University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
THE KNIGHT AND THE ASTROLOGER.

It was a quiet but cloudy morning in the beginning of
November, and the city of Santo Domingo, or as the
Admiral always preferred to call it, New Isabella, sitting at
the foot of her hills and mountains, looked forth upon the
noble river of Ozama, with an air of melancholy if not
gloomy apprehension. The season of the so much dreaded
hurricane was nearly or quite over, and many were the
wrecks lying around her on rock, valley, and headland,
distinguishing its path of devastation. But, in that world
of various phenomena and capricious climate, where a few
hours work the most surprising changes in the atmosphere
and sea, there could be no reasonable certainty that all
danger from this fruitful source of apprehension had gone
by. From the middle of the preceding August the diurnal
breezes had begun to intermit, and the atmosphere grew
dry, close, and suffocating. No genial showers came to
freshen the earth and sweeten and relieve the air. Faint
zephyrs and protracted calms succeeded to the steady and
life-giving sea-breezes of June; and in the towering clouds
of fleece, discoloured with a dun and reddish hue, that rose
with the morning, and hung high in the southern and
south-western heavens, there were manifest tokens of the
annual terrors of the approaching autumn. The blue mountains
seemed to approach the spectator, rising out, and
standing forth in unembarrassed relief, utterly unencumbered
with the vast accumulations of threatening vapour,
which yet continued to roll towards them, growling in fitful
volumes of thunder as they came, which found rever-berating
voices from all their peaks. Throughout the
whole month of October these masses of wind and vapour
had poured forth cataracts of storm upon the city, and

three several hurricanes, of different degrees of power, but
all of them destructive, had passed over the island, rending
in its progress with equal recklessness the bohio of the
native and the proudest trees of its dense and mighty
forests. And still the clouds hung high, silent, and ominous
above the south-western mountains; the north wind
had not yet acquired sufficient force to purge and clear the
atmosphere, and though the sea upon the northern coasts
had begun that peculiar roaring which announces and prepares
the approach of the serene winter of December, it
was yet evident that the dispersion of the vapours which
were still congregating above the higher peaks of the
mountains, would bring with it other hurricanes, more terrible,
perhaps, than all the past. Gloomily, and with sufficient
reason, therefore, might the little but powerful city
look forth upon the sky and waters, incaging in her own
aspect, reflected from the dense dull vapours hanging above
her, the many anxieties which filled the bosoms of her
people. But these anxieties, though general, were yet not
sufficient to discourage that adventure and impede those
enterprises which had made her what she was, the connecting
link between two worlds; receiving and sending
forth the pioneers of the old, and transmitting back, in requital,
the wondrous and ill-gotten treasures of the new.
The lovely waters of the Ozama, now broken by short,
chopping billows, were covered with barques, whose white
sails and gaudy streamers helped to cheer a prospect otherwise
sufficiently discouraging. There, on one hand, lay
the gallant fleet of the accomplished cavalier, Nienesa,
consisting of four ships and two brigantines; and there,
within short cannon-shot distance, rode the humbler armament
of the stout Alonzo de Ojeda. The interval was
filled up by a dozen vessels of smaller description, from
the open caraval, whose sides seemed to yield to the pressure
of the waves on every hand, to the gigantic canoe of
the native, hollowed out from the towering ceiba, and
sometimes equal in burden to the largest of those consecrated
but frail vessels which had borne Columbus on his
first voyage of fame and peril. There was one vessel beside,
lying in the harbour of Santo Domingo, not less imposing
in size and equipment than the proudest of those in
the fleet of Nienesa. She lay at anchor aloof from all the
rest, and while the two fleets of the rival commanders exhibited
the utmost animation, receiving momently on board
the supplies essential to the voyage from a hundred little
boats, but a single and small canoe was seen to ply between
her and the shore at protracted intervals throughout the
day. Yet the fortunes of one greater than either Ojeda or
Nienesa lay on board that solitary barque—one destined to
achieve exploits and acquire glory to which even their
fondest hopes, and wildest imaginings, and most daring
toils, were but faint and fleeting shadows.

But if the stir of busy life gave a cheerful aspect to the
vessels riding at anchor in that vexed and chafing bay, not
less lively and stirring was the animation which now filled
the streets of the small but swelling city. There the two
commanders—busy in beating up recruits, buying stores,
and borrowing money, the last not the least imposing necessity,
nor the one most easily overcome—had contrived
to set the people completely by the ears, and divide them
into parties with respect to their rival merits and pretensions.
The attractive and courtly accomplishments of
Nienesa, won to his side the younger portion of the citizens—those
who were most easily taken by specious externals,
and showy but unsubstantial attainments; while
the friends of Ojeda were chiefly found among the veterans
of the island—those old voyagers who had, from the first,
been the followers of Columbus and Pinzon, and well
knew the importance of something more than graceful accomplishments,
in all encounters with the Indians. These
parties had been gradually forming for some weeks previous
to the opening of this narrative. Day after day added
something to the life of the contest, which, after a while,
derived much bitterness from the hourly collision to which
in so small a community they were necessarily exposed.
This bitterness was not a little increased in consequence of
some misunderstanding among the rival leaders themselves.
The island of Jamaica which had been granted to them in
common by the king, furnished one of the grounds of contention;
the province of Darien furnished another—neither
of them being well satisfied with, or perhaps well able to
discover the limits of his jurisdiction. Their disputes on
these points filled the city, and more than once were on the
point of bringing their parties to blows.

It was on the morning in November already described,
when a man, pale in face and feeble in person, from years

rather than disease, was seen to enter a bohio, or cottage,
on the very outskirts of the city. His person was small,
and a slight irregularity in his movements indicated an infirmity
in one of his limbs. He wore no armour, as was
the common habit of the time and the people with whom
he consorted, and his garb was rather Italian than Spanish.
A loose robe of sable enveloped his limbs, and was secured
by a belt of the same material which encompassed his waist.
The bright silver head of a small stiletto protruded from
his vest, and rested upon his bosom against a little circlet
of gold, which hung medal-like from his neck, and on
which a curious eye might detect the signs of the zodiac
in connexion with other characters, the use of which was
not so generally obvious. A foot remarkably small, and
cased in sandals of sable and red, furnished the only other
peculiarity of his costume upon which it is needful to remark.
But if his dress was thus unimposing, and his person
without command, it was not the case with those features
of his pale face, in which stronger attributes might
clearly be discerned by the most passing scrutiny. In
connexion with a certain thoughtful mildness of expression,
there was an eye full of intense anxiety, not unmixed with
the consciousness of power, that seemed to demand instant
acknowledgment and obedience. His lips were thin and
pale, almost like his cheek, slightly painted when not engaged
in speech, and showing beneath at all times a set of
teeth unimpaired and of the most beautiful whiteness.
His brow was exceedingly narrow and lofty, and covered
with thin scattered locks of hair sprinkled with gray, that
curled about his ears, and hung down in almost girlish
luxuriance behind them. His whole appearance was that
of one venerable from years and wisdom, and not less so
from the continual control of benevolent thought and the
gentlest of human sentiments. He approached the door
of the bohio—a simple structure of lath, thatched with the
broad leaves of the palm, which were overhung and protected
in turn by a gigantic ceiba or wild cotton-tree, the
lower branches of which actually grasped and rested upon
the roof of the dwelling. A wild fig or banyan-tree, itself
a forest, grew in the rear of the bohio, but did not confine
itself to the simple spot from which it arose. Spreading
its arms on every side, it completely covered with shadow
a circumference below of near a thousand feet, which, in
the descriptive language of Milton,
Through one of these “overarched echoing walks,” the
path was pruned out to the door of the bohio, where the
aged man, whom we have undertaken briefly to describe,
was striving at entrance. His efforts were answered by
the deep growl of a dog from within, and then the voice of
one, seemingly his owner, commanding his subjection.

“Down, Leonchico, down; know you not the knock?
would you show teeth to friends?—dog—for shame!—
down—down!”

The door opened in the next moment and the old man
entered, closing it carefully behind him. The tenant of
the cottage, who had seemingly left his hammock which
was suspended low, and barely above the mat-covered
floor, now resumed it, while the dog, whose growl had first
answered the knock of the applicant, and which seemed quite
satisfied when he beheld him enter, sprang after his master
into the hammock, and laid himself down in sluggish repose
at his feet. The former was a man in the very prime
of life. He was tall and muscular of person, well formed,
and vigorous, with a dark, full, expressive blue eye, and
hair of a light brown, inclining to auburn. Stretched at
length upon the couch, it was yet evident that he was no
sluggard. The ready speech, the quick gesture, the keen
and searching glance, all denoted the possession of prompt
decision, and the most ready and restless life. It may be
added here, though as yet we see none of these qualities,
that he was already known as affable, frank, generous, bold,
and adventurous, a skilful swordsman and an able commander.
Qualities admired beyond all others at a time
when the conquest of a new world invited the arms of ambition,
and whetted the appetites of national and individual
avarice.

The dog which possessed so much of his master's regard
as to be suffered to partake his bed, was no unworthy
animal. In the peculiar nature of that warfare urged by
the Spanish discoverers against the natives, he had arrived

at distinction for himself, and had acquired a reputation
peculiarly his own. He was one of those famous bloodhounds
whose unerring scent and furious onset inspired
no less terror among the Indians than the fire-arms of
their European enemies; and such was his renown, that
he has been allotted a page in history, as respectfully
worded and full of minute detail, as that of any of the
favourite warriors of the period. He is described as of
middle size, of a dusky yellow or tawny-reddish colour,
with a black muzzle, loins remarkably narrow and round,
small but sinewy legs, a neck scarcely less thick than his
shoulders, and a tail short, massive, and having a bunch of
long gray hairs at the extremity. He was covered with
the scars of innumerable arrow-wounds, and known by
name to the Indians, his very appearance on the field is
said, in some instances, to have been sufficient to put a
whole herd of them to flight. His pay, when hired, was
never less, and sometimes much more than that of an
armed soldier; and his ferocious hostility to the foe was
only surpassed by his fidelity to the master who had
trained him. Through many a field of danger, among the
cannibal tribes of the Carribbees, the most valiant of all the
natives of the New World; in nights of painful watch,
and days of protracted peril, the master at whose feet he
now lay, had known no other body-guard than himself. It
cannot be a matter of wonder, therefore, that a feeling
stronger than mere gratitude filled the bosom of the warrior
for the dog, Leonchico. The affection of a brother
would scarcely be too strong an epithet to describe his
attachment.

“You have been successful, Codro,” said the cavalier,
while something like exultation sparkled in his eyes, as he
saw the old man take his seat upon a mat, and draw forth a
packet of papers from his bosom. “You have been successful,
Codro; and our difficulties are at an end. You have
obtained the loan required, and I am at length free. But at
whose hands have you gotten the boon? What rascal
notary has befriended us? What griping commissary?
To what agent of Satan do we owe this service?”

The old man smiled benignantly as he listened to the
vehement inquiries of his companion.

“You say well,” he answered, after a moment's pause;
“there is reason in your demand. All better agencies

having failed us, what other than those of Satan could have
helped us at our need? I almost shame to tell you from
whom this money is borrowed; for deep was my own
humiliation when, in compliance with the solemn necessity,
I felt compelled to make application to such as he.”

“Such as he—who? You surely mean not to say that
you got money from the base-souled bachelor Enciso.”

“He! No! no!” exclaimed the old man with something
like disgust in his manner, and no little haste in his voice.
“No!—I thank God that we owe him nothing; though,
I doubt not, that, at this moment, he greatly desires to befriend
us. Know you not that he hath taken a venture
with Ojeda?—that he hath paid two thousand castillanos
in behalf of the present voyage, and hath even resolved to
fit out a barque to follow upon his course when Ojeda hath
made foothold in New Andalusia?”

“Ha! ha! ha!” was the answer of the cavalier, as he
heard this statement. “Better he had buried his castillanos
in the Ozama. He had then been more at peace
about his venture, and there were quite as much profit.
But let the madman and the knave sink together—what
boots it to us? Who is the lesser villain that hath helped
you to these moneys? Let me hear the name of the precious
fiend, that waits till the moment of extremity and
helps us from the precipice, it may be, to plunge us more
certainly down. To whom, Codro, hast thou bartered our
souls?”

“Nay, not so bad as that, Vasco. If the venture be in
souls, it is we that have bought the commodity, since
never was the soul of Felipe Davila held half so precious
in his sight as the gold which he has this day loaned to
our use.”

“Felipe Davila! Felipe Davila!” exclaimed the cavalier
with something like a tremour in his voice, and a start from
his hammock, that betrayed great hidden emotion. “You
mean not to say, Codro, that you got this help from
Davila?”

“Even so, my son. From Felipe Davila comes our
succour. But you seem not pleased that it should be so.
Wherefore? We could get this help from none else.”

“If you could get help from none else,” said the cavalier,
“there is nothing more to be said; since to us these
supplies are of the last importance, and most necessary to

the completion of all that was done before. But I could
have wished that this money had come from any coffer but
that of Felipe Davila.”

“And wherefore, my son? What harm can there come
from the use of this wealth, though it may have been gotten
by the evil ways of the miser? Shall we not turn it
to good account? Are not our purposes those which sanctify
even the use of evil? Do we not toil in the aim of
honourable fame, and will it not be your endeavour so to
steer your barque, as to make your labours redound to the
glory of God, and to the spread of his holy word among
the heathen? Methinks, Vasco, you are strangely scrupulous
in this reluctance, now that the hour is at hand for
which you have so long striven, to make use of the help
which has come thus unexpectedly, as to seem rather like
the gift of Providence, than the poor offering of man!”

“Nay, Codro, you do not take me with you. I scruple
not—I am free to use this help, though from such base
hands as Davila's, I almost fear there may be a curse upon
it. But, know you not, or forget you, that Davila is the
uncle of Teresa; that it is to his bohio that I wend nightly
when my purpose is to look on her? You knew that I
sought her,—that—”

He was interrupted by the gentle voice of his aged companion:—

“Nay, Vasco, of a surety I have not forgotten these
things. But how make they against the propriety and
wisdom of that which I have done? Well I knew that
Davila was a vile creature, the slave of the miserable gold
which has made him toil through so much sin, and which
has stained his hands and soul—if the story of the old
pilots of Diego Colon be true—with more blood than that
of the saints can well wash out.”

“Not that—not that—that is nothing, Codro; but
Teresa—Teresa!—She will know all—she will know my
necessity—my want. She—”

“Be it so, my son, and what the evil? Surely, I did
not forget that you had in your heart a strange fondness for
that maiden, who, to speak the smallest truth, is most
lovely to the eye—”

“And pure, Codro,—pure—and not less wise than
pure!” was the brief but emphatic interruption of the

lover, as if he dreaded, or seemed to expect some qualifying
speech on the part of his companion.

“Of this we need not speak,” replied the old man
evasively. “There is no reason that you should grieve
that this help comes from Davila, because of your regard
for his niece. What is there of shame in this loan? You
have not put on false shows of fortune in approaching her.
She knows you, as all know you in Santo Domingo, as a
brave and noble cavalier, to whom fortune hath been less
bounteous than heaven, and who hath done more service
to the king, his master, than the king hath ever been
pleased to repay. You are known, Vasco, by good deeds
and not by goods—by the stanch virtues of courage and
courtesy, rather than by castellanos. It cannot be that
Teresa looks upon you as a cavalier of fortune, though
she shall some day know you as one born to it.”

“No, no! she cannot—she knows me for what I am,
Codro, if she knows me at all—a matter on which I have
but little certainty. But it was my fear that, seeking her
uncle's coffers, it would seem that I had founded a claim to
his credit upon the assurance of my regard for her.”

“Not a whit, Vasco; the fear is idle, though natural
enough to one who loves, and who is ever not less jealous
of his own carriage towards the maiden than he is watchful
and suspicious of hers in respect to all other persons.
But this loan, though your name be joined with mine in
the security to Davila, is a loan to me and not to you. He
knows you only as the friend that shares my risk in order
to promote my benefit. You appear not before him in any
wise as a supplicant, and scarcely in any form as a debtor.
I have cared for that.”

“Ah, trusty and kind Codro, I owe you much—much
that I fear me I shall never be well able to repay. Your
own venture in this goodly barque is large—”

“All that I possess, Vasco; the fruits of a long life of
toil and no little peril. But wherefore speak of this?”

“Should it be lost, Codro; should the waters which, in
these treacherous seas, have swallowed up so many lofty
ships, and rent asunder so many noble armaments; should
they swallow ours, then thy loss—”

“Is all, Vasco—all; and yet, how worthless in comparison
with thine, for thy life is thy venture with my
goods, and I say to thee again, as I have said to thee many

times before, that I hold thy life to be among the most
precious of all the things which Spain has sent to these
Indias. But I fear neither the loss of these goods nor of
thy life, which is too precious to be computed among the
mere miserable things in human traffic. Night after night
have I read thy progress on earth in the bright mysterious
eyes which look forth, and direct my studies, from the
heavens. Thou art born for great achievement, my son,
and most surely the hour is at hand. Thou wilt come to
greatness, and the world will glory in thy name. The
rich spoils of the new ocean to the south, of which thou
speakest to me, even when thou sleepest, will not fail, I
am blest to think, to repay thee for the toils, which it is no
less certain must be thine;—and even were it not so,
Vasco,—even should it be that thy conquests yield thee
but barren greatness, as, under cold requital of our
monarch, is but too much the peril of those who serve
him with all their soul and with all their strength, yet will
I so rejoice in thy honours, and in the bright fulfilment of
the promise which the stars have made me in thy behalf,
that I will freely give my treasure to the engulfing seas,
and rejoice in the thought, when it is buried, that it was
lost in serving thee.”

The aged man had risen as he seemed to warm with
his own predictions, and approaching the hammock where
his younger companion still partially reclined, he placed
his hand with the warm pressure of a father's, upon his
brow; the latter caught the hand and carried it to his lips.

“Noble, generous old man,” he exclaimed, “sooner
will I perish ere thou shouldst lose one maravidi of that
wealth which is to secure thee in comfort through thy old
age. Believe me, father, I will think not less of thee, and
of what I owe thee, in the adventures I pursue, than of
my own selfish fortunes.”

“Think of thy own fame—think only of the greatness
which the stars promise thee, my son, and the heart of
Micer Codro will be happy.”

“And yet, father,” said the cavalier, “I would that
from thy skill in that science of the stars, of which it is
my sorrow that I know so little, thou wouldst give me to
see what fortune awaits me in another path than that
of glory.”

The speaker paused. The answer of the astrologer, for

such he was, scarcely satisfied him, and was evasive and
abrupt.

“Thou wouldst speak of thy love for the damsel Teresa;
but of this I can tell thee nothing. The stars tell me
nothing. I have strove to read them on thy behalf, but
they veil themselves when I would do so; and a thick
mist gathers before my sight. Methinks, Vasco, they
smile not on the passion which may keep thee from thy
nobler purposes.”

“Nay, Codro, let not thy zeal in behalf of my fame,
make thee jealous of my affections. Thou dost, methinks,
greatly mistake the nature of the noble love, which helps
the rather, and stimulates to great achievement. Love is
no blinded passion such as the minstrels fable; but a flame
that lifts the purpose, and ennobles the endeavour, and
seeks to make the creature worthy, in whose bosom it has
made its dwelling-place and altar. Think'st thou because
I love Teresa, that I am less heedful of the fame which
my fond imaginings—my thoughts by day, my dreams by
night,—have, no less than thy friendly voice, promised to
my endeavour? Think'st thou, because I have suffered in
my heart the gentle dominion of the affections, that I am
less mindful of the high ambition that strives against every
rival, and permits no venturous footstep to advance before
its own? No, Codro—no! Thou hast not found me a
sluggard when any performance was needful, and I need
not ask thee to look upon our barque for the proofs of a
toil which has not been intermitted because the labourer
sometimes stole away from his employment to warble a
light arezto beneath the lattice of his mistress. Love has
taken nothing from the vigour of my soul, but has rather
strengthened it, Codro.—Teresa, if she loves me, will
scarce keep me back from a path of venture, which is to
make me famous and a leader among men; she will rather
urge me forward with reproving language, and chide me
forth upon the seas, should it be—as I believe not—that,
forgetful of all things but the bliss within my enjoyment,
I yield up, to unwitting repose, the hours which are due
to fame and fortune.”

The old man shook his head doubtfully. The earnest
speech of his companion failed to convince him.

“I am not sure, Vasco,” he answered, after the interval
of a moment—“I am not sure that Teresa thinks of thee

as thou fondly imaginest—I am not sure that she loves
thee;—still less, my son, am I certain that she is worthy
of a love like thine.”

“Nay, Codro—thou dost wrong her much. Thou
know'st her not, my father—it is clear that thou dost not
know Teresa.”

This was said in a tone of emphasis clearly intended to
be conclusive. The old man saw that the topic was now
growing irksome to the cavalier.

“It may be, my son: Teresa Davila may suffer wrong
in my thoughts, and for this I were sorry, for, believe me,
it is no purpose with me to do wrong by word or thought
to the most worthless of human beings. It is for thee that
I am watchful—it is thy great and promised glory that
makes me suspicious of all things and persons that may
stand betwixt thee and thy becoming achievements; and
it is, perhaps, because I deem thy love for Teresa unrequited,
that I am unwilling to esteem her as worthy of it
and of thee.”

“But wherefore shouldst thou think thus, Codro?”
replied the other hastily, and leaving the couch as he did
so. “What hast thou seen in her carriage—what hast
thou heard from her lips, to lead thee to this thought?”

“Much, many things, Vasco. She has a smile for thee
which is too ready—her laughter for thy jest is too prompt
and unmeasured. There is little heart in the smile which
is for ever on the lips—there is little of earnest and sincere
thought in the mind, which is so soon yielded up to merriment.
Could I see that she beheld thy coming, and
shrunk to behold thee, with a timid spirit that yet lingered
while it fled—could I see that she listened to thee, as if
she too devotedly listened to have freedom even for speech
or smile in return—for thine;—did she who trembled to
see thee approach, look sad and silent to see thee depart—
I were better persuaded of her affection, and her sensibility
to thine own. But I cannot yield faith to this fancy
of thine; when I see not these signs, which a long experience
of the world and the world's ways, persuade me
are tokens of the true affection only. Teresa has thoughts
which are too light and capricious for a heart which is
devoted and earnest like thine own. She sees thee as
thou approachest, with eyes like those which the cunning
fisherman sets upon the fish which is to be his prey. The

pearl diver of the gulf looks not with keener vision for the
gray coalid shell beneath the water which treasures up his
prize, than Teresa Davila looks for the thoughtless lover,
who, blind to the cruel iron which she would infix within
his heart, rushes with devouring haste to the tempting lure
of her beauty, which, as a banquet, she spreads before
him. She would wear him as a spoil, if the spoil be a
rich one and a great. Nay,—when I tell thee that I think
she loves thee not, I mean not to say that she would refuse
to wed thee. Let Vasco Nunez go forth upon his mission,
which—I read it in the stars—is to bring him to wealth
and greatest glory, and Teresa Davila will place her slender
white hand within his, and there shall be no words
from her lips which shall not breathe to him of love.”

“Ha! say'st thou, Codro; and yet thou tell'st me that
she loves me not?” said the other exultingly.

“Even so!—even so, my son! The lips which tell
thee that she loves thee, will tell thee what I believe not.
It may be that they will tell thee nothing but the truth—
and yet, there is in my thought a solemn conviction that
she will play thee false—that there is no true affection for
thee in her heart—that she is one, steeped to the very lips
in selfishness—that she cannot forget, in her vanities and
weaknesses of mind, what the true love should ever refuse
to remember—the dominion which it gains over the fellow
soul which it has won, and the singleness of purpose and
of hope which in that very moment such soul foregoes
for ever. She will yield nothing—she will forego nothing
of the individual purpose of her mind, to the tie which
links her with another nature than her own, and binds her
to an existence where nothing can be exclusive. Be the
maiden whom thou lovest, my son, one, willing—nay,
glad to know thee for her law, not less than for her love.
Be she one to find pleasure in her service before thee—to
look for thy coming with an expectance which can be satisfied
with nothing less—and note thy departure with a sorrow
which knows no true soothing until thy return. I fear
me Teresa is no such woman: she hath a pride which
would vex to know that her heart paid such high homage
to another, though that other were the choice of her heart,
and stood before her the embodied perfection of the noblest
virtues.”

Many times during this speech had the companion of

the astrologer striven to arrest his words, which, though
uttered in the gentlest manner, and in tones of the truest
regard, were no less cruel to the lover than they seemed
unjust to his mistress. When, at length, the old man
paused, Vasco Nunez waived his hand impatiently, and
though a faint smile, the result of visible effort, was upon
his lips, there was yet a gloomy frown upon his forehead,
and his tones were cold, and marked by a dissatisfaction
which he vainly strove to hide.

“No more—no more of this, Micer Codro;—no more,
I pray thee. Thou know'st little of Teresa—nothing—
I see thou dost not; and hence I forgive thee thy error—
thy injustice. Thou art very ignorant of Teresa—I marvel
greatly thereat, for thou hast spoken with her, and seen
her often, and dwelt beside her, when the voices in the
bohio of her uncle, were heard audibly in thy own. Thou
know'st her uncle—that is clear,—for thou hast persuaded
him to yield that which he cherished with a care he had
not given to his own worthless life. But Teresa is beyond
thee. The stars which thou watchest blind thee to her
eyes, and thou seest not their beauty, nor the lore—lore
dearer to me than all of thine—which I read in them
nightly. Go to the stars, my father—I will not pass
between thee and the smallest twinkler whose ray thou
affectest; but pass not thou between me and mine. Leave
to me the study of Teresa's—I joy to think I read them
no less ably than thou dost those of heaven.”

“Would thou didst, my son; but I fear”—

“Fear nothing, my father. Hast thou not said that the
hour of my triumph was at hand. Thou hast read it in
the stars;” cried Vasco Nunez, interrupting him with an
air of pleasant triumph, while laying his hand upon the
old man's shoulder.

“Yea, my son,—I have told thee out the truth—thou
wilt triumph—thou wilt achieve conquest and fame; yet,
in the same blessed volume which showed me thy success,
did I also behold a danger which threatened thee and a
fearful trial of all thy strength!”

“Ha! but I fear not the danger—I am ready for the
trial.”

“And the danger came to thee from the temptations of
a woman, and the trial grew because of her. There were
dangers—many dangers and strifes in thy path beside,

but I tell thee, Vasco Nunez de Balboa, there were none
of them all that bore so perilous an aspect to thy fortunes
as these. Dost thou wonder that I should tremble for
thee, my son? Art thou angry that I should give thee
timely warning of thy danger?”

The old man grasped his companion's hand as he uttered
himself with equal affection and solemnity.

“Not angry—no! not angry, my father,” was the reply
of the cavalier, who was evidently impressed by the manner
of the speaker. Ere he could say more, voices were
heard at the entrance of the cottage, and its powerful
guardian, Leonchico, aroused from his drowsy repose by
their approach, sprang up with a warning growl, and put
himself in readiness at the entrance of the cottage.