discovered is an island. Again Gonzalves leads
the way in his boat, and reaches an open
space, where the land is not encumbered with
the dense growth of timber that has
everywhere else met their view. The sea beach to
the foot of the mountains is covered with
fennel, the funcho of the Portuguese. This
beach shall be called Funchal.

What has happened to Juan de Moralès?
He stirs not — he speaks not. He looks upon
the sea— he looks up the ravine. Then he
rushes to gaze upon the islets which the rivers
of that valley have formed in their perennial
courses: he smiles, he weeps; he sees
something very like the land of his dreams.

The ships have followed the course of the
boats; but at a wide berth from the land.
They now come into the bay of Funchal, and
anchor in the river; here will the crew next
day take in wood and water. They cannot
have a pleasanter harbour. They will sleep
in security. The sea is smooth; the air is
balmy. The watch is set; and Juan, though
his duty is ended, is amongst the watchers.
The ripple of the river seems a familiar sound.
He listens, as if he expected some human
voice to mingle with that murmur of waters.
The moon rises. The wooded ravine lies
before him in deep shadow; but here and
there is a breadth of silvery light. Is that
the figure of a man moving on the bright
greensward? The sea breeze stirs the
topmost branches of the cedars, and their
shadows, Juan, make up the semblance of
humanity.

On the morrow the island is again
explored. No sign of cultivation— no trace of
man. In the heart of the mountains there
are mighty chasms, into which the torrents
rush, and form gentle rivers. Cedars and
chesnut trees rise into the foggy summits of
the highest peaks. Myrtles clothe the
precipitous declivities. Deep caverns have been
dug into the sides of the rocks by the untiring
sea. Hush! there is a noise as of the tread
of men. A multitude of seals rush out from
that hollow, with a sudden cry, and plunge
into the waves. That point shall be Camara
dos Lobos, the cave of seals. The navigation
becomes more difficult. The surf is more
dangerous on that rocky coast. Gonzalves
will return to his ships in the bay of Funchal.
He is eager to be once more in the Tagus: he
has brave tidings for Dom Henry. One such
discovery is enough for a summer. But what
shall he call this noble island? He takes
counsel of the squire Alcaforado, who has
been busy with his tablets incessantly. He
will write a narrative of this prosperous
voyage, which shall be deposited in the
archives of Portugal.* The island shall be
called Madeiro the island of Wood.

* In 1671 was published, at Paris, "Relation Historique
de la découverte de l'Isle de Madère, "which professes to
be a translation from a Portuguese book, of which the
manuscript then existed. An abstract of this French work,
which is the narrative of Francis Alcaforado has been
given in a new "Biographic Universelle," 1852. The
French work is stated to be a book of the most extreme
rarity, and no copy, it appears is known to exist of the
Portuguese original.

It is the summer of 1421, and Gonzalves
Zarco is again embarking in the port of Lisbon.

The preparations for this voyage are very
different from those of the expedition of 1419.
One ship, of considerable tonnage, is now
employed. Large stores of provisions are taken
into the hold— raisins, and olives, and casks
of wine from Xeres and Oporto. There are
live animals too in considerable numbers—
sheep and goats, and a few mules. Cuttings
of the choicest vines, and small plants from
the orange groves, are carefully stowed, and
duly watered. There are implements of
husbandry, and artificers' tools— spades and axes,
anvils and hammers. Tents are there for
shelter; spears and bows for defence. There
are the nets of the fisherman and of the
fowler. But, in greater abundance than all,
packages of clothing. A colony is to be
founded.

Gonzalves comes on board with his two
sons. They carefully inspect a little cabin,
that is fitted up with unusual luxury. They
are satisfied— they go on shore. Presently a
litter appears, borne by four of the crew, who
tread briskly under their load. Gonzalves
walks before them. The litter is set down on
the deck, and a delicate girl is lifted out by
the sons of Gonzalves, and carried to the
decorated cabin. She scarcely speaks— she is
ill and exhausted. The ship is under weigh.
Juan de Moralès is again at the helm.

The heat of the day is over. The ship
has dropped down the Tagus, and passed the
bar. The distant vesper bell is sounding into
the quiet evening. Anna Zarco is refreshed,
and begs to be brought upon deck. A couch
is made up at the stern. The sick girl speaks
cheerfully to her father, as she watches the
stars coming softly out of the blue sky.
There is a light in the fort of St. Julian,
which grows fainter and fainter as they sail
on. Anna has fixed her lustrous eyes on that
light. It is the last object that marks her
native land. It is gone. It mingles with the
stars. She looks in her father's face. A
thought comes across him which forces a tear
or two. Will Anna ever again see her
birthplace? Will she reach her new home?

The ship's course is now direct to Madeiro.
Every evening the feeble girl is brought upon
the deck, and lies peacefully there, with her
thin hand resting in the large rough palm of
her father's. She listens with interest as the
commander talks to his pilot. They talk of
the beautiful island to which they are sailing,
of its pleasant climate, its green woods, its
sparkling streams. They will land at Funchal.
They will run up their houses on that
sheltered beach; their sheep and goats shall
pasture in the green valley between the
mountains. They will find clear sunny spots
on the hill-sides to plant their vines; they
will have an orange grove sheltered from the