"You speak strongly," said the true-hearted, good Christian bishop. "But verily I cannot say you have not reason. Knowest thou, my friend, that when first we settled ourselves upon this fertile fragrant island, not yet fifteen years ago, the inhabitants numbered above three millions, and now they scarcely amount to fifteen thousand. Scarcely fifteen thousand!" he repeated slowly, and in awe-struck tones, as though he scarcely could endure to recall the awful fact to his own remembrance. Montoro de Diego looked at his informant with a startled countenance, and then suddenly bent his eyes upon the ground as though he expected to see the 'brothers' blood' crying for vengeance from the soil. "It is no good," he exclaimed at last. "I will stay in this accursed place no longer. To my restlessness I might have opposed a sense of duty; but to fight any longer against my miserable disgust at the scenes around me is beyond my strength." The bishop mused awhile before replying slowly,-- "And yet, good example is valuable." "Elsewhere it may be, but not here," returned Diego hastily. "Else, Riverenza, must your own bright example long since have turned devils into saints, murderers into good Samaritans. What good did your example do, even in the matter of the _repartimientos_? Did your giving up your share of these unjustly and basely-enslaved creatures serve any other purpose than that of impoverishing one who ever uses his wealth for the relief of suffering? Nay, further, your good example on this accursed island worked actually on the side of evil." "How so?" asked Las Casas. But he looked as though he knew the answer, even before his companion said heavily,-- "Even we reaped some miserable advantage at 'Palmyra' from your renunciation. Some half-dozen poor creatures who had thriven under your mild rule were made over to us to die. But see," Montoro suddenly exclaimed, interrupting himself and springing to his feet, "the day is passing, and I should have been in San Domingo hours ago. I started early enough, but some suspicion that I was leaving mischief behind me brought me back, and now poor Don is dead." It was only a dog that was dead, but that dog was Don--the dog on whose head his mother's tears had fallen--the dog for whose sake he had once endangered his own life; and with these thoughts suddenly recalled to his mind, Montoro de Diego was glad to beat a hasty retreat from further observation. Las Casas remained deep in earnest ponderings long after his friend had left him, for he too had begun to think that it was vain to continue his efforts of philanthropy any longer on the island of Hispaniola, and that he would do wisely to exert his influence as protector of the Indians in new fields, less overcrowded with the refuse population of his own country.