mozin, 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 Malinche. 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."

"Trust not Malinche," added Karee. "Was it not trust in him that brought
all this evil upon us? Think not of submission. You shall see that women
can die as well as men. Let Malinche come, and take possession of the
remains of these mutilated walls and desolated gardens, but let him not
claim one living Aztec, to be his slave, or his subject."

A murmur of approbation followed, and then a long pause ensued. It was
like the silence of death. The whole scene would have made an admirable
picture. At length the silence was broken by the voice of the young
Cacique of Tlacopan.

"My sovereign," said he, in a faint voice, but with something of the
energy of despair, "there is yet hope. Let us muster what force we can,
of men who are able to stand, and sally out upon the enemy. We cannot do
him much harm. But, while he is occupied with us, you and your family,
with a few attendants can escape by a canoe over the lake. As many of
us as have life and strength to do it, will follow you, under cover of
the coming night. Your old subjects will flock around you there, and we
may yet, when we shall have tasted food, and become men again, make a
stand somewhere against the foe, and drive him out."

"It is well! it is well!" was the feeble response on every side.

"I cannot leave you," replied the monarch. "What! shall your king fly,
like a coward, while his people rush upon the enemy only to cover his
retreat? No, that were worse than death--worse than captivity!"

"It is not flight, my beloved sovereign," responded the Cacique, "it is
an honorable stratagem of war, for the good of the nation, not less than
your own. When _you_ are gone, we have no head, and we fall at once into
the captivity we so much dread. Leave us but the name and person of