haunt of the disgusting alligator, that lay beneath, divided from the sea
by a narrow mud bank, where a group of pelicans, perched on the wreck of
one of our boats, were pluming themselves before taking wing. In the east,
the deep blue of the firmament, from which the lesser stars were fast
fading, all but the "Eye of Morn," was warming into magnificent purple,
and the amber rays of the yet unrisen sun were shooting up, streamer-like,
with intervals between, through the parting clouds, as they broke away
with a passing shower, that fell like a veil of silver gauze between us
and the first primrose-coloured streaks of a tropical dawn.

"That's a musket shot," said the lieutenant. The Indian crept on his belly
to the door, dropped his chin on the ground, and placed his open palms
behind his ears. The distant wail of a bugle was heard, then three or four
dropping shots again, in rapid succession. Mr. Splinter stooped to go
forth, but the Indian caught him by the leg, uttering the single word
"_Espanoles_."

On the instant a young Indian woman, with a shrieking infant in her arms,
rushed to the door. There was a blue gunshot wound in her neck, from which
two or three large black clotting gouts of blood were trickling. Her long
black hair was streaming in coarse braids, and her features were pinched
and sharpened, as if in the agony of death. She glanced wildly behind, and
gasped out, "_Escapa, Oreeyue, escapa, para mi soi, muerto ya_." Another
shot, and the miserable creature convulsively clasped her child, whose
small shrill cry I often fancy I hear to this hour, blending with its
mother's death-shriek, and, falling backwards, rolled over the brow of the
hill out of sight. The ball had pierced the heart of the parent through
the body of her offspring. By this time a party of Spanish soldiers had
surrounded the hut, one of whom kneeling before the low door, pointed his
musket into it. The Indian, who had seen his wife and child thus cruelly