Had I saved Father Pedro from the hands of the pabas of the Otomie, it is likely enough that I should not to-day be writing this history here in the valley of the Waveney.

I do not know if I could have saved him, I only know that I did not try, and that because of his death great sorrows came upon me.

Whether I was right or wrong, who can say?
Those who judge my story may think that in this as in other matters I was wrong; had they seen Isabella de Siguenza die within her living tomb, certainly they would hold that I was right.

But for good or ill, matters came about as I have written.
And it came about also, that the new viceroy sent from Spain was stirred to anger at the murder of the friar by the rebellious and heathen people of the Otomie, and set himself to take vengeance on the tribe that wrought the deed.
Soon tidings reached me that a great force of Tlascalan and other Indians were being collected to put an end to us, root and branch, and that with them marched more than a hundred Spaniards, the expedition being under the command of none other than the Captain Bernal Diaz, that same soldier whom I had spared in the slaughter of the noche triste, and whose sword to this day hung at my side.
Now we must needs prepare our defence, for our only hope lay in boldness.

Once before the Spaniards had attacked us with thousands of their allies, and of their number but few had lived to look again on the camp of Cortes.