“All is over,” he said to Fray Piña; “I have appeared for the last time before the great council. They recognize the value of my enterprise; but under the leadership of Fernando de Talavera, the Archbishop of Granada, an honest man but narrow, they declare that my claims are extravagant and should not be allowed. I, in my turn, declared that if I return I shall give to Spain far more than what I claim—the title of Admiral of the Ocean Seas and Viceroy and Captain-General of all the lands I discover, and my son Diego to be page-in-waiting to Prince Juan in my absence and to become a grandee of Spain if I return successful. If the spirit of pride be in this, it is a just and honorable pride. I ask only what I shall acquire by my own strength. Those things have been refused me in advance. Now, after nine years of effort, I shall make no further appeal to the Court of Spain. Perhaps the King of France will be as generous and more just than the sovereigns of Spain.”
The shock of painful surprise kept all silent until Fray Piña spoke in a low voice.
“This is indeed a calamitous decision for Spain.”
“True,” said Alonzo de Quintanilla, “but I will say that the Admiral’s course is but just. He treated with the representatives of the King and the Queen with a noble haughtiness, proving himself their equal, and demanded firmly, as they recognized the magnificence of his scheme, that he, at least, should have those honors which must go to some one. Shall he, the discoverer, be under the authority of a viceroy or another admiral? They thought he would be intimidated, that in his anxiety to carry the matter through he would yield what he thought his due; but he would not.”
And then, growing scarlet in the face, De Quintanilla suddenly brought his fist down on the table and shouted:
“Upon the heads of those persons, and especially upon the Archbishop of Granada, will lie the loss of a new world to Spain!”
The Admiral remained silent for a moment, and then with his usual calmness began to make arrangements for his immediate departure with Diego for France. Diego and Don Felipe were stunned. They knew not until the moment of separation came how quickly and strongly the bond of brotherhood had been forged between them. Their elders left them alone, the Admiral telling Diego to pack at once his few books and clothes, as they were to mount and ride within three hours. It took but a short time to collect Diego’s books and clothes, Don Felipe helping, and neither lad saying much. It seemed to them an eternal separation, and it was indeed doubtful if they would ever meet again. Don Felipe drew from his finger a little ring made of two hoops entwined. He took them apart and, placing one on Diego’s finger, he put the other back on his own.
“As long as we wear each the half of this ring,” he said, “we shall be friends still, no matter how far separated.”
At last, with his small belongings packed in a portmanteau and his cloak around him, Diego with Don Felipe went down the stair, their arms entwined about each other’s shoulders. At the door stood a horse for the Admiral and another for Diego, both equipped for hard travel. There were but three persons to say farewell to the Admiral—Fray Piña, Alonzo de Quintanilla, and Luis de St. Angel, controller of the ecclesiastical revenues. All showed marks of the deepest grief and chagrin at the loss of the honor and glory for which they had hoped for their country. No word of remonstrance was said, however, as the Admiral made his farewells. No one could have judged from his composure that this meant the wreck and ruin of eighteen years of constant and earnest effort, nine of which had been spent in Spain. The farewells were soon said, Diego and Don Felipe kissing each other on the cheek silently. As Diego flung himself into the saddle and rode off, tears were dropping upon his face; but he said no word.