It was unknown as the future
of the world.
Ocean piled before me. From where I lay it seemed to
run uphill to one pale line, nor blue nor white, set beneath
the solid gray. Over that hilltop, what? Only other hills
and plains, water, endlessly water, until the waves, so much
mightier than waves of that blue sea we knew best, should
beat at last against Asia shore! So high, so deep, so vast,
so real, yet so empty-seeming save for strange dangers! No
sails over the hilltop; no sails in all that Vast save close at
hand where mariners held to the skirts of Mother. Europe.
Ocean vast, Ocean black, Ocean unknown. Yet there, too,
life and the knowing of life ran somehow continuous.
It wiled me from my smaller self. How had we all
suffered, we the whole earth! But we were moving, we the
world with none left out, moving toward That which held
worlds, which was conscious above worlds. Long the
journey, long the adventure, but it was not worth while fearing,
it was not worth while whining! I was not alone
Jayme de Marchena, nor Juan Lepe, nor this name nor that
nor the other.
There was now a great space of quiet in my mind. Suddenly
formed there the face and figure of Don Enrique de
Cerda whose life I had had the good hap to save. He was
far away with the Queen and King who beleaguered Granada.
I had not seen him for ten years.
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