of Acheron. Some say, that when the
Christians fled from the oppression of the
Moors and Saracens, they found an island of
refuge in this ocean; and that from that
time a mysterious cloud covered that island,
so that no enemy could come near to harm
them. Who shall dare to pierce that cloud,
and solve these mysteries?

Gonzalves sits on the beach of Porto Santo,
and looks again and again in the direction of
that cloud. When the morning sun shines
bright in the East, the cloud is there. When
the moon climbs the sky, the cloudy distance
is still visible. It never changes its place;
its form is always the same. Gonzalves will
take counsel of Juan de Moralès.

Juan is many years younger than Gonzalves;
yet his forehead is wrinkled with cares that
scarcely belong to the young. He has passed
his boyhood in captivity in Morocco. He
has done servile offices up to the period of
manhood. He has been chained to the oar,
and rowed his taskmasters through many a
perilous surf. There is something strange
and mysterious about him. His messmates
shun him, for they say he is a Castilian, and
an enemy to Portugal. He has the Castilian
steadiness, with more than Castilian reserve.
Misfortune has not abased him: he carries
himself as loftily as the proudest of his
countrymen; and yet he is of a fairer complexion
than those countrymen, and he speaks their
language with a singular mixture of other
dialects, and even of other tongues. But that
may come of his long captivity amongst
Christian slaves of all lands. Juan is not
popular: but Gonzalves has unbounded
confidence in his pilot.

"Juan," says Gonzalves, "we will wait no
longer. Hold you still your opinion?"

"My belief is ever the same. That
dark mass, so defined and unchanging, is a
mountainous land, seen through a constant
mist."

"You have the confidence of knowledge,
rather than of conjecture. Did you ever hear
speak of such a mountainous land? In that
quarter, leagues off, must lie the African
deserts."

"I have no knowledge — except my dreams
be knowledge. I dream of mountains, rising
from the sea, covered with trees to the very
summits; of ravines, where rivers come dashing
down out of the mountain mists, and rush
brightly to the ocean; of a narrow beach
under the mountains, where the waves break
wildly, and yet how beautifully!"

"Juan! you must have seen such a land!"

"Oh no! it is a dream— a dream of the
poor ship-boy's loneliness."

"We will sail to-morrow, Juan."

"Good."

"Say nothing; but steer us right to the
cloud."

The anchors are weighed in the dawn of a
summer morning. A brisk breeze soon
carries them away from Porto Santo. There
is a man of importance on board, Francis
Alcaforado, a squire of Dom Henry's chamber.
He is keeping a diary of that voyage— a busy
inquisitive man."

"Captain, where are you steering?"

"To look for the Isles of the West."

"But you are sailing towards the darkness!"

"I think they lie beyond the darkness."

"You are tempting Heaven. See, we are
in the bosom of a mist. There is no sun in
the sky. Change your course, Gonzalves."

"Sir, I must obey my commission."

"Look! there is something darker still in
the distance."

"I have seen it before— it is land."

Juan is at the helm. He steers boldly
through the mist. It is land. The sun is
behind that mass of mountains. Juan must
be cautious; there are rocks in that sea.
Gonzalves orders out the boats. There is a
loud murmuring of surf upon a shore not
very distant. The sun is mounting out of the
exhalation. The mist is rolling off. There
are trees on the hills. The boats may near
the shore. Glory to Saint Lawrence! That
eastern cape first seen, and now doubled,
shall be the Cape San Lourenco! All are
joyful but Juan de Moralès. It is not the
land of his dreams. The crew gather round
the pilot— and greet him well. But he is
silent.

There is a streamlet gushing down to the
sea. Gonzalves commands the crew to
disembark. A priest goes with them. The
water is blessed. The shore is blessed. The
commander of the expedition proclaims that
the mysterious cloud-land is a veritable
possession of the King of Portugal.

And now they coast carefully along in their
boats. They peer into the dark ravines,
covered with everlasting forests. Again and
again they land. Are there any inhabitants?
Not a trace of human dwelling, not a
footprint, not a token that man has ever abided
here. Birds of bright plumage fly fearlessly
about them. They come to a point where
four rivers join in their course to the sea.
They fill their flasks to carry that sparkling
water to the banks of the yellow Tagus. They
bring provisions on shore, and sit down in a
green valley where gentle waterfalls are
sparkling around. They penetrate a wood;
the rough gales have torn up some trees.
They elevate one tree, and form a cross; they
kneel, and the priest gives his benediction.
This point is Santa Cruz. They coast on; a
tongue of land stretches far out— a shady
covert. Suddenly a flight of jays darkens the
air. This shall be Punta dos Gralhos, the point
of jays. Further on, another tongue of land is
covered with cedars, and this, with the Punta
dos Gralhos, forms a wooded bay. It shall
be the bay of cedars. Another valley is
reached, and here Gonzalves makes an
attempt to ascend the high ground: he sees
enough to satisfy him that what he has