“I think of soon returning to Sagres,” he said; “my sailors will be looking for me. Since we have penetrated to the coast of Africa, I have more business than ever.”
“I should like to go with you for a time to Sagres,” said Fernando. “I could not make observations for you like Duarte, nor work out your mathematics like Pedro, but I long to see more of your doings there.”
“It is so cold at Sagres,” said Enrique; “the winds there are too bleak and rough for you; and yet it would be well for you to spend a few idle weeks.”
“I am strong now,” said Fernando hastily; “nothing will hurt me.”
Enrique smiled and shook his head.
“Nothing ails me now but idleness,” repeated Fernando, as he looked up at his brother with a sort of inquiry in his face.
Enrique was standing leaning his back against the high chimney corner, and now he turned his eyes on Fernando and said—
“Is that thought so fresh in your mind still?”
“Is it ever absent?” cried Fernando, rising in his eagerness. “Can I forget my childish vow, and the longing I have ever had so to devote myself? We have done much with Ceuta for a centre for the spread of the Cross. If Tangier were ours—” he paused, laying his hand on Enrique’s shoulder. “See, my brother, I am strong enough now for a campaign. I should run no more risk than the rest of you. Is it not my turn? I am the only one of us all whose sword has never been drawn. Am I fit to be head of the Order of Avis? Does such home-staying become my father’s son? Must I be the only one to do nothing for the honour of Portugal or for Holy Church?”
Enrique’s enthusiasm was easily fired. All his life he had been ready to turn aside from his own special objects to strike a blow at the Moor.