“How so?” said he, puzzled, for the worthy Portuguese navigator was notoriously a swashbuckler.
“Otherwise he never could have christened any unhappy promontory by such a long-winded name,” she explained.
“Perhaps he met a contrary wind in that region,” said Christobal, laughing. “Monsieur de Poincilit here, were he in a very bad temper, might exclaim, ‘Mille diables!’ Why should not our excellent Fernando rail against the almost inconceivable fickleness which could be displayed by eleven times as many young ladies?”
“I came out last time on the Orellana, and I don’t even remember passing such a place,” said Isobel. She was a Chilean born and bred, but she always affected European vagueness as to the topography of South America. Dr. Christobal knew this weakness of hers; he also remembered her beautiful half-caste mother, from whom Isobel inherited her flashing eyes, her purple-red lips, and a skin in which the exquisite flush of terra-cotta on her checks merged into the delicate pallor of forehead and neck.
But, being a tactful man, he only answered: “Your English sailors, my dear, who gruffly dubbed the adjacent point ‘Cape Dungeness,’ have shortened Magellan’s mouthful into ‘Cape Virgins.’—Yet, Ursula was a British saint, and her memory ought to be revered, if only because it keeps alive a classic pun.”
A born raconteur, he paused.
“Go right ahead, doctor,” came a voice from the lower end of the table.
“Well, the story runs that Princess Ursula fled from Britain to Rome to escape marriage with a pagan—”
“How odd!” interrupted Isobel, and Elsie alone understood the drift of her comment.
“Not at all odd if she didn’t happen to like him,” said Christobal. “She reached Cologne, and was martyred there by the Huns. Long afterwards a stone was found with the inscription Ursula et Undecimilla Virgines, which was incorrectly translated into ‘Ursula and her Eleven Thousand Virgins.’ Some later critic pointed out that a missing comma after Undecimilla, the name of a handmaid, made all the difference, assuming that two young ladies were a more reasonable and probable number than eleven thousand. But what legend ever cared for a comma, or reached a full stop? If you go to Cologne, the verger of the Church of St. Ursula will show you the bones of the whole party in glass cases, and, equally amazing, the town of Baoza in Spain claims to be the birthplace of the lot. Clearly, Magellan had a man from Baoza on board his ship.”