“Thou art an ungrateful little wretch!” he said, angrily. “Thou wouldst play upon my affection for thee, and then laugh at my credulity. I think sometimes, Diego Pinzon, thou hast no heart at all. Now, say no more! I will not listen. I caught the smirk on thy face, and it hath undone thee for a certainty. Thou shalt learn the iniquity of making a mock of thy elders. Say no more!”
Diego hastened to remove the impression the friar had received, and strove with much earnestness and artfulness to work once more on the feelings of his teacher, but it was without avail.
When he pointed out with great particularity what the dangers of the voyage were, Fray Bartolomeo merely gave a grim assent. When he enlarged on the pity of taking him from his religious studies, the friar only snorted ominously. In short, they came to the house of Martin Alonzo Pinzon and went in.
Martin Alonzo was evidently saying his last farewells at that moment, and was in great haste to be away.
“Good-day, Fray Bartolomeo!” he said, in his abrupt fashion. “Whom have you here? It is my cousin’s son, Diego? Good-day to thee, lad! I suppose thou hast come to bid me a last farewell like these women. As if I were never to return! Well, adios, if you will. Is he a likely lad, Fray Bartolomeo? How come on the humanities?”
His rapid, abrupt manner of speaking gave little opportunity for an answer; and the friar saw that it was a poor time to be there on such an errand; but he was so convinced that Diego would be unmanageable without a chastisement and warning from his cousin that he spoke out clearly and to the point:
“The humanities come on well enough, and no one can do better than he when he will; but I have come to tell thee, Martin Alonzo, that he needs a strong hand to correct him, or he will never arrive at grace.”
“My time is short,” said Martin Alonzo, gruffly.
“It needs not much of it to give him a taste of thy vigor, and a word of warning.”