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Updated: May 13, 2025
With his stone-headed club he struck the sword away, and he plunged his knife into Arana's breast. He died, a brave man who had done his best at La Navidad. Juan Morcillo and Gonzalo Fernandez and Diego Minas were slain. I saw a lifted club and swerved, but too late. Blackness and neither care nor delight. Then, far off, a little beating of surf on shore, very far and nothing to do with anything.
And he had beauty of form and countenance and an eager, deep eye. Juan Lepe loved him. It was June. Guacanagari came to La Navidad, and his brown face was as serious as a tragedy. "Caonabo?" asked Diego de Arana. A fortnight before this the cacique, at Arana's desire, had sent three Indians in a canoe up the river, the object news if possible of that ten who had departed in that direction.
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