Balboa stood up, and taking a banner which displayed the arms of Castile and Leon, and the figure of the Madonna and Child, he drew his sword and marched into the sea.  In a formal speech he again took possession, in the names of the sovereigns, of the seas and lands and coasts and ports, the islands of the south, and all kingdoms and provinces thereunto appertaining.  These rights he declared himself ready to maintain “until the day of judgment.”

While another document was receiving the signatures of the members of the expedition, Saavedra, who was standing near the margin of the bay, took up a little water in his hand and tasted it.  It was salt.

In the excitement of actually reaching the coast of so broad and beautiful a sea, no one had happened to think of finding out whether the water was fresh or salt.  This discovery made it certain that they had found, not a great inland lake, but the ocean itself.

Pizarro scowled; he wished that he had not missed this last chance of fame.  Since he had discovered nothing it was not likely that his name should be mentioned in Balboa’s report to the King, at all.  But Balboa, high in expectation of the change which this fortunate adventure would make in his career, went on triumphantly exploring the neighboring country, gaining here and there considerable quantities of gold and pearls.  Saavedra, who had inherited an estate in Spain just before the expedition started, and expected on his return to Darien to go home to look after it, watched Pizarro with growing distrust and anxiety.

“I think you are ready to accuse him of witchcraft,” said Balboa lightly when Saavedra hinted at his suspicions.  “You have not given me one positive proof that the man is anything but a rather sulky, unhappy brute who has had ill luck.”

“He is ill-bred, I tell you,” said Saavedra stubbornly.  “He is making up to the Indians, and that is not like him.  We shall have trouble there yet.”

Balboa laughed and went to his hut, there to fling himself into a hammock and take a much-needed nap.  Saavedra, coming back in the twilight, spied an Indian creeping through the forest toward a window in the rear of the hut.  He was about to challenge the man when there was a yelp from the bushes, and Cacafuego leaped upon the prowler and bore him to earth, tearing savagely at his throat and receiving half a dozen wounds from the arrows the Indian carried in his hand and in his belt.  He had been trained by Pizarro to fly at an Indian, and made no distinctions.  Within an hour or two the poison in the arrow-points began to take effect, and the dog died.  Whether he had been prowling about in search of food—­for Pizarro kept him hungry with a view to making his temper more touchy—­or was looking for his old enemy Leoncico, no one would ever know.  Balboa looked grave and said nothing.

“The dog is dead—­that is all that is absolutely certain,” said Saavedra grimly.  “I wish it had been his master.”