"Chief! There's actually a native survivor here! He's been playing dead this whole time, but he isn't badly hurt... Huh! He's begging for mercy, begging us not to kill him!..."
"Hmm? A survivor who isn't badly hurt? Bring him aboard! Interrogate him properly about this area!..."
"Ah! But I can't understand what he's saying. It's all gibberish, no idea what any of it means..."
"Idiot! Ask with gestures! Draw pictures and ask!... Right, don't we still have that 'Shu' or whatever, that native guide?... Bring him over too and question them together. See if he can understand!..."
"Yes! As you say, Chief! Your authority really is... looking more and more like Captain Diogo's..."
Bruno smiled soundlessly, hands clasped behind his back, standing at the bow of the Caravel. He held a deep, solemn pose, gazing at the southern rainforest receding on the left, and at the golden-red sunset slanting down ahead. After losing his way through storm-tossed waves and reaching an alien continent ten thousand li away, reaching this mysterious sea of forest known to no one, he very much wanted to chant an immortal line of poetry, but had no idea what to say.
In truth, in Bruno's memory, all outstanding Portuguese captains, whether Diogo or Bartolomeu Dias, were equally grave, deep, and quiet. This was also why a boastful captain like Columbus was utterly unwelcome among the Portuguese.
At this time, the fashion among Portugal's upper ranks was to take quiet solemnity, depth, and imposing dignity as the standard of a mature man. And this aristocratic standard of judgment was completely different from those of Castile, Aragon, France, and the states of Italy; instead, it rather resembled the Holy Roman Empire.
Likewise, at the end of this fifteenth century, Os Lusiadas, the epic representing the Portuguese nation, had