To whom the señor commandante made answer, with cool contempt and well-bred scorn, that the worthy señor capitano very far mistook if he imagined that anything he could possibly say or do could induce Don Francisco Solis so far to forget what was due to himself as to honour him with his sword. In spite, however, of these bickerings, the work was done at last; and, accompanied by the _San Cristofero_, which had waited to attend upon the larger vessel, the great galleon bade farewell to the peaceful shores of the friendly island. In return for Nature’s profuse hospitality,—for the cold fresh water bubbling in crystal streams, for the golden juices of the delicious fruits, for the wild birds all the more easily snared and taken because unused to the destroyer,—surely the best thing her first visitants could have wished the little isle was so to slumber on for ages yet to be, unsullied by the foot of man, who has so often turned his rightful lordship over creation into cruel tyranny. If such thoughts did not occur to Fray Fernando and to José, it was because they had never seen the island. And now they could only think that they should never see anything on God’s free earth again; they could only feel the crushing, stifling misery of their return to the hateful dungeon of the hold, the scene of such bitter suffering. But to each other they gave no utterance to what they thought or felt. Indeed, at this time they spoke but little. Sometimes, however, Fray Fernando repeated psalms or other passages of Scripture suited to their condition; and often he prayed, for himself and for José. As weary nights, and days which were nights in all except the name, wore on, the gloom around them grew and deepened, until at last it seemed to pervade everything, and to shut their very voices in like a thick and heavy fog. Gradually, silence as well as darkness was establishing her dominion over them. They were losing the desire to move, as well as to speak. Both often lay for hours motionless, as if in stupor. Yet night and silence frequently cover, with their veil of mystery, the slow quiet growth that tells of the presence of life. Over the chaos of one heart, at least, the Spirit of light and liberty was brooding throughout the great darkness of those gloomy hours. Much was Fray Fernando surprised, when one day José suddenly raised himself, and with considerable energy began to speak:—“In the old days of the Incas—” Never before, in that dreary prison, had José named his heroic fathers—a significant and mournful sign. When the lute thrills no more to the master’s touch, when the heart responds no longer to the theme that always awakened its deepest harmonies, there is room to fear that both are broken. Fray Fernando felt a throb of joy at hearing the familiar words once again; and had he been even in the act of death, he would have roused himself to listen to what followed.