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mate yelled for him to go to his quarters and remain there until the captain sent for him. He received several pitying glances from the crewmen who had been aloft with him. De Castro went with Casca to where he shared his quarters with three others in the cramped space of the lower foredeck.
    Once inside and out of the rain, all they had to contend with was the heaving of the ship itself. Rummaging through his bag, Casca found a semidry shirt that was only a bit green from mold. Drying his upper body as best he could with it, he ignored de Castro's look of wonder at the scars on his torso. He was used to the effect his body had on others. They sat side by side on his bunk, feet resting against the other side to stabilize them. Casca waited for whatever it was de Castro was going to say. Clearing his throat, the smaller man tried to put his words in order. He was a man of good though poor family and, like most of those born to Castile, had an overdeveloped sense of pride.
    "Senor...?" He paused, not knowing Casca's name. Adjusting his body to where it rested more securely against the ship's planking, Casca told him, "Romano, Carlos Romano."
    De Castro tried once more: "Señor Romano, I wish to thank you for your noble gesture, but I assure you, I was quite capable of performing the task myself."
    Casca smiled at him. "That's bullshit, and you know it. Look at your hands. Those wet lines would have ripped them apart, and from the color of your face, you don't handle rough seas very well to begin with. Let us just say I performed a service for a gentleman, and one day you may have the opportunity to return the favor."
    De Castro accepted the terms; at least it returned some of his pride to him. "That is a duty I shall consider an honor from one caballero to another. Will you take the hand of Juan de Castro on it as a pledge of my friendship?"
    Casca looked the smaller man over. Although the face was thin and drawn, with no more than twenty-five or twenty-six years in it, there was a sincerity to it that touched him. De Castro was obviously one who had come upon bad times and was going to the New World to rebuild his life. While his body was not that of a strong man, there was a litheness to it, and the wrists had strong bands of tendons that showed that this was one who had spent his youth mastering the sword.
    Casca took Juan's hand. "I accept your offer gladly and return your pledge with my own. In these new lands, who can know when it will be good to have one at your side or back you can trust?"
    With those words the men made a bond to be compadres, sharing whatever came against them.
    Captain Ortiz had no such feelings for the two men. He was master of his ship, and every word he spoke was the law. There was no other way to control such animals as he had in his crew. They respected only power and fear. Absolute obedience was the only true law of the sea. The wind shifted again, and he called out new orders to compensate for it. From the taste of the wind, he knew that they had reached the peak of the storm. From here on out, it would diminish; then he would see to the men below.
    By sunfall the following day, the storm had passed over, leaving the seas glassy smooth and calm, with just enough wind to fill the sails gently. Ortiz went to his cabin. He would see to his problems in the morning, after he had slept. He turned control of the caravel over to his second mate, Luis Vargas, a man who had risen to his current position primarily because of his ability to get the most out of his crew. When Vargas swung the lash or knotted piece of ship's rope, it left a lasting impression on both the body and the soul of the man who experienced it. Short in size, he was nearly as wide at the shoulders as he was tall, and he could perform any task on the ship faster and better than any of the crew. He drove those in his charge to meet his standards, which they never did. He and his captain made a perfect team. Ortiz, with his fine manners