A glorious day for Spain, as men count glory, was that February day of 1519, but so black a day for the unhappy native kingdoms of America that one learns, almost with a thrill of thankfulness, that it was not to be all sunshine for the ruthless conquerors. Bright weather gave place to hurricanes, and the ships were scattered in every direction in that unknown sea. Only on board the general's own ship was a pilot who could pretend to any accurate knowledge of those storm-tossed waters, and even he looked grave, that old Antonio de Alaminos, who had acted as pilot to the great Columbus in his last voyage in 1502, and who regarded the fact as the greatest glory of his chequered life. In the height of the tempest a voice beside his elbow, a voice singularly clear and sweet even for that Spanish tongue, said calmly, and with no shade of anxiety in the tones-- "Thinkest thou, Alaminos, that we shall live out the storm?" The old pilot turned, and cast a hasty glance at the speaker's face. It was one worth looking at--a noble face, with the stamp of uprightness on the brow, and a perfect peacefulness in the eyes, even at that moment when Death's lean claws seemed already to have the cranky ship in his clutch, and to be dragging it, and its helpless living freight, into the vortex of those whirlpool depths. That first swift glance Alaminos repeated with a longer one--one that had a sudden question in it, and a puzzled memory. At last he asked quickly-- "Have you been on board this vessel, captain, since we cast off from St. Jago? Have I seen you, or heard you speak, during the past few days?" "Never a word of speech hast thou heard from my lips until now, since I enrolled myself under the banner of Hernan Cortes," was the answer, with a passing smile. "And I have only since yesterday been chosen to form one of the company on board this ship. Nevertheless, thou hast seen me before, good Alaminos, and heard my voice, and then," with another of those fleeting smiles, "thou wast pleased to give me good words in return, as also did our great and grand old Admiral." Again that keen, swift, puzzled glance from the old pilot's eyes, ere he passed his sleeve over them, to get rid of the sudden tribute they paid to the memory of that same grand old Admiral who had died nearly thirteen years ago. Montoro blinked his own eyelids for a moment before he added-- "Ay, Antonio, it is now within a couple of months of seventeen long years since a lean-cheeked, ignorant boy stole up to thy side one day in these same waters, and asked thee for the first time that question: 'Thinkest thou that we shall live out this storm?'"