"Ay, verily," added the good Father Bartolomé de Olmedo. "And he hath added blows and beatings, doubtless, that the lesson may be the better remembered."
"Or," muttered that Juan de Cabrera beneath his breath, "to make some amends by those gifts for what he hath taken away."
But Señor Juan took some care that his companions should neither hear the words, nor see their author's smile at his own small witticism. He turned away from the groups collected together on the shore, and set off for a short walk inland.
"Whither away there?" questioned a voice behind him a few moments later.
Montoro and the priest had followed him.
"My son," said Father Olmedo, "methinks lonely saunters may be scarcely wise in a strange land at any time; but to indulge them now, when Pedro de Alvarado hath so angered and terrified the people, is too imprudent, I should have thought, even for thy careless courage."
"Say rather, for my careless indifference, father," said the young man with a touch of honest reverence for once. "I can lay no claim just now to brave fearlessness. I had even forgotten there was aught to fear. But see, who goes yonder?"
The three men stopped, as three other men, all Indians, passed them at a light run. One turned a few yards ahead and nodded gaily to Montoro.
"Why, Diego," exclaimed Cabrera in surprise, "surely that is thy man Melchorejo, whom thou hast had so many years?"
"Ay," was the reply, "even from his childhood, when I bound up his wounded hand for him. My slight deed of kindness hath reaped a rich reward since then."