University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE STAR—NEW HOPES.

Her place was supplied by the astrologer. Micer Codro
had not been forgetful nor unobservant of his friend.
He well enough understood how grievously Vasco Nunez
must feel the sudden annihilation of his hopes; and if he
suffered any time to elapse, after the hurricane, before he
came forward as a consoler, it was simply because he also
knew how idle in the first gush of one's sorrow must be
any attempt at consolation or encouragement. In loneliness
may the sad heart best find counsel. Quiet thought
is perhaps the best minister to real affliction. The brooding
contemplation which looks into itself, will find the deity
more frequently within, than among the crowd and in the
high places. And even now, when he approached the
gloomy adventurer, he sat down beside him in silence
upon the crag. Their mutual eyes were bent sorrowfully
upon those muttering waters in which their fortunes were
swallowed up. Yet, though in one sense a greater loser
than Vasco Nunez, the astrologer was any thing but despondent;
and if afflicted, only so on account of his friend.
He had an elasticity of mind, the consequence of tempered
desires and long experience of life's vicissitudes, which
was yet to be attained by his companion. Perhaps, too,
he had hopes, which did not encourage Vasco Nunez, and
of which the latter did not dream. Full of these, and confident
in the promises with which they allured him, the
astrologer sat down in patience beside his friend, who suffered
him to take his place without speech or notice. He
resolved to wait the moment when grief itself must become
tired of its musing monotony, and manhood, impatient of
inaction, feel trial and loss as even preferable, in a choice
of evils, to that apathetic prostration of life, which is a pain

always to the sanguine and adventurous mind. The astrologer
knew the nature of the warrior, and waited, without
sign of irksomeness, upon that morbid mood, which he
knew must finally relieve itself in speech, even though its
utterance be still in the language of complaint. He, meanwhile,
was not unoccupied. The contemplation of the
visible world and its various glories was to him a rich enjoyment,
far beyond the thousand others for which the
warring races of men struggle in the soil and strive together
in severest combat. The voices of the elements
were, to him, the voices of benignant, or, at least, of powerful
gods. That lovely and fantastic superstition which,
in the earlier period of civilization, expended life harmlessly
in hearkening to songs and stories of the stars, and
having a confident faith that they exercised a predestined
influence upon the hopes and fortunes of the earth, yielded
him a wealth, which had this blessing beyond all others,
that it provoked no man's envy and took from no man's
heritage. The storms of ocean and of air deprived him of
them but momentarily, and with the dissipation of the
clouds, his treasures came forth to his sight with tenfold
profusion, and with a brightness duly enhanced by their late
casual obscuration.

Such was the case at this very moment. The hurricane
which had swept over the city from the hanging mountains
of Cibao, had cleared the skies of every defacing
cloud. The accumulated vapours of autumn had departed;
and in the pure and singularly blue expanse around, the
people of Española found a certain assurance that the
dangers of the current year, arising from a source so fruitful
of danger, were all, at length, over. Never was night
so lustrous. To the dweller in the cold regions of the
north, the myriad eyes looking down upon him from their
southern mansions, would alone have almost realized to
him the idea of the omniscience of the Deity. Their lights
seemed linked in one pearly galaxy all over the central heavens,
so close, thick and transparent, that the lonely spots of
blue which lay here and there between them, became objects
of distinction from their very isolateness and infrequency.
Yet, crowded as they were, their inequality of
size and brightness was no less a beauty to the beholder.
The keen eye of the astrologer, whom a long contemplation
of their beautiful forms had taught to know and to distinguish

between them well, dwelt with momently increasing
pleasure upon their novel aspects, as, troop by troop, the
wheeling lustres rose into sight, and took their assigned
places in the dark blue fields in the distance. He had
learned to distinguish between them by reason of their
shapes, not less than by their size and brightness; and
many were the occult significations which their cruciform,
circular, oval, or dartlike aspects, presented to his thoughts,
as, beheld through the creative lens of a most etherial imagination,
he called them, each by its name, and examined
it for its mysteries. And how natural, in an age so
fanciful, to believe that the stars and starry groups beheld
in the new world for the first time by the native of the
old, were especially assigned for its government and protection!
How much easier for the self-adoring and complacent
man to arrogate to himself the countenance and
patronage of one, at least, of a host so numerous, and to
grow confident in the sweet and flattering fancy which
assured him that the bright eye which his own loved to
single out in the heavens, turned ever with the interest of
a kindred life, to meet the intense gaze of its admirer.

And the night deepened as the sage and warrior gazed.
The lonely rock on which they sat had no voices to break
the dream of the imploring silence which hovered breathlessly
around them. The scene was too sweet and soothing
to the two, moved, as they respectively were, by differing,
though not conflicting emotions, to leave them any
desire, of themselves, to disturb it. Gradually the contemplations
of the astrologer deepened with the deepening
night, and the wonders of a grasping thought lay before
his vision. He even ceased to be conscious of the companion
by his side. He mused upon the past which he
had known—he remembered old predictions, and his soul
grew kindled with the gathering aspects of the new. He
groaned in the intensity of his thought, until Vasco Nunez,
wounded in spirit and sick at soul as he was, forgot, for
the time, his own afflictions, as he heard the utterance of a
sound so unwonted from the lips of the aged man. His
eyes were involuntarily but slowly turned from the waters,
and rested upon the pale cheek, the glistening eyes, the
white and flowing beard of the astrologer. The latter saw
not the gaze of his companion. His own was busy among
the crowding orbs that seemed momently to blaze out and

to thicken in the southern horizon. His hands were
clasped upon his breast, his lips were parted, and to the
eye of Vasco Nunez, he wore the aspect of one whose
soul was afar, seeking fellowship in worlds of better and
more enduring promise. For a long time did Vasco Nunez
watch the sage in admiration and silence.

“This old man,” he said to himself—“What lives he
for? His worldly wealth did he bestow upon me, and I
have lost it. He hath nothing now in the whole wide
world, and I am his debtor without the means of payment.
Accursed! that I am, that such should be the case—that I
should take from the treasury which should keep him in
comfort through the years of his decline. He knows all—
he knows that he can hope for nothing at my hands—that
I have nothing, either to repay him or others. Yet he
utters no complaint; and if he sorrows at all, his sorrows
are for my loss, not for any of his own. Wretch! that I
am—to look upon him in a pang, and to speak to him little
less than torture. Yet I must do both—Micer Codro!”

The last words were uttered aloud. The old man,
turned his eyes upon his companion with a sad, sweet
smile, and his reply was uttered in tones of the warmest
affection.

“My son! Thou hast summoned my thought from a
far distance. What wouldst thou?”

“Wherefore didst thou seek me out at Salvatierra, to
thy own ruin and mine? Why didst thou come to me with
thy delusions of the stars, and take me from my little farm
that enabled me to behold the sea without confiding to it
my treasures? Thou foundest me prosperous because I was
secure—having a fancy in my heart of greatness, which
thou hast blown into a flame which could not be quieted—
till I threw by the iron with which I dug, and grew sick
and ashamed of the toils which gave me bread. Thou
wouldst persuade me that the stars were toiling for me to
nobler ends, and I believed thee. Well! what now of
thy predictions?—thine own eyes saw the hurricane which
belied thy promises—which laughed at my credulity—
which has wrecked thy property and mine. I tell thee,
Micer Codro, I have this day seen thy three thousand
pieces sucked down into the greedy deep. Where were
thy stars to help thee and to save thee?—it was only last
night that thou broughtest me the brightest promises gathered

from their false assurances. My star, too!—that bitter
mocking planet upon which, more than all beside, thou
didst build thy faith—What says it to thee now? Does it
look upon thee with smiles? Dost thou yet behold and
believe it? Methinks, it should be buried deep as the treasure
which it has lost for us, in the depths of that engulphing
sea.”

The reply of the venerable man to this burst of reproach
was calm and gentle as before.

“Complain not of me, my son, and, above all, complain
not of the stars which are as friendly to thee in their aspects
as ever. Look with me, my son, upon thy own
bright guardian. Follow the guidance of my finger and
behold where it now gleams forth with a blaze like that
of the unclouded moon. Its shadow rests in a bright
silvery line along the bosom of the very waters, which,
as thou sayst, have swallowed up our treasure. It saddens
not because of our loss—wherefore should we? It tells us
that there is hope and triumph for us still—it reproves us
for our despondency.”

The astrologer had the most perfect confidence in his
own predictions, and in the assurances which the star still
carried to his mind; but it was not so easy for him to impress
the same ready conviction on that of his companion.
Though not superior to the superstitions which affected
the wisest of his age, Vasco Nunez was stubborn against
any beguiling hope in the face of his late disaster. He
smiled almost scornfully as he heard the words, and remarked
the earnest simplicity of expression in the face of
the astrologer.

“And thou believest it still! Oh, Micer Codro, friend
of mine as I think thee, and wise among men, as in truth
I do regard thee, how is it that thou canst hope to impose
upon me with this vain argument, and dost so thoroughly
impose upon thyself? My star tells thee at night that I
am on the very threshold of success, and, at morning, the
storm sweeps me into the abyss.”

“Not thee—not thee, my son,” was the instantaneous
reply of the other—“thy treasure—thy wordly treasure
and mine, indeed, it sweeps into the sea, but thou livest—
thou shalt still live, and still triumph over the storms and
the seas until thou art in possession of the glory which I

have long since promised thee. Sure, I deny not, that
these seeming disasters—”

“Seeming disasters!” exclaimed the other, almost
fiercely interrupting the speaker. “The loss of ship, and
stores, and arms, men and money, which for two long profitless
years we have striven to raise, is a loss in seeming
only! It is no disaster in reality—no loss—thou feelest
none—I have seen none! We are not now destitute, who
have lost every thing in that treacherous tempest. Thy
loss is in seeming only, Micer Codro? I glad me that
such is thy persuasion, since then I may persuade myself
thou wilt hold my debt to thee a debt in seeming also.”

“And as I look upon thee, and sit beside thee, and take
thy hand in mine, my son, with the feeling of the father
for his first-born, I do hold thee no debtor of mine unless
it be in seeming. If it be thy debt to me that makes thee
unhappy, my son, let thy cause for sorrow cease. Thy
debt is paid to me—and now, set thy heart at rest, so that
thou mayst learn to rejoice with me at the promise which
is still before thee.”

The bosom of the warrior was touched with the generous
expressions of the astrologer.

“Ah, father,” he exclaimed in broken accents—“Thou
art only too kind, too fond, too indulgent, and I am too
rash of speech, and deserve but little of the indulgence
which thou givest me. Believe me, Micer Codro, it is thy
loss that troubles me greatly, though I deny not that my
own disappointments are also great. I cannot suffer thee
to lose—I will not, if power of mine can ever amend it—
this large amount which we have seen go down this day
into the bosom of the Ozama. I will owe thee service,
and toil for thee until thou art paid these moneys, though
by the blood of the blessed Saviour, I see not how I shall
toil unless as a follower of one or other of these men, to
whom, in my day of better fortune, I denied all companionship.”

“Thou shalt not do this—thou art born for rule, not
obedience—to lead the triumph, not follow tamely the path
of another. Thou hadst no days of better fortune, Vasco
Nunez, than thou hast now—now, when thou seemest to
have suffered the loss of all. Thy star never looked
brighter to mine eye, or fuller in its form than it does now,
and though I see not how its promise will grow unto fulfilment,

yet, nevertheless, do I nothing question but that
such must be the case. I have called thy disaster one in
seeming only, for truly I believe it so; nor will there be
any thing marvellous if it should prove so. The ways of
heaven are inscrutable to the blind and thoughtless beings
whom they move; and man, erring ever and self-willed,
flies hourly from the real blessing, esteeming it, through
the medium of his blinding self-conceit, a curse and a bitterness.
Better that the tempest should sink the Maragnon
in the quiet waters of the Ozama, than that she should sink
with thee on the verge of that Southern sea, upon which,
my soul tells me within, you bright star of thy destiny is
looking even now with a fixedness and fervour such as
thine must be, my son, when, standing upon the mountain
top, thou seest for the first time spread out before thy feet,
and yielding to thy power, its sacred and sealed up waters.
Look! Vasco—fix thy glance upon yon lovely image.
Seems it not in thy sight to wear the face of some wondrous
meaning. Shines it not forth with an expression as
if, even now, looking forth upon that hidden ocean, it knew
the object of thy quest, and longed for the hour when thou,
following its gaze, shalt trace out the wild mountain
paths and make thyself the heritor of the glory to which
it would guide thy steps. Fear nothing, my son—it will
be thy guide. Give not way to despondency, for its
blessed promise shall sustain thee. Stand not in hostility
to thy good fortune, for, of a truth, it is thy destiny to
grow great in the eyes of Spain, and to achieve the conquest
of a world which shall give thee a name like that of
Cristovallo Colon, and an immortal memory among men,
only less great than his. Adonai and Saddai—I call thee,
father, by thy names of greatest power—I ask thee if this
promise be not true?”

The eye of Vasco Nunez involuntarily turned with the
finger of his enthusiastic companion, until it rested upon
the pale bright planet that, occupying the centre of a cloud
of stars, irradiated them with a foreign lustre while obscuring
their native beams.

“Believe me, my son, and doubt nothing of the fortune
which awaits thee,” continued the old man, as he saw how
earnestly the glance of Vasco Nunez rested upon the orb—
“give thyself to the tide, and, as it bears thee, resist not,
though it may seem for a time to sweep thee along to the

deep abysses of destruction. There is an arm to save
thee when thine own is nerveless—there is an eye to
guide thee when the cloud obscures thine own. What
were the aim of man—his petty hopes and frail endeavours,
if this were not the case? What achievement could
he accomplish by his own unassisted strength of mind or
body, of courage or of conduct? None. His toils were
those of one who strove to impel his barge against the
driving winds, and craved of the waters to forbear his riven
planks. The path is shaped for thee and for all, my son,
and thou mightest as well refuse to take the fortune that is
assigned thee, as I to forbear that toil in thy behalf which is
not less grateful to my heart because I feel it to be allotted
to my destiny.”

“And doth the same star move our fortunes, my father?”
demanded Vasco Nunez, curious to hear more upon a subject
upon which his companion had never been explicit.

“Another, yet the same! The star which governs the
fate of Micer Codro follows in the path of thine, though
at a long distance; and thus will it, until—”

The old man paused, leaving the sentence unfinished.
His features became agitated—his lip quivered, and an unbidden
tear started into his eye.

“Until when—until what?” was the inquiry of Vasco
Nunez, who was curious to learn the cause of his emotion.

“Until we separate, my son.”

“But wherefore should we separate, my father,” said
the warrior kindly—“there is no reason for it—there could
never be strife between us.”

“Never!” was the deep response.

“Then wherefore separate?” said Vasco, repeating the
question—“I would not have it so; though in truth my
connexion with thee hath brought thee nothing but evil.”

“It is the fate, my son—there is no other reason. But
let this concern neither of us now. There will be a time
for our grief at parting in its own hour. Man never wants
a time for grief. Let this console us, that before that hour
shall arrive, the southern sea, on which you bright eye
looks with its golden fires, will lie at thy feet, and its waters,
trembling and hiding among its reeds, shall murmur
thy triumph to thy own ears. Not till then shall we separate,
and, after that, what should either of us care to
know?”

“Yet thou dost know, Micer Codro.”

“Ay! I know my fate, my son—but of thine I am yet
ignorant. Did I not tell thee that thy peril came from a
woman—this is all I know.”

“A woman! It may be so—thou hast often dwelt upon
this theme, and yet my ears give thee little heed. My
heart feels not the truth of thy predictions. How should
it. Since the beginning of my manhood I have found my
joys in woman only. She has been my sunshine when
the day was dark—a star to my eyes when my own star
was under a heavy cloud. Wounded and weak, she has
nursed and comforted me; and I have no thought of her,
no memory that is not grateful and soothing. Even at
this moment, when I feel most ready to yield the strife to
fate and forego the struggle after greatness, she has brought
me the first gleam of hope—the first tidings of encouragement.”

“What mean you, my son? can it be—has Teresa—”

“Teresa,—no! Yet, even there, my heart tells me I
shall meet with hope. I have had a woman comforter already,
and yet not Teresa. The poor Indian mother,
Buru, whose son was slain by Garabito—she has been
with me within the hour, and see what she has brought
me.”

“Gold,—guanin,—these are large bits, and of value,
my son.”

“The pagan has a soul of gratitude. She would give
me all. Yes! she told me of more, and promised, with
her sister, to bring me stores of it from the mountain where
she dwells, in which she tells me she has yet greater
quantities.”

“And thou wilt go and seek her out, my son? This is
truly a bounty of God. Said I not that thy star promised
thee every thing. Adonai, the powerful! thy name be
praised!”

“Ay, Micer Codro, but thou saidst also that the woman
should be my fate—my danger! What sayst thou now?”

“Truly, I say not less now, Vasco—such is the written
word. I do not say that woman shall not help thee, nor
console thee, nor bring thee treasure. I say only that she
will bring thee sorrow if not shame. But that is only
the better reason why thou shouldst take the good which

she also provides thee. Why wilt thou not seek the spot
which she has named to thee.”

“And take from the poor savage the treasure which she
has hidden, and which may buy her the favour of a stern
master. No! No! Let the miserable woman keep her
gold—it will serve her—it will yield but little help to
me.”

“Saints and angels, Vasco Nunez, but thou growest
wilful,” cried the astrologer with something more of impatience
in his speech than he had ever before suffered to
appear in his intercourse with his companion. “What!
wilt thou refuse the help which comes to thee at the moment
of thy greatest need, as if it were a boon from the
blessed Virgin herself. Why, my son, thou forgettest—
this help may restore thee, perchance—may rebuild and
refit thy shattered barque; and, by its timely succour, with
a prompt action, thou mayst yet get the start of these thy
rivals, and with the better skill which thou hast over Ojeda
and Nicuesa, and thy equal valour, find out the Southern
Sea, and conquer its shores, ere their impatient eyes will
gaze upon it. There are ships at Cuba vacant to be bought,
and thou art not unfavoured by Diego Colon—let us seek
the woman and take the gold which thou canst repay her
at another season. It will be of little use to her, since, if
she but shows it in sight of the greedy master whom she
serves, it were a lost treasure for ever. Take her guanin,
and cross to Cubanacan, where thou wilt find, perchance,
some goodly vessel ready for the sea. Shut not thine eyes
to that good fortune which speaks so truly the promise of
thy star.”

“Let the stars that promise provide, Micer Codro,”
replied the cavalier perempterily to the earnest exhortations
of the old man—“I will not take this money of the
woman; but I will see Teresa, my father—I will now, in
the hour of my desperation, speak that love which my heart
had not courage to avow when my fortune looked triumphant.
I can now speak to her with lips that shall not
falter. Thou hast warned me that she loved me not—that
she—thou hast even hinted, and I have forgiven it thee—
that she was one of a base and selfish nature that lived only
for its own worldly desires and small vanities. Thou hast
done her a wrong, methinks, and I will show it thee. She
shall know me as one utterly destitute, and as it would

seem, unloved of fortune. Her faith and thine, and it may
be said that of Santo Domingo, also, has been far otherwise!
I will inform her truly of my poverty, and teach
her, farther, that I have come to esteem myself as one on
whom the fates frown with a special hostility.”

“And canst thou believe thus, Vasco?” demanded the
astrologer—“Have I not told thee?”

“Ay, my father, though thy every word said otherwise!
Can I else than think so? Hath not this been my fortune
from the very hour of my birth? My childhood was destitute,
hopeless, unfriended.”

“Yet thou didst not perish!”

“No! nor would the cuffed dog, though he lived only
on the blows that helped him to an appetite which they did
not satisfy.”

“Thou hast grown strong under them—thou hast even
grown famous.”

“Thou shalt count the value of this fame in maravedies,
when thou wouldst take a loan upon my name from
any notary in Española.”

“Yet, though, in the narrow selfishness of their hearts,
they deny thee their money—let them speak of valiant
achievement or gallant deed to be done, and their eyes turn
upon Vasco Nunez, and their lips say—this is the man.”

“I will read to thee the meaning of that which in thy
ear sounds like applause. It runs thus: There is danger
at hand—there is a fool among us, who counts his own
life as little, having little to live for. He hath a passion
for blows, and a passion scarcely less strong for the idle
words of praise. We will give him these soothing words,
and he will seek our enemy and take those blows, which
would else fall upon our cheeks. We have but to say,
this is our dog—a fine dog, a famous dog—the best dog in
the world at fighting;—and the blind fool becomes so! Read
I not their meaning aright, Micer Codro? Is not this the
measure of my fame, and will it yield me a maravedi in
Santo Domingo?”

“Thou art chafed, Vasco, my son! thou chafest because
the Spaniard lends thee not, and yet thou refusest
the money which the infidel woman gives. Wilt thou
not seek the woman?”

“Teresa, only! I will seek her.”

“I would I might persuade thee otherwise, Vasco.”

“Thou canst not—it were breath wasted, Micer Codro.
I hope not that Teresa will wed me—I have scarcely a
clear thought upon it; and yet—yet, my father, I trust
me she will prove thee guilty of a false and cruel judgment.”

“Amen! may it be so, Vasco: thou wilt see—we shall
both see—I will do her no more wrong by farther conjecture;
and I will pray earnestly that the step thou takest
shall be ever a nearer one to thy favouring fortune. I will
but implore thee not to seek Teresa until I have returned
from a brief absence?”

“What! Dost thou leave Santo Domingo—now—now
that I am wretched?” was the answer of the querulous
warrior whom every thing at this moment seemed to
annoy.

“It must be so, my son; yet I leave thee not. In spirit
and in action I am still with thee. I will be absent from
thee but a single day. Wilt thou promise me not to seek
Teresa until I return? Say, the night following the morrow?”

The warrior laid his hand in that of the astrologer, and
the latter, as if impatient for the prosecution of some new
purpose just then risen in his mind, hurried away from the
spot, leaving his companion still to muse over his vicissitude
of fortune, and meditate the various doubts and hopes
of its restoration.