THE party started off joyously; Don Tomaso was always joyous, but even the sober Alonzo de Quintanilla was full of gaiety. It was found impossible to prevent the people knowing that one of the two young men with Don Tomaso’s party was the son of the immortal man with whose fame the world was ringing. In every town through which they passed multitudes collected, wild with curiosity and enthusiasm, and eager to see not only the son of the Admiral, but the men who had seen and talked with those who had returned from the marvelous voyage. Along the highways crowds assembled, made up of all classes of persons, from the great nobles down to the humblest muleteer or peasant; all were filled with an overwhelming sense of what the great discovery meant, not only to Spain, but to the whole world. So large were these concourses that travel became exceedingly slow; and Don Tomaso wished it to be as rapid as possible. He managed, however, to make up for the delays by traveling at night and resting only a few brief hours. To Diego and Don Felipe and all it seemed possible to do without sleep.

As the party neared the splendid city of Barcelona the crowds and enthusiasm seemed, if possible, to increase. Foreseeing what their entrance into Barcelona by daylight might be, Don Tomaso determined to steal into the city by night. Accordingly, on that last night they prepared as usual to bivouac at sunset, that they might get rid of the surging people for a little while. About nine o’clock the party quietly rose and slipped away upon the dark and silent highroad. The night was gloomy and the darkness impenetrable, but that best suited the purposes of the travelers. The road was straight and level; and, giving their horses the rein, they rode steadily until they reached the outlying gardens and villas of Barcelona. Soon they stood before the main gate of the city. Don Tomaso, riding up to the postern-gate, rapped gently with the hilt of his sword. The warder in the tower asked his name and business.

“I am,” replied Don Tomaso, “Don Tomaso de Gama, and I bear a letter for their Majesties the King and the Queen. Open the small gate; we will dismount to enter.”

The warder came hastily down and, removing the bolts, chains, and bars from the small postern-gate, the party dismounted, and, leading their horses, entered the silent city. The warder, like all the people of Spain, was eager to know something of the wonderful rumors that agitated Barcelona.

“Is it true, sir,” he asked of Don Tomaso, who, once inside the walls, was preparing to mount, “that the Genoese captain has returned after finding a new world?”

“As true as my sword, which is of the best steel made in Toledo, and never misses fire,” answered Don Tomaso, flinging himself upon his horse and galloping off.

The echo of iron hoofs upon the stones of the street waked the whole city. The minds of men were at a tension, and every sound startled them. When the horsemen reached the palace, lights were still burning in the Queen’s apartments, although it was past midnight. The sound of arriving horsemen aroused the whole palace. The gate was immediately opened, and Don Tomaso and his party, dismounting, entered. In the corridors they were met by all the officers of the palace, none of them fully dressed, some putting on their clothes and shoes, others barefooted and wrapped in blankets. None dared to stop them, because Don Tomaso was making direct for the Queen’s part of the palace. When they reached the Queen’s anteroom, guarded by halberdiers, the door opened and DoÑa Christina appeared. In place of her usual splendid and correct costume she wore a short black silk petticoat, while a large shawl wrapped around her concealed other deficiencies of her toilet. She was too much agitated to do more than to give a hasty greeting to Don Felipe and Diego, and in her excitement called Diego, Felipe, and Felipe, Diego.

“Her Majesty has sent for the King,” she said to Don Tomaso, “and desires that you will come in immediately. You bear a letter, I suppose, from the Admiral?”

All then entered the Queen’s room, while DoÑa Christina disappeared for a moment. She came back saying:

“The Queen desires to see you, Don Tomaso, and SeÑor de Quintanilla in private. Don Diego and Don Felipe may retire to bed.”

Diego and Don Felipe looked at each other in silent chagrin; but knew better than to protest.

They had hoped to be present at the interview of Don Tomaso and Alonzo de Quintanilla with the sovereigns, and were disappointed at being sent to bed, as it were. Nevertheless, their return was not without triumph. As they walked down the long corridor, now full of persons, for the palace was thoroughly aroused, they were stopped at every moment by eager questioners. Diego until then had been merely an object of curiosity, and even of prejudice on the part of some. Many persons of rank treated him haughtily and disapproved the conferring of the title of “Don” upon the son of an obscure Italian and putting him upon an equality with the greatest nobles of Spain. Now, they regarded him with extraordinary interest and respect. This youth, closely resembling his father, would one day inherit all the titles and dignities of the greatest man in the world at that time. Diego subtly realized this, and, instead of dazzling and unsettling him, gave him a better poise and a more sensible view of honors and distinctions. Midway of the crowd in the corridor they met the Duke de Medina Coeli, governor of the pages. Although stern in discipline, he was strictly just, and had never made the smallest distinction between Diego and the other pages, and was always careful to give him the title of “Don.” As Diego and Don Felipe stopped and respectfully saluted him, the Duke spoke kindly to Diego, congratulating him upon the glorious achievement of his father and hoping that Diego would prove worthy of him.

“I thank you, sir,” responded Diego, with a low bow, “and I shall try by my conduct not to discredit my honored father.”

Don Felipe, who was really more courageous with the Duke than Diego, whispered a request into his ear. The Duke smiled, and answered:

“You may go to Prince Juan’s room if you wish. No doubt he is awake like every one else in the palace. If he chooses to go with you to the dormitory of the pages to see what you have to show, I shall make no objection.”

The Duke passed on, and Diego and Don Felipe made straight for the apartments of Prince Juan. The Prince was under military discipline, and had no more privileges in regard to leaving his room than had any of the pages. Diego knocked at the Prince’s door, and it was opened, not by an attendant, but by Prince Juan himself. He caught Diego in his arms and hugged him, boy fashion, and then hugged Don Felipe.

“I have scarcely slept since the great news came!” cried Prince Juan. “Never did any country receive so great a gift as your father, Don Diego, has made my country. Tell me all, all, all, that you have seen and heard.”

“The governor bade me say that if your Highness wished to go into the pages’ dormitory he would permit it, and there we can show the pictures and tell the story as we have heard it,” said Don Felipe.

Prince Juan had in him that fine quality of wishing to share his pleasures with others. The thought of being surrounded by his friends and young companions while the story was told delighted him. He, with Diego and Don Felipe, rushed pell-mell into the long dormitory, simple as a barrack, where the pages slept on their hard, narrow beds. But they were not sleeping. They were gathered in groups at the narrow windows trying to make out from the commotion in the courtyard what had happened. When the door opened the dormitory was quite dark, but Prince Juan, seizing with his own hands a lamp that hung from the wall outside, carried it into the large, bare room. The three were greeted with shouts of delight, for when alone with Prince Juan, he was treated as a friend and comrade rather than a prince. Prince Juan, putting the lamp on the table, and with the twenty pages around it, began to examine the pictures that Don Felipe had drawn and painted, and to listen breathlessly to the story of what they had seen. When the gray dawn crept in at the windows they were still gathered around the table, although the lamp had long since burnt itself out. Then, however, they scampered back to their beds, and Prince Juan ran to his apartment, for in a little while it would be time for the governor of the pages to glance in Prince Juan’s room and inspect the dormitory.

Although it was still March, and the Admiral was not expected to arrive at Barcelona until the middle of April, preparations for his reception were already begun. As the magnitude of the discovery of a new world grew more apparent the people seemed to be more and more dazzled by the great event. It not only meant an incalculable increase of power, territory, and wealth for Spain, but it was of great import to science and learning of all sorts. Geography had to be reconstructed, and astronomy would make a tremendous advance. The strange phenomenon of the variation of the compass excited all Europe, and the discovery of the trade-winds by the Admiral was of enormous benefit to commerce. It was indeed the revelation of a new and stupendous world to the Old World.

There were two persons, however, who, without forgetting the vast material and scientific value of the discovery, fixed their minds upon a nobler ideal, the taking to the New World the Christian religion and civilization. These two were the Admiral himself and the great Queen Isabella. Daily letters were exchanged between these two lofty and kindred spirits, who could rise above the consideration of earthly grandeur, and who cherished splendid dreams of the reclamation and civilization of the unknown lands.

When it became known that the Admiral was to be received at Barcelona by their Majesties about the middle of April, all Spain, Italy, and France were aroused, for the event had so stirred men’s minds that it was communicated with unheard-of rapidity; even far-off England and Germany were thrilled to the centre. The King and the Queen, to do honor to the Admiral, determined to receive him in full sight of the people instead of in the palace. A huge temporary saloon open to the air was built in the great Plaza opposite the Cathedral. It was carpeted with magnificent Moorish carpets and blazed with cloth of gold and gorgeous tapestries brought from the Spanish palaces. At the end a magnificent throne was erected with three chairs upon it, two throne chairs and one for the Admiral, who was to receive an honor never before granted to any but reigning sovereigns, to sit upon the throne with the King and the Queen. A grand Te Deum was to be sung, and all the greatest singers in Spain flocked to Barcelona that they might take part in the music. The streets became so crowded that it was difficult to make progress, and the country round about was converted into a camp by a tented army of travelers who could get no accommodations in the city.

Through it all Diego felt as if he were in a splendid dream. His heart swelled with joy; his prayers were all thanksgivings; but his mind remained steady and his conduct modest. To have shown a haughty and vainglorious spirit he felt would degrade him more than anything else in the world. His own sound sense and his father’s counsels prevented him from being unbalanced by the flatterers who surrounded him. Those who had jeered at him as being an upstart and a foreigner were now the ones who paid him court, as if he were a man grown, who could not meet him without linking their arms in his, and who embarrassed him by the urgency of their invitations to banquets and feasts and jousts at arms and in the tilt-yard. Diego in his heart scornfully contrasted them with those of his friends like Don Felipe and the other pages who had treated him always with friendliness; with the Daredevil Knight, who had made no difference between the son of the Genoese captain and Don Felipe, heir to the honors of the house of Langara y Gama; of DoÑa Christina, who had shown him unvarying sweetness; and DoÑa Luisita, whose soft eyes had always smiled on him from the night he had first seen her, in her white gown and veil, standing in the archway of the castle of Langara, the light from the silvery lamp falling upon her slender white figure. But above all was the great Queen unchanged, because she had ever been the soul of gentleness and kindness to the motherless Diego.

It was a time of brilliant happiness for all, but to the son of the great Admiral it was a time of joy deeper than he had ever dreamed.

Four days before the arrival of the Admiral, who was making his way amid acclamations from Cordova to Barcelona, Juan Perez, the Prior of La Rabida, arrived with Fray PiÑa and Brother Lawrence, bringing the little Fernando. It was the wish of the Admiral that both of his sons and his tried and true friends should be present in his hour of unprecedented triumph. Lodgings were prepared in the palace for the party from La Rabida. The palace was already crowded with members of the royal family and their attendants. The pages had to find quarters where best they could, their dormitory being given up to the great nobles in attendance on royalty. Diego and Don Felipe were glad of a little room to themselves, with a pallet on the floor for little Fernando, whom Brother Lawrence still faithfully attended.

“It is no use to find a sleeping place for me,” said Brother Lawrence to Diego, “for no one can sleep until the Admiral comes. I ever believed in your father, and when I saw the Prior with his head bending down over the maps for hours and days with the Admiral, I said to myself, ‘That Genoese captain will find something yet.’”

As Brother Lawrence could neither read nor write, his views on geography were not particularly valuable; but his faithfulness and devotion to Diego in his childhood, and to little Fernando now, made him a prized though humble friend. Fray PiÑa was perfectly unchanged, being the same calm, polished and somewhat stern young man; but Diego and Don Felipe had learned to understand and admire his justice and even his sternness, for he was no sterner with others than with himself.

“I should not be surprised,” said Diego to Don Felipe, on the night of the fourteenth of April, as they lay in their beds watching the stars shining through the window, the little Fernando sleeping on the floor, and Brother Lawrence snoring loudly on a bench outside the door—“I should not be surprised if Fray PiÑa were to send us word the first thing in the morning that he is prepared to give us a lesson in astronomy to-morrow instead of watching the great procession.”

“It would be exactly like him,” replied Don Felipe, laughing; “but for once I would not obey him.”

Half the night the two youths watched the night sky, dreading that clouds and storms might mar the most glorious day that had ever dawned for Spain. But the stars shone from a clear sky, and the April morning broke as beautiful as that August morning when the Santa Maria, the Pinta, and the NiÑa slipped away into the sunlit ocean, or on that glorious March day when the NiÑa passed the bar of Saltes, the great standard of Spain floating in triumph from her peak.

Scarcely an eye closed that night in Barcelona. Not only was every street, window, and balcony filled, but the roofs were black with persons passionately anxious to see the great pageant. The sun shone with unclouded splendor, and soft airs from the blue and glittering Mediterranean gently moved the flags and banners that were clustered thick over city and harbor. A great collection of vessels from every adjacent port and country made the spacious harbor of Barcelona a forest of shipping and extended in long lines on both sides of the coast.

The entrance of the Admiral was to take place at ten o’clock in the morning. At that hour all was arranged in the great Plaza of the city. The King and the Queen, wearing their royal robes and mantles, and with crowns upon their heads, were seated on the throne in their great gilded chairs. Behind the King’s chair stood Prince Juan; and behind the Queen were grouped the Princess Katharine and the other royal children. Of the ladies-in-waiting of the Queen, DoÑa Christina held the place of honor, and among the young ladies of the highest rank was seated DoÑa Luisita. She was dressed in white and silver, and was in clear view of Diego, who, with little Fernando, was given a seat next the steps of the throne. The robes, jewels, and plumes of the ladies made a splendid glow of color. The cardinals, headed by the great Cardinal Pedro Gonzalez de Mendoza, the firm friend of the Admiral, made a blaze of glory in their scarlet robes, while all the bishops and archbishops of Spain in purple robes and white capes, their glittering mitres and crosiers shining in the April sun, with their train-bearers and attendants, were seated next the cardinals. Among the ecclesiastics there were two plain, black-gowned figures, those of Juan Perez, Prior of La Rabida, and Father de Deza, tutor to Prince Juan, the two friends of whom the Admiral in life and in his will after his death spoke with gratitude which has immortalized them. Others who had stood by the Admiral, like Alonzo de Quintanilla and Luis de St. Angel, were given places of honor. The nobles, wearing their robes of state, the knights, resplendent in flashing armor, added magnificence to the scene. A solemn hush was upon the great company. All excitement and jubilation subsided as the deep and tremendous meaning of the day made itself felt.

All was in readiness by half-past nine o’clock; but long before that came from afar off a deep murmur like the distant roar of breakers on the seashore as the Admiral approached the gates of the city. The murmur grew, never loud, but deep, because it came from the hearts of the people. It seemed to rise from the earth and the sea and to extend to the limits of the horizon. Presently, in the glowing April morning, the head of the advancing procession was seen as it entered the spacious Plaza. Then it parted to the right and the left, and the figure of the Admiral, mounted on a stately black horse, was seen advancing, while immediately behind him rode a color-bearer carrying the great Gonfalon of Spain that Columbus himself carried ashore and planted upon the soil of the New World. At sight of him, suddenly the silence was broken with a clashing of joy bells, the salvos of artillery, the solemn thunder of cathedral chimes, and the shrill acclaims of trumpets and clarions. The tongues of the people were unloosed, and a storm of applause that began in the Plaza of Barcelona and reached for leagues beyond on land and sea rose to Heaven. This lasted until the Admiral reached the foot of the broad, red-carpeted stairs that led to the great platform. There he dismounted and ascended the stairs.

Never had this majestic man appeared so majestic. His tall and stately figure, his hair already white, his carriage full of grace and dignity, would have made him a marked man among other men under any circumstances; but, above all, his eyes, gravely triumphant, introspective, of unshakable steadiness, proclaimed him as a master of men, born a captain, and designed for command. Well might it be believed that this man stood ready to sail into the perilous and uncharted seas, to meet unknown dangers and horrors, to face and subdue mutineers who would have thrown him into the ocean and dared not, though they were many and he was but one, who kept his course due west, when even the hearts of his captains and his pilots fainted within them, remaining unshaken when the North Star seemed to tremble in its orbit. Brave and skilful mariners had there been before, but he was the bravest and the most skilful man who had ever sailed blue water.

These thoughts surged through the hearts of all who saw the immortal Admiral as he mounted the steps of the great platform, where was assembled the authority, the learning, the piety, the chivalry, and the beauty of Spain to do him honor—honor to him who for eighteen years had borne, with sublime courage and infinite patience, disappointment, contumely, treachery, and ignominy. Now, at his approach, all rose, and every head was uncovered. The loftiest height of glory was his; and yet he remained undazzled, with a just pride before men, but with humility before God, for Columbus was, first of all, a Christian.

This man Columbus, a foreigner and penniless, had, by his stupendous genius and matchless courage, made Spain in one hour the greatest and most powerful nation in the world. The boundless territory and the incalculable riches with which Columbus had endowed the country brought with them new duties, new problems, vast responsibilities, and novel relations with all the countries of the known world. The more this amazing discovery of Columbus was analyzed the greater and deeper it appeared. Not only Spain, but the future of the human race, was powerfully and inevitably affected by the revelation of a new and mysterious world. These thoughts produced not only a sublime exaltation, but a solemn and sobering effect upon the vast multitudes assembled in Barcelona on that unforgettable day. Especially was this true of the rulers of Spain. The expulsion of the Moorish invaders from Spanish soil had been justly regarded as a splendid national triumph and a great step forward in Christian civilization. To this was added a triumph greater than any known to ancient Rome, beside which all the acquisition of territory, all conquests of the world appeared trivial. It was this sublime thought that paled the cheeks of the great Queen Isabella, who, with eyes downcast upon her clasped hands, moved her lips continually in silent prayer. King Ferdinand, soldier and statesman, but cold and crafty, saw the vast achievement of Columbus from a nobler point of view than ever before. Prince Juan, true son of his mother, was, like her, pale and concentrated. It was more than the brilliant sunrise of Spanish glory; it was the greatest earthly event the world had ever known.

In the midst of a breathless silence Columbus advanced slowly and with dignity. When he reached the foot of the throne he stopped, modestly waiting for an invitation from his sovereigns to proceed further. The Queen, in her eagerness, moved forward and, stooping, held out her hand. Columbus ascended the throne and kneeled before the sovereigns. The Queen, her hand still extended, raised him, saying:

“Welcome, Don Christobal Colon, our Admiral of the Ocean Seas, and Viceroy and Captain-General of all Lands to the Westward. We give you our thanks. So does all Spain.”

Columbus bowed low, and King Ferdinand repeated the words of the Queen.

Then, at a signal, the Te Deum burst forth, singers and instruments in a glorious outburst of music, the great organ from the open doors of the cathedral swelling out in melodious thunder. The King and the Queen and Columbus fell upon their knees, as did all present, and the multitudes and throngs in the streets and the watchers and listeners on land and sea. All remained kneeling while the majestic hymn of thanksgiving was sung. When a solemn silence succeeded, Queen Isabella, in a clear voice, gave thanks to God for the great discovery and asked the blessing of the Almighty upon the new lands to the westward. A deep and heartfelt amen surged from the lips and hearts of tens of thousands of persons. The Queen and the King, and all present, then rose from their knees and seated themselves, Columbus taking the seat of honor prepared for him by the side of Queen Isabella. The King and the Queen, after thanking him formally, desired him to give an account of his voyage, which he modestly recounted. When this was over, the procession passed before the sovereigns of those who had been upon the voyage, the Indians that had been brought back, the strange birds and animals and plants, Columbus briefly explaining them.

It was long past noon before the great ceremonies were finished, and the glittering assemblage rose to attend the magnificent banquet to be given in honor of Columbus at the royal palace. As Diego walked along, holding the hand of his little brother, his heart was almost oppressed with the glory he had seen. He felt as if he had been lifted into another and higher world for a time, and he yearned for the simple and familiar things of life. When he passed Don Felipe in the orderly assemblage, he looked toward his friend imploringly. Don Felipe slipped his arm within that of Diego. Then Diego, glancing up, saw the beautiful dark eyes of DoÑa Luisita fixed upon him with soft brilliance. The tempest in his heart was calmed, his soul was soothed. After all that he had known of distresses and of triumphs, of miseries and of splendors, of poverty and of riches, of ignominy and of glory in his short life, he had never lacked for love or friendship. Could they remain his, life would be a glorious conflict, a splendid struggle to the last, ending with the hope of love eternal.

THE END