“What has befallen us,” he said, “may one day befall you.”  And, urging that the kings of France and Spain were brothers and close friends, he begged, in the name of that friendship, that the Spaniard would aid him in conveying his followers home.  Menendez gave him the same equivocal answer that he had given the former party, and Ribaut returned to consult with his officers.  After three hours of absence, he came back in the canoe, and told the Adelantado that some of his people were ready to surrender at discretion, but that many refused.

“They can do as they please,” was the reply.

In behalf of those who surrendered Ribaut offered a ransom of a hundred thousand ducats.

“It grieves me much,” said Menendez, “that I cannot accept it; for I have great need of it.”

Ribaut was much encouraged.  Menendez could scarcely forego such a prize, and he thought, says the Spanish narrator, that the lives of his followers would now be safe.  He asked to be allowed the night for deliberation, and at sunset recrossed the river.  In the morning he reappeared among the Spaniards and reported that two hundred of his men had retreated from the spot, but that the remaining one hundred and fifty would surrender.  At the same time he gave into the hands of Menendez the royal standard and other flags, with his sword, dagger, helmet, buckler, and his official seal, given him by Coligny.  Menendez directed an officer to enter the boat and bring over the French by tens.  He next led Ribaut among the bushes behind the neighboring sand-hill, and ordered his hands to be bound fast.  Then the scales fell from the prisoner’s eyes.  Face to face his hideous fate rose up before him.  He saw his followers and himself entrapped,—­the dupe of words artfully framed to lure them to their ruin.  The day wore on; and, as band after band of prisoners was brought over, they were led behind the sand-hill, out of sight from the farther shore, and bound like their general.  At length the transit was complete.  With bloodshot eyes and weapons bared, the fierce Spaniards closed around their victims.

“Are you Catholics or Lutherans? and is there any one among you who will go to confession?”

Ribaut answered,—­

“I and all here are of the Reformed Faith.”

And he recited the Psalm, “Domine, memento mei.”

“We are of earth,” he continued, “and to earth we must return; twenty years more or less can matter little”; and, turning to the Adelantado, he bade him do his will.

The stony-hearted bigot gave the signal; and those who will may paint to themselves the horrors of the scene.  A few, however, were spared.