o was then Governor of Puerto
Principe, and in Castile, Count, Grandee of Spain, and Marquis, to boot.
Don Jayme had emptied his coffers in discreet rivalry of his king, and
his king, who admired prodigal fathers, had given him leave to replenish
them in the New World. This permission Don Jayme had for some time past
made the most of, now by exactions, now by fresh taxes, by peculations
and speculations, and also by means of a sugar plantation a few leagues
beyond Santiago de Cuba, in the harbor of which his son, that morning,
was preparing to disembark.

Don Jayme had been domiciled in the neighborhood for five years, and the
five years had been to him five Kalpas of time.

He felt desolate as a lighthouse. He had come expecting to make a rapid
fortune, and in that expectation he had been wearisomely deceived. The
province which he had intended to wring dry as an orange had been well
squeezed by earlier comers, and as for his hacienda, he found it more
profitable to let the cane rot uncut than to attempt to extract the
sugar. He hated Cuba, as every true Spaniard does, and the portion of
Cuba which he administered hated him. He longed for Madrid, for the pomp
and ceremonial of court; and particularly did he desire that his son
should enjoy an income suited to his rank. Though he had not as yet
succeeded in replenishing more than one or two of the many emptied
coffers, there was no valid reason why his sole descendant should be
poor. And if his son were rich, the former splendor of the Ixars would
blaze anew. Don Jayme was a selfish man, as men brought up in court
circles are apt to be; he was not a good man, he was not even a
good-looking man, but the bit of lignum vitae which served him for heart
was all in all for that son. It was for him he had come to Cuba, and if
the coming had been a partial failure, that partial failure would be
wholly retrieved did he succeed in supplying the heir to his title with
a well dowered wife.

So argued Don Jayme. But he was careful to argue with no one save his
most intimate friend, to-wit, himself. To his son he said nothing; he
merely wrote him to take ship, and sail.

It so happened that when this communication was received, Ruis Ixar was
as anxious for a trip to the New World as Don Jayme was for a return to
the Old. He was tired of the Puerto del Sol; he was tired too of the
usual young woman that lives over the way. He wanted a taste of
adventure; and moreover obedience to