Suddenly the air was filled with the loud yells of the Mexicans. They had watched every movement. The priests sounded their horns, calling their countrymen to battle: the lake was covered with a thousand canoes; showers of stones and arrows were poured in upon the Spaniards from the boats, while an immense number eagerly thronged the causeway to oppose them. Unfortunately at this time, the bridge broke down under the heavy weight of the baggage and artillery. Some of the Spaniards who had gained the other side hurried to the second breach, while their poor companions struggled to scramble across the horrid chasm, filled up now with one confused heap of baggage, cannon, armor, and the bodies of the dead and dying. All was confusion. The rain fell in torrents; the horses plunged in every direction; both sides of the causeway were lined with canoes, from which one continual attack was kept up; the Spaniards never before had witnessed anything like it. The bellowing of the horses, and the shrieks of the prisoners hurried away for sacrifice, filled the air: all was an indescribable scene of horror. With fury and desperation, many of the Spaniards fought their way over the dreadful gap, and joined their companions at the second breach; while the largest number were either killed on the spot, made prisoners, or drowned. At the second breach, the conflict was the same. It was impossible to preserve any order; friends and foes, soldiers and officers, horse and infantry, men and women, were all struggling there in one wild scene of carnage and horror. By a desperate exertion, Cortes, with some of his hardiest veterans, forced his way across the remaining breaches, “the bodies of the dead serving to fill up the ditches.” Having reached the firm land, he left his slender force with Sandoval and Olid, who had managed to escape with him, commanding them to keep in perfect order, to resist any fresh attack, and then plunged back into the fight. His heart would not allow him to leave his men in their deplorable condition. He passed and repassed the last breaches more than once, sometimes swimming, sometimes scrambling over the dead: here he would encourage some sinking man still to fight; there he would pull some drowning man to the firm land, and sometimes drag his captive comrades from the very hands of the enemy. His daring struggles are almost incredible. The sufferings of his men roused every energy; he risked every danger, and wonderful is it that he was not added to the number of the slain. In spite of all his efforts, however, the air still rang with the savage yells of the Mexicans, and the piercing shrieks of the poor captives. It was impossible to rescue all; he did all that man could do; he was heart-sick over his own inability. Now he was joined by a small party, which he found belonged to the rear division. These were Alvarado, bleeding freely, and scarcely able to stand, eight Spaniards, and as many Tlascalans, all wounded and