"But it must be," remonstrated Montoro. "My business here is accomplished at last, and I am off to El Cuevo with the first dawn of to-morrow." "Are you so?" retorted Don Juan. "I must surely say that thou art in mighty haste to part company with thy friends, my hasty Señor." "And I must say," returned Montoro, with a pleased smile, "that thou art as unreasonable as thou art gracious. What thinkest thou the mother will say, whom I have not seen for six years, and then but for a flying visit, if I linger on my road home now?" "And what thinkest thou," demanded Don Juan, with dry deliberation--"what thinkest thou our somewhat imperious sovereign, the noble King Charles of Spain and Emperor of Germany, will think, and possibly also do, if you disobey the orders of his minister that you remain here?" "When he pleases to give such orders about his insignificant subject he will be obeyed," was the laughing answer. "Meantime, pending such orders--" "Meantime, you have such orders," said again Don Juan calmly, but so firmly that the words began to carry some conviction to his hearer's brain, and he started to his feet. "Nay, Juan, play not with me thus. Tell me, is there real meaning in thy speech?" "Judge for thyself," was the reply. And he drew letters from his pocket and spread them before his companion's eyes. "Canst read, Diego?" The question was not wholly sarcastic. Many a brave knight in those days could read the signs of a field of battle far more readily than the pages of a book, or those written signs conveying thoughts from mind to mind. But, as is well known, Diego could read, and his eyes dilated with wonder as he read the few lines of the two letters now laid before him. One of the letters ordered that the Don Montoro de Diego should remain at Cadiz until further advice should have been taken about him. The second of them contained the information that the Don Montoro de Diego was to remain at Cadiz until the end of the coming week, and then to proceed, without further delay, to Madrid in the company of Cabrera, his suite, and the Aztec treasure. Montoro's bronzed cheeks grew pale as his eyes rested on the letters. His first thought was one of dumb despair. Not for himself, for he was toilworn and heartworn, and would have felt inclined to welcome any death just then as the gateway to rest. But for his mother he feared greatly that those orders signified an ominous memory of his origin. Juan de Cabrera read his friend's face readily enough, and before the reading his own boyish love of tormenting faded, and the mysterious import of the letters was explained. Montoro de Diego's report had gone before him. The good bishop Las Casas had long since sounded a trumpet for him. Montejo months ago had echoed the blast, and now Cortes, the conqueror of an Empire, and Father Olmedo, the wise missionary of Mexico, had made one of the bearers of their magnificent spoils to the King Charles also the bearer of his own praises.