back toward Nochistlan. Alvarado endeavored to check the flight of his men, to rally and rest them; but they were terror-stricken and paid no heed to the orders of the commander. To save their lives they were now even willing the enemy should live; so onward they swept over the rugged ground, caring little for captain or country. Alvarado's secretary, Baltasar de Montoya, whose horse was much fatigued, was particularly anxious to widen the distance between himself and the enemy.
Montoya rode in front of his master, who repeatedly told him to slacken his pace, or the horse would fall with him. But the scribe was beside himself with fear; so much so that on coming to a broken embankment, instead of economizing his fast failing resources he spurred the jaded animal toward the steep. When about half way up the horse lost its footing and fell, throwing likewise Alvarado and his horse to the ground, whereupon all were precipitated into a ravine below. Montoya was not much injured,[1] but the gallant conqueror lay crushed, his fair form broken and mutilated.
Alas! Tonatiuh, the sun, had set; the immortal one was clay. Slain by no enemy, he was none the less a victim to his own rashness. He was the last of the famous four, and his death was as might have been expected. Cortés and Sandoval, though no less familiar with danger than Olid and Alvarado, were less the slaves of reckless impulse. Ever holding passion subservient to reason, and feeling to common-sense, they escaped violent death. Not that death by violence, quick deliverance, is necessarily worse or more appalling than the long-drawn agony attending bodily disease or a broken heart. Alvarado's was not a glorious death, but neither was that of Cortés or Columbus, whose last hours were made miserable by slights and insults, by foiled ambition and a princely pauperism.
- ↑ The clumsy coward lived to the age of 105 years. Tello, Hist. N. Gal., 392.
