University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
CHIQUOLA, THE CAPTIVE.

The flight of Combahee, and her descent into the waters of the
bay, were ominous of uproar. Instantly, the cry of rage arose
from a thousand voices. The whole body of the people, as with
a common instinct, seemed at once to comprehend the national
calamity. A dozen canoes shot forth from every quarter,
with the rapidity of arrows in their flight, to the rescue of the
Queen. Like a bright mermaid, swimming at evening for her
own green island, she now appeared, beating with familiar skill
the swelling waters, and, with practised hands, throwing behind
her their impelling billows. Her long, glossy, black hair was
spread out upon the surface of the deep, like some veil of network
meant to conceal from immodest glances the feminine form
below. From the window of the cabin whence she disappeared,
De Ayllon beheld her progress, and looked upon the scene with
such admiration as was within the nature of a soul so mercenary.
He saw the fearless courage of the man in all her movements, and
never did Spaniard behold such exquisite artifice in swimming
on the part of any of his race. She was already in safety. She
had ascended, and taken her seat in one of the canoes, a dozen
contending, in loyal rivalry, for the privilege of receiving her
person.

Then rose the cry of war! Then sounded that fearful whoop
of hate, and rage, and defiance, the very echoes of which have
made many a faint heart tremble since that day. It was probably,
on this occasion, that the European, for the first time, listened
to this terrible cry of war and vengeance. At the signal, the
canoes upon the bay scattered themselves to surround the ships;

the warriors along the shore loosened the fasts of the boats, and
pushed off to join the conflict; while the hunter in the forests,
stopped sudden in the eager chase, sped onward, with all the
feeling of coercive duty, in the direction of those summoning
sounds.

The fearless Combahee, with soul on fire, led the van. She
stood erect in her canoe. Her form might be seen from every
part of the bay. The hair still streamed, unbound and dripping,
from her shoulders. In her left hand she grasped a bow such as
would task the ability of the strong man in our day. Her
right hand was extended, as if in denunciation towards that

in which her husband and her people were held captive. Truly,
hers was the form and the attitude for a high souled painter;—
one, the master of the dramatic branches of his art. The flashing
of her eye was a voice to her warriors;—the waving of her
hand was a summons that the loyal and the brave heart sprang
eager to obey! A shrill signal issued from her half parted lips,
and the now numerous canoes scattered themselves on every side
as if to surround the European enemy, or, at least, to make the
assault on both vessels simultaneous.

The Spaniard beheld, as if by magic, the whole bay covered
with boats. The light canoes were soon launched from the
shore, and they shot forth from its thousand indentations as fast
as the warriors poured down from the interior. Each of these
warriors came armed with the bow, and a well filled quiver of
arrows. These were formed from the long canes of the adjacent
swamps; shafts equally tenacious and elastic, feathered with
plumes from the eagle or the stork, and headed with triangular
barbs of flint. broad but sharp, of which each Indian had always
a plentiful supply. The vigour with which these arrows were
impelled from the string was such, that, without the escaupil or
cotton armour which the Spaniards generally wore, the shaft has
been known to pass clean through the body of the victim. Thus
armed and arranged, with numbers constantly increasing, the
people of Combahee, gathering at her summons, darted boldly

from the shore, and, taking up positions favourable to the attack,
awaited only the signal to begin.

Meanwhile, the Spanish ships began to spread forth their broad
wings for flight. Anticipating some such condition of things as
the present, the wily De Ayllon had made his preparations for
departure at the same time that he had planned the scheme for
his successful treachery. The one movement was devised to follow
immediately upon the footsteps of the other. His sails were
loosened and flapping in the wind. To trim them for the breeze,
which, though light, was yet favourable to his departure, was the
work of a moment only; and ere the word was given for the attack,
on the part of the Indians, the huge fabrics of the Spaniards began
to move slowly through the subject waters. Then followed
the signal. First came a shaft from Combahee herself; well
aimed and launched with no mean vigour; that, striking full on
the bosom of De Ayllon, would have proved fatal but for the
plate mail which was hidden beneath his coat of buff. A wild
whoop succeeded, and the air was instantly clouded by the close
flight of the Indian arrows. Nothing could have been more decided,
more prompt and rapid, than this assault. The shaft had
scarcely been dismissed from the string before another supplied its
place; and however superior might have been the armament of
the Spanish captain, however unequal the conflict from the greater
size of his vessels, and the bulwarks which necessarily gave a
certain degree of protection, it was a moment of no inconsiderable
anxiety to the kidnappers! De Ayllon, though a base, was
not a bloody-minded man. His object was spoil, not slaughter.
Though his men had their firelocks in readiness, and a few pieces
of cannon were already prepared and pointed, yet he hesitated to
give the word, which should hurry into eternity so many ignorant
fellow beings upon whom he had just inflicted so shameful an
injury. He commanded his men to cover themselves behind the
bulwarks, unless where the management of the ships required
their unavoidable exposure, and, in such cases, the persons employed
were provided with the cotton armour which had been
usually found an adequate protection against arrows shot by the
feeble hands of the Indians of the Lucayos.

But the vigorous savages of Combahee were a very different

race. They belonged to the great family of the Muscoghees;
the parent stock, without question, of those indomitable tribes
which, under the names of Yemassee, Stono, Muscoghee, Mickasukee,
and Seminole, have made themselves remembered and
feared, through successive years of European experience, without
having been entirely quelled or quieted to the present hour.
It was soon found by De Ayllon that the escaupil was no protection
against injury. It baffled the force of the shaft but could not
blunt it, and one of the inferior officers, standing by the side of
the commander, was pierced through his cotton gorget. The
arrow penetrated his throat, and he fell, to all appearance, mortally
wounded. The Indians beheld his fall. They saw the
confusion that the event seemed to inspire, and their delight was
manifested in a renewed shout of hostility, mingled with screams,
which denoted, as clearly as language, the delight of savage triumph.
Still, De Ayllon forbore to use the destructive weapons
which he had in readiness. His soldiers murmured; but he answered
them by pointing to the hold, and asking:

“Shall we cut our own throats in cutting theirs? I see not
present enemies but future slaves in all these assailants.”

It was not mercy but policy that dictated his forbearance.
But it was necessary that something should be done in order to
baffle and throw off the Indians. The breeze was too light and
baffling, and the movements of the vessels too slow to avoid
them. The light barks of the assailants, impelled by vigorous
arms, in such smooth water, easily kept pace with the progress of
the ships. Their cries of insult and hostility increased. Their
arrows were shot, without cessation, at every point at which an
enemy was supposed to harbour himself; and, under the circumstances,
it was not possible always to take advantage of a cover in
performing the necessary duties which accrued to the seamen of
the ships. The Indians had not yet heard the sound of European
cannon. De Ayllon resolved to intimidate them. A small piece,
such as in that day was employed for the defence of castles, called
a falconet, was elevated above the canoes, so that the shot,
passing over the heads of their inmates, might take effect upon
the woods along the shore. As the sudden and sullen roar of this
unexpected thunder was heard, every Indían sunk upon his

knees; every paddle was dropped motionless in the water; while
the uplifted bow fell from the half-paralyzed hands of the warrior,
and he paused, uncertain of safety, but incapable of flight.
The effect was great, but momentary only. To a truly brave
people, there is nothing more transient than the influence of panic.
When the Indian warriors looked up, they beheld one of their
people still erect—unalarmed by the strange thunder—still looking
the language,—still acting the part of defiance,—and, oh!
shame to their manhood, this person was their Queen. Instead
of fear, the expression upon her countenance was that of scorn.
They took fire at the expression. Every heart gathered new
warmth at the blaze shining from her eyes. Besides, they discovered
that they were unharmed. The thunder was a mere
sound. They had not seen the bolt. This discovery not only
relieved their fears but heightened their audacity. Again they
moved forward. Again the dart was clapt upon the string.
Singing one chorus, the burden of which, in our language, would
be equivalent to a summons to a feast of vultures, they again set
their canoes in motion; and now, not as before, simply content
to get within arrow distance, they boldly pressed forward upon
the very course of the ships; behind, before, and on every side;
sending their arrows through every opening, and distinguishing,
by their formidable aim, every living object which came in sight.
Their skill in the management of their canoes; in swimming;
their great strength and agility, prompted them to a thousand acts
of daring; and some were found bold enough to attempt, while
leaping from their boats, beneath the very prow of the slowly advancing
vessels, to grasp the swinging ropes and thus elevate
themselves to individual conflict with their enemies. These failed,
it is true, and sank into the waters; but such an event implied
no sort of risk to these fearless warriors. They were soon
picked up by their comrades, only to renew, in this or in other
forms, their gallant but unsuccessful efforts.

But these efforts might yet be successful. Ships in those days
were not the monstrous palaces which they are in ours. An
agile form, under favouring circumstances, might easily clamber
up their sides; and such was the equal activity and daring of
the savages, as to make it apparent to De Ayllon that it would

need something more decisive than had yet been done, on his
part, to shake himself free from their inveterate hostility. At a
moment when their fury was redoubled and increased by the impunity
which had attended their previous assaults,—when every
bow was uplifted and every arrow pointed under the eye of their
Queen, as if for a full application of all their strength, and skill
and courage;—her voice, now loud in frequent speech, inciting
them to a last and crowning effort; and she herself, erect in her
bark as before, and within less than thirty yards of the Spanish
vessel;—at this moment, and to avert the storm of arrows which
threatened his seamen who were then, perforce, busy with the
rigging in consequence of a sudden change of wind;—De Ayllon
gave a signal to bring Chiquola from below. Struggling between
two Spanish officers, his arms pinioned at the elbows, the
young Cassique was dragged forward to the side of the vessel
and presented to the eyes of his Queen and people, threatened
with the edge of the very weapon which had beguiled him to the
perfidious bark.

A hollow groan arose on every hand. The points of the uplifed
arrows were dropped; and, for the first time, the proud
spirit passed out of the eyes of Combahee, and her head sunk
forward, with an air of hopeless self-abandonment, upon her breast!
A deep silence followed, broken only by the voice of Chiquola.
What he said, was, of course, not understood by his captors; but
they could not mistake the import of his action. Thrice, while
he spoke to his people, did his hand, wresting to the utmost the
cords upon his arms, smite his heart, imploring, as it were, the
united arrows of his people to this conspicuous mark. But the
Amazon had not courage for this. She was speechless! Every
eye was turned upon her, but there was no answering response in
hers; and the ships of the Spaniard proceeded on their way to
the sea with a momently increasing rapidity. Still, though no
longer assailing, the canoes followed close, and kept up the same
relative distance between themselves and enemies, which had
been observed before. Combahee now felt all her feebleness, and
as the winds increased, and the waves of the bay feeling the
more immediate influence of the ocean, rose into long heavy
swells, the complete conviction of her whole calamity seemed to

rush upon her soul. Chiquola had now been withdrawn from
sight. His eager adjurations to his Queen and people, might, it
was feared, prompt them to that Roman sort of sacrifice which
the captive himself seemed to implore; and perceiving that the
savages had suspended the assault, De Ayllon commanded
his removal. But, with his disappearance, the courage of his
Queen revived. Once more she gave the signal for attack in a
discharge of arrows; and once more the captive was set before
their eyes, with the naked sword above his head, in terrorem, as
before. The same effect ensued. The arm of hostility hung
suspended and paralyzed. The cry of anguish which the cruel
spectacle extorted from the bosom of Combahee, was echoed by
that of the multitude; and without a purpose or a hope, the
canoes hovered around the course of the retreating ships, till the
broad Atlantic, with all its mighty billows, received them.—
The vigorous breath of the increasing wind, soon enabled them to
shake off their hopeless pursuers. Yet still the devoted savages
plied their unremitting paddles; the poor Queen straining her
eyes along the waste, until, in the grey of twilight and of distance,
the vessels of the robbers were completely hidden from her sight.

Meanwhile, Chiquola was hurried back to the cabin, with his
arms still pinioned. His feet were also fastened and a close
watch was put upon him. It was a courtesy which the Spaniards
considered due to his legitimacy that the cabin was made his
place of imprisonment. With his withdrawal from the presence
of his people, his voice, his eagerness and animation, all at once
ceased. He sunk down on the cushion with the sullen, stolid indifference
which distinguishes his people in all embarrassing situations.
A rigid immobility settled upon his features; yet De
Ayllon did not fail to perceive that when he or any of his officers
approached the captive, his eyes gleamed upon them with
the fury of his native panther;—gleamed bright, with irregular
flashes, beneath his thick black eye-brows, which gloomed heavily
over their arches with the collected energies of a wild and
stubborn soul.

“He is dangerous,” said De Ayllon, “be careful how you approach
him.”

But though avoided he was not neglected. De Ayllon himself

proffered him food; not forgetting to tender him a draught of that
potent beverage by which he had been partly overcome before.
But the sense of wrong was uppermost, and completely subdued
the feeling of appetite. He regarded the proffer of the Spaniard
with a keen, but composed look of ineffable disdain; never lifted
his hand to receive the draught, and beheld it set down within his
reach without indicating, by word or look, his consciousness of
what had been done. Some hours had elapsed and the wine and
food remained untouched. His captor still consoled himself with
the idea that hunger would subdue his stubbornness;—but when
the morning came, and the noon of the next day, and the young
savage still refused to eat or drink, the case became serious; and
the mercenary Spaniard began to apprehend that he should lose
one of the most valuable of his captives. He approached the
youth and by signs expostulated with him upon his rejection of
the food; but he received no satisfaction. The Indian remained
inflexible, and but a single glance of his large, bright eye, requited
De Ayllon for his selfish consideration. That look expressed
the hunger and thirst which in no other way did Chiquola
deign to acknowledge; but that hunger and thirst were not for
food but for blood;—revenge, the atonement for his wrongs and
shame. Never had the free limbs of Indian warrior known such
an indignity—never could indignity have been conceived less endurable.
No words can describe, as no mind can imagine, the
volume of tumultuous strife, and fiercer, maddening thoughts
and feelings, boiling and burning in the brain and bosom of the
gallant but inconsiderate youth;—thoughts and feelings so
strangely subdued, so completely hidden in those composed muscles,—only
speaking through that dilating, but fixed, keen, inveterate
eye!

De Ayllon was perplexed. The remaining captives gave him
little or no trouble. Plied with the liquors which had seduced
them at first, they were very generally in that state of drunkenness,
when a certainty of continued supply reconciles the degraded
mind very readily to any condition. But with Chiquola
the case was very different. Here, at least, was character—the
pride of self-dependence; the feeling of moral responsibility;
the ineradicable consciousness of that shame which prefers to

feel itself and not to be blinded. De Ayllon had known the savage
nature only under its feebler and meaner aspects. The timid
islanders of the Lucayos—the spiritless and simple natives of
Hayti—were of quite another class. The Indian of the North
American continent, whatever his vices or his weaknesses, was
yet a man. He was more. He was a conqueror—accustomed
to conquer! It was his boast that where he came he stood;
where he stood he remained; and where he remained, he was the
only man! The people whom he found were women. He made
them and kept them so.—

Such was the character of his race, and Chiquola was no recreant.
Such was his character. He had no complaint. He
looked no emotions. The marble could not have seemed less corrigible;
and, but for that occasional flashing from his dark eye,
whenever any of his captors drew near to the spot where he sat,
none would have fancied that in his bosom lurked a single feeling
of hostility or discontent. Still he ate not and drank not. It was
obvious to the Spaniard that he had adopted the stern resolution
to forbear all sustenance, and thus defeat the malice of his enemies.
He had no fear of death, and he could not endure bonds.

That he would maintain that resolution to the last, none could
doubt who watched his sullen immobility—who noted the fact,
that he spoke nothing, neither in the language of entreaty nor
complaint. He was resolved on suicide! It is an error to suppose,
as has been asserted, that the Indians never commit suicide.
The crime is a very common one among them in periods of great
national calamity. The Cherokee warrior frequently destroyed
himself when the small pox had disfigured his visage: for, it
must be remembered, that an Indian warrior is, of all human beings,
one of the vainest, on the score of his personal appearance.
He unites, as they are usually found united even in the highest
states of civilization, the strange extremes of ferocity and frivolity.

De Ayllon counselled with his officers as to what should be done
with their captive. He would certainly die on their hands.
Balthazar de Morla, his lieutenant—a stern fierce savage himself
—proposed that they should kill him, as a way of shortening their
trouble, and dismissing all farther cares upon the project.

“He is but one,” said he, “and though you may call him King
or Cassique, he will sell for no more than any one of his own
tribe in the markets of Isabella. At worst, it will only be a loss
to him, for the fellow is resolved to die. He will bring you nothing,
unless for the skin of his carcase, and that is not a large
one.”

A young officer of more humanity, Jaques Carazon, offered
different counsel. He recommended that the poor Indian be
taken on deck. The confinement in the cabin he thought had
sickened him. The fresh air, and the sight of the sky and
sea, might work a change and provoke in him a love of life.
Reasoning from the European nature, such advice would most
probably have realized the desired effect; and De Ayllon was
struck with it.

“Let it be done,” he said; and Chiquola was accordingly
brought up from below, and placed on the quarter deck in a pleasant
and elevated situation. At first, the effect promised to be such
as the young officer had suggested. There was a sudden looking
up, in all the features of the captive. His eyes were no
longer cast down; and a smile seemed to pass over the lips

which, of late, had been so rigidly compressed. He looked long,
and with a keen expression of interest at the sky above, and the
long stretch of water before and around him. But there was one
object of most interest, upon which his eyes fastened with a seeming
satisfaction. This was the land. The low sandy shores and
island slips that skirt the Georgia coast, then known under the
general name of Florida, lay on the right. The gentleness of
the breeze, and smoothness of the water, enabled the ships, which
were of light burthen, to pursue a course along with the land, at
a small distance, varying from five to ten miles. Long and earnestly
did the captive gaze upon this, to him, Elysian tract.
There dwelt tribes, he well knew, which were kindred to his people.
From any one of the thousand specks of shore which
caught his eye, he could easily find his way back to his queen
and country! What thoughts of bliss and wo, at the same moment,
did these two images suggest to his struggling and agonized
spirit. Suddenly, he caught the eyes of the Spanish Captain gazing
upon him, with a fixed, inquiring glance; and his own eyes
were instantly averted from those objects which he alone desired
to see. It would seem as if he fancied that the Spaniard was
able to look into his soul. His form grew more erect beneath the
scrutiny of his captor, and his countenance once more put on its
former expression of immobility.

De Ayllon approached, followed by a boy bringing fresh food
and wine, which were once more placed within his reach. By
signs, the Spaniard encouraged him to eat. The Indian returned
him not the slightest glance of recognition. His eye alone spoke,
and its language was still that of hate and defiance. De Ayllon
left him, and commanded that none should approach or seem to
observe him. He conjectured that his stubbornness derived something
of its stimulus from the consciousness that eyes of strange
curiosity were fixed upon him, and that Nature would assert
her claims if this artificial feeling were suffered to subside without
farther provocation.

But when three hours more had elapsad, and the food still remained
untouched, De Ayllon was in despair. He approached
Chiquola, attended by the fierce Balthazar de Morla.

“Why do you not eat, savage!” exclaimed this person, shaking

his hand threateningly at the Indian, and glancing upon him with
the eyes of one, only waiting and anxious for the signal to strike
and slay. If the captive failed to understand the language of
the Spaniard, that of his looks and action was in no wise unequivocal.
Chiquola gave him glance for glance. His eye lighted
up with those angry fires which it shed when going into battle;
and it was sufficiently clear to both observers, that nothing more
was needed than the freedom of hand and foot to have brought
the unarmed but unbending savage, into the death grapple with
his insulting enemy. The unsubdued tiger-like expression
of the warrior, was rather increased than subdued by famine;
and even De Ayllon recoiled from a look which made him momentarily
forgetful of the cords which fastened the limbs and rendered
impotent the anger of his captive. He reproved Balthazar
for his violence, and commanded him to retire. Then, speaking
gently, he endeavoured to soothe the irritated Indian, by kind tones
and persuasive action. He pointed to the food, and, by signs, endeavoured
to convey to his mind the idea of the painful death
which must follow his wilful abstinence much longer. For a few
moments Chiquola gave no heed to these suggestions, but looking
round once more to the strip of shore which lay upon his right, a
sudden change passed over his features. He turned to De Ayllon,
and muttering a few words in his own language, nodded his head,
while his fingers pointed to the ligatures around his elbows and
ancles. The action clearly denoted a willingness to take his
food, provided his limbs were set free. De Ayllon proceeded to
consult with his officers upon this suggestion. The elder, Balthazar
de Morla, opposed the indulgence.

“He will attack you the moment he is free.”

“But,” replied the younger officer, by whose counsel he had
already been brought upon the deck—“but of what avail would
be his attack? We are armed, and he is weaponless. We are
many, and he is but one. It only needs that we should be watchful,
and keep in readiness.”

“Well!” said Balthazar, with a sneer, “I trust that you will
be permitted the privilege of undoing his bonds; for if ever savage
had the devil in his eye, this savage has.”

“I will do it,” replied the young man, calmly, without seeming

to heed the sneer. “I do not fear the savage, even if he should
grapple with me. But I scarcely think it possible that he would
attempt such a measure. He has evidently too much sense for
that.”

“Desperate men have no sense!” said the other; but the counsels
of the younger officer prevailed with De Ayllon, and he was
commissioned to undo the bonds of the captive. At the same time
every precaution was taken, that the prisoner, when set free,
should do the young man no hurt. Several soldiers were stationed
at hand, to interpose in the event of danger, and De Ayllon
and Balthazar, both with drawn swords, stood beside Jaques
Carazon as he bent down on one knee to perform the duty of supposed
danger which had been assigned him. But their apprehensions
of assault proved groundless. Whether it was that Chiquola
really entertained no design of mischief, or that he was restrained
by prudence, on seeing the formidable preparations which
had been made to baffle and punish any such attempt, he remained
perfectly quiescent, and, even after his limbs had been freed,
showed no disposition to use them.

“Eat!” said De Ayllon, pointing to the food. The captive
looked at him in silence, but the food remained untouched.

“His pride keeps him from it,” said De Ayllon. “He will
not eat so long as we are looking on him. Let us withdraw to
some little distance and watch him.”

His orders were obeyed. The soldiers were despatched to
another quarter of the vessel, though still commanded to remain
under arms. De Ayllon with his two officers then withdrew, concealing
themselves in different situations where they might observe
all the movements of the captive. For a time, this arrangement
promised to be as little productive of fruits as the previous
ones. Chiquola remained immovable, and the food untouched.
But, after a while, when he perceived that none was immediately
near, his crouching form might be seen in motion, but so slightly,
so slily, that it was scarcely perceptible to those who watched
him. His head revolved slowly, and his neck turned, without
any corresponding movement of his limbs, until he was able to take
in all objects, which he might possibly see, on almost every part
of the deck. The man at the helm, the sailor on the yard, while

beholding him, scarcely saw the cat-like movement of his eyes.
These, when he had concluded his unobtrusive examination of the
vessel, were turned upon the shore, with the expression of an eager
joy. His heart spoke out its feelings in the flashing of his dilating
and kindled eyes. He was free. That was the feeling of
his soul! That was the feeling which found utterance in his
glance. The degrading cords were no longer on the limbs of the
warrior, and was not his home almost beneath his eyes? He
started to his feet erect. He looked around him; spurned the
food and the wine cup from his path, and shrieking the war whoop
of his tribe, with a single rush and bound, he plunged over the
sides of the vessel into those blue waters which dye, with the complexion
of the Gulf, the less beautiful waves of the Atlantic.

This movement, so unexpected by the captors, was quite too
sudden for them to prevent. De Ayllon hurried to the side of
his vessel as soon as he distinguished the proceeding. He beheld,
with mingled feelings of admiration and disappointment, where the
bold savage was buffeting the billows in the vain hope of reaching
the distant shores. A boat was instantly let down into the sea,
manned with the ablest seamen of the ship. It was very clear
that Chiquola could neither make the land, nor contend very long
with the powerful waters of the deep. This would have been a
task beyond the powers of the strongest man, and the most skilful
swimmer, and the brave captive had been without food more than
twenty-four hours. Still he could be seen, striving vigorously,
in a course straight as an arrow for the shore; rising from billow
to billow; now submerged, still ascending, and apparently
without any diminution of the vigour with which he began his
toils.

The rowers, meanwhile, plied their oars, with becoming energy.
The Indian, though a practiced swimmer, began, at length, to show
signs of exhaustion. He was seen from the ship, and with the aid of
a glass, was observed to be struggling feebly. The boat was gaining
rapidly upon him. He might be saved. It needed only that he
should will it so. Would he but turn and employ his remaining
strength in striving for the boat, instead of wasting it in an idle
effort for those shores which he could never more hope to see!

“He turns!” cried De Ayllon. “He will yet be saved.

The boat will reach him soon. A few strokes more, and they
are up with him!”

“He turns, indeed,” said Carazon, “but it is to wave his hand
in defiance.”

“They reach him—they are up with him!” exclaimed the former.

“Ay!” answered the latter, “but he sinks—he has gone
down.”

“No! they have taken him into the boat!”

“You mistake, sir, do you not see where he rises? almost a
ship's length on the right of the boat. There spoke the savage
soul. He will not be saved!”

This was true. Chiquola preferred death to bondage. The
boat changed its course with that of the swimmer. Once more
it neared him. Once more the hope of De Ayllon was excited
as he beheld the scene from the ship; and once more the voice
of his lieutenant cried discouragingly—

“He has gone down, and for ever. He will not suffer us to
save him.”

This time he spoke truly. The captive had disappeared. The
boat, returning now, alone appeared above the waters, and De
Ayllon turned away from the scene, wondering much at the indomitable
spirit and fearless courage of the savage, but thinking
much more seriously of the large number of pesos which this
transaction had cost him. It was destined to cost him more, but
of this hereafter.