"Thou the first, for an ill-conditioned, surly knave that thou art," muttered Alvarado under his breath, as he came up in time to hear most of the priest's speech. Passing a few yards farther on he raised his voice, and summoned the little army once more to assemble without delay to hear the proposed plan of future movements. Within ten minutes the whole force had crowded up together around Cortes, and in breathless silence awaited the coming news. The first words were somewhat startling. They were a repetition of their own at the outset of that morning's tumult. "Comrades, our ships are burnt." Then--a long, startling pause following startling words. Men turned their heads slowly from side to side, and gazed into each others' eyes. Were those words and the silence ominous of evil to come? of passionate accusations or of dark forebodings? But before one could mutter these and many another doubt to his fellow, the words were repeated, and the short speech continued to its end. "Our ships are burnt. Now we go to burn the heathen gods of this benighted land. We are helpless in our own strength; in the power of the one true God we are invincible. Let us invite His aid and mercy by showing due honour to the most holy faith. We go, my comrades, to hurl the idols from their altars to make way for the Blessed Mother, and once for all to blot out human sacrifices from this polluted land, by raising on high the cross of Him who has become the one sacrifice for all mankind." The short speech of Hernando Cortes was ended, and although it contained no hint for any one there of gain, of gold, or glory, it went home--straight home from the speaker's heart to the hearts of his hearers. Intensely ambitious, and burdened with many faults, was that dauntless leader; wild, reckless, and cruel were many of his followers; but in some strange way they held to the Christian faith as they knew it, and were at any time willing to lay down their life in its cause, although none of their sins. The emotions that closed that day were stronger and deeper than those with which it opened. Even the turbulent priest, Juan Diaz, put on an appearance of satisfaction now, whatever he might really still feel as to the discomforts of pestilent marshes, uncertain commons, and the faint prospect of better things for the future. "Before all things spread the Catholic faith," was the watchword in that age, of all exploring expeditions, the one universal plea for their aid and countenance. Cortes held to it with the intense fervour natural to his strong nature. So did his followers; but all the same that Merry Andrew, Juan de Cabrera, took occasion during the course of the afternoon to remark to Alvarado-- "Now, my most estimable and dearly-beloved friend, when we get into those heathen temples do the friendly part by me, and just give me a quiet hint where to lay my fingers on any easily-portable little bits of gold."