.[1] The necessarily slow motion of the train had enabled the Mexicans to come up in swarms, and like sharks surround the chasm. Harassed on every side, and with an avalanche rolling against the rear, the retreating thought only of escaping the new danger, and at once. They threw aside their arms and treasures and plunged in, bearing one another down regardless of any claims of friendship or humanity. And woful to hear were the heart-rending cries from that pit of Acheron. Some begged help of Mary and Santiago; some cursed their fate and him who had brought them to it, while many sank with mute despair into the arms of death; and over all roared the wild cries and insults of the Mexicans. In strong contrast to the panic-stricken men appeared a woman, María de Estrada, who, with shield and sword, faced the enemy like a lioness, standing forth among the men as a leader, and astonishing friend and foe with her prowess.[2]
Cortés did all he could, as became an able commander and valiant soldier, to save his men. He was indefatigable in his efforts, being everywhere present, encouraging, guiding, and protecting. Yet his position was most trying; there were that night so many
