“Methinks, Juan, the venture’s worth the risk. Were it not for Doña Julia, I’d slip my anchor of old age and sail across the sea. I have no mind to place the King’s gift in an agent’s hands, to let him rob the Mexicans and me.”
Don Rodrigo had leaned back in his chair, and was gazing across the disordered table at a pale, dark-eyed youth, attired in black velvet, whose thin, nervous hand had been making a copy of letters-patent from Charles of Spain to his Majesty’s “dear beloved son in Christ, Don Rodrigo de Aquilar.” Juan Rodriquez, secretary to Don Rodrigo, was a lineal descendant of a marinero of Seville who had returned safely to his native city after circumnavigating the globe with Magellan. Of this same marinero it had been written that he was “energetic, courageous, but marvellous unprincipled.”
“I have heard Doña Julia say, señor,” remarked Juan in a softly modulated voice—“I have heard her say, within the last few days, that she would be glad to see those strange lands over-sea, where palaces are made of gold and pearls grow upon the trees.”
A grim smile played across the haughty countenance of the old statesman.
“An idle whim begot of idle tales, young man! But were I sure that sufferings and danger would not beset our ship, I’d take the girl and look upon my grant before I die. ’Twill be her heritage at last. But, look you, Juan! These blind cartographers have dealt in fancies tempting men to death. Somewhere beneath the soil of yonder fatal land lie my two sons—and in my death a famous name must die. And I am old. They’d say at court, should I set sail from here, that his Majesty’s rich gifts had made me mad at last.”
There was silence at the table for a time. Don Rodrigo reclined in his chair and watched the changing lights and shadows of the waning day as they emphasized the sombre beauty of the room. Presently he said:
“You’ve made the footings, Juan? A hundred thousand ducats will cover everything?”
“And leave a handsome margin, señor,” answered the secretary, referring to a parchment upon which daintily-executed rows of figures had been inscribed. “As times go, señor, the vessel costs you but a song.”
Don Rodrigo eyed Juan Rodriquez searchingly. His secretary’s apparent eagerness for the venture mystified him. Diplomatist, educated in a crafty school, the old Spaniard had never lost sight of the advantages to be gained at times by frank directness.
“You are urging me to take this step, Juan. Let me ask you why?”