set in, increasing to a gale, and the wretched brigantine, her sails close-reefed, tossed among the savage billows at the mercy of the storm.  A heavy sea rolled down upon her, and threw her on her side.  The surges broke over her, and, clinging with desperate gripe to spars and cordage, the drenched voyagers gave up all for lost.  At length she righted.  The gale subsided, the wind changed, and the crazy, water-logged vessel again bore slowly towards France.

Gnawed with deadly famine, they counted the leagues of barren ocean that still stretched before.  With haggard, wolfish eyes they gazed on each other, till a whisper passed from man to man, that one, by his death, might ransom all the rest.  The choice was made.  It fell on La Chere, the same wretched man whom Albert had doomed to starvation on a lonely island, and whose mind was burdened with the fresh memories of his anguish and despair.  They killed him, and with ravenous avidity portioned out his flesh.  The hideous repast sustained them till the French coast rose in sight, when, it is said, in a delirium of insane joy, they could no longer steer their vessel, but let her drift at the will of the tide.  A small English bark bore down upon them, took them all on board, and, after landing the feeblest, carried the rest prisoners to Queen Elizabeth.

Thus closed another of those scenes of woe whose lurid clouds were thickly piled around the stormy dawn of American history.

It was but the opening act of a wild and tragic drama.  A tempest of miseries awaited those who essayed to plant the banners of France and of Calvin in the Southern forests; and the bloody scenes of the religious war were acted in epitome on the shores of Florida.

* * * * *

HER EPITAPH.

      The handful here, that once was Mary’s earth,
    Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a soul,
      That, when she died, all recognized her birth,
    And had their sorrow in serene control.

      “Not here! not here!” to every mourner’s heart
    The wintry wind seemed whispering round her bier;
      And when the tomb-door opened, with a start
    We heard it echoed from within,—­“Not here!”

      Shouldst thou, sad pilgrim, who mayst hither pass,
    Note in these flowers a delicater hue,
      Should spring come earlier to this hallowed grass,
    Or the bee later linger on the dew,

      Know that her spirit to her body lent
    Such sweetness, grace, as only goodness can,
      That even her dust, and this her monument,
    Have yet a spell to stay one lonely man,—­

      Lonely through life, but looking for the day
    When what is mortal of himself shall sleep,
      When human passion shall have passed away,
    And Love no longer be a thing to weep.

* * * * *