Many of the Tlascalans and some of the
Spaniards had fallen, and not one but had been wounded. Cortes himself
had received a second cut on the head, and his horse was so much
injured that he was compelled to dismount, and take one from the
baggage train, a strong-boned animal, who carried him well through the
turmoil of the day. The contest had now lasted several hours. The
sun rode high in the heavens, and shed an intolerable fervour over the
plain. The Christians, weakened by previous sufferings, and faint with
loss of blood, began to relax in their desperate exertions. Their
enemies, constantly supported by fresh relays from the rear, were
still in good heart, and, quick to perceive their advantage, pressed
with redoubled force on the Spaniards. The horse fell back, crowded on
the foot; and the latter, in vain seeking a passage amidst the dusky
throngs of the enemy, who now closed up the rear, were thrown into
some disorder. The tide of battle was setting rapidly against the
Christians. The fate of the day would soon be decided; and all that
now remained for them seemed to be to sell their lives as dearly as
possible.
At this critical moment, Cortes, whose restless eye had been
roving round the field in quest of any object that might offer him the
means of arresting the coming ruin, rising in his stirrups, descried
at a distance, in the midst of the throng, the chief who, from his
dress and military cortege, he knew must be the commander of the
barbarian forces.
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