As we were thus retreating, we continually heard the large drum beating from the summit of the chief temple of the city. Its tone was mournful indeed, and sounded like the very instrument of Satan. This drum was so vast in its dimensions that it could be heard from eight to twelve miles distance. Every time we heard its doleful sound, the Mexicans, as we subsequently learnt, offered to their idols the bleeding hearts of our unfortunate countrymen. But we had not near accomplished our retreat; for the enemy attacked us from the house-tops, from out their canoes, and from the mainland at the same time, while fresh troops were constantly pouring in. At this moment Quauhtemoctzin commanded the large horn to be sounded, which was always a signal to his troops that he allowed them no choice but death or victory. With this at the same time was mingled the melancholy sound of the drum from the temple top, which filled the Mexicans with terrific fury, and they ran headlong against our swords. It was really a horrible sight, which I am unable to describe, though even at this moment it comes vividly to my mind. If the Almighty had not lent us additional strength, we must all have perished, as the whole of us were wounded. To Him alone we are indebted for our preservation, and without His aid we should never again have reached our quarters. Indeed, I cannot sufficiently praise God, who this time again, as on so many other occasions, rescued me out of the hands of the Mexicans. When we had reached our encampment, a brisk charge of our cavalry upon the enemy made somewhat open space for us; but we were mostly indebted to our two brass cannon mounted in front of our camp, which were continually fired among the dense crowds of the enemy on the causeway, each shot mowing numbers of them down. But the Mexicans, confident of victory, kept continually advancing to the attack, and poured showers of stones and lances into our very quarters. No one rendered more effectual service on this day than a cavalier named Pedro Moreno, who is still living in Puebla: for, at this moment of imminent danger, he himself served our cannon, as our artillerymen were all either killed or unable to serve from their wounds. This Pedro Moreno had indeed, on all occasions, proved himself an excellent warrior, yet it was particularly on this day that we were so much indebted to his assistance. The severity of our numerous wounds, and the distress we were in, was all rendered more terrible from the uncertainty we were in respecting the fate of Cortes' and Sandoval's divisions, as the distance between us was full two miles. The words the Mexicans had uttered when they threw the five bleeding heads at our feet, that Malinche and Sandoval, with all their teules, had been cut to pieces, still rung in our ears, and we suffered intense anxiety. Though we had firmly closed our ranks, and were able to defend ourselves against the furious attacks