The sun descended, the sea grew violet, all we on the
_Santa Maria_ gathered for vesper prayer and song. Fray
Ignatio's robe and back-thrown cowl burned brown against
the sea and the sail. One last broad gold shaft lighted the
tall Admiral, his thick white hair, his eagle nose, his strong
mouth. Diego de Arana was big, alert and soldierly; Roderigo
Sanchez had the look of alcalde through half a lifetime.
I had seen Roderigo de Escobedo's like in dark streets
in France and Italy and Castile, and Pedro Gutierrez wherever
was a court. Juan de la Cosa, the master, stood a
keen man, thin as a string. Out of the crowd of mariners
I pick Sancho and Beltran the cook, Ruiz the pilot, William
the Irishman and Arthur the Englishman, and two or three
others. And Luis Torres. The latter was a thinker, and
a Jew in blood. He carried it in his face, considerably
more markedly than I carried my grandmother Judith. But
his family had been Christian for a hundred years. Before
I left forecastle for poop I had discovered that he was
learned. Why he had turned sailor I did not then know,
but afterwards found that it was for disappointed love. He
knew Arabic and Hebrew, Aristotle and Averroes, and he
had a dry curiosity and zest for life that made for him the
wonder of this voyage far outweigh the danger.
There was a hymn that Fray Ignatio taught us and that
we sang at times, beside the Latin chant.
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