became known as the Golden Age. "Under him the earth teemed with fruits and flowers without the labor of culture. An ear of Indian corn was as much as a man could carry. The cotton, as it grew, took of its own accord the rich dyes of human art. The air was filled with intoxicating perfumes and the sweet melody of birds."
The great pyramid or temple of Cholula was said to have been erected in his honor; and if a grander monument exists, made of earthly material by human hands, history has not recorded it.
From the apex of this colossal structure we gazed on the open plain of Cholula, and toward Tlaxcala, the "Land of Bread," whose hardy inhabitants, having first been defeated, became the fast and faithful friends and allies of Cortez. In the end this proved to be the key to Mexico. After the conquest, as an acknowledgment of their uniform good faith, the Tlaxcalans were exempted from servitude.
The little band of Spaniards, numbering only four hundred and fifty, accompanied by six thousand allies, marched to Cholula, which then had a population of two hundred thousand. They were hospitably received and supplied with provisions. But soon Doña Marina, the faithful interpreter of Cortez, discovered a plot for their destruction. Cortez assembled the caciques, acquainted them with his knowledge of their treachery, and demanded an escort on his way to Mexico. The next day thousands were assembled in his quarters, when, at a signal, the Spaniards attacked them and at least three thousand were slain. The natives trembled at the prowess and vengeance of the "white gods."
Cholula is now a mere village. Its four hundred pagan towers have long been demolished, but from the eminence where we stood I counted twenty spires and crosses on the Christian temples of the adjacent Indian hamlets.
The imagination may find full scope in contemplating this grand scene. Looking northward stands the mountain Malinche—the name given to Cortez by the Indians—brown and sere in the distance, on whose rugged and massive sides not a plant grows nor a flower blooms to break the monotony of its awful self. Popocatapetl, Iztaccihuatl,
