His gout manacled
him, and another sickness crept upon him, but he
could think, talk and write, and at times, for serenity and
a breath of pleasure, read. He was ever a reader.
About him, all day long, came people. They called themselves
friends, and many were friends. But some used that
holy word for robber-mask. Others were the idlest wonder-seekers, never finding wonder within, always
rushing for it
without. His heart, for all his much experience, or perhaps
because of that, was a simple heart. He took them for what
they said they were, for friends, and he talked of the Indies
and all his voyages past and to come, for he would
yet find Ciguarre and retake the Sepulchre.
He had not much money. All his affairs were tangled.
Yet he rested Admiral of the Ocean-Sea, and in name, at
least, Viceroy of the Indies. He was much concerned over
his mariners and others who had returned with him to Spain.
All their pay was in arrears. He wrote begging letters for
them, and with his sons forever in his mind, for himself.
Don Diego, Don Fernando, they were pleasant, able youths.
Fray Juan Perez came to Seville. He was worldly comfort,
but ghostly comfort too. The Admiral talked of Ciguarre
and Jerusalem, but also now of the New Jerusalem
and the World-to-come.
Late in November, at Medina del Campo Santo died the
Queen!
He told me a dream or a vision that day.
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