“A coward’s life is worth nothing,” said Martin Alonzo, scornfully. “But there, enough has been said. We go the voyage. To your work.”
He was so sharp and peremptory that it was a marvel to Diego that he was not hated by the men; but it was not so, indeed. However much they might dislike the voyage, and there was no doubt on that score, they greatly admired their masterful captain. A few there might have been who did not, perhaps, but they were hushed into silence at the first complaint against him. It was Christoval Colon who had to bear the odium of the forced voyage.
They were two days in coming in sight of the islands, and a glad sight it was to them all, even though they knew they would be obliged to put it behind them again. During those two days, and in fact ever since his reconciliation with his cousin, Diego had studiously avoided Juan Cacheco; for as he had no friendly word to say to him, he preferred not to say any. He felt bitter still whenever he reflected that Juan and Miguel would have let him be flogged.
But Juan was all the while anxious for a word of explanation with Diego, and continued to seek it even when he saw that Diego avoided him. He could have forced a conversation at any time; but what he had to say needed privacy, and that Diego would not give to him. The approach to land gave Juan the opportunity he had sought, however; for Diego stood alone, gazing abstractedly at the towering peak of Teneriffe. Juan stole up to him, and there was something wistful in his tone as he said:
“I am glad you were not flogged that day.”
Diego turned with angry start, and said, quickly:
“No thanks to you that I was not.”
“I could not—” began Juan, eager to justify himself, when Diego broke in cuttingly:
“Oh, I know a flogging would be nothing to you. I suppose you have been used to it.”
This reference to his prison life made the blood rush in a red tide into the boy’s face. He tried to speak, but could not find the words readily, and, while he was struggling, Diego said, bitterly: