That first swift glance Alaminos repeated with a longer one—one that had a sudden question in it, and a puzzled memory. At last he asked quickly—
"Have you been on board this vessel, captain, since we cast off from St. Jago? Have I seen you, or heard you speak, during the past few days?"
"Never a word of speech hast thou heard from my lips until now, since I enrolled myself under the banner of Hernan Cortes," was the answer, with a passing smile.
"And I have only since yesterday been chosen to form one of the company on board this ship. Nevertheless, thou hast seen me before, good Alaminos, and heard my voice, and then," with another of those fleeting smiles, "thou wast pleased to give me good words in return, as also did our great and grand old Admiral."
Again that keen, swift, puzzled glance from the old pilot's eyes, ere he passed his sleeve over them, to get rid of the sudden tribute they paid to the memory of that same grand old Admiral who had died nearly thirteen years ago. Montoro blinked his own eyelids for a moment before he added—
"Ay, Antonio, it is now within a couple of months of seventeen long years since a lean-cheeked, ignorant boy stole up to thy side one day in these same waters, and asked thee for the first time that question: 'Thinkest thou that we shall live out this storm?'"
"And as then, so now," answered Antonio de Alaminos, with wondering recollection, "the storm begins to fall to calm, even as the words are spoken. Your eyes, Señor, and your voice are the same as then; is the fearless, holy faith the same that made that wise, noble boy so calm and brave in the face of death? or—doth the man but mock his boyhood by the repetition of those words?"
The privileged old pilot put his queries sturdily, and backed them with one of those clear, searching glances that had the faculty of reading men as cleverly as shores, shoals, and quicksands. But the heart of Montoro de Diego had little to hide; the flush that burnt in the bronzed cheeks was the flush of humility, not shame, as he replied in tones so lowered as scarcely to be audible against the wind—
"The man is, I fear, no wiser, no nobler, than the boy could claim to be, but he does hold fast to his boyhood's one little bit of wisdom, in clinging to the fount of all wisdom and salvation."
"Salvation!" exclaimed a voice close at hand from one who had come forward unobserved, and had caught the last word; "ay, indeed, this lull hath been our salvation, I verily believe. Thanks be to St. Peter for his guardianship. I vow the first handful of gold-dust to his shrine, if we ride safely at anchor off the shores of Cozumel by nightfall."