and up in the castle that fierce hawk De Guardiola, who cared little for
the town that was young and weak, but much for gold, the fortress, and
his own grim will and pleasure.



V

Luiz De Guardiola, magnificent Castilian, proud as Lucifer, still as the
water above the reef offshore, and cruel as the black fangs beneath that
serenity, looked over the wall of the fortress of Nueva Cordoba. He
looked down into the moat well stocked with crocodiles, great fish his
mercenaries, paid with flesh, and he looked at the tunal which ringed
the moat as the moat ringed the squat white fortress. A deadly girdle
was the tunal, of cactus and other thorny things, thick, wide, dark, and
impenetrable, a forest of stilettoes, and for its kings the rattlesnake
and viper. Nor naked Indian nor mailed white man might traverse that
thicket, where wall on wall was met a spiked and iron growth. One
opening there was, through which ran the road to the town, but a battery
deemed impregnable commanded this approach, forming an effectual clasp
for that strong cestus which the fecund, supple, and heated land made
possible to all Spanish fortifications. Beyond the tunal the naked
hillside fell steeply to a narrow plain, all patched with golden
flowers, and from this yellow carpet writhed tall cacti, fantastic as
trees seen in a dream. Upon the plain, pearl pink in the sunset light,
huddled the town. Palm-trees and tamarinds overhung it; palm-trees,
mimosas, and mangroves marked the course of a limpid river. Above the
battery at the river's mouth drooped a red cross in a white field.
Caravels there were none in the road, but riding there, close inshore,
the four ships that had sunk the caravels and silenced the battery.