It was eight years since I had quitted Spain.

I was older by that, grizzled, bearded and so bronzed by the Indies that I needed no Moorish stain.

I trusted God that Don Pedro and the Holy Office had no longer claws for me.
Cadiz, and all the people out, pointing and staring.

I remembered what I had been told of the return from his first voyage, and the second voyage.

Then had been bells and trumpets, flowers, banners, grandees drawing him among them, shouts and shouts of welcome! He walked in gyves, he and the Adelantado, to the house of his detention.