The ancient palace of Axayacatl was prepared to receive the strangers, within whose walls were ample accommodations for the leaders of the little host.

CortÉs proceeded at once to explore the capital, its paved causeways and lagoons. He devoted himself to gaining the friendship of Montezuma, and strove to incline him to embrace the Catholic religion and become a subject of the king of Spain. The bewildered king listened to these persuasions, transmitted to him through the lips of Malintzi-Marina, with amazement and dread. He scarcely understood the import of the words, and the doctrine of the Cross, thus suddenly presented to him, was only a puzzle. CortÉs had but little patience with his pupil. His own situation was full of peril, in the midst of a large population who showed no cordiality towards the Spaniards. He resolved upon the bold measure of seizing the person of Montezuma.

Having found a pretext for a visit, CortÉs waited on the monarch in his palace. An audience was readily granted. He was graciously received by Montezuma, who entered into light conversation through the interpreters, and gave little presents to the Spanish general and his attendants. He readily listened to the complaints brought by CortÉs against certain caciques who had killed some Spaniards. CortÉs then coolly suggested that it would be better for Montezuma to transfer his residence to the palace occupied by the Spaniards, as a sign to his people of his perfect confidence, as well as a proof to the king and master of CortÉs that he was loyal to the strangers.

Montezuma listened to this proposal with looks of profound amazement. He became pale under his dark skin, but in a moment his face flushed with resentment; and he utterly declined the proposal. The visit was prolonged in discussion and persuasion, always gentle on the part of CortÉs, but one of his companions, Velasquez de LÉon, to cut short the matter, proposed seizing the king, with such fierce note and gesture, that Montezuma, alarmed, asked Marina what had been said. She strove to explain the exclamation in a gentle fashion, and besought him so tenderly to yield, that the poor king finally consented to quit his own palace and allowed himself to be led away. With their sovereign thus in his power, CortÉs, with his wonderful tact and resource, might have succeeded in his plan of peaceably subjugating the Mexicans, but unfortunately at that time he had to leave the capital for Vera Cruz, where Narvaez, an emissary from the governor of Cuba, had just landed, with directions to dispossess CortÉs of his command. The affair took only a little while, for CortÉs surprised the new-comer in his own quarters at Cempoallan, routed him entirely, and carried off to join his own troops the forces sent against him from Cuba, a very timely addition, especially the horses, of which he was greatly in need.

This despatched, he returned in all haste to Mexico, which he had left in the hands of Don Pedro de Alvarado, whose unflinching bravery was spoiled by his cruel and sanguinary temper. Entirely lacking the good judgment of CortÉs, he had in his absence involved the Spaniards in ruin. The month of May had arrived, in which the Mexicans were accustomed to hold a great festival in honor of Huitzilopochtli. By this time, the supremacy of the Spaniards had become so established, through the weakness of Montezuma that they asked the permission of Alvarado to have it. He consented, but in the middle of the night, when they were all assembled in the temple, unarmed and carelessly engaged in dancing and the festive ceremonies of the occasion, Alvarado entered with fifty Spaniards and in wholesale destruction killed them all. The population arose, and when CortÉs came back he found Alvarado and the army besieged in their quarters and at the point of being overcome by the enraged populace.

CortÉs, in dismay, disgusted with the folly of his lieutenant, knew not how to escape from its result. For several days the Mexicans attacked the Spaniards in their head-quarters. CortÉs made several sallies and engaged in terrible combats with compact masses of the natives, but always had to retreat to his quarters, with losses that daily diminished his small army.

At last he persuaded Montezuma to ascend to the azotea, a flat roof of the palace, in order there to address his subjects and exhort them to suspend the attack. With repugnance the humbled monarch yielded, and emerged on the parapet. Opposite to him, he could easily discern animating the crowd who surged below, Cuitlahuatzin, his own brother, according to custom the general in chief, and probable successor to the throne.

Montezuma was clothed in his imperial robes; his mantle of white and blue flowed over his shoulders, held together by a rich clasp of green stone. Emeralds set in gold profusely ornamented his dress. The royal diadem was on his brow, and golden sandals on his feet. He was preceded by the golden wand of office, and surrounded by a few Aztec nobles. His presence was instantly recognized by the people, and a sudden change came over the scene. A death-like stillness pervaded the whole assembly, so that the voice of the monarch was distinctly heard. He addressed the people mildly, but when they found that he was urging mercy toward the stranger, the calm was turned to fury, the populace redoubled its cries and threats, and arrows and stones were aimed even at the Emperor, one of which wounded him fatally in the head.

The unhappy prince was borne to his apartment below. He had tasted the bitter cup of degradation. It may have been the simple effect of the wound, or his despair, which determined him to tear off the bandages, or, as the Aztecs think, a Spanish dagger which finally despatched him. Not many days after this supreme insult by his people, he died on the 30th of June, 1520.

Due respect was shown to his memory; his body was committed to the charge of his subjects, and borne by nobles, it is said, to Chapultepec, to be laid among the tombs of his ancestors, under the sad ahuehuetes. At least, this is the received account. A Mexican story says that on the night of the departure of the Spaniards the corpse of the monarch was dashed to pieces, by his enraged people, upon a tortoise of stone which stood in a corner of the palace of Axayacatl. And here, say the indios, wanders the melancholy spirit of Montezuma, under the gloomy cypress, restless and unable to sleep the sleep of death, lamenting the lost Tenochtitlan and the happy days of the Aztecs. Here comes also Malintzi, whom, when she meets him, the sad shade accosts: "Why, Malintzi, didst thou betray me to the stranger why didst thou plead with me for his cause?"

And the other sighs and wrings her hands and asks herself the same vain question.

There are other shadows, too, that frequent the moss-hung alleys of Chapultepec, but these are creatures of a later day and unheeded by the sorrowful phantoms of the victims of the Conquest.

As this is the story of the Mexicans, and not of the Conquest only, and as moreover that period of Mexican history is fully elsewhere described, we must pass slightly over the continued adventures of CortÉs.

When the adventurer saw that the presence of the monarch had produced no good effect upon his subjects, he withdrew to head-quarters, and after a consultation with his captains, resolved to abandon the city and to cut a passage for himself and his army, through the enraged assemblage of his enemies. This difficult and dangerous task was effected on the night of July 1, 1520.

It was impossible to conceal so great a movement from the Mexicans. As soon as they became aware of it, they attacked the little army on its march, destroyed bridges before them, while suddenly the lagoons were covered with canoas from which showered arrows upon the Spaniards. Many soldiers were killed or drowned. They set out loaded with booty which they had seized in their palace, and their treasures impeded their progress, so that every Spaniard had to choose between abandoning these precious objects or saving his life. Quantities of gold and precious things according to the report, were thrown into the canals.

CortÉs, himself under a thousand dangers, succeeded in effecting his escape from the city to a spot where, under a large tree, he threw himself down to rest, and there reviewed the whole extent of his misfortune, recognized the loss of his most faithful and bravest companions, and faced the maimed condition of the last of his army. Tears came to the eyes of the bold commander, and for a moment all his vigor and energy abandoned him.

Some few of his companions, however, were left to him. Alvarado, on whom rests the real blame in this disaster, had escaped by a miraculous leap across a breach in the causeway which it was necessary to pass. Pressing his long lance firmly on the bottom of the shallow lake, strewed with wrecks of every sort, he sprang across the chasm to the amazement of the beholders. Several others were there, and above all, Marina was safe in the hands of some Tlaxcallans who had faithfully protected her.

This fearful escape is called universally the Noche triste. The tree under which CortÉs sat and wept is a venerable cypress still alive. It has been in perfect health until a few years ago, when a fire was lighted underneath it, by some foolish pic-nic party, which burned into its huge trunk. Since then an iron railing has been put up to protect it. The picturesque old Church of San Esteban stands near it. It is at Popotla, a suburb of the modern city easily attained by tram-cars, through crowded modern streets, where nothing is to be recognized of the calzadas of the Aztecs. The line of houses is broken in one place on the way to Popotla by a space shut in with a low wall and iron grating. Here, says tradition, is the very point in the causeway where Alvarado leaped the breach. As there is no indication nor tradition of the actual width of the chasm, our wonder is without any limit.

CortÉs did not allow himself time to repose or despair. As the dawn broke he mounted his horse, and gathering together such stragglers as he could find, he led them out into the country to the Cerro of Otoncalpolco, now the Sanctuary de los Remedios. Here, weary and discouraged as he was, he attacked with his little band the natives who were defending the teocalli there was there, and drove them out. In this shelter he took care of his wounds and those of his men, and united the dispersed remnants of his army.

This sanctuary is now the abode of an image of the Holy Virgin, of which the legend is that it was brought to Mexico by one of the soldiers of CortÉs, and that during the first stay of the Spaniards in Tenochtitlan it was permitted to be set up in a shrine of the great teocalli among the Aztec gods. It was carried thence on the fatal Noche triste, by its possessor, when he sought shelter in this very temple with the rest of the shattered Spanish army. And there he left it hidden under a maguey, being too sorely wounded to carry it farther, where it was found and made an object of veneration.

The accounts of losses in this conflict are varying. According to our present authority, the Spaniards lost four hundred and fifty men, twenty-six horses, and about four thousand allied Indians. On the Mexican losses it is impossible to speculate, but the artillery and fire-arms of their enemies must have made frightful havoc in the crowds of people who swarmed through the streets during the night.