So the boys journeyed on and crossed the mountains and passed through the fertile valleys and then climbed other mountains, and everywhere the kind country folk gave them food and drink and shelter, and the young travellers thought they had never had grapes and chestnuts and goat's milk taste as good before, as they ate and drank under the trees by the road-side or in some peasant's cottage; and by and by the journey was over, and they were in Seville. And now the runaways found they were out in the world indeed. No one in all that great, splendid city cared in the least whether they lived or died, whether they suffered from hunger or thirst, or whether they had a place to lay their heads at night. But they kept brave hearts, got what they could to eat, slept where they could at night, and spent the days in wandering through the streets and getting acquainted with the life of a great city. And although they were not sure where bread and cheese were to come from and where they were to lie down at night, still the wonderful sights of this new life, the magnificent houses, splendid palaces, costly dresses, and, above all, the companies of mounted soldiers that were continually parading the streets, all drove thoughts of home from their minds, and they did not regret in the least that they had exchanged the village of Truxillo for the glitter and show of Seville. In a few days Francisco decided that he would join the army and go to Italy, where the Spaniards were then fighting, and as the king wanted all the soldiers he could get, and as he was large and well developed for his age, he had no trouble in enlisting in one of the regiments, and when he put on the gaudy uniform and began to live in camp, he felt, indeed, that his old life was over and that Francisco Pizarro was quite a different person from the ragged little urchin that tended pigs at Truxillo.