THE SON OF
COLUMBUS

BY

MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL

AUTHOR OF
“THE LIVELY ADVENTURES OF GAVIN HAMILTON”
“THE ROCK OF THE LION”
“A VIRGINIA CAVALIER” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
MCMXII

COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY HARPER & BROTHERS

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1912

[See page [205]

THEN, RISING, THE ADMIRAL TOOK HIS SON IN HIS ARMS

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

VERY few liberties have been taken with history, and these few are merely of detail. The signing of the final pact with the Spanish sovereigns by Columbus really took place on the plains of Santa Fé, outside of Granada, but it is represented, for dramatic effect, as taking place in the Alhambra. Also, the celebrated order of Columbus directing his captains, after sailing seven hundred and fifty leagues due west, to make no more sail after midnight was given at the Canaries instead of at Palos. Irving’s Life of Columbus, the best yet written, has been strictly followed in dates.

M. E. S.

THE
SON OF COLUMBUS

I
LOOKING SEAWARD

ON a bright October noon in 1491 two lads sat in a small tower room in the monastery of La Rabida, talking together with that profound interest which two human beings feel, who have recently met and whose lives will be closely united for some time to come. One of them was Don Felipe de Langara y Gama, already, at sixteen, the head of one of the greatest ducal families in Castile. The other was Diego, the eldest son of the Genoese navigator and map-maker, by name, Christopher Columbus, or, as the Spaniards called him, Christobal Colon.

The lads were fine types of two extremes of station. Diego was a model of sturdy strength for his age. He inherited the piercing blue eyes of the Genoese navigator—those commanding eyes, once seen, were unforgettable. His fair skin was freckled by living much in the open, and his wide, frank mouth expressed resolution as well as a charming gaiety of heart. Diego, however, could be serious enough when occasion required. He had known more in his short life of the rubs of fortune, of hope deferred, of splendid dreams and heartbreaking disappointments, of courts, of camps, of penury, of luxury, than many men know in the course of a long span of years.

Don Felipe, born in a palace and knowing that at sixteen he would inherit the wealth and splendid honors of his dead father, the Duke de Langara y Gama, was yet all simplicity and good sense. His slight figure was more muscular than it appeared, and the softness of his black eyes belied the firmness of his character.

Both lads alike were dressed with extreme plainness, the grandee of Spain wearing no better clothes than the son of the Genoese captain. They were so absorbed in each other that they had no eyes for the glowing scene visible through the iron-studded door, open wide upon the parapet. Below them lay the green gardens and orchards of the monastery. Beyond, stretched the town and the port of Palos, where the masts and hulls of the caravels and other vessels of the time were outlined against the deep sea and blue sky. Some of these vessels were unloading, and others were taking on their cargoes, the sailors singing cheerfully as they worked. Farther off still, the “white horses” of the blue Atlantic dashed wildly over the bar of Saltes, the sun glittering upon the crested waves. Over the whole of the Andalusian coast and the rolling hills beyond was that atmosphere of peace and plenty which made Andalusia to be called the Granary, the Wine Cellar, the Gold Purse, and the Garden of Spain.

The two lads were quite oblivious of all this, and even of the nearness of their instructor, Fray Piña, the young ecclesiastic who had charge of them, and who was at that moment leaning over the parapet outside the open door. Fray Piña glanced within the room; he could not hear what Diego and Don Felipe were saying, but it was evident from their attitudes—both leaning eagerly across the rough table, strewn with writing implements and the manuscript books of the period—that they were deeply interested in each other.

“They are making acquaintance very fast,” thought Fray Piña to himself. “It is best to leave them alone. Don Felipe needs the companionship of just such a boy as Diego, and Diego needs the companionship of just such a boy as Don Felipe.”

It was this very point which the boys were discussing.

“And so,” Don Felipe was saying, “my mother, Doña Christina, who is obliged to be much at court, because she is a lady-in-waiting to Queen Isabella, said the court was not a good place in which a youth should be wholly brought up, especially a faithless youth like me. Nor does my mother think it well to have my sister, Doña Luisita, at court yet, as she is but fourteen; so Luisita remains with her governess at the castle of Langara when my mother attends the Queen. And my mother asked Fray Piña to take charge of me for a year, with another youth of my age, and without rank; and we should be schooled together, and dress plainly, and be disciplined.”

FRAY PIÑA GLANCED WITHIN THE ROOM AND THOUGHT
THEY WERE MAKING ACQUAINTANCE VERY FAST

“I think Fray Piña is the man for discipline,” replied Diego, laughing. “And I suppose your lady mother knew that Fray Piña would treat us exactly alike—you, a grandee of Spain, and I, the son of the Genoese navigator, Christobal Colon, as the Spaniards call my father. But look you, Don Felipe, I am the son of the greatest man who ever trod Spanish earth, and some day the world will know my father to be that man.”

As Diego said this he straightened up and looked Don Felipe in the eye; he expected his statement to be questioned. Don Felipe, however, surprised him by saying, quietly:

“So Fray Piña told Doña Christina, my mother.”

A flush of gratified pride shone in Diego’s frank face.

“My father will still be the bravest navigator that ever lived, even if he never returns from his voyage,” continued Diego, proudly. “All the other navigators in the world have been satisfied to creep along the shores, never going out of sight of land. My father means to steer straight into the uncharted seas, sailing due west. He will have but two nautical instruments, a compass and an astrolabe, but he will have the stars by night and the sun by day, and God’s hand to help him—for my father is a man who fears God and nothing else. He will steer due west, and will come to a great continent with vast ranges of mountains, superb rivers, larger and longer than any we know, huge bodies of water, mines of gold and silver and minerals of all sorts, strange birds, animals, and peoples—everything far more splendid than this old Europe. All the seafaring men believe in my father—far more than the learned men do—because the sailors know that my father understands more about the seas than any living man. Already, although my father is not an admiral, the captains and the pilots and the sailors at Palos call him the Admiral. Every mariner in the port of Palos bows low to my father.”

“But he will be an admiral before he sails,” said Don Felipe, catching Diego’s enthusiasm.

“Yes,” answered Diego, “he demands that he shall become the Admiral of the Ocean Seas, Viceroy and Captain-General over all the lands he discovers. And also my father asks, if he goes on this great errand for Spain, that I shall be taken to the court with you and become a page-in-waiting to Prince Juan, the heir to the thrones of Arragon and Castile. Is that much to ask? Well, my father will do ten thousand times more for Spain.”

“Perhaps,” said Don Felipe, after a pause, “that is why we are to be schooled together and then go to court together. Are you frightened at the thought of the court?”

“No,” answered Diego, sturdily.

“I never heard,” said Don Felipe, “of a foreigner and the son of a man without rank being page to a royal prince.”

“It is the first time,” said Diego, calmly, “and it will not often be repeated. If the other pages, sons of the greatest nobles of Castile and Arragon, dare to say anything to me about it I have my answer ready. I will say, ’I am the son of a man who never said or did a base thing in his life, who is courteous to a beggar, and not abashed in the presence of kings and queens—for I have seen my father in the presence of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella—who honors God, and who is the very boldest man that ever sailed blue water.”

“That is right,” said Don Felipe, “but I can tell you, Diego, there are a great many things at court that are not pleasant. You think Fray Piña is strict. He is not half as strict as the master of the pages at court. For when anything goes wrong Fray Piña will listen to an excuse, but the master of the pages listens to no excuses. The pages of honor are required to be on duty long hours and are not permitted to read or do anything except to watch their royal masters and mistresses. They must rise early and stay up late. They can have no games or amusements except those which are permitted the royal princes. I warrant, Diego, there will be many times when you will long for the fields and orchards of La Rabida, the fishing in the summer, and being able to play with any boy you may like, and to read a pleasant book when so inclined.”

“That may be true,” replied Diego, stoutly, “but we shall have the horse exercise and the sword exercise; we shall see much of soldiers, and we shall enjoy living like men instead of like boys. But, after all,” he cried, laughing, “I am not yet at court. The King and Queen are still considering whether they shall help my father. Only of one thing I am certain—that my father will one day be a great discoverer.”

“I know it, too,” said Don Felipe, with boyish confidence. “The very first time I beheld your father I felt as I never did toward any man before. I watched him, and listened to him, thinking to myself, ’When I am an old man the boys will ask me, “Tell me when did you first see the great Admiral?”’ And I want you to tell me how you first came to this place.”

“I remember it all well enough, although I was but a little lad of seven—just as old as my little brother Fernando is now. I even remember things before that—the life I led with my father, going from place to place on foot, sleeping at the humblest inns and in the huts of peasants, nobody willing to listen to my father. Then my father made for the sea, there to take ship for England, and when we reached the monastery gate I was half dead, I was so hungry and tired. My father rang the bell and asked a little milk for me. It was brought me by Brother Lawrence, the lay brother here; he was a young man then. Oh, you will like Brother Lawrence—he is here still. While I was drinking the milk, the Prior, Juan Perez, passed through the courtyard where we sat and stopped and spoke to my father. I tell you this, Don Felipe, no matter whether people believed in my father or not in those days, they always treated him with personal respect. The Prior got in conversation with my father, and in a little while told Brother Lawrence to take care of me. Oh, what a happy day that was! All day Brother Lawrence took care of me, playing ball in the orchard and teaching me to fish in the fish-pond, and at night he put me to bed on a little pallet in a room where my father was to sleep. All day the Prior had been with my father, and I recollect that I was waked by my father coming into the room, and the Prior followed him. It was as if he could not leave my father. Then I went off to sleep, and in the middle of the night I again waked, and my father and the Prior were still bending over the maps and talking. I remember, however, I was such a little boy, that I thought we should have to leave that happy place at daybreak and take the road once more in weariness. But in the morning my father asked me:

“’Diego, do you like this place?’

“And I said yes, and I was so sorry we were going away, and he said:

“’We shall remain here some days, my little Diego.‘

“That made me so happy! We stayed here fourteen days. I played all day long in the orchard and by the fish-pond with Brother Lawrence. And then there were other boys, the two Pinzons, Martin and Alonzo, and the son of the physician Dr. Garcia, and the sons of the pilot Fernando Rodriguez.”

Diego suddenly stopped talking. He had the instinctive good sense not to talk too much about himself.

“Go on,” cried Don Felipe, “I want to know every word about your father, everything that happened, so when I am an old man I shall be able to tell people about the great Admiral.”

Diego’s eyes shone, and he kept on.

“All the seafaring men in Palos, especially the great ship-owners the Pinzons and the pilot Rodriguez, were called to the monastery by the Prior, and they all listened to my father and wondered and admired, and told the Prior my father was right and by sailing to the westward he would discover land. So, then, the Prior wrote a letter to the great Queen Isabella, whom he knew, and sent it to her by Rodriguez the pilot. Rodriguez came back saying the Queen commanded my father to come to her at Cordova. He went to Cordova, and took me along. I was sorry to leave Brother Lawrence and the boys I played with every day. I do not recollect much about Cordova, I was such a little lad. I thought I should see the great Queen Isabella with her crown on and King Ferdinand with his scepter, and how surprised I was when I saw only a gentle lady, very simply dressed, sitting with the King in a small room. They were, however, on a dais, and I sat down on the steps. Presently I fell asleep, and when I waked up my head was on the Queen’s knee, and she was looking down at me with smiling eyes. I do not remember my own mother; but when I looked into the eyes of Queen Isabella I knew what a mother’s eyes were like. She was ever kind to me later, in all the many times that my father wearily went to court and followed the King and Queen about, even when encamped with their soldiers.”

“When will your father return?” asked Don Felipe.

“I do not know; but it will be soon, I think.”

As Diego spoke there was a sound of clattering hoofs on the stones of the courtyard.

“That is my father!” said Diego.

At that moment Fray Piña turned from the parapet and entered the room. Instantly both lads bent over their books as if they had no thought but study. Fray Piña smiled slightly; they had not looked at a book since their tutor had been out of the room.

Fray Piña took up a treatise on mathematics and began to question the two boys. Neither of them did very well, their thoughts being with the Admiral in the courtyard and the news he might bring from Granada, where the siege of the Moorish city was in progress, and the success he might have had with the Spanish sovereigns. But Fray Piña went on relentlessly. Diego felt as if he could scarcely remain in his seat; and Don Felipe’s eyes wandered everywhere, his wits going with his eyes. At last a knock was heard at the door, and the ruddy, good-natured, boyish face of Brother Lawrence, the young lay brother who worked in the garden and milked the cows and attended to the mules, appeared at the door.

“His Excellency Christobal Colon,” he said, giving Columbus the name the Spaniards called him, “has arrived, and begs Fray Piña to excuse Diego for an hour.”

“You are excused,” said Fray Piña; and the next moment was heard the sound of Diego’s footsteps as he rushed down the stone stairs, two at a time, and dashed into the sunny courtyard.

Standing in the courtyard talking with the Prior, Juan Perez, was Columbus. From him had Diego inherited the tall, slim, but muscular figure. The hair of the great Admiral was quite white; his complexion was weather-beaten; his eyes were the eyes of a man born a captain. All masters of men have the indomitable eye—the eye whose glance conveys the command of a master before the lips can speak the word. In Columbus the power to command was writ large all over him—not only to command others, but to command himself.

Suddenly the little Fernando, seven years old, led by Brother Lawrence, came into the courtyard and ran forward, and at the same moment Diego appeared. Instantly the Admiral’s stern face softened. He took the little boy in his arms, kissing and blessing him, and then clasped Diego to his breast.

Diego caught his father in a strong embrace, and rubbed his smooth, boyish cheek against the Admiral’s bronzed face.

The Admiral, as he was already popularly called, returned warmly the boy’s caress, and then, holding him off at arm’s length, said to him:

“How have you behaved since last I saw you?”

“Not very well,” answered Diego, candidly, looking into his father’s eyes. “It is so hard to study in sunny weather, and Don Felipe and I went fishing and overstayed our time twice.”

The Admiral said nothing; and the Prior, a grave, handsome man, but not unkindly in his aspect, looked hard at Diego.

“Then,” said Diego, after a pause, and forcing himself to speak, “the first day Don Felipe came I found the Prior’s mule at large, and Don Felipe and I got Fray Piña’s mule out of the stable and ran races until we were caught and stopped.”

“And punished,” added the Prior, quietly. “But there has been no lying or deceit or anything base in the conduct of your son, Christobal Colon.”

“Then,” answered the Admiral, “the rest is easily forgiven. Return now to your studies, and when I have finished my conversation with the Prior, and when Fray Piña will give you leave, then will I speak with you at length.”

The Admiral was more indulgent to the little Fernando, who remained, clinging to his father’s hand.

Diego returned to the tower room quickly. He might have lagged, but he knew that the Admiral’s silent watchfulness followed him. When he sat down again at the table he made an honest effort to concentrate his mind on what Fray Piña was saying, and managed to do so until the mathematical lesson was over. Then was it time to go to the refectory for dinner. The refectory was a large, bare room except for a long table at which the monks dined. At the farther end sat the Prior with the Admiral, as the guest of honor, on his right. No conversation was allowed, and after grace was said one of the monks at a reading-desk read aloud from the Scriptures while the simple meal went on. Diego heard not one word of what was being read. He could only fix his eyes upon his father, across whose gray head a beam of sunlight shone like an aureole. The Admiral, however, put strict attention to the reading. It was as if his extraordinary mind, like everything about him, were under the control of his will and, as a revolving light, could be turned at pleasure upon any subject.

When dinner was over, the two youths expected, as usual, to be given an hour’s recreation in the sunny orchard in which was a fish-pond, that was Diego’s delight. But he was bitterly disappointed when Fray Piña said to him:

“It was this day a week ago that you and Don Felipe raced the mules. Let us go up to the study now and spend that wasted hour in mathematics.”

Diego and Don Felipe exchanged rueful glances, but said nothing. Fray Piña had a deadly ingenuity in paying off for all their pranks, and had no doubt waited for this day when the orchard and the fish-pond and the blue sky called to the lads, “Come and be happy.” Instead, however, of talking and fishing and frolicking, as they usually did at that hour, the two lads spent the time being put through their paces by Fray Piña. By the time they had answered one question another was propounded, and the blackboard in the tower room was covered with figures. It was a sort of mental exercise for Fray Piña himself, and when the hour was over Diego and Don Felipe were thoroughly tired out with hard work and incessant figuring.

Fray Piña himself looked weary, and his black hair lay damp upon his forehead under his skull-cap.

“You have both done well,” he said, “and showed more proficiency than I expected. You may now have two hours’ recreation instead of one. The Prior’s mule and mine are both in the stable, but I apprehend they are both safe.”

Diego and Don Felipe hung their heads at this, but were glad to rush into the fresh, bright air once more.

In the kitchen garden, next the orchard, they found Brother Lawrence, of whom both were fond. One of their favorite amusements was to engage in wrestling bouts with Brother Lawrence. Diego was strong for his age, and Don Felipe was a skilful wrestler; but they were no match for the brawny lay brother, who, with his cassock tucked up, laid the two youths out on the grass at his pleasure.

At last came the message for which Diego had been longing, to go to his father in the Admiral’s room. Diego first ran to the little room which he occupied with Don Felipe, and washed off the stains he had encountered with the green earth, and put on a collar of clean linen—the Admiral was irreproachably neat and always rebuked sternly the least untidiness on the part of Diego. In a few minutes Diego found himself in the guest-chamber with a window looking seaward. The Admiral was gazing out toward the Atlantic with an expression of concentration. His eyesight was extraordinarily strong and clear, and at fifty-three he could see farther than Diego’s young eyes. He turned as Diego entered and clasped the boy in his arms. Grave as was the great Admiral, no man had more in him of tenderness. The Admiral seated himself in a great chair, and Diego, drawing up a stool, put his arm about his father’s neck and prepared to listen.

“The time has come, Diego,” said the Admiral, “when King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella will redeem their promise. They told me that when the end of the war to drive the Moors from Spain was in sight, they would then provide me with ships for my enterprise. The Moors are now in their death struggle in the city of Granada, their last stronghold. The city is encompassed on every side; every gate is commanded and no provisions can enter. Nor can the Moors make any sortie beyond the Vega, because the armies of Castile and Arragon are encamped about them, and the town of Santa Fé stands guard over the main gate of Granada, called the Gate of Justice. The Moors cannot hold out longer than the first of the year, and I think it well to be upon the spot to remind the King and the Queen of their promise. I have seen and talked with Doña Christina de Langara y Gama, the mother of Don Felipe. She is a woman of wisdom and good heart, and she thinks it will be well to have Don Felipe and you go to Santa Fé. It will be a lesson in learning and valor to you both and will give you the opportunity of seeing great events and greater persons. If my request is granted, that you be made a page of honor to Prince Juan, I would wish that you should see something first of the persons to whom you may be attached. I have great confidence in Doña Christina, who has promised to take an interest in you while I am on my voyage. It is arranged that Fray Piña and Don Felipe shall spend some weeks at the castle of Langara, and Doña Christina has asked that you remain there while I go on to Santa Fé. I shall go to Santa Fé alone, not knowing what my plans are until I have an audience with the King and the Queen. Doña Christina is now at Langara, but after some days she will proceed to Santa Fé to attend the Queen.”

Diego could scarcely believe his ears for joy. In an instant he realized the splendid prospect: he was to go to Granada, to witness the end of the siege, to see the King and the Queen, soldiers and statesmen—it seemed like a glorious dream to a spirited and imaginative boy. His face glowed so that his father smiled.

“Does Don Felipe know?” gasped Diego.

“I do not know,” answered the Admiral, smiling; “but I do know that you long to tell him. I had many other things to say to you; but I have not the heart to keep you. Go—”

Before the Admiral could finish his sentence Diego had darted out of the room. He caught sight, as he passed a window, of Don Felipe sitting on a bench near the fish-pond reading a book in the waning afternoon light. The first thing Don Felipe knew Diego had dashed upon him, snatched the book from his hand, and was saying, joyfully:

“Don Felipe! Don Felipe! We are to go to Granada to see the end of the siege! We may see fighting—think of it, Don Felipe! We shall see soldiers, Don Felipe! And make a fine journey! And my father says your mother, Doña Christina, has asked that we may stay some weeks at the castle of Langara, Don Felipe!”

The Admiral, passing the same window through which Diego had seen Don Felipe, glanced out and saw the two lads dancing wildly, their arms about each other, Don Felipe’s cap, with the insignia of his rank, on Diego’s head, and Diego’s cap, with no design at all, on Don Felipe’s head. The sight brought a smile to the Admiral’s face.

II
THE DAWNING OF THE LIGHT

SOON it was time for supper, and all assembled once more in the great, bare refectory. Diego and Don Felipe felt as if they were in a dream, so dazzled were they by the prospect before them. They had known what the Admiral had demanded, and with the sanguine nature of youth they thought that all the Admiral asked would be conceded, and already reckoned the great voyage to have been accomplished. But to go to Granada, to see the close of the stupendous struggle, to be present in the hour of victory, was more than they had dreamed. Nevertheless, though lost in rosy visions, they did not forget to eat their simple supper. When it was over and they went out into the courtyard, the Admiral passed them, holding by the hand the little Fernando.

“Go now,” said the Admiral to the child, “and find Brother Lawrence, that he may put you to bed, where you must sleep soundly until the birds call you in the morning.”

The child, used to prompt obedience, went away; and then the Admiral said to the two youths:

“Come, Don Felipe and Diego, and walk with me to the seashore, and I will tell you some of the wonderful things of the sea.”

Don Felipe’s heart throbbed with pleasure. He felt a strange sense of being honored when he was treated as a son by the Admiral.

It was then about six o’clock on a warm October evening. Not yet was the sun gone, and the western sky was all opal and gold and crimson. The rosy light reddened the far-off sea, and the white billows gleamed with an opaline light.

The Admiral walked between the two lads along the sandy road to the little town of Palos. Softly the bells of the little church of St. George were ringing, their mellow music mingling with the distant echo of waves beating the bar off the harbor. As the sound of bells reached them the Admiral remained silent; Diego knew that his father was making a silent prayer, a thing he often did. Presently he spoke:

“I love to hear the melody of church bells mingling with the sound of the sea, for the sea has a majestic voice like the voice of God.”

Then the Admiral began telling them some of the marvels of the sea, speaking in plain and sailor-like language. Soon they entered the one long street of the town of Palos. The day’s labor was over for all, except the crews of some Neapolitan vessels loading in haste in order to catch the tide that would take them over the bar, the sailors working cheerfully, singing as they toiled. The women were standing at their doorways, their children about them, while the workmen were returning from their labors. Many were seafaring men who had made many voyages. They all turned and looked curiously after the Admiral, every one saluting him with respect. When his back was turned some smiled; and some predicted evil, saying:

“That man will take away with him some of the best mariners of Palos, and they will never be seen again.”

Others said:

“We shall try to go upon that bold voyage.”

The Admiral returned all salutations with dignity and courtesy. Then, with the two lads, he entered the Church of St. George, which was already dark. Before the altar burned the undying sanctuary lamp. An old priest was leaving the altar, followed by a small fisher-boy not much bigger than the little Fernando and wearing a white surplice over a scarlet cassock. When they were gone the Admiral and Diego and Don Felipe were in the church alone.

The Admiral knelt, as did the two youths, the Admiral kneeling so long that Diego and Don Felipe began to look with yearning toward the open door of the church, through which the cheerful sounds of evening floated. The voice of the night watchman calling the hour was heard as he marched up and down the street carrying a lantern on a pole. Sounds of music and dancing rang from the courtyard of a little tavern near by, where a pack-train of mules had just arrived and the muleteers were making merry. The two youths were not often allowed out of the monastery at that hour, and they longed with the longing of boyhood to see the life and the gaiety of the town. A half-hour passed, and Diego and Felipe had remained admirably quiet; but now the limit of boyish endurance was reached. Don Felipe began to cough, and Diego knocked over a footstool which made a fearful clatter in the stillness of the darkened church. The Admiral rose and walked out, followed by Diego and Don Felipe. Never had the little seaport looked gayer or more picturesque. From many balconies and casements came the sounds of singing, and a handsome cavalier in a velvet mantle was coming down the street strumming his guitar and rehearsing the song he intended to sing under the window of his lady-love.

On the quay some sailors were dancing to their own singing. All these sights and sounds were delightful to Diego and Don Felipe; and the Admiral, who had not forgotten that he was once a boy himself, indulged them in watching these pleasant sights.

A number of fishwives, their skirts tucked up about their hips, stood watching the dancing sailors and laughing. Diego, moved by a sudden impulse, ran up to a fat old fishwife, and seizing her by the hand rushed into the middle of the dancers and began the fandango. At that even the grave Admiral laughed.

Don Felipe made no move to join the dancers; but another fishwife, much stouter than the friend of Diego, suddenly made a dash for him, crying:

“Come along, you pretty boy, and dance with me like a gentleman!”

Don Felipe, with perfect grace and politeness, gave the fishwife his hand as though she were a court lady, and danced the fandango well and gracefully.

The Admiral, leaning against a stone wall, watched the merry scene. He was too wise to check the effervescent spirits of the two lads, and waited with as much patience for them to finish their frolic as they had waited for him to finish his prayers in the church. After half an hour, however, when the church bells chimed seven o’clock, the Admiral turned and walked away from the town toward the shore, where there were only a few fishermen’s huts. By the time he was clear of the quays he heard footsteps behind him, and Diego and Don Felipe were running at top speed to join him.

“I hope,” said the Admiral, turning pleasantly to the two youths, “that you enjoyed your dancing. When I was your age I did the same thing; I grew sober at an early age, but I do not like too much sobriety in early youth.”

“But, my father,” said Diego, taking his father affectionately by the arm, “you gave up dancing very early; but did you give up the love of fighting quite so soon? I have heard something about the time you tried to provoke a fight with the Florentine fleet and dashed among them shouting, ‘Viva San Giorgione!’ the battle-cry of the Genoese.”

“It was a rash and foolish thing,” replied the Admiral; “but I did many rash and foolish things in my youth. Genoa seemed then on the verge of war with Florence, and I was in command of a decked vessel in the Genoese fleet, under the command of my uncle Giovanni. We were going up the Mediterranean with a fair wind when we discovered the Florentine fleet of nine vessels coming down toward us on the same tack. My vessel, the San Giorgione, was a fast sailer both on and off the wind and answered the helm beautifully. It came into my head that it would be a good thing for the cause of my country if we could destroy the Florentine fleet then and there; but we could not attack them without provocation. Like a rash young man, I thought it would be well to give the Florentines provocation enough to attack us; so, knowing well the capacity of my vessel, I steered directly under the quarter of the Florentine flag-ship. The Florentine admiral was standing on the poop as we brushed past; when we came abreast of him I shouted, ‘Viva San Giorgione!’ as if the battle were on, and expected an answering cry from the Florentines. But, mark you, the admiral was a steady man, not to be provoked by a wild young captain such as I was then. He raised his cap to me and shouted back, smiling, ‘Viva San Giorgione!’ with the greatest politeness. It was the last thing I expected, and disconcerted me much. I have often admired the coolness and restraint of the Florentine admiral who would not allow himself to be moved by a piece of boyish insolence. After all, there was no outbreak of war between the two governments; but there might have been if the Florentine admiral had not been so wise and master of himself.”

Don Felipe had never seen Diego and his father together before, and Diego’s affectionate familiarity with the Admiral impressed Don Felipe deeply. His first feeling toward the Admiral had been one of awe, for there was a dignity and majesty in his bearing that struck all who saw him. But also there was a gentle unbending and sympathy with youth. Don Felipe soon felt no more afraid of the Admiral than did Diego, and when the Admiral stopped and gazed out toward the ocean, leaning an arm upon the shoulder of each of the youths, Don Felipe felt his heart swell with gratification and affection.

Don Felipe asked the Admiral many questions, to which he responded and told them things of the deepest interest.

The monastery of La Rabida closed its gates at half-past eight o’clock, and a few minutes before the closing the Admiral and Diego and Don Felipe walked under the gray archway. The two lads went immediately to the small, bare room which they shared together, and each was soon in his hard little bed. But neither could sleep. Both were excited by the thought of their coming journey; and Don Felipe was eager to see his mother, Doña Christina, and his young sister, Doña Luisita.

“Is the castle of Langara very grand?” asked Diego, in a whisper.

“Not very,” answered Don Felipe, who was too sensible to boast of the splendors to which he was accustomed. “But I love to be there, because the life is very quiet and pleasant. My sister Luisita and I spent all our childhood there. I long to see my sister—the sweetest sister in the world. She is not kept so close with her governess as most girls, and we are much together when I am at home. Oh, you will like Luisita!”

Diego said nothing. Don Felipe was his comrade; but he realized that Don Felipe’s sister was a young lady of high rank, and he felt a natural delicacy in speaking of her.

“Fray Piña is to go with us,” Diego whispered, after a while, in a slightly complaining whisper.

“Then we shall have to work at our books,” promptly whispered back Don Felipe. “All that I fear is that the siege of Granada may be over before we get there.”

Next morning preparations were begun for the journey to the castle of Langara, in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and later, to Granada. On the following morning, in the cool, sweet October dawn, the cavalcade set forth. First rode the Admiral and Fray Piña, with the good Prior, Juan Perez, who was to ride one stage of the journey with them. All were mounted on the steady and sure-footed mules which were ordinarily used for traveling. Diego and Don Felipe were also on mule-back.

Soon the sea was left behind, and the party began to mount the foothills. They traveled steadily, and did not draw rein, except to breathe the mules, until nearly eleven o’clock. Then, in a glade a little way off from the highroad, they stopped for rest and their midday meal. When it was over, their elders talked gravely together before the Prior returned to La Rabida.

Diego and Don Felipe were left to themselves. They had no notion of resting quietly, and wandered about the forest, their arms entwined, putting into words their splendid dreams of adventure, which they were careful not to let their elders overhear. Don Felipe was talking of the prospect of once more seeing his mother, Doña Christina, and his sister, Doña Luisita.

“How glad Luisita will be to see me again!” he cried, a dozen times. “You see, Luisita leads a very retired life; she has not so many things to interest her as I have, and, although I love her just as much as she loves me, I think she is lonelier without me than I am without her.”

“I wonder,” said Diego, “if we will find at the castle your cousin, Don Tomaso de Gama, the daredevil knight of whom you have so often told me? I should like to meet him, you may depend upon it.”

“I hope we shall,” cried Don Felipe. “He is the finest knight in the world, and so gay and handsome—oh, everybody likes Don Tomaso!”

Presently they were called to make their respects to the Prior, who was returning to La Rabida; this they did with much politeness. They loved the good Prior; but they were glad they were not going back with him.

At three o’clock they resumed their journey. They traveled all the afternoon, the road ever rising. At nightfall they stopped at a humble inn, only frequented by the poorest class of travelers; but there was nothing better in the neighborhood. Diego thought the supper the worst he had ever tasted, the small, close rooms dark and dirty, and he felt inclined to speak of these discomforts. Everything at La Rabida was plain, but clean and wholesome. But he noticed that the Admiral and Fray Piña made no complaint, and Don Felipe, accustomed to the splendors of a court and a castle, said no word showing dissatisfaction; and Diego was shamed into keeping silence.

Next morning they resumed their journey. It was but three days to Granada; but the castle of Langara lay a long distance to the northward, and it was a good four days’ journey to reach it. The weather remained beautifully clear, although the autumn air grew sharp as they climbed farther into the mountains. Diego and Don Felipe enjoyed every step they traveled, and when they reached another bad inn, the second night, were secretly delighted that there was no room for them, so they had to sleep, rolled in their cloaks and blankets, on a little balcony open to the sky, with the quiet stars shining down upon them.

The third night the two lads again slept out, this time in the courtyard of an inn. It was expected that they would reach the castle of Langara by six o’clock on the fourth evening. They were now well into the Sierra Nevada Mountains and were climbing a rocky road which led to a plateau upon which the castle stood. The trees were quite leafless, and they could see at intervals the great gray mass of the castle, which seemed much nearer than it was by road, as the highway ran around the base of the plateau and was ever on the rise.

The daylight was not quite gone, and a crescent moon hung in the heavens, while a rosy glow flooded the western sky, and a band of gold on the horizon marked the departure of the royal sun.

As the travelers rode steadily on they heard upon the stony path ahead the clatter of a horse’s iron-shod hoofs coming at a hard gallop, and in a few minutes a cavalier came into view and rode straight for the Admiral.

“It is my cousin, Don Tomaso de Gama, called by some the Daredevil Knight,” whispered Don Felipe to Diego.

The appearance of Don Tomaso was most attractive to young eyes. He was extremely handsome, with a sparkle in his eyes; his horsemanship was superb, and his manner, in speaking to the Admiral, graceful, though somewhat more debonair than was usual with those who addressed him.

Don Tomaso, pulling up his horse, a powerful chestnut, bowed politely to the Admiral, and said:

“I believe I am addressing Admiral Christobal Colon. I come from the noble lady Doña Christina, who sends me in advance to say that she is expecting with much eagerness you and your party, and that the castle and all that is in it are at your disposal. Oh! Hulloa! Yonder is little Felipe! How are you, lad?”

The Admiral bowed and smiled, while Don Felipe was secretly anxious for fear Don Tomaso had not treated the Admiral with the deference to which he was accustomed.

Having been introduced to the rest of the party, Don Tomaso rode beside the Admiral and entered into conversation with him. All, including Diego and Don Felipe, noticed a marked change that came over Don Tomaso as he conversed with the Admiral. The somewhat saucy manner of the Daredevil Knight grew every moment more respectful and he finally brought a smile to the Admiral’s grave face by frankly saying:

“I do not wonder that you can treat with kings and princes as an equal. You are the first man I ever met of whom I was really afraid—but I grew afraid of you before you had spoken three times to me!”

The party now entered a narrow road, leading by many windings to the castle gates. It was very dark and overhung with rocks and trees and capable of being defended. When they came out upon an open place in front of the fortress-like castle and faced the drawbridge, which was down, Don Tomaso took from his doublet a silver trumpet and gave three ringing blasts upon it. A warder on the tower of the main gateway replied with a single loud trumpet-call.

Lights were moving in the castle, and upon the highest point of the parapet there were figures faintly seen in the fast-falling darkness.

“I see my mother and Luisita on the parapet!” cried Don Felipe, seizing Diego’s arm.

Once inside the gateway the party dismounted, their tired mules were led away, and they crossed on foot a splendid courtyard with majestic piles of buildings all around it. Diego had never seen anything so fine in his life.

They entered the castle by a low and heavy archway with swinging lanterns overhead, while servants carried torches on the tips of long pikes.

There, standing under the central lantern, stood the Duchess de Langara y Gama. Diego’s first impression of her was of a mingling of dignity with kindness, grace with stateliness. She was still beautiful, although no longer young, and the resemblance of Don Felipe to her was marked. Her dress was of dark-blue velvet, and her hair was adorned with jewels. Next her stood Doña Luisita, a charming young girl of fourteen, the image of Don Felipe, with soft dark eyes and a skin like ivory. Over her rich black hair was a thin white veil that fell to the edge of her white gown. As Doña Luisita stood under the mellow light of lanterns and torches, her white gown and flowing veil showing against the dark background, her hands clasped as she gazed toward Don Felipe, she seemed to Diego like an angel, all whiteness and purity. Don Felipe, standing next to Diego, held his arms out wide to his sister. The two could scarcely keep apart while their elders made ceremonious greetings.

“Welcome,” said Doña Christina to the Admiral, adding the picturesque Spanish phrase: “My house and all that is in it are yours.”

The Admiral bowed profoundly and kissed Doña Christina’s hand and that of Doña Luisita, who was introduced to him. Then Don Felipe advanced and was folded in the arms of his mother and sister. The rest of the party were introduced, Don Felipe saying, as the Admiral presented Diego:

“This is my good friend and comrade, Diego.”

Nothing could exceed the kindness of Doña Christina’s manner to Diego; and Doña Luisita made him a low bow in return for his.

Doña Christina, turning to the Admiral, said:

“My son is now the head of the house, and must take his father’s place. He is inexperienced; but, like me, he feels honored by your presence under our roof. I know very well the high esteem in which the Queen holds you and wishes all to hold you.”

The Admiral expressed his thanks, and then, Doña Christina leading the way, they ascended a wide stone stair, and still another stair, where the apartments for the Admiral and Fray Piña were prepared.

“You are to sleep in the same room with me,” whispered Don Felipe in Diego’s ear. “I asked my mother to arrange it so.”

After saying that supper would be served as soon as the travelers were refreshed, Doña Christina went to her own part of the castle. Doña Luisita had mysteriously disappeared. Don Felipe threaded his way through many halls and corridors, all very splendid, past sumptuous chambers, until he came to a large room with many small windows. It was comfortably furnished, but without luxury.

“This was my room always,” said Don Felipe. “There is a room next it where I studied, and my sister often studied there with me. Below are my mother’s apartments and my sister’s. It is surprising how fast my sister is becoming a woman.”

Diego said nothing of Doña Luisita, rather to Don Felipe’s surprise.

As soon as the lads were washed and dressed, after their long day’s travel, they were summoned to supper. It was served in a splendid hall, hung with armor and with tapestries. The table was long, for the household was large. At the head of the table sat Doña Christina, with the Admiral on her right and Doña Luisita on her left. Next Doña Luisita sat her governess, whose name, Señora Julia Enriquez, Don Felipe whispered to Diego. She was very grave in manner and appearance, but not unhandsome. Don Felipe, taking the seat of his dead father, was at the foot of the table, and Fray Piña was placed on his right.

The supper was sumptuous and ceremonious. Doña Christina was all kindness to the Admiral, and her good sense and dignity were displayed in her conversation.

When supper was over Doña Christina retired to her apartment; and Don Felipe, after seeing that all his guests were comfortable in their rooms, went to his own, where he found Diego.

“I think,” said Diego, gravely, “that Señora Julia is the sternest and severest lady I ever saw. She must be worse than Fray Piña.”

Don Felipe laughed aloud at this.

“Señora Julia takes it out in looking stern. She is the mildest creature on earth. My mother says the only fault to be found with her is that she is too easy, and, especially, has ever let me torment her, poor lady, and has returned it with kindness. I will say, though, that I should not have been so tormenting to her if I had not loved her and did not know that she has loved me from a child. If she had told my mother of some of my pranks—well, it would have gone hard with me! Now I am going to my mother, who has sent for me. Go you with me to the library, where you will find many books and manuscripts—for I know that you love books almost as well as adventure.”

Don Felipe then took Diego to a library, large for those days. It was lighted with lamps hung from the ceiling.

“Here,” said Don Felipe, handing Diego a small manuscript volume of verse, “are the works of your Italian poet, Petrarca. I know you know Italian better than Spanish.”

“Yes,” replied Diego, seizing the little book. “Just as you know Spanish better than Italian—because it is your native tongue.”

Don Felipe went off, leaving Diego in the dim library. Diego looked about him in delight. Never had he seen so many books together in his life.

He began to read the volume of poems and grew so absorbed that he did not hear Don Felipe open the door, and only knew of his presence when Don Felipe, slapping him on the shoulder, cried:

“Come out of the clouds, Diego! My mother wishes to speak with you. She has something to tell us both.”

Diego went willingly enough. In a small, high-ceiled room close by was Doña Christina with Doña Luisita and Señora Julia.

“I hope you will be happy while you are here,” said Doña Christina to Diego. “I have talked with the Admiral, your father, and he tells me that he must depart to-morrow to seek the King and the Queen at Santa Fé. After considering it, as I shall not be obliged to attend the Queen for a month, the Admiral and I have agreed that it is better for you and Don Felipe to remain here with me during that month. Then we can travel to Santa Fé together.”

The first sensation of Diego and Don Felipe was one of disappointment; their dream was to see the fall of the city of Granada. Doña Christina, however, unconsciously reconciled them to this delay by adding:

“All the information we have from Granada shows that the city can scarcely be finally reduced before December, and during that long time both of you will be better off here than at Santa Fé.”

It was not so bad after all—that was the unspoken thought in the minds of Diego and Don Felipe, and the meaning of the exchange of glances.

Doña Christina talked to Diego, telling him many interesting things concerning the castle, and was pleased with his admiration of the library. Then she rose, saying:

“I have many matters to attend to even at this hour, and I will leave you with Señora Julia.”

As soon as Doña Christina left the room Señora Julia sustained the reputation Don Felipe had given her. Don Felipe inquired concerning a certain old gentleman in the neighborhood who was supposed to admire Señora Julia very much. The poor lady was deeply embarrassed, and Doña Luisita came to the rescue by saying:

“Do not mind my brother, dear Señora Julia. He only says such things because they make you blush. Do not pay the least attention to him.”

In spite of her ferocious appearance, Señora Julia proved no restraint on the three young people, who laughed and talked merrily together, Señora Julia joining with them. Diego had never before been thrown with a girl of Doña Luisita’s rank, and he was surprised and charmed at her gentle and unassuming manner. She was full of curiosity about the great voyage the Admiral wished to take, and was well informed on the geography of the world as it was then known. Several times Señora Julia said it was time for her to take Doña Luisita to her apartment; but every time Don Felipe, with much impudence but great affection, held her by force and would not let her rise from her chair. At last Señora Julia said, in consternation:

“This is the hour that Doña Christina always comes to this room to say good night to Doña Luisita.”

This was enough. Don Felipe and Diego scampered off as fast as they could run to their own room.

III
THE CASTLE OF LANGARA

THE Admiral was to start early in the morning, and Diego and Don Felipe earnestly hoped that Fray Piña would accompany him. But to their secret chagrin they found that Fray Piña was to remain at the castle with them. They knew very well the meaning of this—hard study during many hours of the day, while the woods and mountains called to them to be explored, while the fish in the streams remained unmolested. There would be little hunting or fishing, and not much time to spend over the books of poetry and romance in the library. In addition, Don Tomaso de Gama was to travel with the Admiral to Santa Fé, from whence he had only been absent a short time. Both youths bitterly regretted his departure, and that they would not have the delight of listening to his tales of adventure, his merry songs, nor enjoy his gallant and dashing manners and company.

By daybreak Diego and Don Felipe were up and dressed. Already, below in the courtyard, they could hear the tramping of the travelers’ mules. Diego went to the Admiral’s room, and with him descended to the courtyard. Early as it was, Doña Christina was present to say farewell to her guests. The Admiral thanked her with his usual grave courtesy for her hospitality and, especially, her kindness in asking Diego to remain and share Don Felipe’s studies with Fray Piña. Don Tomaso, his foot in his stirrup, cried:

“What a happy time you will have, Diego and Don Felipe—no distractions from study—history, geography, astronomy, and mathematics in the morning, and mathematics, astronomy, geography, and history in the afternoon! Now, at Santa Fé, I shall have a very hard time—watching the besieged city of Granada, making sorties against the gates, living in a tent, jousting with other knights by way of pastime, riding in the tilt-yard—all the hardships and the pleasures of a soldier’s life.”

Don Tomaso, laughing at the long faces of Diego and Don Felipe, flung himself joyously on his horse. The Admiral kissed and blessed both of the youths, and said, by way of consolation:

“All will not be over at Granada in one short month.”

Then the cavalcade rode off. Diego and Don Felipe were in terror for fear Fray Piña would call them to their studies at once; but even the stern instructor had a little mercy on them for two days, in which they were quite free.

The two lads started out on foot in the clear October sunrise to climb the near-by mountains, to ford the streams, to enjoy themselves in that expenditure of energy which is the glorious patrimony of youth. Don Felipe had to show all of his haunts to Diego, and together the two boys climbed and walked and slid down steep places and waded mountain streams, with the utmost enjoyment to themselves. Both knew something about plants, thanks to Fray Piña, and they were surprised and delighted to find some beautiful pink orchids having their second blooming of the year. Diego gathered them, roots and all, carefully, with much earth, saying:

“These will I take to Doña Christina.”

“And I will take some to my sister, for her garden. You should see Luisita’s garden. She loves it well.”

They did not return to the castle until near sunset, and were tired, hungry, and dirty, but very happy. Don Felipe led the way to the back of the castle, where, sheltered from the north by high stone walls, was a warm spot, in which a formal little Italian garden was laid out. Here was Doña Christina with Doña Luisita and Señora Julia. Luisita ran forward to greet them and at once noticed the plants Diego was so carefully carrying.

“I never saw that flower bloom in the autumn!” she cried.

Diego had the readiness to offer her some at once, saying:

“The rest are for the noble lady, Doña Christina.”

Then he won for himself the undying esteem of Señora Julia by presenting her with one of the plants.

Doña Christina, who was very observant, thought well of Diego for remembering the old governess, and as the three young people were busily planting the flowers, she said to Señora Julia:

“The youth Diego is well mannered. He knows how to behave to his elders.”

“Truly he is,” replied Señora Julia. “No youth can be called well mannered who does not observe politeness to the old and the obscure.”

Soon it was time for supper; and Diego and Don Felipe, washed and dressed and combed, were ready for it. The meal was not splendid and ceremonious as the night before, only the family being present, except Diego and Fray Piña; but Diego thought it one of the pleasantest hours he had ever passed. Family life was unknown to him; the recollection of his mother, of his early childhood in Lisbon, of the modest home in which the great Admiral toiled to support his wife and child, and to assist from his narrow means his venerable father, and to help in the education of his younger brothers, was, to Diego, like a faint and far-off dream. He had known many phases and vicissitudes of life in his short span of years, and had not been unhappy on the whole. But this sweet domestic life, the society of ladies at meals, the gentle restraint of their presence, was wholly new and delightful to him. The conversation was chiefly in the hands of Doña Christina, Señora Julia, Fray Piña, and the chaplain, with two or three other persons, officers of the great household maintained by the family of de Langara y Gama. Occasionally Doña Christina referred courteously to Diego or Don Felipe; but they were for the most part quiet listeners to the intelligent conversation of their elders, Doña Luisita too, being attentive to all that was said.

After supper Diego and Don Felipe had a delicious hour in the library, Diego reading with Don Felipe his newly found treasure, the poems of Petrarca. Don Felipe was glad to improve his Italian by this reading, but laughed at Diego for being so passionately fond of the sonnets.

Then came an hour most delightful of all to Diego, motherless and homeless as he had long been. Don Felipe and he were summoned to the room of Doña Christina. There, every night, it was Doña Christina’s practice to spend an hour with her children, and Diego was included with the utmost kindness in this little family circle. Doña Christina’s kind heart was touched at the thought of Diego’s lack of home life and home affection; Fray Piña had given her an excellent impression of the boy, and with the generosity of a warm heart Doña Christina wished to make Diego happy and good, as she desired to make her own children. She therefore treated him as a son, and Diego responded with the depth of gratitude and affection of a strong nature.

Doña Christina encouraged the lads to talk freely of their hopes and plans, Doña Luisita listening intently. Diego did not lose Doña Christina’s respect by his high anticipations, his firm confidence that his father was about to make the greatest discoveries the world has ever known.

“I have but one thing of which to be proud,” said Diego, frankly, to Doña Christina; “that is my father. I am not of great family like Don Felipe. I am the son of a poor man. I am not old enough to have done anything on my own account. But when I think of my father—his courage, his perseverance during nearly eighteen years, of his knowledge—for Fray Piña says my father is the ablest mathematician in Spain—of the way my father commands the respect of all, from the great Queen Isabella down to Brother Lawrence, the servant—my heart swells so with pride my breast can hardly hold it.”

“That is the right kind of pride,” quietly responded Doña Christina. “I know what the great Queen thinks of the Admiral, your honored father. I was proud to have a man of so much learning, courage, and virtue under my roof.”

Then began for Diego a time of new and unusual happiness, for it was more than mere pleasure. He was very sanguine, as the young must be, of the success of his father at court. King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella had promised that as soon as the fearful struggle with the Moors was over they would redeem the promise they had made and provide the Admiral with the vessels and men he had asked for his voyage—a force so pitifully small for an enterprise so great that it staggered the imagination. And already it was known that the city of Granada was unable to hold out longer than the first of the year. Diego and Don Felipe gloried in the prospect of seeing the great military pageants that would mark the fall of the Moorish power in Spain; and Diego was enough of a Spaniard to feel a patriotic pride in the thought of driving the foreign invaders from the soil of Spain. So they had splendid dreams of what they would see at Santa Fé, the city built in a day, as it were, across the narrow valley from Granada and commanding its main gates, and where the armies of Castile and Arragon were encamped. Meanwhile was a month of joy which was not seriously impaired by the fact that the two lads spent their mornings in hard study under the iron rule of Fray Piña. After twelve o’clock they were free to explore the mountains, to hunt, to follow the streams—all the healthy pleasures of an outdoor life. Their respect for Fray Piña was increased by the vast knowledge he had of plants and animals, of sports and of the history of the region. Sometimes they rode, sometimes they walked, always they enjoyed themselves. In the evening, when they returned, after they had made themselves presentable, they had the pleasant family supper in the great hall. Afterward they went to the library and read for a while, and then Doña Christina would have them in her private room, where, with Doña Luisita and Señora Julia, Fray Piña and the chaplain, they had a delightful hour of conversation and reading. Often Doña Christina would ask Fray Piña to read to them some interesting book. Fray Piña was well informed on astronomy, and on clear nights would give Diego and Don Felipe lessons in the science of the stars. Doña Luisita was also a pupil in these lessons. Doña Christina and the chaplain became so interested that they too would join the group, of whom Doña Luisita and Señora Julia were a part, on the highest point of the main tower of the castle. There, in the sharp autumn nights, they would assemble, warmly wrapped in heavy riding cloaks, and listen to the mellow voice of Fray Piña explaining the mysteries of the palpitating stars and the serene planets that made the dark-blue sky radiant. Often in after life and among different scenes the memory came back to Diego of those hours spent on the tower by night, when earth seemed far away and Doña Luisita’s eyes, so softly bright, shone like stars.

When, at last, late in November, the day of departure from the castle of Langara came and Diego and Don Felipe were to take the road to Granada, Diego was amazed to find that he was sorry to leave. Doña Christina was going with them to begin her tour of duty as lady-in-waiting to Queen Isabella. Doña Luisita was to remain at the castle for the present in care of Señora Julia and the chaplain. On the last of their pleasant evenings Doña Luisita was very sad; and when they took their last lesson in astronomy, and were all together for the last time, tears dropped from Doña Luisita’s dark eyes. All tried to comfort her, because it was not pleasant to be left behind.

“Never mind, Doña Luisita,” said Diego, “we will not forget you, Don Felipe and I, and, if Doña Christina will let us, we will put a little line at the foot of her letters—and I will try and make you some pictures of Granada, although I cannot draw and paint as well as Don Felipe."

Don Felipe, too, made many promises; and Doña Luisita submitted patiently, for Doña Christina, being a wise woman, was accustomed to exact prompt and uncomplaining obedience from both Doña Luisita and Don Felipe.

On the cold, dark morning they rode away Doña Luisita showed a brave spirit and kept back her tears with smiles. Doña Christina and two of her waiting women were to travel on the sure-footed mules, as ladies did in those times. Besides Fray Piña and Diego and Don Felipe, there went for protection, six men armed with harquebuses and mounted, and the chief steward and his assistant. These last rode ahead to secure accommodations for the party, as they would be four nights upon the road.

When the moment of farewell came in the gray of the early morning, Diego felt strangely sad. Doña Luisita was clasped first in her mother’s arms and then in Don Felipe’s. Diego made bold to kiss her hand.

As the party clattered across the drawbridge, which was hauled up after them, and watched the lowering of the flag on the keep, signifying that the head of the house was absent, Diego turned and gave a last look at the spot in which he had been so happy.

“You look as if you did not want to see the fall of Granada,” said Don Felipe. “After all, we shall have many more pleasant days together at Langara.”

“I hope so,” replied Diego, from the bottom of his heart.

Diego carried in the breast of his leathern jacket a treasure which had been given him by Doña Christina as a souvenir of his happy hours in the library of the castle. This was the little manuscript volume of Petrarca, which Diego had read for the first time with so much delight at Langara.

The party traveled on slowly but steadily. After a while the dark morning brightened and the sun shone gloriously.

It is a privilege of youth to rally quickly from sadness. So it was that after a while Diego’s heart was light again, and he began to enjoy already, in anticipation, a return some day to the castle. Don Felipe’s good spirits were contagious. The two youths were full of health, and of eager and ardent soul, each with a good horse under him, and traveling toward a scene of splendid adventures. Diego surprised himself by bursting into a song, with a refrain:

Merrily, merrily we go, my steed and I,
Soon will we return,
We will return, we will return!

At every stage of their journey they were met with news of the impending triumph of the Spanish arms. The country was ablaze with patriotism. For nearly eight hundred years the Moors had occupied Spanish territory, had built great cities and fortresses, and had maintained a great court at Granada, in the magnificent palace of the Alhambra, grander than that of the Spanish sovereigns themselves. The Moors were aliens and of another race; they had a different civilization, Oriental in character and totally unlike the Christian civilization. Never, during all these eight hundred years, had there been peace in Spain; nor would there ever be peace until the foreign invaders were driven out. Gradually they had been hemmed in, their large cities taken, their fortresses forced to surrender, until now, under Boabdil, a weak and effeminate king, Granada alone remained to them. This had been invested on every side, no provisions had been carried to the city and garrison for many months, and it was only a question of a few weeks when it must surrender. The Spanish sovereigns did not intend to carry the city by assault, not wishing to injure the women and children or to endanger the city by fire, but to reduce it by steady and incessant attacks. That hour was near at hand.

The Castilian army had borne its share in the campaign and siege, and its Queen, Isabella of Castile, who had administered the civil government of Arragon as well as Castile while King Ferdinand was in the field, was to join him at Granada.

The party from the castle of Langara reached the neighborhood of Santa Fé early in the morning of the day Queen Isabella was to arrive, and thus were to witness the meeting between the Queen of Castile and the King of Arragon; for, although they were husband and wife, they were independent sovereigns, and met first as such.

Early in the bright November morning, upon the last stage of their journey, the party from the castle was met by the Admiral coming from Santa Fé to greet them. They met in the narrow pass of Pinos, about six miles from Santa Fé. Already the highway was crowded with the advance-guard of Queen Isabella’s party, together with the great concourse which always flocks toward the scene of coming exciting events. The Admiral was accompanied by Don Tomaso de Gama and Alonzo de Quintanilla, an accountant to Queen Isabella, and who was the steady friend of the Admiral. As soon as they met Doña Christina they all dismounted and respectfully greeted her. Then the Admiral embraced Diego; and when greetings with all were exchanged they set forward briskly. Doña Christina wished to reach Santa Fé and put on the splendid attire of a court lady, in which to greet her Queen. Don Tomaso, too, must return quickly, as well as Alonzo de Quintanilla. The Admiral decided to return with them, so that Diego and Don Felipe, with Fray Piña alone, standing on a rocky height directly overlooking the road, witnessed the splendid pageant of the meeting of the sovereigns. The multitude of persons was very great and of all sorts, from peasants to great nobles with their long trains of attendants. None suspected that the fair-haired and blue-eyed youth standing by the grave young ecclesiastic was the son of the man most talked of in Spain at that moment, for the whole country was awake and alive to the projects of the Admiral, who was derided by some, denounced by others, strongly supported by a few, and eagerly discussed by all. Nor was it known that the slim, handsome, black-eyed lad was one of the first grandees of Spain, inheritor of a great dukedom with all its wealth, honors, and responsibilities.

On every hand the sights and sounds were enchanting to Diego and Don Felipe. Before them rose the splendid walled city of Granada, the Moorish flag with its silver crescent floating from the highest point of the citadel. The gilded domes and minarets of the doomed city glittered in the noonday light. On one side the ground fell away abruptly into a long, narrow gorge, through which the little river Xeni flowed, bridged in many places. On the opposite heights the improvised city of Santa Fé stretched away, grimly watchful of the Moorish stronghold. Beyond that still were the long lines of the encamped armies of Castile and Arragon. All the troops were under arms to greet the Queen. In a large open space between the armies was a splendid pavilion, of painted linen outside and luxuriously equipped inside, which King Ferdinand had caused to be prepared for his Queen. Over it hung the Gonfalon, the gorgeous banner of the two kingdoms, bearing on one side the Castilian coat-of-arms and on the other that of Arragon. From this camp first came a vast cavalcade of royal princes, nobles, knights, and soldiers, halberdiers and harquebusiers to meet the Queen and her party. Among them rode a number of ladies, of whom Doña Christina was one.

As the procession wound its way over the plain toward the narrow road that led from the plateau into the lower country, music rang out, flags and banners fluttered gaily, and the armored knights seemed clad in gold, as the sunlight gleamed upon their coats of chain mail. First came a band of musicians playing the national hymns, followed by the trumpeters with their silver trumpets. Then came the heralds in their gorgeously embroidered coats, followed by a group of the chief officers of state and the highest nobles in Spain, all superbly mounted. Next came the ecclesiastics, headed by the great Cardinal Pedro Gonzalez de Mendoza, afterward the firm friend of the Admiral. In an open space, surrounded by the princes of his house, rode King Ferdinand, a man of splendid appearance, a soldier as well as a statesman. He rode a magnificent charger and was all smiles, bowing to the applause of the thousands of spectators. After him rode Prince Juan, who, to Diego and Don Felipe, was so far the most interesting person who had yet appeared. He was about their own age, extremely handsome, with an expression the most winning, a true son of his mother, the great Queen Isabella. Diego thought it would not be hard to serve so gallant and so gentle a young man.

Behind them came a guard of honor, consisting of the foremost knights in Spain. Toward the end rode three young knights abreast who deeply interested Diego. The first was his friend, Don Tomaso de Gama, looking every inch a knight. On one side rode a dark young man, not handsome, but with a soldier’s eye. This was Gonzalez de Cordova, afterward the celebrated general who won deathless glory in Italy. On the other side rode the most beautiful knight Diego had ever seen. He looked the embodiment of beauty, such as the Greek sculptors gave to their young gods. It was Ponce de Leon, later on to discover Porto Rico and Florida in his search for the fabled Bimini—the fountain of perpetual youth. It was Don Felipe who gave Diego the names of these and many others in the gorgeous cavalcade.

When the procession reached the edge of the plateau it halted, the music was hushed, and a deep silence of expectancy followed. Presently, from the narrow gorge beneath, floated the sweet sound of the silver trumpets, which was the signal of the Queen’s approach. Instantly from the brazen throats of the King’s trumpets came a joyous response. Soon the head of the Queen’s procession came into view. It was as splendid, though not so large, as that of the King. The Queen, after the fashion of the time, was mounted on a mule, splendidly caparisoned. Queen Isabella wore a superb riding costume of black velvet with a hat and feathers, and across her breast and on her slender arms was a delicate gold chain armor, showing that this great and noble Queen, this tender wife and devoted mother, was also a warrior and a sovereign. On her right, similarly mounted, was the Princess Katharine, afterward the noble and unfortunate wife of the eighth Henry of England.

When Queen Isabella reached the plateau King Ferdinand spurred his charger forward, but stopped when about twenty yards off and dismounted, approaching his wife with deep respect. Although devotedly attached to each other, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella were yet independent sovereigns, and the great Queen was the last person in the world to abate any of the honors and dignity due to her country and herself as its Queen.

Prince Juan and every one else dismounted.

The King, first taking off his plumed helmet and sweeping the ground with it, bowed low to his wife. Queen Isabella, who had also dismounted, removing her hat from her head, revealed her beautiful chestnut hair, coifed with jewels, and returned the King’s bow ceremoniously. Then walking toward each other, they met, and the King kissed the Queen formally on the cheek, as one sovereign kisses another on meeting. When that was over, however, the King and Queen embraced and kissed heartily as husband and wife. Prince Juan, after ceremoniously saluting his mother, was also kissed and embraced. The young Princess Katharine was then clasped in the arms of her father and her brother.

Then, again remounting, the two processions united and took their way toward Santa Fé. The loud acclaims increased as the joint armies of Castile and Arragon beheld the Queen whom they both adored; and, long after the procession had become a mere moving speck in the distance, the far-off sound of cheers and of swords drawn and driven back to their scabbards still floated across the little plain.

The sight of Ferdinand in all his splendor impressed Diego deeply; but when his young eyes fell upon Queen Isabella a feeling of reverence stole into his heart which could only be compared with what he felt for his father. Here was a woman, a Queen, a saint, a gentlewoman, the soul of courtesy, the model of integrity, proud where she should be proud, meek where she should be meek, nobly ambitious for her country, the mother of her people, ready to lead her soldiers in battle like a king, and then kneeling by them and binding up their wounds as would a mother—Diego’s mind was lofty enough to render full tribute to this Queen, one of the most glorious women who ever lived.

IV
THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOR

THE short November afternoon was melting into twilight when Diego and Don Felipe, with Fray Piña, took their way on horseback across the plateau to the town of Santa Fé. The plain was still thronged with persons going homeward after the great spectacle of the day, and with those who dwelt in Santa Fé or were encamped outside.

The Admiral had engaged lodgings for the party in a tall, old house, one of those in the original small town where he himself lodged. It was in a crooked and retired street, but Diego and Don Felipe were delighted to find that one window of the room which they shared together, under the roof, looked toward the plain upon which were encamped the armies of Castile and Arragon, while another gave a view of the deep and narrow valley that lay between Santa Fé and the beleaguered city of Granada. Directly before them lay the “Gate of Justice,” one of the main gates of the city, and from its towers they could hear, in the clear November air, the shrill cry of the muezzin, the Moslem call to prayer. “Prayer is better than sleep—than sleep—than sleep.”

After the traveler’s supper, at which were present the Admiral and his friend, Alonzo de Quintanilla, Diego and Don Felipe were willing enough to go to their room. They felt as if they were living under a spell of enchantment. The splendid personages they had seen, the great events of which they were to be spectators, the pomp and glory of war, impressed their young imaginations powerfully. Although tired with their long day of travel and excitement, they could not sleep. So an hour passed. They rose at last, and, as they were gazing out of the window toward the camp, at ten o’clock they noticed in the middle of the camp, lying a mile away, a great mass of flame shoot skyward. Instantly the camp was roused, and there was a great commotion in the town. De Quintanilla ran out of the house and, mounting his horse, still standing at the door, galloped away toward the camp. The fire, though violent, soon burned itself out, and in an hour De Quintanilla returned with the news that the beautiful tents erected by the King for Queen Isabella, the Princess Katharine, and their suites, had mysteriously caught fire while the Queen was at prayer in the tent arranged as a chapel. She had made an almost miraculous escape, and by her courage and presence of mind not a life had been lost, although the splendid row of tents, hung with rich brocades and gorgeously furnished, were only a heap of ashes.

“The Queen,” said De Quintanilla, to the listening group, “showed as ever the spirit of ten men-at-arms, being composed and even smiling, and saying that the humblest tent in the army is enough to shelter her, for she is a soldier like the rest of the army.”

The next morning Diego and Don Felipe were not surprised when Fray Piña began at once the same routine that had been followed at La Rabida and at the castle of Langara. It was irksome to them and tantalizing to be held down to books and studies in their narrow little room, while living in the midst of a great camp with all its charms and fascinations for brave and imaginative boys. But they knew too much to appeal against it, for Fray Piña’s stern rule was upheld by the Admiral and by Doña Christina. Still they enjoyed their new life and felt as if they were living every minute of it.

The arrival of Queen Isabella had put new vigor into everything. The armies were impatient to take the city of Granada by storm; but King Ferdinand, a capable soldier, would not consider this. From spies and the Moorish prisoners occasionally captured, both the King and the Queen knew that there was utter demoralization within the walls of Granada. The weak and effeminate spirit of the Moorish King, Boabdil, would not listen to the counsels of those who were willing to die with honor in an attempt to break out of the city. His eldest son, a boy of seven, had been captured by the Spaniards when an effort was made secretly to transport the child to the coast. This had broken the heart of Boabdil. He had no idea of civilized warfare, and would not believe the messages sent him that the boy was well cared for, and Queen Isabella charged herself with his welfare. The word “Kismet”—“It is fate,” paralyzed King Boabdil. He waited where his ancestors had fought boldly and had taken desperate chances with unshaken courage.

Although there was still hard fighting to be done, the presence of the Queen and her ladies led to many splendid entertainments, jousts, and tilts. Neither Diego nor Don Felipe, nor any of their party, saw anything of these brilliant gaieties. The Admiral lived in retirement, except when he went to attend men in power, whose understanding and approval of his plans he wished to secure before making his final appeal to the sovereigns after the city should have fallen. He soon found that, although King Ferdinand was not averse to the enterprise, he was quite willing to let the money for the expedition come out of the coffers of Castile instead of Arragon, and that the ships should be named by Castilians. Alonzo de Quintanilla was a hard-working accountant who went to his daily labor early and remained late. In the evening he, and the Admiral, Fray Piña, and the two lads, supped together; their talk was not of festivals, but of the chances of the great voyage of the Admiral.

Sometimes, however, the party was increased by the presence of Luis de St. Angel, also an accountant of the Queen, and Father Diego de Deza, tutor to Prince Juan and one of the most scientific men of the age. To him, in later life, the Admiral bore tribute in writing as one of the two men without whom he could never have got the support of the Court of Spain in his enterprise. The second man so immortalized was Juan Perez.

With the two ecclesiastics and Alonzo de Quintanilla the Admiral held long conferences, not only on scientific subjects, but on the best method of urging his plan upon the King and the Queen when the time should be ripe.

It was plain to the quick intelligence of Diego and Don Felipe that the two ecclesiastics, both of them able mathematicians and astronomers, frankly conceded the superiority in mathematics and astronomy to the Admiral, and their faith in his ideas was strengthened continually by the evidences of his extraordinary attainments, as well as his great natural powers and lofty and unsullied character.

There were two others who sometimes joined this circle of remarkable men. One was Don Tomaso, who brought with him the beautiful knight, Ponce de Leon. In spite of his surpassing good looks, Ponce de Leon was an intelligent man, and had, for his own pleasure, studied navigation. He would talk much with the Admiral and Fray Piña, studying maps and making astronomical calculations, while the Daredevil Knight, twirling his mustaches, clanking his sword, and rattling his great spurs, would charm Diego and Don Felipe with stories of jousts at arms, for the favor of the ladies, and splendid balls at which those same ladies danced with gallant gentlemen.

Doña Christina was in attendance upon Queen Isabella, who, with the King, lived in the midst of the camp in tents almost as splendid as those which had been destroyed by fire the first night of the Queen’s arrival. It was arranged that Don Felipe should visit his mother once a week; and the first visit he paid Doña Christina he asked permission to bring Diego, which was granted. This gave Diego great joy. Not only did he wish to see the kind and gentle Doña Christina, but he longed ardently to see the splendid encampment, and the great Queen, for whom he had a reverence and affection dating back to the days of his first visit to La Rabida, and to whom he looked as the one person who would open the way of glory to his father.

On the appointed day the two youths, with Fray Piña, set out on foot for the camp. They were both dressed alike, suitably, but with much simplicity. As the two started off from the door of their lodgings Diego looked back, and a sudden pang went to his heart. His father, who stood watching him, was shabbily dressed, although with that extraordinary neatness which always distinguished him. It suddenly came home to Diego the patient sacrifices made for him by his father, and a passionate desire welled up in his heart that some day he might repay that father, so noble in every way, and yet with the tenderness of a woman. But more cheerful thoughts filled Diego’s ardent young mind as he and Don Felipe, with Fray Piña, passed through the great encampment and finally came to the tents occupied by the Queen and her ladies. Doña Christina received them with the greatest kindness, making courteous inquiries of the Admiral and expressing much satisfaction when Fray Piña told her of the good conduct of Don Felipe and Diego.

“You shall be rewarded,” said Doña Christina. “In an hour the Queen sets forth to review the Castilian troops, and, if Fray Piña will permit, you may both see that splendid sight.”

The heart of Diego leaped with joy, and he and Don Felipe exchanged delighted glances.

It was not Doña Christina’s duty to attend the Queen that day. When the blowing of the silver trumpets in the clear December noon announced that the Queen was about to issue from her tent, Fray Piña and the two lads went out and stood at a respectful distance watching the splendid sight. The Queen’s charger, a superb war horse, was led out, and a brilliant array of knights and the gorgeous body-guard awaited her. Queen Isabella issued from her tent escorted by her ladies. She wore a handsome but simple riding costume and the same light but beautiful corselet and arm-pieces of glittering chain mail. On her delicate, fair head was a small and resplendent casque with purple plumes. She was that day the sovereign and the soldier. As she caught sight of Fray Piña she bowed to him courteously and spoke a word to Doña Christina, who beckoned to Fray Piña and the two youths. Diego could have shouted for joy when he found himself approaching the Queen. She spoke first to Fray Piña, and then to Don Felipe, saying:

“I am pleased to hear, Don Felipe, that your conduct is good and that you have learned how to obey, which is a necessary thing for all who wish to live creditably in the world.”

Then, turning to Diego, she said, sweetly:

“And this is Diego, the son of the great captain whom I esteem highly. I remember this youth as a little lad when first his father came to me at Cordova seven years ago.”

Then the remembrance of Diego falling asleep on the steps of the dais came to the Queen, and she smiled, saying:

“You were but a little lad then, and fell asleep with your head upon my knee. All youths of your age are dear to me, for in them I see the hope of Spain.”

With that the great Queen bowed in dismissal, and, mounting, showed perfect horsemanship as she put her horse to the gallop and rode off, followed by her retinue.

The two boys, with Fray Piña, scampered through the camp and were able to reach a point where they had a full view of the Castilian troops drawn up in splendid order upon the open plain. The Queen’s appearance was greeted with thundering cheers, with the clash of lances in the bright air, the joyous rattling of swords in their scabbards and salvos of artillery, and the playing of the national hymn. Queen Isabella rode up and down the ranks inspecting everything with a keen eye and sharp judgment, questioning the officers with the knowledge of a king as well as of a queen. When the inspection was over, the troops marched past, saluting their sovereign; and the Queen, with the great standard of Castile held above her, gracefully acknowledged every salute. The march-past over, the Queen then visited the sick quarters of the camp, going through the hospital tents, cheering and encouraging the poor inmates. When this was over and the Queen, with her retinue, returned to the royal tents, it was late in the afternoon. Fray Piña and the two lads were already in Doña Christina’s tent to see the Queen dismount. Doña Christina, within the tent, opened the door. She held by the hand a little black-eyed, dark-skinned, sad-looking boy about the age of little Fernando.

“This,” she said, to Fray Piña, in Spanish, which the child did not understand, “is the son of King Boabdil, held as a hostage. Every day the Queen has the little boy brought to her, or visits him privately to show him some kindness. To-day she will come into this tent to speak to him.”

In another minute the Queen entered unceremoniously from the adjoining tent. The little boy’s sad face brightened as he saw her, and, letting go of Doña Christina’s hand, he went willingly to the Queen and respectfully kissed her hand. The Queen, putting her arm around his shoulder, gave him a little toy, a horse, carved and painted, and said to him a few words in the Moorish tongue. The boy, silent and undemonstrative, was yet not unfeeling, and his face showed a faint pleasure.

The Queen then entered into a short conversation with Fray Piña. She was fond of the society of learned men, and always treated them with much respect. Fray Piña, with quick art, brought in the name of the Admiral, saying that Father de Deza and himself profited much by the Admiral’s superior scientific knowledge.

“We are but postulants, madam,” he said, “in mathematics and astronomy when compared with the Genoese navigator. This Father de Deza and I often say to each other.”

The Queen looked fixedly at Fray Piña, showing herself impressed by such words from such men. Then, in a few moments, she left the tent, accompanied by Doña Christina, who still held the little prisoner by the hand.

Diego and Don Felipe then walked back through the sharp December afternoon to their lodgings in the town. The brilliant military spectacle they had seen made them long for more of the same kind. They were at the age when they chafed for action, not realizing how little prepared they were for it and that the stern rule under which they lived was the best school for them. Still, so strong was the pressure brought to bear upon them by Fray Piña and by the Admiral that they did well at their studies.

Meanwhile, they were not the only ones whose patience was painfully tried. The Admiral had the promise of the King and the Queen that as soon as the struggle with the Moors was over they would arrange for the great voyage. It was only a question of time now when the city of Granada must surrender. The arrival of the Queen had put new force into an attack already vigorous. The Spaniards gave the Moors no rest by day or night. First at one gate and then at another, they made desperate assaults, overwhelming the Moorish troops and driving them back with terrible loss into the city.

The Admiral, hoping that his sublime projects would immediately follow the fall of Granada, was eager to make his arrangements that he might begin his voyage early in the summer. But at the moment when, after eighteen years of desperate and determined struggle, the dayspring of hope was at hand, an unexpected difficulty arose. Fernando de Talavera, Archbishop of Toledo, who was destined to be the first Archbishop of Granada, a man of honesty, but without enthusiasm, who had heretofore befriended the Admiral, strongly opposed the honors which the Admiral claimed in the event of his success. Diego and Don Felipe knew this, not from the mouth of the Admiral, who scorned to make any complaint, but from the conversation of those around them. Diego saw his father go forth every day to wait in the anterooms of the great, who seemed to have no time to listen to him. The events passing before them were so brilliant and dazzling that they put off the more stupendous thing, the discovery of a new world. Every day, in the evening, when the Admiral returned, he showed unbroken patience; but Diego knew that no progress had been made. Once he heard his father say to Fray Piña:

“I will wait here patiently until the fall of the city. If then no one will listen to me, I shall leave Spain, and another country shall have the glory of my discoveries.”

All through December the cordon was tightened around the city, the loss inflicted on the Moors greater, their sorties more desperate and more disastrous. It was hoped that by Christmas the standard of the Cross would float over the great mosque in the Alhambra; but still the city held out desperately. On Christmas Day, however, an adventure happened that thrilled Diego and Don Felipe and all who saw it. On that day the fighting had been unusually severe all around the city of Granada, except on the plateau of the Gate of Justice, which faced Santa Fé. At midday, as the Admiral, with Fray Piña and Diego and Don Felipe, stood at an open window watching the fighting, they saw three carts, apparently loaded with provisions, steal out of a small ravine close to the Gate of Justice, and then trot rapidly to the gate. The carts were evidently seen and their burdens noted, for the postern-gate was instantly opened. The first cart entered and became at once wedged in such a manner that the gate could not be shut. Suddenly a knight clad in a light and glittering chain armor and mounted on a superb black horse dashed up the acclivity, followed by fifteen other knights, all picked men. The Admiral and Fray Piña recognized the leader, the gallant Hernando Perez del Pulgar, a cousin of the Prior, Juan Perez, and a man renowned for his daring even among the fearless and brilliant knights of Spain. He carried on his lance-head a fluttering piece of linen; and, dashing at the narrow opening, his horse leaped over the cart, and was followed by another knight, whom Diego and Don Felipe saw was Don Tomaso de Gama. Fourteen other knights rode into the gateway and disappeared.

“What does it mean?” said Diego, turning to Fray Piña.

“It means, I fear,” replied Fray Piña, “that those sixteen gallant gentlemen are lost to Spain; they will never return.”

“I think they will,” replied the Admiral. “Hernando Perez del Pulgar is a daring man, but prudent withal. He has not entered the Moorish city to be trapped along with his companions; some of them will return.”

As the Admiral spoke they saw the carts push slowly through the gateway and become strongly jammed with each other.

“See,” said the Admiral, “the gate remains open. There is a stratagem, you may depend.”

By that time the word had sped from mouth to mouth through the town of Santa Fé and among the encamped soldiers of what was going on, and, like the Admiral, all saw that the postern-gate was purposely blocked and kept open by the supposed food-carts. Thus all eyes were fixed upon the open gateway, visible in the bright noon. The King and the Queen had been informed, and had come from their tents, surrounded by the court, to watch the exciting event happening before their eyes. Ten minutes passed, ten minutes of agonized tension and breathless anxiety, and then the black charger of Del Pulgar appeared before the open gate, and, making a magnificent leap over the carts, which acted as a wedge in the gate, the knight appeared shouting the battle-cry of Spain:

“Santiago for Spain!”

He still carried his lance; but the fluttering piece of white linen was no longer there. He dashed down the declivity, followed by the fifteen knights, their numbers counted by tens of thousands of anxious eyes. As the last of the sixteen men leaped the cart a great cry went up from the city and camps of Santa Fé:

“Santiago, Santiago for Spain!” burst from the watching multitudes.

Many of the women were weeping with excitement and triumph. As the sixteen men disappeared in the valley Don Felipe found himself clasping Diego, both of them shouting in their high, boyish voices: