 | CHAPTER IV. Mercedes of Castile, or, The voyage to Cathay |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
But how availes that him, who in the right
Of life and manners doth desire to grow?
What then are all these humane arts, and lights,
But seas of errors? In whose depths who sound,
Of truth finde only shadowes, and no ground.”
Human Learning.
The morning of the 2d of January, 1492, was ushered
in with a solemnity and pomp that were unusual even in a
court and camp as much addicted to religious observances
and royal magnificence, as that of Ferdinand and Isabella.
The sun had scarce appeared, when all in the extraordinary
little city of Santa Fé were afoot, and elate with triumph.
The negotiations for the surrender of Granada, which had
been going on secretly for weeks, were terminated; the army
and nation had been formally apprised of their results, and
this was the day set for the entry of the conquerors.
The court had been in mourning for Don Alonso of Portugal,
the husband of the Princess Royal of Castile, who
had died a bridegroom; but on this joyous occasion the
trappings of woe were cast aside, and all appeared in their
gayest and most magnificent apparel. At an hour that was
still early, the Grand Cardinal moved forward, ascending
what is called the Hill of Martyrs, at the head of a strong
body of troops, with a view to take possession. While
making the ascent, a party of Moorish cavaliers was met;
and at their head rode one in whom, by the dignity of his
mien and the anguish of his countenance, it was easy to
recognize the mental suffering of Boabdil, or Abdallah, the
deposed monarch. The cardinal pointed out the position
occupied by Ferdinand, who, with that admixture of piety
and worldly policy which were so closely interwoven in his
character, had refused to enter within the walls of the conquered
city, until the symbol of Christ had superseded the
some distance from the gates, with a purpose and display
of humility that were suited to the particular fanaticism
of the period. As the interview that occurred has often
been related, and twice quite recently by distinguished
writers of our own country, it is unnecessary to dwell on
it here. Abdallah next sought the presence of the purer-minded
and gentle Isabella, where his reception, with less
affectation of the character, had more of the real charity
and compassion of the Christian; when he went his way
towards that pass in the mountains that has ever since been
celebrated as the point where he took his last view of the
palaces and towers of his fathers, from which it has obtained
the poetical and touching name of El Ultimo Suspiro
Del Moro.
Although the passage of the last King of Granada, from
his palace to the hills, was in no manner delayed, as it
was grave and conducted with dignity, it consequently occupied
some time. These were hours in which the multitude
covered the highways, and the adjacent fields were
garnished with a living throng, all of whom kept their eyes
riveted on the towers of the Alhambra, where the signs of
possession were anxiously looked for by every good Catholic
who witnessed the triumph of his religion.
Isabella, who had made this conquest a condition in the
articles of marriage — whose victory in truth it was — abstained,
with her native modesty, from pressing forward on
this occasion. She had placed herself at some distance in
the rear of the position of Ferdinand. Still, unless indeed
we except the long-coveted towers of the Alhambra, she
was the centre of attraction. She appeared in royal magnificence,
as due to the glory of the occasion; her beauty
always rendered her an object of admiration; her mildness,
inflexible justice, and unyielding truth, had won all hearts;
and she was really the person who was most to profit by
the victory, Granada being attached to her own crown of
Castile, and not to that of Aragon, a country that possessed
little or no contiguous territory.
Previously to the appearance of Abdallah, the crowd
moved freely, in all directions; multitudes of civilians
having flocked to the camp to witness the entry. Among
having the character of a crusade. The throng of
the curious was densest near the person of the queen,
where, in truth, the magnificence of the court was the most
imposing. Around this spot, in particular, congregated most
of the religious, for they felt that the pious mind of Isabella
created a sort of moral atmosphere in and near her presence,
that was peculiarly suited to their habits, and favourable
to their consideration. Among others, was a friar of
prepossessing mien, and, in fact, of noble birth, who had
been respectfully addressed as Father Pedro, by several
grandees, as he made his way from the immediate presence
of the queen, to a spot where the circulation was easier.
He was accompanied by a youth of an air so much
superior to that of most of those who did not appear that
day in the saddle, that he attracted general attention.
Although not more than twenty, it was evident, from his
muscular frame, and embrowned but florid cheeks, that he
was acquainted with exposure; and by his bearing, many
thought, notwithstanding he did not appear in armour on an
occasion so peculiarly military, that both his mien and his
frame had been improved by familiarity with war. His
attire was simple, as if he rather avoided than sought observation,
but it was, nevertheless, such as was worn by
none but the noble. Several of those who watched this youth,
as he reached the less confined portions of the crowd, had
seen him received graciously by Isabella, whose hand he
had even been permitted to kiss, a favour that the formal
and fastidious court of Castile seldom bestowed except on
the worthy, or, on those, at least, who were unusually
illustrious from their birth. Some whispered that he was a
Guzman, a family that was almost royal; while others
thought that he might be a Ponce, a name that had got to be
one of the first in Spain, through the deeds of the renowned
Marquis-Duke of Cadiz, in this very war; while others,
again, affected to discern in his lofty brow, firm step, and
animated eye, the port and countenance of a Mendoza.
It was evident that the subject of all these commentaries
was unconscious of the notice that was attracted by his
vigorous form, handsome face, and elastic, lofty tread; for,
like one accustomed to be observed by inferiors, his attention
pleased his fancy, while he lent a willing ear to the remarks
that, from time to time, fell from the lips of his reverend
companion.
“This is a most blessed and glorious day for Christianity!”
observed the friar, after a pause a little longer than
common. “An impious reign of seven hundred years hath
expired, and the Moor is at length lowered from his pride;
while the cross is elevated above the banners of the false
prophet. Thou hast had ancestors, my son, who might
almost arise from their tombs, and walk the earth in exultation,
if the tidings of these changes were permitted to
reach the souls of Christians long since departed.”
“The Blessed Maria intercede for them, father, that they
may not be disturbed, even to see the Moor unhoused; for
I doubt much, agreeable as the Infidel hath made it, if they
find Granada as pleasant as Paradise.”
“Son Don Luis, thou has got much levity of speech, in
thy late journeyings; and I doubt if thou art as mindful of
thy paters and confessions, as when under the care of thy
excellent mother, of sainted memory!”
This was not only said reprovingly, but with a warmth
that amounted nearly to anger.
“Chide me not so warmly, father, for a lightness of
speech that cometh of youthful levity, rather than of disrespect
for holy church.—Nay, thou rebukest warmly, and
then, as I come like a penitent to lay my transgressions before
thee, and to seek absolution, thou fastenest thine eye on
vacancy, and gazest as if one of the spirits of which thou
so lately spokest actually had arisen and come to see the
Moor crack his heart-strings at quitting his beloved Alhambra!”
“Dost see that man, Luis?” demanded the friar, still
gazing in a fixed direction, though he made no gesture to
indicate to which particular individual of the many who
were passing in all directions, he especially alluded.
“By my veracity, I see a thousand, father, though not
one to fasten the eye as if he were fresh from Paradise.
Would it be exceeding discretion to ask who, or what, hath
thus riveted thy gaze?”
“Dost see yonder person of high and commanding stature,
mingled with an air of poverty; or, if not absolutely of
poverty—for he is better clad, and seemingly in more prosperity
now, than I remember ever to have seen him—still,
evidently not of the rich and noble; while his bearing and
carriage would seem to bespeak him at least a monarch?”
“I think I now perceive him thou meanest, father; a
man of very grave and reverend appearance, though of
simple deportment. I see nothing extravagant, or ill placed,
either in his attire, or in his bearing.”
“I mean not that; — but there is a loftiness in his dignified
countenance that one is not accustomed to meet in
those who are unused to power.”
“To me he hath the air and dress of a superior navigator,
or pilot — of a man accustomed to the seas — ay, he
hath sundry symbols about him that bespeak such a pursuit.”
“Thou art right, Don Luis, for such is his calling. He
cometh of Genoa, and his name is Christoval Colon — or,
as they term it in Italy—Christoforo Colombo.”
“I remember to have heard of an admiral of that name,
who did good service in the wars of the south, and who
formerly led a fleet into the far east.”
“This is not he, but one of humbler habits, though possibly
of the same blood, seeing that both are derived from
the identical place. This is no admiral, though he would
fain become one—ay, even a king!”
“The man is then either of a weak mind, or of a light
ambition.”
“He is neither. In mind, he hath outdone many of our
most learned churchmen; and it is due to his piety to say
that a more devout Christian doth not exist in Spain. It is
plain, son, that thou hast been much abroad, and little at
court, or thou would'st have known the history of this extraordinary
being, at the mention of his name, which has
been the source of merriment for the frivolous and gay,
this many a year, and which has thrown the thoughtful and
prudent into more doubts than many a fierce and baneful
heresy.”
“Thou stirrest my curiosity, father, by such language.
Who and what is the man?”
“An enigma that neither prayers to the Virgin, the learning
of the cloisters, nor a zealous wish to reach the truth,
hath enabled me to read. Come hither, Luis, to this bit of
rock where we can be seated, and I will relate to thee the
opinions that render this being so extraordinary. Thou
must know, son, it is now seven years since this man first
appeared among us. He sought employment as a discoverer,
pretending that by steering out into the ocean, on a
western course, for a great and unheard-of distance, he could
reach the farther Indies, with the rich island of Cipango,
and the kingdom of Cathay, of which one Marco Polo hath
left us some most extraordinary legends.”
“By St. James of blessed memory! the man must be
short of his wits!” interrupted Don Luis, laughing. “In
what way could this thing be, unless the earth were round
—the Indies lying east, and not west of us?”
“That hath been often objected to his notions; but the
man hath ready answers to much weightier arguments.”
“What weightier than this can be found? Our own eyes
tell us that the earth is flat.”
“Therein he differeth from most men — and to own the
truth, son Luis, not without some show of reason. He is
a navigator, as thou wilt understand, and he replies that,
on the ocean, when a ship is seen from afar, her upper sails
are first perceived, and that as she draweth nearer, her
lower sails, and finally her hull cometh into view. But,
thou hast been over sea, and may have observed something
of this?”
“Truly have I, father. While mounting the English sea,
we met a gallant cruiser of the king's, and, as thou said'st,
we first perceived her upper sail, a white speck upon the
water — then followed sail after sail, until we came nigh
and saw her gigantic hull, with a very goodly show of
bombards and cannon—some twenty at least, in all.”
“Then thou agreest with this Colon, and thinkest the
earth round?”
“By St. George of England! not I. I have seen too
much of the world, to traduce its fair surface in so heedless
a manner. England, France, Burgundy, Germany, and
all those distant countries of the north, are just as level
and flat as our own Castile.”
“Why then didst thou see the upper sails of the Englishman
first?”
“Why, father — why — because they were first visible.
Yes, because they came first into view.”
“Do the English put the largest of their sails uppermost
on the masts?”
“They would be fools if they did. Though no great
navigators—our neighbours the Portuguese, and the people
of Genoa, exceeding all others in that craft — though no
great navigators, the English are not so surpassingly
stupid. Thou wilt remember the force of the winds, and
understand that the larger the sail the lower should be its
position.”
“Then how happened it that thou sawest the smaller
object before the larger?”
“Truly, excellent Fray Pedro, thou hast not conversed
with this Christoforo for nothing! A question is not a reason.”
“Socrates was fond of questions, son; but he expected
answers.”
“Peste! as they say at the court of King Louis. I am
not Socrates, my good father, but thy old pupil and kinsman,
Luis de Bobadilla, the truant nephew of the queen's
favourite, the Marchioness of Moya, and as well-born a
cavalier as there is in Spain — though somewhat given to
roving, if my enemies are to be believed.”
“Neither thy pedigree, thy character, nor thy vagaries,
need be given to me, Don Luis de Bobadilla; since I have
known thee and thy career from childhood. Thou hast one
merit that none will deny thee, and that is, a respect for
truth; and never hast thou more completely vindicated thy
character, in this particular, than when thou saidst thou
wert not Socrates.”
The worthy friar's good-natured smile, as he made this
sally, took off some of its edge; and the young man
laughed, as if too conscious of his own youthful follies to
resent what he heard.
“But, dear Fray Pedro, lay aside thy government, for
once, and stoop to a rational discourse with me on this extraordinary
subject. Thou, surely, wilt not pretend that
the earth is round?”
“I do not go as far as some, on this point, Luis, for I see
difficulties with Holy Writ, by the admission. Still, this
matter of the sails much puzzleth me, and I have often felt
a desire to go from one port to another, by sea, in order to witness it. Were it not for the exceeding nausea that I
ever feel in a boat, I might attempt the experiment.”
“That would be a worthy consummation of all thy wisdom!”
exclaimed the young man, laughing. “Fray Pedro
de Carrascal turned rover, like his old pupil, and that, too,
astride a vagary! But set thy heart at rest, my honoured
kinsman and excellent instructor, for I can save thee the
trouble. In all my journeyings, by sea and by land — and
thou knowest that, for my years, they have been many—
I have ever found the earth flat, and the ocean the flattest
portion of it, always excepting a few turbulent and uneasy
waves.”
“No doubt it so seemeth to the eye; but, this Colon, who
hath voyaged far more than thou, thinketh otherwise. He
contendeth that the earth is a sphere, and that, by sailing
west, he can reach points that have been already attained
by journeying east.”
“By San Lorenzo! but the idea is a bold one! Doth
the man really propose to venture out into the broad
Atlantic, and even to cross it to some distant and unknown
land?”
“That is his very idea; and for seven weary years hath
he solicited the court to furnish him with the means. Nay,
as I hear, he hath passed much more time — other seven
years, perhaps—in urging his suit in different lands.”
“If the earth be round,” continued Don Luis, with a
musing air, “what preventeth all the water from flowing to
the lower parts of it? How is it, that we have any seas
at all? and if, as thou hast hinted, he deemeth the Indies
on the other side, how is it that their people stand erect?
—it cannot be done without placing the feet uppermost.”
“That difficulty hath been presented to Colon, but he
treateth it lightly. Indeed, most of our churchmen are getting
to believe that there is no up, or down, except as it relateth
to the surface of the earth; so that no great obstacle existeth
in that point.”
“Thou would'st not have me understand, father, that a
member in the air? By San Francisco! thy men of Cathay
must have talons like a cat, or they would be falling, quickly!”
“Whither, Luis?”
“Whither, Fray Pedro? — to Tophet, or the bottomless
pit. It can never be that men walk on their heads, heels
uppermost, with no better foundation than the atmosphere.
The caravels, too, must sail on their masts—and that would
be rare navigation! What would prevent the sea from
tumbling out of its bed, and falling on the Devil's fires and
extinguishing them?”
“Son Luis,” interrupted the monk, gravely, “thy lightness
of speech is carried too far. But, if thou so much
deridest the opinion of this Colon, what are thine own notions
of the formation of this earth, that God hath so honoured
with his spirit and his presence?”
“That it is as flat as the buckler of the Moor I slew in
the last sortie, which is as flat as steel can hammer iron.”
“Dost thou think it hath limits?”
“That do I — and please Heaven, and Doña Mercedes
de Valverde, I will see them before I die!”
“Then thou fanciest there is an edge, or precipice, at the
four sides of the world, which men may reach, and where
they can stand and look off, as from an exceeding high
platform?”
“The picture doth not lose, father, for the touch of thy
pencil! I have never bethought me of this before; and
yet some such spot there must be, one would think. By
San Fernando, himself! that would be a place to try the
metal of even Don Alonso de Ojeda, who might stand on
the margin of the earth, put his foot on a cloud, and cast
an orange to the moon!”
“Thou hast bethought thee little, of any thing serious, I
fear, Luis; but to me, this opinion and this project of Colon
are not without merit. I see but two serious objections to
them, one of which is, the difficulty connected with Holy
Writ — and the other, the vast and incomprehensible, nay,
useless, extent of the ocean that must necessarily separate
us from Cathay; else should we long since have heard
from that quarter of the world.”
“Do the learned favour the man's notions?”
“The matter hath been seriously argued before a council
held at Salamanca, where men were much divided upon it.
One serious obstacle is the apprehension that should the
world prove to be round, and could a ship even succeed in
getting to Cathay by the west, there would be great difficulty
in her ever returning, since there must be, in some
manner, an ascent and a descent. I must say that most
men deride this Colon; and I fear he will never reach his
island of Cipango, as he doth not seem in the way even to
set forth on the journey. I marvel that he should now be
here, it having been said he had taken his final departure for
Portugal.”
“Dost thou say, father, that the man hath long been in
Spain?” demanded Don Luis, gravely, with his eye riveted
on the dignified form of Columbus, who stood calmly regarding
the gorgeous spectacle of the triumph, at no great
distance from the rock where the two had taken their seats.
“Seven weary years hath he been soliciting the rich and
the great to furnish him with the means of undertaking his
favourite voyage.”
“Hath he the gold to prefer so long a suit?”
“By his appearance, I should think him poor — nay, I
know that he hath toiled for bread, at the occupation of a
map-maker. One hour he hath passed in arguing with philosophers
and in soliciting princes, while the next hath been
occupied in labouring for the food that he hath taken for
sustenance.”
“Thy description, father, hath whetted curiosity to so
keen an edge, that I would fain speak with this Colon. I
see he remaineth yonder, in the crowd, and will go and tell
him that I, too, am somewhat of a navigator, and will extract
from him a few of his peculiar ideas.”
“And in what manner wilt thou open the acquaintance,
son?”
“By telling him that I am Don Luis de Bobadilla, the
nephew of the Doña Beatriz of Moya, and a noble of one
of the best houses of Castile.”
“And this thou thinkest will suffice for thy purpose,
Luis!” returned the friar, smiling. “No — no — my son;
this may do with most map-sellers, but it will not effect thy
wishes with yonder Christoval Colon. That man is so
up with the magnitude of the results that his mind intently
contemplateth, day and night; seemeth so conscious of his
own powers, that even kings and princes can, in no manner,
lessen his dignity. That which thou proposest, Don
Fernando, our honoured master, might scarcely attempt,
and hope to escape without some rebuke of manner, if not
of tongue.”
“By all the blessed saints! Fray Pedro, thou givest an
extraordinary account of this man, and only increasest the
desire to know him. Wilt thou charge thyself with the
introduction?”
“Most willingly, for I wish to inquire what hath brought
him back to court, whence, I had understood, he lately
went, with the intent to go elsewhere with his projects.
Leave the mode in my hands, son Luis, and we will see
what can be accomplished.”
The friar and his mercurial young companion now arose
from their seats on the rock, and threaded the throng,
taking the direction necessary to approach the man who
had been the subject of their discourse, and still remained
that of their thoughts. When near enough to speak, Fray
Pedro stopped, and stood patiently waiting for a moment
when he might catch the navigator's eye. This did not
occur for several minutes, the looks of Colon being riveted
on the towers of the Alhambra, where, at each instant, the
signal of possession was expected to appear; and Luis de
Bobadilla, who, truant, and errant, and volatile, and difficult
to curb, as he had proved himself to be, never forgot his
illustrious birth and the conventional distinctions attached
to personal rank, began to manifest his impatience at being
kept so long dancing attendance on a mere map-seller and
a pilot. He in vain urged his companion to advance, however;
but one of his own hurried movements at length
drew aside the look of Columbus, when the eyes of the
latter and of the friar met, and being old acquaintances,
they saluted in the courteous manner of the age.
“I felicitate you, Señor Colon, on the glorious termination
of this siege, and rejoice that you are here to witness
it, as I had heard affairs of magnitude had called you to
another country.”
“The hand of God, father, is to be traced in all things.
You perceive in this success the victory of the cross; but
to me it conveyeth a lesson of perseverance, and sayeth,
as plainly as events can speak, that what God hath decreed,
must come to pass.”
“I like your application, Señor; as, indeed, I do most
of your thoughts on our holy religion. Perseverance is
truly necessary to salvation; and I doubt not that a fitting
symbol to the same may be found in the manner in which
our pious sovereigns have conducted this war, as well as in
its glorious termination.”
“True, father; and also doth it furnish a symbol to the
fortunes of all enterprises that have the glory of God and
the welfare of the church in view,” answered Colon, or
Columbus, as the name has been Latinized; his eye kindling
with that latent fire which seems so deeply seated in the
visionary and the enthusiast. “It may seem out of reason
to you, to make such applications of these great events;
but the triumph of their Highnesses this day, marvellously
encourageth me to persevere, and not to faint, in my own
weary pilgrimage, both leading to triumphs of the cross.”
“Since you are pleased to speak of your own schemes,
Señor Colon,” returned the friar, ingeniously, “I am not
sorry that the matter hath come up between us; for here is
a youthful kinsman of mine, who hath been somewhat of a
rover, himself, in the indulgence of a youthful fancy, that
neither friends nor yet love could restrain; and having
heard of your noble projects, he is burning with the desire
to learn more of them from your own mouth, should it suit
your condescension so to indulge him.”
“I am always happy to yield to the praiseworthy wishes
of the young and adventurous, and shall cheerfully communicate
to your young friend all he may desire to know,”
answered Columbus, with a simplicity and dignity that at
once put to flight all the notions of superiority and affability
with which Don Luis had intended to carry on the conversation,
and which had the immediate effect to satisfy the
young man that he was to be the obliged and honoured
party, in the intercourse that was to follow. “But, Señor,
you have forgotten to give me the name of the cavalier.”
“It is Don Luis de Bobadilla, a youth whose best claims
spirit, and the fact that he may call your honoured friend
the Marchioness of Moya, his aunt.”
“Either would be sufficient, father. I love the spirit of
adventure in the youthful; for it is implanted, no doubt, by
God, in order that they may serve his all-wise and beneficent
designs; and it is of such as these that my own chief
worldly stay and support must be found. Then, next to
Father Juan Perez de Marchena and Señor Alonzo de
Quintanilla, do I esteem Doña Beatriz, among my fastest
friends; her kinsman, therefore, will be certain of my esteem
and respect.”
All this sounded extraordinary to Don Luis; for though
the dress and appearance of this unknown stranger, who
even spoke the Castilian with a foreign accent, were respectable,
he had been told he was merely a pilot, or
navigator, who earned his bread by toil; and it was not
usual for the noblest of Castile to be thus regarded, as it
might be, with a condescending favour, by any inferior to
those who could claim the blood and lineage of princes.
At first he was disposed to resent the words of the stranger;
then to laugh in his face; but observing that the friar
treated him with great deference, and secretly awed by the
air of the reputed projector, he was not only successful in
maintaining a suitable deportment, but he made a proper
and courteous reply, such as became his name and breeding.
The three then retired together, a little aloof from the
thickest of the throng, and found seats also, on one of the
rocks, of which so many were scattered about the place.
“Don Luis hath visited foreign lands, you say, father,”
said Columbus, who did not fail to lead the discourse, like
one entitled to it by rank, or personal claims, “and hath a
craving for the wonders and dangers of the ocean?”
“Such hath been either his merit, or his fault, Señor;
had he listened to the wishes of Doña Beatriz, or to my
advice, he would not have thrown aside his knightly career
for one so little in unison with his training and birth.”
“Nay, father, you treat the youth with unmerited severity;
he who passeth a life on the ocean, cannot be
said to pass it in either an ignoble or a useless manner.
God separated different countries by vast bodies of water,
other, but doubtless that they might meet amid the wonders
with which he hath adorned the ocean, and glorify his
name and power so much the more. We all have our moments
of thoughtlessness in youth, a period when we yield
to our impulses rather than to our reason; and as I confess
to mine, I am little disposed to bear too hard on Señor Don
Luis, that he hath had his.”
“You have probably battled with the Infidel, by sea,
Señor Colon,” observed the young man, not a little embarrassed
as to the manner in which he should introduce the
subject he most desired.
“Ay, and by land, too, son”—the familiarity startled the
young noble, though he could not take offence at it—“and
by land, too. The time hath been, when I had a pleasure
in relating my perils and escapes, which have been numerous,
both from war and tempests; but since the power of
God hath awakened my spirit to mightier things, that his
will may be done, and his word spread throughout the
whole earth, my memory ceaseth to dwell on them.” Fray
Pedro crossed himself, and Don Luis smiled and shrugged
his shoulders, as one is apt to do when he listens to any
thing extravagant; but the navigator proceeded in the
earnest grave manner that appeared to belong to his character.
“It is now very many years, since I was engaged
in that remarkable combat between the forces of my kinsman
and namesake, the younger Colombo, as he was called,
to distinguish him from his uncle, the ancient admiral of
the same name, which took place not far north from Cape
St. Vincent. On that bloody day, we contended with the
foe, Venetians richly laden, from morn till even, and yet
the Lord carried me through the hot contest unharmed.
On another occasion, the galley in which I fought was consumed
by fire, and I had to find my way to land, no trifling
distance, by the aid of an oar. To me it seemeth that the
hand of God was in this, and that he would not have taken
so signal and tender a care of one of his insignificant creatures,
unless to use him largely for his own honour and
glory.”
Although the eye of the navigator grew brighter as he
uttered this, and his cheek flushed with a species of holy
dignified, so measured even in his exaggerations — if such
they were — with the idle and light-minded who mistake
momentary impulses for indelible impressions, and passing
vanities for the convictions that temper character. Fray
Pedro, instead of smiling, or in any manner betraying that
he regarded the other's opinions lightly, devoutly crossed
himself again, and showed by the sympathy expressed in
his countenance, how much he entered into the profound
religious faith of the speaker.
“The ways of God are often mysteries to his creatures,”
said the friar; “but we are taught that they all lead to the
exaltation of his name, and to the glory of his attributes.”
“It is so that I consider it, father; and with such views
have I always regarded my own humble efforts to honour
him. We are but instruments, and useless instruments,
too, when we look at how little proceedeth from our own
spirits and power.”
“There cometh the blessed symbol that is our salvation
and guide!” exclaimed the friar, holding out both arms
eagerly, as if to embrace some distant object in the heavens,
immediately falling to his knees, and bowing his
shaven and naked head, in deep humility, to the earth.
Columbus turned his eyes in the direction indicated by
his companion's gestures, and he beheld the large silver
cross that the sovereigns had carried with them throughout
the late war, as a pledge of its objects, glittering on the
principal tower of the Alhambra. At the next instant, the
banners of Castile and of St. James were unfolded from
other elevated places. Then came the song of triumph,
mingled with the chants of the church. Te Deum was
sung, and the choirs of the royal chapel chanted in the
open fields the praises of the Lord of Hosts. A scene of
magnificent religious pomp, mingled with martial array,
followed, that belongs rather to general history than to the
particular and private incidents of our tale.
| CHAPTER IV. Mercedes of Castile, or, The voyage to Cathay | |