If they heard his voice they were
happy; if some bolder one had a moment's speech with him
that fortunate went off with the air of, "My children's
children shall know of this!" There returned in this
springtide travel sunniness, halcyon weather, bright winds
of praise. The last health of the present body was his upon
this journey. Health and strength harked back. All noted
it. Jayme de Marchena held it for the leap of the flame
before sinking, before leaving the frame of this world.
But his sons and Don Bartholomew cried, "Why, father,
why, brother, you will outlive us yet!"
He rode firmly; he looked about with bright, blue-gray
eyes; his voice had the old, powerful thrill. It was happiness
to him when the simple came crowding, or when in
some halt he talked with two or three or with a solitary.
The New Lands and the Vast Change, and it would affect
all our life, this way, that way and the other way.
But when we came to Segovia, the King was dead, not
alive, to Christopherus Columbus. Not dead to the Indies,
no! But dead to their old discoverer. We had chilly
weather, miserable, and all the buds of promise went back.
Or rather there were promises, cold smiles, but even he, the
Genoese, saw at last that these buds were _simulacra_, never
meant to bloom.
The Queen was gone. The Court wore the King's color.
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