“The royalest ever!  First we came to Lisbon, driven in by storm, and had it there from King John, and then to Palos which, so to speak, went mad!  Then through Spain to Barcelona, where was the court, and all the bells in every town ringing and every door and window crowded, and here is the Faery Prince on a white charger, his Indians behind him and gold and parrots and his sailors!  Processions and processions—­alcalde and alcayde and don and friar and priest, and let us stop at the church and kneel before high altar, and vow again in seven years to free the Sepulchre!  He hath walked and ridden, waked and slept, in a great, high vision!  Most men have visions but he can sustain vision.”

“Aye, he can!”

“So at last into Barcelona, where grandees meet us, and so on to the court, and music as though the world had turned music!  And the King and Queen and great welcome, and, `Sit beside us, Don Cristoval Colon!’ and `Tell and tell again’, and `Praise we Most High God!’ "

“It is something for which to praise!  Ends of the earth beginning to meet.”

“Aye!  So we write that very night to the Pope to be confirmed that the glory and profit under God are to Castile and Aragon.  But the Queen thought most of the heathen brought to Christ.  And the Admiral thinks of his sons and his brothers and his old father, and of the Holy Sepulchre and of the Prophecies, and he has the joy of the runner who touches the goal!—­I would you could have seen the royalty with which he was treated—­not one day nor week but a whole summer long—­the flocking, the bowing and capping, the `Do me the honor—­’, the `I have a small petition.’  Nothing conquers like conquering!”

“He had long patience.”

“Aye.  Well, he is at height now.  But he has got with him the old disastrous seeds.—­Fifteen hundred men, and among them quite a plenty like Gutierrez and Escobedo!  But there are good men, too, and a great lot of romantical daredevils.  No pressing this time!  We might have brought five thousand could the ships have held them. `Come to the Indies and make your fortune!’—­`Aye, that is my desire!’ "

I said, “I am looking now at a romantical daredevil whom I have seen before, though I am sure that he never noticed me.”

“Don Alonso de Ojeda?  He is feather in cap, and sometimes cap, and even at stress head within the cap!  Without moving you’ve beckoned him.”

There approached a young man of whom I knew something, having had him pointed out by Enrique de Cerda in Santa Fe.  I had before that heard his name and somewhat of his exploits.  In our day, over all Spain, one might find or hear of cavaliers of this brand.  War with the Moor had lasted somewhat longer than the old famed war with Troy.  It had modeled youth; young men were old soldiers.  When there came up a sprite like this one he drank war like wine.  A slight young man, taut as a rope in a gale, with dark eyes and red lips and a swift, decisive step, up he came.