hooted out of the country. Entering Tlascala, the inhabitants brought provisions to them, but wanted to be well paid in gold. The invaders were no longer conquerors who could demand tribute or gods who must be obeyed, but a defeated, fleeing army. They stopped three days at this place to rest, and while there had a visit from some of the leading chiefs of the tribe. Never did noble red men better deserve that title—so often given to them in scorn—than did these Tlascalan braves. They opened their homes to the strangers, carrying the sick and the lame in litters to a place of rest and dressing their wounds with skill and kindness. The old chief Maxixca took Cortez to his own home and gave him a bedstead to sleep on, with clean cotton sheets and coverlets—a luxury he had not enjoyed for many a night. He lay here for days tossing with a burning fever, the result of fatigue and exposure after his wound. Many of the soldiers died here, and were buried in the campground with a rude cross to mark their graves as those of Christian men.
At length the Indians began to mutter over the burden of feeding an army of strangers. Many of the soldiers became homesick and urged Cortez to hasten back to Villa Rica to look after their brave companions there, who perhaps might not be able to hold out in case of a siege. This Cortez determined not to do. He was even then, after all his disasters, forming plans to go back to Mexico and recover the prize which had once been in his grasp. He dared not trust his Spaniards so near the ocean-path to Cuba. While Cortez was debating this subject with his men a party of Aztec chiefs arrived in Tlascala bringing presents, and offering peace to their old enemies if they would
