Famine, cruel, gnawing famine, was in the palace of the Emperor, as well as in the hovel of his meanest subject. That noble prince quailed not before the fate that awaited himself. Had he stood alone in that citadel, with power in his single arm to keep out the foe, he would have stood till death, in whatever form, released him from his post, and spurned every suggestion of compromise or quarter. But the scenes of utter distress which every where met his eye--the haggard ghosts of his friends, flitting restlessly before him, or crawling feebly and with convulsive moans among the upturned earth, in the forlorn hope of finding another root--the dead--the dying--the more miserable living longing for death, and glaring with their horribly prominent, but glazed and expressionless eye-balls on each other--this, this was too much for the heart of Guatimozin. "What!" he exclaimed, "shall I submit to see my last friend die before my eyes, and my own sweet wife perish of hunger, only to retain for another hour the empty name of king. No. I will endure it no longer. I will go to Malinché, alone, and unaccompanied, and offer my life for yours. He only wants our gold. Let him find that if he can. He will spare _you_, and wreak all his vengeance on my head." A faint murmur ran through the crowd, and then a feeble expiring "No, never," burst feebly from many lips. One, a little stronger than the rest, arose and said-- "Most gracious sovereign, think not of us. We only ask to live and die with and for you. And the more cruel the death, the more glorious the martyrdom for our country and our gods. Trust not Malinché." The speaker fainted and fell, with his fist clenched, and his teeth set, as if he felt that he held the last foe in mortal conflict. "No, never--trust not Malinché--let us die together," was echoed by many sepulchral voices, that seemed more like the groans of the dead, than the remonstrances of the living. "Trust not Malinché, remember my father," whispered the fond, devoted, faithful, affectionate wife, now the shadow of her former self, beautiful in her queenly sorrow, sublime in her womanly composure. Guatimozin, the proud, the lofty chief, whose heart had never known fear, whose soul had never been subdued, bowed his head upon the bosom of his wife, and wept. The strong heart, the lion spirit melted. "Who, who will care for Tecuichpo? Who will cherish the last daughter of Montezuma?" "Think not of me, Guatimozin, think of yourself and your people, I am resigned to my fate. If I may but die with you, it is all I desire--for how could I live without you. But think not of trusting Malinché. Let us remain as we are. Another day, and we shall all be at rest from our sufferings. And surely it were better to die together by our altars, than to fall into the hands of the treacherous stranger."