He had made no effort to have any communication with his cousin; for that efficient sailor seemed to know what was wrong better than he could have told him, and any information he could have given seemed to him superfluous. He felt sure, of course, that whatever had happened had been the result of the action of Juan; but, as no danger seemed to threaten in consequence, he decided that it would be wisest to keep silence. He knew, too, that everything he did was watched by Miguel.
The Pinta was quite bare of canvas by this time, and was laboring frightfully. Martin Alonzo had made several efforts to ascertain what was wrong with the steering-gear; but without result, since it was dangerous to go over the side during the gale, and he had determined to postpone his investigation until the storm had abated.
All this while he had been without food, even when the sailors had been supplied with theirs, and as the wind was now blowing steadily from one quarter, he left his brother, Francisco Martin Pinzon, in charge of the deck while he went for a hasty bite of something.
He had hardly taken two mouthfuls, however, as it seemed, when the vessel suddenly shuddered from stem to stern, and in a moment more was rolling like a log in the trough of the sea. With two leaps he was out of the cabin and at the helm.
Something in the gearing had snapped and the rudder was useless. It looked as if the vessel would swamp in another minute. The water poured over her low rail, and yards dipped into the waves at each roll.
No man on board expected to survive that hour, and more than one who had not prayed for many a year knelt where he clung to some rope and tried to recall the forgotten words.
Diego found himself side by side with Juan Cacheco.
“You did this,” he cried, furiously.
“I didn’t expect this,” answered Juan, his face blanched with terror.