"Not when life and honour lie trembling in the balance," said the young knight, indignantly. And, forgetful for the instant of the leader's presence, he continued--"For you, Don Juan, you seem not to remember that we are here pent up like a stack of wood, ready for the burning when our enemies choose to desire light for their temple's sacrifices." Cortes bent his face forward swiftly towards the speaker. "Say then, Leon, do you counsel retreat over yonder bridges while yet there is time? Is that what thou camest to--" But the commander could not finish his sentence. The Spaniard's deference and decorum were neither of them sufficient to restrain him at such an imputation. "Retreat!" he exclaimed. "I have never yet been of the number of those who have counselled that. Ere I would join in retreat I would of myself yield me into these heathen butchers' hands, to have my heart plucked out as an offering to their gods." "But yet, if we stay," was the quiet answer,--"bethink you, Velasquez, if we stay, that may still possibly be thy fate, and that of many of us." "Not if we make a bold fight for it at once," said Cabrera, grown almost as serious as if Leon's rebuke were weighing on his mind. But, as a fact, he did feel grave enough at their present insecure situation, and, brave as he was, he had a shuddering horror at the thought of becoming one of those dreadful sacrifices. "Any spark may kindle the fury against us of these savages," muttered Velasquez, "and already our easy sloth is nourishing their contempt." A return of the former haughty look was quickly visible on the face of Cortes at these words; but ere he could reply to them a noise and tumult without startled all four occupants of the room, and they hastily issued forth to learn the cause. Montoro was the first to reach the threshold of the palace, and with a low, terrible cry he fell back upon his comrades. "What is it?" gasped Cortes; and, pushing to the front, he received a ghastly answer to his query. Spiked upon Indian lances, and held aloft by Indian hands, was an immense human head, crowned with heavy dark locks matted and stiffened with gore. A crowd of Indians, warriors and women, trooped along behind it, rending the air with their yells of triumph. For the space of ten seconds it might be that the bronzed cheek of Cortes blanched; then he made a dash forward, caught one of the yelling youths, and dragging him back with him to the doorway, questioned him rapidly. "Whose was that head yonder? Was it the head of an enemy of the Mexicans? a Tlascalan, or whose?" The Indian boy cringed and trembled in that tightening grip. "It is not the head of one of the white men here with the great white chief." "It is the head of poor Morla, whom we left behind at Vera Cruz as one of Escalante's garrison," said Montoro sadly. "I should know it anywhere, and under any circumstances."