It was always the same dream, night after night; it began with those noises which seemed to came from the south, from it were the ruins of that cursed temple. "Tris-tris", he knew what was that sound, they were bells, ringing with each step from his visitor. But not tonight, this night would be different.

In the middle of the silence of the night in New Spain, sheltered in the shadows of the houses, the mighty conqueror wrapped up in his blankets and made everything to avoid sleep. He looked at the furniture in the room, the silhouettes of the treasures lying all around the place, the body of the woman sleeping peacefully at his side and in the virgin who stared at him in front on his bed with her glass eyes.
He didn´t knew how many time he had been doing that when he listened that noise louder that the clock from the church: those bells again. Afraid, he pinched his arms "It can´t be, I am not sleep" he said to himself to chase away what he thought it was a nightmare, but without any result, the steps were coming close but without lose their paused rhythm. He shook at his woman to ask her if she was able to hear the bells, but she didn´t wake up, she seemed to be in a trance; he made the sign of the cross, begging for help to the Lord, and then a laugh without joy pierced the night:
-It´s useless that you call to your god, Malinche. - Cortés looked at the place from when the voice came from, the same voice that keep on torturing him since Tenochtitlan´s fall calling at him with the nickname of "malinche" that the Indians had gave him: there, standing at his side, was an Aztec warrior. His body was painted with black strips faded away due to the sweat, he had his loincloth dirty of blood and dust, at his ankles he wore strips made of bells and at his head a broken helmet which imitated an eagle´s head; in the chest, by the heart, he had a bloody wound, but nothing of this was the most terrible of him, neither the feathered shield or his deadly weapon, the macuahuitl with its obsidian edges. The most terrible of the warriors were his eyes, deep, penetrating and taunting as obsidian knives, and he talked again:

-You don´t remember me, Right? It doesn't matter, I was just another one killed by you in your way…but who cares about it, it´s normal…-Cortes wasn´t able to speak, his tongue had become as if it was made of stone. - What isn´t normal and isn´t fine is what you have done to my people, destroy their city and their temples, rape their women, humiliate my brothers, force them to hide their loyalty to our gods and demolish them.- The ghost brought his face near to Cortes and whispered at him, each word full of hate:
-I know that you don´t care and that you won the war, but listen to me Malinche, early or late, you´ll die, and anywhere that your soul goes, I´ll be there. And I´ll make you suffer, I´ll cut your arms and your legs one by one and you´ll scream as louder as a soul can do it, I swear it by my lord and god, Huitzilopochtli, the terrible one. - The ghost faded away, looking at him until he melted in the shadows, and then Cortes recovered the ability of talk, the time keep on at his way at if anything had happened. Trying to calm down he went to look through the window from where it looked the sleeping city. "It was a dream" he said to himself, "Those barbaric illiterate Indians didn´t speak my langue, there is no way that they could threaten me now, me! Hernan Cortes, their conqueror. It was nothing but a ridiculous dream." And in the heaven the ancient gods listened and laughed at him, because they knew which the truth was.