During the winter, Indians from the neighborhood of Cape Canaveral brought to the fort two Spaniards, wrecked fifteen years before on the southwestern extremity of the peninsula.  They were clothed like the Indians,—­in other words, were not clothed at all,—­and their uncut hair streamed wildly down their backs.  They brought strange tales of those among whom they had dwelt.  They told of the King of Calos, on whose domains they had suffered wreck, a chief mighty in stature and in power.  In one of his villages was a pit, six feet deep and as wide as a hogshead, filled with treasure gathered from Spanish wrecks on adjacent reefs and keys.  The monarch was a priest, too, and a magician, with power over the elements.  Each year he withdrew from the public gaze to hold converse in secret with supernal or infernal powers; and each year he sacrificed to his gods one of the Spaniards whom the fortune of the sea had cast upon his shores.  The name of the tribe is preserved in that of the River Caloosa.  In close league with him was the mighty Oathcaqua, dwelling near Cape Canaveral, who gave his daughter, a maiden of wondrous beauty, in marriage to his great ally.  But, as the bride, with her bridesmaids, was journeying towards Calos, escorted by a chosen band, they were assailed by a wild and warlike race, inhabitants of an island called Sarrope, in the midst of a great lake, who put the warriors to flight, bore the maidens captive to their watery fastness, espoused them all, and, as we are assured, “loved them above all measure.”

Outina, taught by Arlac the efficacy of the French fire-arms, begged for ten arquebusiers to aid him on a new raid among the villages of Potanou, again alluring his greedy allies by the assurance, that, thus reinforced, he would conquer for them a free access to the phantom gold-mines of Appalachec.  Ottigny set forth on this fool’s-errand with thrice the force demanded.  Three hundred Thimagoa and thirty Frenchmen took up their march through the pine-barrens.  Outina’s conjurer was of the number, and had well-nigh ruined the enterprise.  Kneeling on Ottigny’s shield, that he might not touch the earth, with hideous grimaces, howlings, and contortions, he wrought himself into a prophetic frenzy, and proclaimed to the astounded warriors that to advance farther would be destruction.  Outina was for instant retreat, but Ottigny’s sarcasms shamed him into a show of courage.  Again they moved forward, and soon encountered Potanou with all his host.  Le Moyne drew a picture of the fight.  In the foreground Ottigny is engaged in single combat with a gigantic savage, who, with club upheaved, aims a deadly stroke at the plumed helmet of his foe; but the latter, with target raised to guard his head, darts under the arms of the naked Goliath, and transfixes him with his sword.  The arquebuse did its work:  panic, slaughter, and a plentiful harvest of scalps.  But no persuasion could induce Outina to follow up his victory.  He went home to dance around his trophies, and the French returned disgusted to Fort Caroline.