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thrice-repeated cry, from one of such sturdy will and iron mold, saved the expedition, even as his tireless efforts had aided and equipped it at the outset. Whatever the later acts of Pinzon may have been, let us suspend judgment upon them; it behoves us now to declare that by his steadfast resoluteness in this supreme hour he merits an equal share with Columbus in the unfading glory of the discovery of America.

But in truth none of those who took part in the discovery are undeserving of reward, even though they felt the pangs of a terror born of the doubts inseparable from so daring and uncertain an enterprise. Although the sailors knew the duration of the voyage, they were ignorant of the actual distance they had come. Columbus, as we have said, kept the real runs a secret. On October 1 the pilot of the flagship reckoned that they had run from the meridian of the island of Ferro some 578 leagues, while the admiral knew that they had come 707 leagues. About this same time the Pinta's reckoning was 634 leagues from Ferro, while the Niña made it 540. While sailing thus, one of the Pinzons, from the masthead, cried, "Land!" The cry fell like a paschal peal upon the ears of these mariners, who had given themselves up for lost and doomed to die in the fathomless vast. When Columbus heard the glad cry, he kneeled in rapture on the deck, and with devoutly clasped hands, lifting his joy-filled eyes to heaven, intoned the "Gloria in Excelsis" to the author of all created things.

But all this fervor was in vain. No land appeared; rather the semblance of it vanished as they drew near the spot where the deceptive mirage had beguiled their sight and hopes. A phenomenon like that often produced by an ardent sun among the Libyan sands had been repeated upon the Atlantic. Twice the two caravels, which went ahead at the flag-ship's orders, seemed to behold a dim continent near by, as unreal in sooth as the vague longings and unsubstantial visions of the mind. The sovereigns, among the orders given previous to the sailing of the expedition, had assigned 10,000 maravedís to him who should first see land. Even as the crew, before their fruitless revolt, frustrated in its inception, saw naught before them save the abyss of annihilation, so now, by one of those common mental reactions, all felt the pulsings of a newer and higher life, and beheld the signs of a new world amid the waves. And this assurance, following hard upon their old despondency, took such deep hold on their minds, that they imagined the steadfast westerly course commanded by their leader was leaving undiscovered islands on each side of their track. We may thus comprehend how the sailors of the Niña were so far led away as to fire a gun and to hoist their

flag before a mere mirage. To avert the recurrence of such mistakes, the admiral gave orders peremptorily excluding from the royal prize any one who should cry "Land!" if his announcement were not verified within three days. The frequent raising of false hopes might well bring about renewed disheartenment, which, by begetting outbreaks, would defeat the purpose of the expedition. But to humor the Pinzons after their undeception, and as they continued to tack to and fro some fifteen leagues around the flag-ship, by reason of their impatience and the greater speed of their vessels, Columbus heeded their wishes and, deviating a little from the latitude of Ferro, which he had hitherto followed, turned toward the southwest. As the middle of October drew nigh, birds flocked around the caravels in increasing numbers, and with each day's progress the hopes of making land grew stronger. Pinzon showed the admiral that it was indispensable not only to shape their course by the stars but also by the flight of the birds, as the Portuguese had done before, whereby the latter had discovered the islands already added to their far-stretching dominions. For the birds not only hovered about the ships in the infinite solitude, gladdening the eye with their gay plumage and filling the air with their twitterings, but, like true guiding pilots, went on before toward the land.

IT was the afternoon of October 11, 1492. The signs of land now made it high time to prepare for the approaching disembarkation, for which all needful measures had been ripely planned by the admiral, who in fifteen years had never for an instant doubted the realization of his predictions. He began by heaving the lead, and found bottom instead of the hitherto unfathomable deep. He eagerly scanned the cloud-banks, those mysterious counterfeits of coast and shore so keenly watched by the practical sailor. He also attentively regarded every faint breath of air, and was reassured; for the breezes shifted and blew from every quarter, a sure indication of the irregular conformation and the sinuosity of land near by, in contrast with the winds of the watery waste whose sameness fitly lent constancy to its currents of air. He ordered the sails to be lowered when he should give the word, the other caravels running alongside the flag-ship and heaving to. In these orders he laid stress on the need of coming within unmistakeable range of the shore before crying "Land!" and he added a gaudy trifle in the shape of a satin jerkin to the prize offered by the sovereigns for the first announcement of the discovery. Had Columbus kept the course he laid on leaving Ferro, his landfall would have been in the Florida of today, that is, upon the main continent; but owing

to the deflection suggested by the Pinzons, and tardily accepted by him, it was his hap to strike an island, very fair to look upon, but small and insignificant when compared with the vast isl and-world in whose waters he was already sailing. Let us not, however, forestall events, but confine ourselves to the historical narrative in due order of time. Each moment brought a revelation. A solitary half-tame turtle-dove flew near them. The dove was soon followed by a floating leafy reed, wherein, gazing upon it from the deck of the Santa Maria, Columbus pictured some broad sea-marsh clinging to the skirts of the firm land. Scarcely had the crew of the flagship seen this green reed, when from the Niña was sighted a branch of hawthorn, such as crowns the hedge-rows of Andalusia, laden with ripe, lustrous berries of coral and crimson. But the Pinta was the most favored of them all, for she met with an object that positively demonstrated the existence of human beings near by, amid the endless sea that stretched around the voyagers. A floating log was seen; the net was cast, and like a fish snared in its meshes the log was brought on board. It proved to be skilfully carved, another sure promise of finding the land they sought. The tidings were borne to Columbus. In the full assurance that he was nearing land, he determined to retire to his cabin and to hold communion with his inmost thoughts. But first he knelt in prayer.

IT was eight in the evening of Thursday, October 11. Columbus, after having performed his daily devotions and refreshed himself, went on deck and eagerly scanned the western space. He stood alone. He had scarcely slept since leaving Palos, and none of his comrades slumbered that night. Standing there, apart, for each sailor was keeping watch in his own place, and performing his allotted duties, after an hour of intense self-communion, with eyes fixed on the surrounding scene, a glad cry leaped from his heart. He had seen a light on land, a light unlike the stars above or the phosphorescent gleam of the waves. He summoned Pedro Gutierrez, chamberlain in the king's service, who had joined him at Palos, and who by reason of his dignity and rank was his constant associate, telling him how his eyes had seen a light, and asking him if indeed he too could see it with his less excited eyes. The chamberlain answered that he saw the light, but in his joy Columbus could scarce credit this assurance, so welcome to his own agitated mind. To be still more certain, the two called to them the purveyor of the fleet, Rodrigo de Segovia. But, probably because he was expected to see something, he saw nothing. The horizon re

lapsed into obscurity, and Columbus into his old anxiety. The little squadron sailed swiftly on before a brisk and favorable breeze. Although close-reefed, the steady wind wafted them on their course. Columbus passed half the night on deck, motionless and chill as a statue, wrapped in ecstatic thought. He knew that the Pinta and the Niña, being swifter ships, were the more likely first to sight land, and so he allowed them to precede him, thinking of naught in that supreme hour save the speediest realization of the coveted discovery. That good fortune fell to the Pinta. At about two in the morning of October 12, amid the sheen of the stars and the phosphorescence of the sea, one of the crew, a native of Seville, keen of sight and with eyes accustomed like some nocturnal creature to the darkness, cried, "Land!" And when he uttered this cry, Martin Alonso Pinzon fired a gun, whose resounding echoes carried consolation to the feverishly expectant sailors, who had well nigh lost faith in the evidence of their own senses, after their prolonged doubts and trials.

Columbus donned his richest apparel, flung upon his shoulders a cloak of rosy purple, grasped in one hand the sword of combat and in the other the Redeemer's cross, and, standing beneath the sovereign banner, spread like a canopy above his head, and gold-embroidered with the royal initials and the Castilian crown, he assembled all the chief comrades of his voyage about him as in a peerless court pageant. Then, disembarking, he knelt upon the land, raised his eyes heavenward, and with uplifted arms joined with his followers in a Te Deum. The miracle was wrought at last, and wrought by faith. He who pens these words, on reading the lines of the great poet Schiller upon Columbus, found therein a philosophical thought, as original as profound, calling upon the discoverer to press ever onward, for a new world will surely arise for him, inasmuch as whatever is promised by genius is always fulfilled by nature. And, musing thereon, I thus expanded that thought as a fitting close to this part of my story of the discovery: When I regard this achievement, the most living, evident, and effulgent lesson it bears is the triumph of Faith. To cross the seas of life, naught suffices save the bark of Faith. In that bark the undoubting Columbus set sail, and at his journey's end found a new world. Had that world not then existed, God would have created it in the solitude of the Atlantic, if to no other end than to reward the faith and the constancy of that great man. America was discovered because Columbus possessed a living faith in his ideal, in himself, and in his God!

Emilio Castelar.

WHEN ANGRY, COUNT A HUNDRED.

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Alfred (slightly embarrassed): Miss Rosewarne, I hope you will believe me when I say that I'm not to blame for this. Until I read your name in the billet handed me as I came into the house, I had no idea that you were to be here. And yet, if I had known, what could I have done? One can free himself from a dinner engagement only by means of suicide. Our short-lived romance was quite unknown to anybody but ourselves; Mrs. Leclerc supposed that she was doing me a great favorkind hostess that she is-in giving me a place next to you at her table. Oh, how happy it would have made me a few weeks earlier! I confess that just now, when I read your name, I felt a sudden, unreasonable sort of thrill. Not of hope, of course. Probably it was some kind of reflex action of despair, not altogether unpleasant. You took my arm silently. All the way down-stairs I was trying to judge whether you were annoyed or indifferent at this unexpected meeting; but you gave no sign. I have not forgotten that, a fortnight ago, you said you never would speak to me again; and heaven defend me from expecting the impossible, that a woman should change her mind, or speak when she had resolved not to do so! I shall not ask you to talk to me,

I am afraid that you would not say anything kind if you should,- but I beg as a great favor, not to me, but to Mrs. Leclerc, who has done nothing to offend you, that you will appear to be on the ordinary terms of acquaintance with me.

Eva (regards him for an instant in silence, takes up her bouquet, examines it, and lays it down upon the table again).

Alfred: I wish to spare you as much as possible. I will gladly do more than my share of the talking. In those other days, when we

were friends, I never had much practice at that, but I dare say I can manage it. Ah! I have an idea- not a very brilliant one, perhaps; but it may serve. Miss Rosewarne of course it is an absurdity, but it may be the best means for our-pardon the pronoun our charitable purpose toward Mrs. Leclerc. This is it: I once heard of a man who, for some reason or other, had nothing to say one evening at table. So he turned to his neighbor and began to count one, two, three, four, with expression. Will you do that-for the sake of our hostess? It commits you to nothing. It surely is n't talking to me. What information can I get from hearing the numerals recited in the tones of polite society? I know that you are offended with me, perhaps with good reason; but the philosophers advise one, "When angry, count a hundred." You will surely not mind counting the hundred aloud? It will save the situation. Once more, let me ask you to do so for the sake of Mrs. Leclerc.

Eva (assents by a bend of her golden head). Alfred: Thank you-if I may presume so far. I am glad that I never vowed not to speak to you; it seems to me that there are so many things to be said. And since I expect to sail for Europe in a few days, to be gone indefinitely, perhaps, like any other condemned man, I may be allowed a few last words.

Eva: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Alfred: You know that I loved you with my whole heart

Eva (with haste): Eight, nine

Alfred: And now, at this moment, trying to recall the beginning of the end, I cannot find any reason why you and I should be farther apart than if the Atlantic were already between us. How did the trouble arise? The cloud was not so large as a man's hand; it was very small, microscopic-perhaps about the size of your own hand. But it completely covered the heavens for me. But to you, of course, it made no difference. When a cloud comes between the earth and the sun, it is only the terrestrials who put up their umbrellas. The sun continues to shine.

Eva (pensively): Ten, eleven, twelve.

Alfred: I did not ask you to explain to me in what way I had displeased you, nor to divide your part from mine in the quarrel. You are still angry with me, but I shall always be grateful to you. For a few days I lived in Paradise; and it is n't every man who can say as

much. It gives one, afterward,- there is a great deal of afterward in life, Miss Rosewarne,- an ideal with which to compare other things, and find them wanting. And if one absolutely must leave Paradise, 't is at least more bearable to be evicted by Eve-pardon me, it was her name, you know, a great while before it was yours-than to be chased out of it by the serpent. There was no serpent in my Eden!

Eva (with a little cynicism): Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen!

Alfred: Ah, you are right. Of course he was there, glittering with-orders of merit. Also, he waltzed like an angel of light-you told me so that evening at the Casino. But if you preferred Count von Waldberg to my humble self, you might at least have said so frankly. I would not have stood in the way of your happiness; and it would have spared me some examinations of conscience.

Eva (reproachfully): Seventeen, eighteen. Alfred: You were so good as to say that you liked me, and I believed it. Now, you have taught me to disbelieve; I only wish that I could doubt the sincerity with which, when you gave back my ring, you told me that you hated me.

Eva (deprecatingly, but coldly): Nineteen, twenty.

Alfred: Mrs. Leclerc is looking at us. Say something kind to me-for her sake!

Eva (cheerfully): Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twentysix, twenty-seven, twenty-eight!

Alfred: A thousand thanks. She is quite satisfied that we are enjoying ourselves. Eva (with a shade of coquetry): Twentynine, thirty?

Alfred: Oh, immensely-no-yes-that is to say, not precisely. However, I mean to improve my opportunity, such as it is. For my own honor, it seems to me that I must say certain things, and I beg you to listen with patience. Are not you glad that we are to have Italian opera at the Academy this winter, instead of Wagner?

Eva (with astonishment): Thirty-one, thirtytwo, thirty-three!

Alfred: Major Starr was listening to us just then. Now he is talking again. The usual thing, I believe, is to say that because you have disappointed me I shall lose faith in all women. It won't have that effect with me, I fancy, though I should have liked to believe in you

too.

Eva (with bitterness): Thirty-four, thirtyfive, thirty-six.

Alfred: I think that neither you nor I can ever forget those evenings on the river: it will be a dainty aquarelle in your mind; in mine

the scene is an etching, every line inalterable. That sort of thing is bitten in with aqua fortis, you know. I should be glad to think that you too would remember-of course as a pretty idyllic landscape, nothing more-the yellowish light, half sunset, half moonrise; the dipping boughs of the willows; the shadows among the reeds, which crept farther and farther into the middle of the stream; the birds that called drowsily in their nests; a light which gleamed from a cottage window; and a stately white swan that floated past us upon the current. I remember telling you that that swan might be a sister of yours, under some enchantment. I too was under an enchantment that evening. I rather think it made me appear like a goose. On the whole, you need not remember that occasion, Miss Rosewarne!

Eva (sadly): Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one.

Alfred: And in the morning, as I waited on the cliff for you to appear, I understood how the earth waits for the dawn to illuminate it, to give it new life. Well, I have had my day; it was bright, but the sunset came too soon. Eva (dreamily): Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four.

Alfred: The sea sang of you, the waves sparkled for you, all the sirens had given their magic to you, and their harping must have been like the sound of the sea-wind in your hair.

Eva (with an effort at mockery): Forty-five, forty-six!

Alfred: Your criticism is deserved. My expressions do sound rather too lyric and highflown. It was, in fact, an extract from a semirhythmic ode, "To Her," which was to have been published-at my own expense.

Eva (sarcastically): Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.

Alfred: I tell you all this now, because there is nothing else to be done with these poor little fancies of mine-bubbles of foam that gleamed for a moment, and broke. They were of no use to any one but the owner, and, good heavens! it is little they have availed even him! They will remain unpublished - also at my own expense.

Eva (tears a flower of her bouquet). Alfred: At least they may give you a moment's amusement.

Eva (with affected gaiety): Forty-seven, forty-eight!

Alfred: If you really think them so comic, let me go on. I dreamed of you - don't you like the present way of arranging the flowers low, so that one hasn't to peep this side and that of a mountain of roses?

Eva (with enthusiasm): Forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, fiftyfive, fifty-six!

Alfred: Thank you again; for a briefer answer might have led Major Starr to suspect that my conversation failed to interest you. As I was saying, I dreamed of you, and of you only. I still dream

Eva (hurriedly): Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixtyeight

Alfred: Don't be disturbed. I quite understand that dreams are illusions. I am awake; very thoroughly.

Eva (softly): Sixty-nine, seventy, seventyone, seventy-two.

Alfred: It is better to wake than to dream; but if one has no more pleasure in either-then best to sleep soundly.

Eva (puzzled, slightly alarmed): Seventythree, seventy-four, seventy-five?

Alfred: I mean, since one must exist, there seems to be that necessity, in spite of the old Frenchman, that business is a rather good opiate. The palpitant voice of the ticker never records fluctuations of the heart, only of the stock-market. No shy loves seek to hide from observation in a corner of wheat. The bonds of Flint and Père Marquette are not those of tenderness and priestly blessing. As I said, I expect to sail in a few days for Europe; in any case, one of the firm would have to go there. Eva (with resignation): Seventy-six.

Alfred: I have tried again and again to retrace those parted ways, back to the path where, for a little while, we walked together. A dry and wearisome road it may have been for you. For me, as I have told you, it was the way of Paradise. I began to suspect the presence of the inconvenient third party of the legend of Eden at that Casino ball. You remember; the even ing when you wore a gown of some sort of cloth which had the tint of a blush-rose, adorably fit ted, hanging in smooth, heavy folds, trimmed with-trimmed with-well, I suppose it was tape

Eva (with horror): Seventy-seven !

Alfred: How stupid of me! Of course it was n't tape. I used to be posted on the difference between tape and bombazine and lace and things in those other days when you were so good as to explain it to me. At all events, that was a delicious gown.

Eva (with conviction): Seventy-eight, seventy-nine.

Alfred: You had told me to come early to the Casino. I was n't fashionably late as it was, but should have been there a half-hour sooner only Jacky Vane, poor old chap, was ill, and wanted me to look in on him, on my way: said it would be a bracing tonic for him to see a man in evening clothes, going to have some fun. Great fun I was to have that evening!

For when I found you, your eyebrows were arched, and your lips compressed in a little way of yours. I knew that look; I had enjoyed it when it was caused by other men. I spoke to you, and your voice was menacingly sweet. You let me take your program of dances; the trail of the serpent-pardon me, I should say the autograph of Count von Waldberg-was over it all. Eva (deprecatingly): Eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two.

Alfred: I know that. It 's quite true that I had a poor little lancers, a quadrille, and the fag-end of a mazurka. But the waltz-our waltz, the "Garden of Sleep"-you danced with the Count.

Eva (protesting): Eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five.

Alfred: Of course he asked for it. But you have a thousand pretty ways of saying no. You could have kept that waltz for me.

Eva (timidly): Eighty-six, eighty-seven. Alfred: Well, let that pass. I suggested, as considerately as I knew how, that you were giving rather too many dances to Count von Waldberg. You replied that those numbers were at your disposal when he took your card, and you chose to give them to him.

Eva (poignantly): Eighty-eight!

Alfred (looking at her with sudden intelligence): Reserved! If I had understood that! Now I dare not even hint my thanks for what -I did not have.

Eva (with recovered composure): Eightynine, ninety.

Alfred: Is there anything more cruel than the sarcasm of a dance when one is unhappy? As we went to take our places in the lancers, your hand rested light and cold as a snowflake on my arm, without the delicate confiding touch that formerly made me thrill with a wild wish to tame the whole world so that you might drive it as you do your ponies; with an immense delight in which was also a bitter-sweet sense of my unworthiness of you. We stood side by side in the set; our vis-à-vis were a disillusioned couple, husband and wife, who danced together that evening so that the world should not guess that they were about to separate formally. At our right stood a pale girl, with the dissipated old millionaire to whom her mother-selling her like a dove in the temple

had married her. At our left, a woman whose thin little hands hook like bats' claws upon the edge of society, and who by various ways and means contrives to live upon gifts and a mild sort of blackmail; at her side was a young man, more wealthy than wary, who, they say, is paying a good deal for his fun. Among these cynical and deceived persons, we alone represented, to all appearances, happiness and confidence. I declare to you that not one of them

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