The Indians, terrified and fearful that Cortes would take revenge upon them for the death of the horse that he had left for them to care for and to minister to all his wants, before they buried him, carved a rude statue in his likeness and placed it in a temple in the lake. The devil, who, as Villagutierre observes, is never slack to take advantage when he can, seeing the blindness and the superstition (which was great) of those abominable idolaters, induced them by degrees to make a God of the graven image they had made. Their veneration grew with time, just as bad weeds grow up in corn, as Holy Writ sets forth for our example, and that abominable statue became the chiefest of their gods, though they had many others equally horrible. As the first horses that they saw were ridden by the Spaniards in the chase of the tame deer, and many shots were fired, the Indians not unnaturally connected the explosions and the flames less with the rider than the horse. Thus in the course of years the evolution of the great god Tziunchan took place, and, as the missionaries said, these heathen steeped in ignorance adored the work of their own hands. Father Orbieta, not stopping to reflect that all of us adore what we have made, but “filled with the spirit of the Lord and carried off with furious zeal for the honour of our God,” {118} seized a great stone and in an instant cast the idol down, then with a hammer he broke it into bits. When Father Orbieta had finished his work and thus destroyed one of the most curious monuments of the New World, which ought to have been preserved as carefully as if it had been carved by Praxiteles, “with the ineffable and holy joy that filled him, his face shone with a light so spiritual that it was something to praise God for and to view with delight.” Most foolish actions usually inspire their perpetrators with delight, although their faces do not shine with spiritual joy when they have done them; so when one reads the folly of this muddle-headed friar, it sets one hoping that several of the stones went home upon his back as he sat paddling the canoe. The Indians broke into lamentations, exclaiming, “Death to him, he has killed our God”; but were prevented from avenging his demise by the Spanish soldiers who prudently had accompanied the friar. Thus was the mystery of the eternal Word made manifest amongst the Maçotecas, and a deity destroyed who for a hundred years and more had done no harm to any one on earth . . . a thing unusual amongst Gods. XI MUDEJAR BROWN, severe, and wall-girt, the stubborn city still held out. Its proud traditions made it impossible for Zaragoza to capitulate without a siege. As in the days of Soult, when the heroic maid, the _artillera_, as her countrymen call her with pride, when Palafox held up the blood and orange banner in which float the lions and the castles of Castille, the city answered shot for shot.