FOLLOWING their Tlascalan guide, the Spaniards undertook their wearisome march through a desolate country; sometimes struggling through swamps, and then scrambling over mountains. Parties of Mexicans pursued and hung upon their rear, and it required the utmost vigilance and skill to avoid them. Then, too, the region through which they were moving was uninhabited, and destitute of all manner of supplies; they ate gladly such roots and berries as they could find. Arrived at Zacamolco, their famine was so great that they greedily devoured a horse that had been killed that day by the Mexicans. As to the poor Tlascalans, they threw themselves upon the ground, and piteously implored their gods to help them. Cortes bore himself nobly through these sorrows. All eyes were upon him, and his example roused and animated his men. At length, on the sixth day of the march, they came near Otompan. Parties of Mexicans now showed themselves more frequently, and some, as they passed, cried out scornfully, “Advance, advance, robbers, to receive the reward of your crimes!” The valley of Otompan presently burst upon their sight, covered with warriors as far as the eye could reach. Two hundred thousand men, headed by the nobility of the country, had gathered there to oppose them in their march to Tlascala. The hearts of the Spaniards now sank within them; the stoutest among them were dismayed; their doom was at hand. Cortes was instantly roused; he saw that to allow them to shrink from their danger, was only to increase it. He immediately drew up his wretched army, and flanking it on each side with the few horsemen he could still command, cried out with enthusiasm, “The moment is arrived when we must either conquer or perish! Castilians, rouse your spirits, place your confidence on high, and advance boldly to the charge!” With this, he rushed to the conflict. The Indians fought with the fury of revenge, the Spaniards with the fury of despair. More than once the brave band of Cortes broke through the lines of the enemy, but new multitudes thronged upon them instantly. They were overpowered with numbers. For four hours this horrid fight continued. Cortes perceived his men falling fast, some dead, and others dying; all seemed well nigh lost. A bold thought now struck him. He remembered to have heard that the Mexicans were always routed when their general was slain and their standard taken. He determined to make one last effort. Cihuacatzin, the leader of the Indians, was in the midst of his troops, sitting upon his litter, surrounded by a guard; and the standard, fastened to his back, was floating over his head. Cortes, calling to Alvarado, Sandoval, Olid, and Davila, to follow him close and guard him from attack, dashed toward the general. With a desperate fury he broke through the crowd, reached the centre of the army, and with one blow of his lance laid Cihuacatzin on the ground. One of the brave