"As the Spaniards drew near the spot where the street opened on the causeway, and were preparing to lay the portable bridge across the uncovered breach, which now met their eyes, several Indian sentinels, who had been stationed at this, as at the other approaches to the city, took the alarm, and fled, rousing their countrymen by their cries. The priests, keeping their night-watch on the summit of the _teocallis_, instantly caught the tidings and sounded their shells, while the huge drum in the desolate temple of the war-god sent forth those solemn tones, which, heard only in seasons of calamity, vibrated through every corner of the capital. The Spaniards saw that no time was to be lost.... Before they had time to defile across the narrow passage, a gathering sound was heard, like that of a mighty forest agitated by the winds. It grew louder and louder, while on the dark waters of the lake was heard a plashing noise, as of many oars. Then came a few stones and arrows striking at random among the hurrying troops. They fell every moment faster and more furious, till they thickened into a terrible tempest, while the very heavens were rent with the yells and warcries of myriads of combatants, who seemed all at once to be swarming over land and lake!" What reader of this passage can forget the ominous, melancholy note of that great war drum? It is one of the most haunting things in all literature--like the blood-stained hands of the guilty queen in _Macbeth_, or the footprint on the sand in _Robinson Crusoe_, or the chill, mirthless laughter of the madwoman in _Jane Eyre_. One other splendidly vital passage is that which recounts the last great agony on the retreat from Mexico. The shattered remnants of the army of Cortés are toiling slowly onward to the coast, faint with famine and fatigue, deprived of the arms which in their flight they had thrown away, and harassed by their dusky enemies, who hover about them, calling out in tones of menace, "Hasten on! You will soon find yourselves where you cannot escape!"