It seemed a strange, incredible story that they told, for
such a mighty river, with its vast plain, was beyond conception. Its
source, they said, was in the north--among the eternal snows--farther
than it had ever been given to man to penetrate. Its waters, they
thought, were poured into the Gulf of California, or perhaps into the
great Virginia Sea. Its flood, they said, was so great that if all the
rivers of Europe were gathered into one channel, they would not be a
tithe as large. But the people who heard these wonderful accounts were
unconcerned. The French monarch knew naught but to debauch his
heritance; the French courtier intrigued and plundered; the French
peasant, dogged and sullen in his long suffering, dragged out his
miserable existence. The flood of waters rolled on, and a hundred and
thirty years must come and go before the next white man should see the
sheen of its rippling.
Let us cast a retrograde glance to the history of this period. It was
only fifty years before that Columbus had dropped anchor off the coral
reef of Samana Cay, and thrilled the Old World by announcing the
discovery of the New. Elizabeth, the virgin Queen of England, was a
proud, haughty girl just entering her teens, all unmindful of her
eventful future.
Pages:
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175