Committed by a dignitary. Here, said

Way around the backside of the native encampment. They were now attacking headlong into their unprotected side, stampeding over them, slicing left instagram and right with their sabers and stabbing the faces of the Indians with their lances. The lances were made of long wooden poles with metal points like spear heads instagram fixed to the end. Their blades and helmets twinkled like firecrackers in the hot sun as they came busting through the rattled enemy ranks. For Saint James! cried out Cortés from atop his dark, chestnut steed, his saber held high above his head. For Saint Peter! replied his fellow soldiers as they trampled over the hapless natives like wily kids stomping on scattering ants. Saint James was the patron saint of Spain. He was sometimes referred to as Saint James the Moor-Slayer ever since his apparition was spotted hovering over the Spanish armies fighting the Muslims at Clavijo in 844. That's exactly what Cortés looked like at that moment: an apparition, larger than life, atop instagram a powerful horse, saber slashing, armor glistening, eyes blazing and nothing presenting any semblance of a challenge against him. In line, gentlemen! ordered Ordaz. Prepare to charge! A new surge of confidence and energy replenished the men when they saw their fearless General rough-riding his way through the enemy and dashing them to bits. Now everyone wanted a piece of the action. I noticed many of the Indians dropping their weapons and now fleeing which would make it even easier for our infantry to increase the casualty count. Forward! Charge! Ordaz led his troops across the softly tilled soil and right onto the backs of the retreating natives. They cut down many more Indians before their fleetness of foot allowed for their escape. The weight of their armor was too much for them to continue the pursuit for long. Do we follow, sir? Ordaz asked Cortés as the General rode his horse up behind the lines. Not this time. Lead your men to those palm trees at the top of the hill there. We'll take stock of our losses. Yes, sir. After the Indians had finally fled, we regrouped under a series of fat-trunked palm trees along the crest of a small hill. The number of dead and wounded Indians in the field was horrific. There must have been hundreds, possibly a thousand. They were spread out in clumps across the field like victims of a buffalo stampede. Many had been blown to pieces by the cannons. Some were still moaning in misery, too injured to move, too healthy to die. Under the instagram trees, Father Olmedo led the men in a prayer of thanks. It is apparent that Heaven is fighting on our side, father, said Cortés with a broad grin. Because our own strength could never have won out against such a multitude of assailants. He had taken off his helmet, his black hair was matted down against his head as if greased. We went into the field with nearly four hundred soldiers (our entire group) and we only lost two men with fewer than ninety injured. Two stout men, a little taller than the average native, were brought before Cortés by Alvarado. And who are these two fine gentlemen? asked the General. According to Aguilar they are chiefs. Both of them, answered Alvarado. They were captured before they could escape with the others. Chiefs? You could almost see the gears turning inside Cortés's wide, sweaty head. Interesting. What should we do with these prisoners, general? asked Alvarado. We need workers, said Ávila. Infidels should be executed, grunted Ordaz with much less humor.