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.