“My father says not.  He wants me to be a lawyer,” said the youngster indifferently.  Then he slipped away as some companions of his own age, or a little older, came by, and one said enviously,

“Where have you been, Hernan’ Cortes?  Lucky you were not with us.  My faith—­” the speaker wriggled expressively, “we caught a drubbing!”

“Told you so,” returned the lad addressed, with cool unconcern.  “Why can’t you see when to let go the cat’s tail?”

“He has a head on him, that one,” the seaman chuckled.  “There is always one of his sort in every gang of boys.  But that young gallant Ojeda!  A fine young fellow, and as devoted as he is brave.”  Juan de la Cosa had conceived at first sight an admiration and affection for Ojeda which was to last as long as they both should live.

The fleet that stately sailed from Cadiz on September 25, 1493, was a very different sight from the three shabby little caravels that slipped down the Tinto a year and a half before.  The Admiral now commanded fourteen caravels and three great carracks or store-ships, on board of which were horses, mules, cattle, carefully packed shoots of grape-vines and sugar-cane, seeds of all kinds, and provisions ready for use.  The fleet carried nearly fifteen hundred persons,—­three hundred more than had been arranged for, but the enthusiasm in Spain was boundless.  It carried also the embittered hatred of Fonseca.  The Bishop, having been the Queen’s confessor, naturally became head of the Department of the Indies in order to forward with all zeal the conversion of the native races.  But when he tried to assert his authority over the Admiral and appealed to Fernando and Ysabel to support him, he was told mildly but firmly that in the equipment and command of the fleet Colon’s judgment was best.  This royal snub Fonseca never forgave, and he was one of those persons who revenge a slight on some one else rather than the one who inflicted it.  It was also his nature never to forgive any one for succeeding in an undertaking which he himself had prophesied would fail.

All seemed in order on the morning of the embarkation.  At this time of year storms were unlikely, and there was no severity of climate to be feared.  Half Castile and Aragon had come to see the expedition off.  The young cavaliers’ heads were filled with visions of rich dukedoms and principalities in the golden empire upon whose coast the discovered islands hung, like pendants of pearl and gold upon the robe of a monarch.

The first incident of the voyage was not, however, romantic.  The fleet touched at the Canary Islands to take on board more animals—­goats, sheep, swine and fowls, for the Admiral had seen none of these in any of the islands he had visited.  In fact the people had no domestic animal whatever except their strange dumb dogs.  The cavaliers, glad of a chance to stretch their legs in a space a little greater than the deck of a crowded ship, strolled about discussing past and future with large freedom.