By a bull of May 4, 1493, an imaginary line was drawn through the north and south poles, cutting the Atlantic at one hundred leagues distance from the Cape Verde Islands and Azores. To the east of this line was henceforth to stretch the zone of Portuguese dominion, to the west that of Castile. Later, by the Treaty of Tordesillas, signed by the Spanish sovereigns and King John in June, 1494, the boundary was fixed at three hundred and seventy instead of one hundred leagues distance; and there for the moment national rivalry was checked. In the meanwhile Columbus, having organized a second expedition, had on September 23, 1493, set sail once more for the west. Very different in size and character was his new fleet from the former vessels of Palos with their pressed crews; for more than twice the number of men required for his fourteen caravels had applied for leave to sail with him, and not a few of those refused had chosen to embark as stowaways rather than be left behind. It was a case of unbalanced enthusiasm succeeding to unbalanced hostility, and, as often happens, the second state was to prove more dangerous than the first. Not patriotism, nor a healthy love of adventure, nor even a cool-headed trading instinct, animated the majority of that idle, quarrelsome throng who were destined to turn the lands their discoverer at first believed the “Earthly Paradise” into a hell of human misery and wrong. It was lust of gold, no hardly-won reward of toil and sweat, but the fabulous wealth of Cipango and Cathay, to be picked in nuggets out of the flowing river, found in the turned surface of the earth, wrung by brutality if necessary from unwilling natives, that brought a wastrel nobility disgusted with orderly government at home, to serve under the standard of a man whom they secretly despised as an ill-bred foreigner. Not all were of this type. Amid the fourteen crews were some earnest souls, inspired like their Admiral by a sense of responsibility; but the prevailing element was selfish, vicious, and insubordinate. For this Columbus himself was partly to blame. Blinded to the limits of his achievement by his faith in the glory and wealth yet to come, and, anxious at all costs to maintain the support of the Spanish sovereigns, his eloquence had painted a highly-coloured picture very likely to deceive those who listened. The small quantity of gold so far obtained was merged in the glittering accounts given by natives of kingdoms to the south, where precious metals were to be had for the asking. These, like Amazon islands and lands whose tribes had tails, proved ever beyond the distant horizon, vanishing at the Spanish approach. As they melted into thin air so also did Christopher’s inflated reputation; and those who had looked on him as a kind of magician, able to conjure up vast quantities of gold, saw him instead only as a lying adventurer, who had lured them from civilization and luxury on a false plea.