"And thus," murmured Las Casas as he withdrew, sick-hearted, from the dismal scene,--"thus do they let the light of the Gospel shine, even with a lurid light that makes it to be abhorred." "As I abhor this land," groaned Montoro. "I have fled from the horrors of Hispaniola, and now I am driven forth once more to find, if it be possible, a land where I may dare without shame to confess myself a Spaniard." CHAPTER XXII. _ANOTHER STORM FOR THE PILOT ALAMINOS._ It was the 18th day of February, 1519, an eventful day for many a one besides Montoro de Diego. The sun was sparkling on the wavelets in the bay, and on the sails of the little fleet riding at anchor in the harbour of the so-called town of Cape St. Vincent, at the westerly extremity of the island of Cuba. The brilliant rays of that southern sun were also shining on an eager assemblage of possibly nine hundred men, who considered themselves quite sufficient for the conquering of great nations. Dark native faces with smooth cheeks and chins, and surrounded by lank black hair, showed conspicuously amongst the greater numbers of their Spanish comrades. Guns, crossbows, gleaming armour, and a small, precious little troop of sixteen hardly-acquired horses, were also gathered there on the strand awaiting embarkation. And over all waved the great banner of black velvet with its embroiderings of gold. Many of those stern great Spanish eyes were raised with devout gaze to its crimson cross, set in flames of azure and white, and to its Latin motto:-- "Friends, let us follow the cross; and under this sign, if we have faith, we shall conquer." Once, as Montoro de Diego lifted his glance to those words, he quietly clasped his hands in silent prayer. But the action had not been secret enough to escape the observation of that scoffing, sharp-sighted Juan de Cabrera, and he muttered flippantly-- "Nay then, comrade, lower your looks a little. There yonder is the sign I follow, and so long as we all hold together and have faith in that, never you fear but we'll conquer, if even that gay-gilt red and black thing should fall overboard." Instinctively Montoro followed the direction of his companions glance towards the "sign" indicated--a man about his own age, slightly above middle height, and singularly handsome, both in face and figure. His complexion was pale, and his large dark eyes gave an expression of gravity to a countenance otherwise indicating cheerfulness. His figure was slender, but his chest deep, his shoulders broad, his frame muscular and well-proportioned, presenting a union of agility and vigour that qualified him to excel in fencing, horsemanship, and the other generous exercises of chivalry, and to bear with well-known indifference any amount of toil and privation.