High in the air of evening, blown from the town, a trumpet sounded. De
Guardiola ground his teeth, for that jubilant silver calling was not for
San Jago, but St. George. The notes gathered every memory of the past
few days and pressed them upon him in one cup of chagrin. The caravels
were gone, the battery at the Bocca gone, the town surrendered to these
English dogs who now daily bared their teeth to the fortress itself. De
Guardiola admitted the menace, knew from experience in the Low
Countries that this breed of the North sprang strongly, held firmly.
"Hounds of hell!" he muttered. "Where is the fleet from Cartagena?"

The tropic ocean answered not, and the words of the wind were
unintelligible. The sun dropped lower; the plain appeared to move, to
roll and welter in the heated air and yellow light. Tall starvelings,
the cacti spread their arms; from a mimosa wood arose a cloud of
vultures; it was the hour of the Angelus, but no bells rang in the
churches of the town. The town sat in fear, shrinking into corners from
its cup of trembling. "Ransom!" cried the English from their ships and
from their quarters in the square. "Pay us ransom, or we burn and
destroy!" "Mother of God!" wailed Nueva Cordoba. "Why ask but fifty
thousand ducats? As easy to give you the revenue of all the Indies!
Moreover, every peso is housed in the fortress. Day before yesterday we
carried there--oh, señors, not our wealth, but our poverty!" Quoth the
English: "What has gone up may come down," and sent messengers, both
Spanish and English, to Don Luiz de Guardiola, Governor of Nueva
Cordoba, who from his stronghold swore that he found himself willing to
hang these pirates, but not to dispense to them the King of Spain his
treasure. Ransom! What word was that for the lips of Lutheran dogs!

A sea bird flew overhead with a wailing cry; down in the moat a