nty, we came forth from
church, and around us flowed the hundreds of Palos, men and women and
children. All was red under a red sunset, the boats waiting to take us
out to the _Santa Maria_, the Pinta and the Nina.

We marched to waterside. Priests and friars moved with us, singing
loudly the hymn to the Virgin, Lady of all seamen. Great tears ran down
Fray Juan Perez's checks. It was a red sunset and the west into which we
were going looked indeed blood-flecked. Don Juan de Penelosa, harking us
on, had an inspiration. "You see the rubies of Cipango!"

It is not alone "great" men who bring about things in this world. All of
us are in a measure great, as all are on the way to greater greatness.
Sailors are brave and hardy men; that is said when it is said that they
are sailors. In many hearts hung dread of this voyage and rebellion
against being forced to it. But they had not to be lashed to the boats;
they went with sailors' careless air and dignity. By far the most went
thus. Even Fernando ceased his wailing and embarked. The red light, or
for danger or for rubies in which still might be danger, washed us all,
washed the town, the folk and the sandy shore, and the boats that would
take us out to the ships, small in themselves, and small by distance,
riding there in the river-mouth like toys that have been made for
children.

The hundred and twenty entered the boats. It was like a little fishing
fleet going out together. The rowers bent to the oars, a strip of water
widened between us and Spain. Loud chanted the friars, but over their
voices rose the crying of farewell, now deep, now shrill. "_Adios!_"
The sailors cried back, "Adios! Adios!" From the land it must have had
a thin sound like ghosts wailing from the edge of the world. That, the
sailors held and Palos held, was where the ships were going, over the
edge of the world. It was the third day of August, in the year fourteen
hundred and ninety-two.

CHAPTER X

PALOS vanished, we lost the headland of La Rabida, a haze hid Spain.
By nightfall all was behind us. We were set forth from native land,
set forth from Europe, set forth from Christendom, set forth from sea
company and sailors' cheer of other ships. That last would not be wholly
true until we were gone from the Canaries, toward which islands, running
south, we now were headed. We might hail some Spanish ship going to,
coming from, Grand Canary. We might indeed, before we reached these
islands, see