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 shot down before his face, now fired his rifle, and the man fell dead. “Sigi mi Querida Bondia—­maldito.”  Then springing to his feet, and stretching himself to his full height, with his arms extended towards heaven, while a strong shiver shook him like an ague fit, he yelled forth the last words he ever uttered, “Venga la suerte, ya soi listo,” and resumed his squatting position on the ground.  Half-a-dozen musket balls were now fired at random through the wattles, while the lieutenant, who spoke Spanish well, sung out lustily, that we were English officers who had been shipwrecked. “Mentira,” growled the officer of the party, “Piratas son ustedes.”  “Pirates leagued with Indian bravoes; fire the hut, soldiers, and burn the scoundrels!” There was no time to be lost; Mr. Splinter made a vigorous attempt to get out, in which I seconded him, with all the strength that remained to me, but they beat us back again with the buts of their muskets.

“Where are your commissions, your uniforms, if you be British officers?” We had neither, and our fate appeared inevitable.

The doorway was filled with brushwood, fire was set to the hut, and we heard the crackling of the palm thatch, while thick stifling wreaths of white smoke burst in upon us through the roof.

“Lend a-hand, Tom, now or never, and kick up the dark man there,” but he sat still as a statue.  We laid our shoulders to the end wall, and heaved at it with all our might; when we were nearly at the last gasp it gave way, and we rushed headlong into the middle of the party, followed by Sneezer with his shaggy coat, that was full of clots of tar blazing like a torch.  He unceremoniously seized “par le queue,” the soldier who had throttled me, setting fire to the skirts of his coat, and blowing up his cartouch box.  I believe under Providence, that the ludicrousness of this attack saved us from being bayonetted on the spot.  It gave time for Mr. Splinter to recover his breath, when being a powerful man, he shook off the two soldiers who had seized him, and dashed into the burning hut again.  I thought he was mad, especially when I saw him return with his clothes and hair on fire, dragging out the body of the captain.  He unfolded the sail it was wrapped in, and pointing to the remains of the naval uniform in which the mutilated and putrifying corpse was dressed, he said sternly to the officer, “We are in your power, and you may murder us if you will; but that was my captain four days ago, and you see, he at least was a British officer—­satisfy yourself.”  The person he addressed, a handsome young Spaniard, with a clear olive complexion, oval face, small brown mustachios, and large black eyes, shuddered at the horrible spectacle, but did as he was requested.