But now they encountered new embarrassments. The streams, swollen by the rains, came roaring in impetuous torrents from the mountains, and the intervales and the wide-spreading meadows were flooded. One stream, foaming through enormous precipices, emitted a roar which was heard at the distance of six miles. It required three days to throw a bridge across this raging mountain torrent. The natives took advantage of this delay to flee from their homes, carrying with them all their provisions. Again famine threatened the camp. This was, perhaps, the darkest hour of the march. The horses were lame. The men were bleeding, and way-worn, and gaunt. Death by starvation seemed inevitable. "I own," says Diaz, "I never in my life felt my heart so depressed as when I found nothing to be had for myself or my people." Cortez, however, sent out some very efficient foraging parties in all directions. Impelled by the energies of despair, the detachment succeeded in obtaining food. This strengthened them until they reached a large town called Taica, where they again rejoiced in abundance. The rain still continued to fall in torrents, and the soldiers, drenched by night and by day, toiled along through the mire. Even Cortez lost his habitual placidity of temper and began to complain. The vain and gossiping Diaz would not have his readers unmindful of the eminent services he rendered in these emergencies. With much affected humility he narrates his exploits. "Cortez," says he, "returned me thanks for my conduct. But I will drop this subject; for what is praise but emptiness and unprofitableness, and what advantage is it to me that people in Mexico should tell me what we endured, or that Cortez should say, when he wanted me to go on this last expedition, that, next to God, it was me on whom he placed his reliance?"