_REINSTATED._
"Adios, my friend," said Montoro, a couple of weeks after landing on
Spanish soil.
"_Adios_ for the night, for I am sleepy," returned Cabrera. "But as
yet, _adios_ for no longer."
"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.
A few weeks hence Montoro de Diego, with the trembling hand of the
sweet-eyed, silver-haired mother, Rachel de Diego, clasped tightly
within his own, once more entered the home of his ancestors, from which
he had been driven in his helpless first weeks of infancy.
He had sought neither gold nor glory, but only to tread in the steps
of Him who has said--'I will have mercy, and not sacrifice.' 'By this
shall all men know that ye are My disciples, if ye have love one to
another.'
He had sown the seeds of mercy, uprightness, honour, and compassion;
and even in those wild, wealth-clutching days he reaped men's honour
and a golden harvest.
THE END.