"Then you do not leave me as you left Hispaniola long since, because you believed it given up to the government of Satan and his captains?" asked Cortes, with a touch of anxiety in his voice. "It is not quite so bad as this then, is it, Toro?" A grave smile overspread Montoro's face. "I leave you, my friend, because, to my thinking, each nation should be content with its own possessions, and such as it may win peaceably, or in lawful trading; but I confess freely that, since discovery and conquest are now the order of the day, I heartily congratulate these countries that Providence has permitted it to you, rather than to any others, to be the Commander of this, the most glorious expedition of any hitherto undertaken by Spanish arms. Some things you have done hardly, but in much you are merciful. And now, farewell." "Farewell," returned the other fervently. "Have you any wishes, my Diego, to leave with me?" Diego retained his friend's hand a few moments. "Yes--one wish. If, as the days roll on, you have any time and thought to spare to our old friendship, yield it this offering, Cortes--show mercy for its sake whenever it is possible." "It is a promise," came the low-spoken answer, and the two friends parted, never to meet again on earth. Hernando Cortes completed his splendid conquest of Mexico; Montoro de Diego wended his way homewards to his mother and his native land, where a surprise awaited him of a most unexpected nature. The philanthropy and unselfishness which had distinguished Montoro's American career so greatly that in some circles his fame was scarcely inferior to that even of the apostle of the Indies himself, had not, at the same time, very much increased his wealth. This was to be expected; but still, as the Spaniard neared Spain an involuntary sigh burst from him. "What meaneth that sigh, Diego?" asked a companion. There came a second half-sigh before the answer. "I fear it meaneth that I am not as strong as I had I hoped." "Ah!" said Cabrera sympathetically; "that climate out yonder doth touch--" "Climate!" echoed Montoro with momentary scorn. "Tush, man! I speak not of climates and bodily strength. It is of the moral powers I was meditating when you caught me in that sigh. I started from our native land eighteen years ago, confident, with a boy's confidence, that a couple of years or so--say half-a-dozen at most--were to send me back to my country so berobed and begirt with gold and glory that I should dazzle all beholders, and walk back to my ancestral halls over the backs of crowds of humble suppliants." Cabrera laughed gaily. "Ay, Diego. How like that was to a boyish dream. But now?"