But de Garcia had no mind to suffer this.

Lifting his sword, he sprang at me with a beastlike scream of rage and hate.
Swiftly as thought I slipped round the stone of sacrifice and after me came the uplifted sword of my enemy.

It would have overtaken me soon enough, for I was weak with fear and fasting, and my limbs were cramped with bonds, but at that moment a cavalier whom by his dress and port I guessed to be none other than Cortes himself, struck up de Garcia's sword, saying: 'How now, Sarceda?
Are you mad with the lust of blood that you would take to sacrificing victims like an Indian priest?
Let the poor devil go.' 'He is no Indian, he is an English spy,' cried de Garcia, and once more struggled to get at me.
'Decidedly our friend is mad,' said Cortes, scanning me; 'he says that this wretched creature is an Englishman.

Come, be off both of you, or somebody else may make the same mistake,' and he waved his sword in token to us to go, deeming that I could not understand his words; then added angrily, as de Garcia, speechless with rage, made a new attempt to get at me: 'No, by heaven! I will not suffer it.

We are Christians and come to save victims, not to slay them.