“And, then—to work the mines,” put in Juan gently.
Doña Julia turned quickly and flashed an angry glance at the soft-tongued secretary. She had noticed, with annoyance, a change in Juan’s manner since the ship had steered for the open sea. In a way that defied explanation in words, the young man had carried himself for the past few hours as if, upon the deck of a ship, he had found himself upon an equality with his master. There was an elusive sarcasm in his words at times, a defiant gleam in his restless eyes, a mocking note in his voice, which the girl noted with an inexplicable feeling of foreboding.
“Aye—to work the mines,” repeated Don Rodrigo, unsuspiciously. “Why not? ’Tis nigh two centuries since treasures from New Spain came over-sea. And for their paltry gold we’ve given them the cross. For every ducat gained by Spain, a soul’s been won for heaven. Harsh measures with the stubborn—these, of course. ’Tis thus the Church must win its way on earth. The fight is not yet done. Upon the border of the lands I own the good Dominicans have built a mission-house. On you, my daughter, will devolve the task to raise a great cathedral where the friars dwell. I’ll dig the silver from the ground for you, and mayhap from my place in paradise the saints will give me eyes to see the glory of your deeds. May Mother Mary will it so!”
The old man’s eyes were upturned in fervor toward the changing glories of the evening sky. The excitement of the embarkation, the enlivening influence of the stiff, salt breeze, and the mysterious promises held out to him by that seductive West toward which his vessel plunged had stirred the blood in the aged Spaniard’s veins, and emphasized at the same moment both his religious enthusiasm and his earthly ambitions.
Doña Julia was on the point of commenting upon her father’s words when there sprang to the deck from below a slender, active man who, ashore, would have looked like a sailor, but aboard ship resembled a soldier. Gomez Hernandez, captain of the Concepcion, was the very incarnation of that dauntless spirit which had, within the lapse of two centuries, carried the arms of Castile and Aragon to the farthest quarters of an astonished globe. Bright, dark eyes, a cruel mouth, a small, agile, muscular frame, and a manner proud or cringing as occasion dictated, combined to make of Gomez Hernandez a typical Spanish seaman of the seventeenth century. Saluting Don Rodrigo de Aquilar respectfully the captain said:
“May I trouble you, señor, to join me in my cabin for a while? I have matters to lay before you which brook no delay.”
Hernandez’s words were addressed to the diplomat, but his piercing eyes rested as he spoke upon the face of Juan Rodriquez. The secretary, even paler than his wont was, gazed across the sea toward the horizon from which the shades of night had begun to creep.
“Await me here, Julia,” said Don Rodrigo, cheerfully, turning to follow the captain to the lower deck. “I will return to you at once. Lead on, my captain. You’ll find I am not mutinous, no matter what you ask.”
In another moment Doña Julia and Juan Rodriquez stood alone upon the poop. The secretary turned from his contemplation of the sea and his restless eyes fell full upon the disturbed face of the girl, a face of marvellous beauty in the half-lights of the fading day. There was silence between them for a time. The creaking of timbers, the complaining of the cordage, the angry splash of the disturbed sea, and from the bow the subdued notes of an evening hymn, sung by devout sailors, reached their ears.
“Señora,” said Juan, moving toward Doña Julia, “I have much to say to you—and there is little time. If my words to you should seem abrupt, the blame lies with my tongue, not with my heart. If that could speak, you’d find me eloquent indeed. I—”