them. And now here was another woolweaver, or son of a wool-weaver, come
to put his finger in the pie that Christopher has apparently provided so
carefully for himself and his family.

Margarite and Buil and some others, treacherous scoundrels all of them,
but clannish to their own race and class, decide that they will put up
with it no longer; they are tired of Espanola in any case, and Margarite,
from too free indulgence among the native women, has contracted an
unpleasant disease, and thinks that a sea voyage and the attentions of a
Spanish doctor will be good for him. It is easy for them to put their
plot into execution. There are the ships; there is nothing, for them to
do but take a couple of them, provision them, and set sail for Spain,
where they trust to their own influence, and the story they will be able
to tell of the falseness of the Admiral's promises, to excuse their
breach of discipline. And sail they do, snapping their fingers at the
wool-weavers.

James and Bartholomew were perhaps glad to be rid of them, but their
relief was tempered with anxiety as to the result on Christopher's
reputation and favour when the malcontents should have made their false
representations at Court. The brothers were powerless to do anything in
that matter, however, and the state of affairs in Espanola demanded their
close attention. Margarite's little army, finding itself without even
the uncertain restraint of its commander, now openly mutinied and
abandoned itself to the wildest excesses. It became scattered and
disbanded, and little groups of soldiers went wandering about the
country, robbing and outraging and carrying cruelty and oppression among
the natives. Long-suffering as these were, and patiently as they bore
with the unspeakable barbarities of the Spanish soldiers, there came a
point beyond which their forbearance would not go. An aching spirit of