found out what really is there?"

"That, my son, is more than I can tell you," said Sancho Serrao, getting
up. "I sailed where I was told, and I never was told to sail due west
from Lisbon. But here is a man who can answer your question, if any one
can. Welcome to my humble dwelling, Senhor Colombo! Shall we go into
the house, or will you find it pleasanter in the garden?"

The new-comer was a tall man of middle age, although at first sight he
looked older, because of his white hair. The fresh complexion, alert
walk, and keen thoughtful blue eyes were those of a man not old in
either mind or body. He smiled in answer to the greeting, and replied
with a quick wave of the hand. "Do not disturb yourself, I beg of you,
my friend. The garden is very pleasant. I have come on an errand of my
own this time. Did you ever see, in your voyages to Africa or elsewhere,
any such carving as this?"

He held out a curious worm-eaten bit of reddish brown wood, rudely
ornamented with carved figures in relief. Old Sancho took it and turned
it about, examining it with narrowed attentive eyes.

"Where did it come from?" he asked, finally.

"From the beach at Puerto Santo. My little son Diego picked it up, the
day before I came away from the island."

"Now that is curious. I was just telling the young ones about an
adventure of my youth, when Gonsales Zarco touched there on his way to
Madeira. With your good permission I will leave you for a few minutes
and rummage in an old sea-chest, and see whether there is any flotsam in
it to compare with this."

Left alone with the stranger, Fernao and Beatriz looked at him with shy
curiosity. They had seen him before, and knew him to be a mapmaker in
the King's service, but he had never before been within speaking
distance. He seemed to like children, for he smiled at them very kindly
and spoke to them almost at once.

"And you were hearing about the discovery of Madeira?"

"Ay, Senhor," Beatriz answered with demure dignity.

"I live not very far from that island. It seems like living on the
western edge of the world."

"Senhor," asked Fernao with sudden daring, "what is beyond the edge of
the world?"

"There is no edge, my boy. The world is round--like an orange."[2]

In all their fancies they had never thought of such a thing as that.
Beatriz looked at the tall man with silent amazement, and Fernao looked
as if he would like to ask who could prove the statement. The stranger's
smile