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Updated: June 4, 2025
Juan de la Cosa, the master, stood a keen man, thin as a string. Out of the crowd of mariners I pick Sancho and Beltran the cook, Ruiz the pilot, William the Irishman and Arthur the Englishman, and two or three others. And Luis Torres. The latter was a thinker, and a Jew in blood. He carried it in his face, considerably more markedly than I carried my grandmother Judith.
The king named the Roman champion, and the Toledans confided the defence of their Gothic rite to the sword of Juan Ruiz, a nobleman from the borders of Pisuerga.
Gaspar Ruiz was childless, he had no wife, he had never been in love. He had hardly ever spoken to a woman, beyond his mother and the ancient negress of the household, whose wrinkled skin was the colour of cinders, and whose lean body was bent double from age.
"'Something broken, he whispered, lifting his head a little, and turning his eyes towards me in his hopelessly crushed attitude. "'The gate hangs only by the splinters, yelled Jorge. "Gaspar Ruiz tried to speak, but his voice died out in his throat, and I helped to roll the gun off his broken back. He was insensible. "I kept my lips shut, of course.
Rendered proud and self-confident by his successes, Ruiz no longer charged at the head of his partida, but presumptuously, like a general directing the movements of an army, he remained in the rear, well mounted and motionless on an eminence, sending out his orders. She was seen repeatedly at his side, and for a long time was mistaken for a man.
Gaspar Ruiz saw the dark eyes of Doña Erminia look down at him. "Ala! The sergeant," she muttered disdainfully. "Why! He has wounded me with his sword," he protested, bewildered by the contempt that seemed to shine livid on her pale face. She crushed him with her glance. The power of her will to be understood was so strong that it kindled in him the intelligence of unexpressed things.
"I'm dancing the next with my fiancé, Mr. Tony Standish. Here he is coming now... Tony, my dear, this is Don Carlos de Ruiz, who plays polo like an angel." "Didn't know that angels played polo, but I'm pleased to meet you, Don Carlos," drawled Standish. "Frightful crush, isn't it?" "Miss Rostrevor was going to dance the next number with me, Mr.
At the same time the sound of a cavalcade advancing was heard on the flinty road that passed before the tower; and Sylvestre Ker recognized the long procession of the monks of Ruiz, led by the grand abbot, Gildas the Wise, arrayed in cope and mitre, with his crozier in his hand, going to the Mass of Plouharnel, as the convent chapel was being rebuilt.
So saying, he stepped across the line.2 He was followed by the brave pilot Ruiz; next by Pedro de Candia, a cavalier, born, as his name imports, in one of the isles of Greece.
"Jorge, bent double, muttered, port-fire in hand: 'An inch to the left, senor. Too much. So. Now, if you let yourself down a little by letting your elbows bend, I will... "He leaped aside, lowering his port-fire, and a burst of flame darted out of the muzzle of the gun lashed on the man's back. "Then Gaspar Ruiz lowered himself slowly. 'Good shot? he asked. "'Full on, senor.
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