But the Adelantado said in my ear. "There will be a
vast to-do! Maybe I'll sail the _Margarita_ to the end." He
was the prophet!
It was late June. Hispaniola rose, faint, faint, upon the
horizon. All crowded to look. There, there before us
dwelled countrymen, fellow mariners, fellow adventurers
forth from the Old into the New! It was haven; it was
Spain in the West; it was Our Colony.
The Admiral gazed, and I saw the salt tears blind his
eyes. His son was beside him. He put his hand upon the
youth's shoulder. "Fernando, there it is--I found and
named it Hispaniola!"
The weather hung perilously still, the sea glass. It was
so clear above, below, around, that we seemed to see by
added light, and yet there was no more sunlight. All the
air had thinned, it seemed, away. Every sail fell slack.
Colors were slightly altered. The Admiral said, "There
is coming a great storm."
The boy Fernando laughed. "Why, father!"
"Stillness before the leap," said the Admiral. "Quiet
at home because the legions have gone to muster."
It was hard to think it, but too often had it been proved
that he was in the secret of water and air. Now Bartholomew
Fiesco the Genoese said. "Aye, aye! They say
on the ships at Genoa that when it came to weather, even
when you were a youngster, you were fair necromancer!"
The sky rested blue, but the sea became green oil.
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