The Indians behind us on the path, that
was so narrow that we must tread one after the other, spoke
among themselves, then Diego Colon pushed through marvelously
huge, rich fern to Luis and me. "They say, `will
not the gods tell the clouds to go away?' " But doubt like
a gnome sat in the youth's eye. We had had bad weather off
Isabella, and the gods had had to wait for the sun like
others. By now Diego Colon had seen many and strange
miracles, but he had likewise found limitations, quite numerous
and decisive limitations! He thought that here was
one, and I explained to him that he thought correctly. Europeans
could do many things but this was not among them.
Luis and I watched him tell the Cubans that he, Diego
Colon, had never said that we three were among the highest
gods. Even the great, white-headed, chief god yonder in the
winged canoe was said to be less than some other gods in
heaven which we called Europe, and over all was a High
God who could do everything, scatter clouds, stop thunder
or send thunder, everything! Had we brought our butio
with us he might perhaps have made great magic and helped
things. As it was, we must take luck. That seeming rational
to the Indians, we proceeded, our glory something diminished,
but still sufficient.
The storm climbed and thickened and evidently was to
become a fury.
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