"Why not?" asked Fernao.
"Chiefly, perhaps, because of tales like that of the Sea of Darkness and Satan's hand. And it is true that a ship venturing very far westward is drawn out of its course, as if the earth were not a perfect round, but sloped upward to the south. My own belief is,"—he seemed for a moment to forget that he was talking to children, "that it is not perfectly round, but somewhat like this pear,—" he selected a short chubby pear from the basket, "and that on this mountain may be a cool and lovely region which was once Paradise."
"Oh!" cried Beatriz, her face alight with the glory of the thought. The geographer smiled at her and went on.
"Also you see that the ocean is on this side of the earth very much greater than the Mediterranean. We do not know how long it would take to cross it. I have lately received a map from the famous Florentine Toscanelli which—ah!" he interrupted himself, "here comes our good friend Master Serrao."
It had taken the pilot longer than he expected to hunt over his relics of old voyages, and there was nothing, after all, like the piece of wood cast ashore by the Atlantic waves. Old Sancho turned it over, examined the edges of the carving, and shook his head.
"No; that is not African work; at least it is not like any work of the black men that I have ever seen. They can all work iron, and this was made without the use of iron tools; that I am sure of. Some of our men were shipwrecked once where they had to make stone and shells serve their turn, and I know the look of wood that has been worked with such tools. And the wood itself is not like anything I have from Africa. It is more like the timber of the East."
Now the stranger's eyes lighted with keener interest.
"You think it may be Indian, do you?"
"It may. But how in the name of Sao Cristobal did it come here? Besides, the people of India understand the use of metal as well as we do, or better."
"May there not be wild men in remote islands of the Indian seas?"