de Alvarado, the future conqueror of Guatemala,
who had accompanied Grijalva to Mexico, returned, and now it was that
Velasquez cast about for men, money and ships, to push the conquest of
Mexico. Choice fell upon Cortes. The long-nourished hopes of the young
Spaniard--he was thirty-four or five--were fulfilled. He realised all
his resources to subscribe towards the expense, covering indeed the
major portion of the cost of ships and stores. The little port of
Santiago de Cuba echoed with the bustle of preparation. The vessels,
most of which were simply open brigantines, the largest not more than
one hundred tons, were rapidly fitted out. Hundreds of men flocked
instantly to his leadership. Away to the West their thoughts and
enthusiasm carried one and all; gold, adventure, fame--who would not
go!

The light and easy character of Cortes changed under the grave import
and responsibility of this great mission, in which he seemed to
recognise some fulfilment by Providence of his lifelong hopes. Here he
was, a relatively humble subject of Spain, of relatively obscure
parentage, although conscious of that powerful instinct of being a
_caballero_--a gentleman--singled out for this great enterprise! There
was but one fear--that its command should be snatched from him at the
last moment! And, indeed, this was averted by a mere hair's breadth,
say the chroniclers. For the jealous Velasquez, influenced by other
jealous advisers, and fearing that the independent spirit of Cortes
would arrogate to himself the glory and profit of the enterprise, once
away from his influence, resolved at the last moment to quit him of his
command and substitute another. Cortes heard of it. Apprehension lent
him a superhuman energy. Once away from Cuba's shores--ah! then he
could parley with its Governor. He visited his trusty officers.
Butchers, bakers, ammunition-makers were bribed and hurried, the stores
were rushed on board, commander and crew embarked at midnight, and when
morning dawned the good people of Santiago de Cuba awoke to see the
white sails of the squadron rising to meet the breeze, whilst the
rattle of the cables of the up-getting moorings fell upon their ears.
Down rushed Velasquez from his bed, and galloped to the wharf. "Stop
them! Stop them!" But it was too late--who could stop them?

Before his sails filled to the breeze Cortes approached the shore in an
armed boat. "Farewell! good Governor," was the burden of his words.
"Time