"No. I am going to Malaga where I take ship."
"This is not the Malaga road."
"No. But I am in no hurry! I should like to walk a mile
with you."
"Then do it," he answered. "Something tells me that
we shall not be ill travelers together."
I felt that also and no more than he could explain it.
But the reason, I know, stands in the forest behind the
seedling.
He walked his horse, and I strode beside. He asked my
name and I gave it. Juan Lepe. We traveled Cordova
road together. Presently he said, "I leave Spain for France,
and do you know why?"
Said Juan Lepe, "I have been told something, and I have
gathered something with my own eyes and ears. You would
reach Asia by going west."
He spoke in the measured tone of a recital often made
alike to himself and to others. "I hold that the voyage from
Palos, say, first south to the Canaries and then due west
would not exceed three months. Yet I began to go west
to India full eighteen years ago! I have voyaged eighteen
years, with dead calms and head winds, with storms and
back-puttings, with pirates and mutinies, with food and
water lacking, with only God and my purpose for friend! I
have touched at the court of Portugal and at the court of
Spain, and, roundabout way, at the court of England, and at
the houses of the Doges of Venice and of Genoa.
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