“My name is Cashegra:  I am a famous warrior, and am going to kill you.  When you reach the land of spirits, you will see the ghost of my father:  tell him it was Cashegra sent you there.”  The uplifted tomahawk then descends upon his victim.—­Ibid.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

A SCENE ON THE “COSTA FIRME.”

I was awakened by the low growling, and short bark of the dog.  The night was far spent; the tiny sparks of the fire-flies that were glancing in the doorway, began to grow pale; the chirping of the crickets and lizards, and the snore of the tree-toad waxed fainter, and the wild cry of the tiger-cat was no longer heard.  The terral, or land-wind, which is usually strongest towards morning, moaned loudly on the hillside, and came rushing past with a melancholy sough, through the brushwood that surrounded the hut, shaking off the heavy dew from the palm and cocoa nut trees, like large drops of rain.

The hollow tap of the woodpecker; the clear flute note of the Pavo del monte; the discordant shriek of the macaw; the shrill chirr of the wild Guinea fowl; and the chattering of the paroquets began to be heard from the wood.  The ill-omened gallinaso was sailing and circling round the hut, and the tall flamingo was stalking on the shallows of the lagoon, the 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