University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.

It was a goodly hour after the event, before Don Balthazar
had sufficiently recovered from his sufferings to resume his activity,
or comply with the summons of the Adelantado, to return
to the city. When able to rise and look about him, he gave his
orders with customary sang froid, for the removal and disposition
of the dead body of the outlaw, which was publicly exposed
during the day, and finally hung in chains by the public executioner.
But this exhibition did not take place till after the departure
of the expedition; and the good Knight of Portugal, and
his page Juan, were somewhat surprised at not exchanging farewells
with the bold outlaw, as he had promised them should be
the case. They little anticipated for him, such a short and hurried
transition, from the extreme health, hope and vigor of
impetuous and eager manhood, to the stagnating and corrupting
embrace of death; and did not learn, until they had arrived in
Florida, the history of the bloody and fatal conflict which we
have narrated. It was with a feeling of disappointment, that
they turned their eyes upon the wide waste of waters before
their prows, from the crowds upon the shore, gradually melting
into masses, and to be individualized no longer. As the night
came on, Philip de Vasconselos threw himself upon the deck of
the caravel, musing sadly upon the stars as they silently stole
out to sight, and hardly knew that the boy Juan crouched as
silently behind him. There was scarcely a word spoken between
them that night, yet, somehow, this silent attendance, and
simple devotion of the page, strengthened, at each moment, the
feeling of sympathy, with which the knight, from the very first,
regarded him.

“The boy hath a heart,” quoth Philip to himself;—“he can
feel. He hath not yet survived his tenderness. But it will not be
for long. The world rarely leaves us long in possession of such
a treasure. Were he wise, now, the sooner he flings it from him,
or puts it to silence, the more sure were he to escape its sorrows.
What profits it to us that we have the wealth that keeps
us wakeful; when sleep,—sleep,—is the best blessing that we

need, and ought to pray for? Oh! that I might shut out thought
when I shut mine eyes; or hush the heart into silence that only
wounds me with its cries!”

Thus, the knight. The boy, no doubt, had his musings
also. They both slept upon the deck, nightly, in close neighborhood,
throughout the voyage. Neither spoke much; but they
grew silently together. If Don Philip showed himself wakeful
and restless, and strode the deck at times throughout the night,
the boy watched him the while, and sometimes followed his
footsteps; though always at a distance. Gradually, this distance
lessened between them. The page followed close his master.
Voyagers in a frail barque, upon the lonely wastes of ocean,
rarely observe the restraining barriers which keep the souls of
men apart on shore; and the devotion of the boy, his silent
watchfulness, his unobtrusive attention, at length, won the
knight's regard; and he called him to his side in frequent remark;
and he bade him observe the stars; and he called them
by their several names; and taught him their uses to the mariner;
and he discoursed of the winds; of their mysterious birth
and origin: how some of them were gracious, always, in regard
to the seaman; how others brought poison to the atmosphere.
Then he spoke of the new wild world of the Apalachian to which
they were approaching, and of which Vasconselos taught the
page many strange things; all of which he had learned from his
own experience, in the famous adventure which he had pursued
along with Cabeza de Vaca on his famous expedition; — thus
teaching his young companion various matters of which one so
young and untutored could not be expected to know. And the
boy reverently listened, and loved to listen, though in sooth, he
knew much more of these things than the good knight supposed,
and had enjoyed much better sources of knowledge than might
beseem his present position. Of this Philip de Vasconselos had
no conjecture, though he could see that the page was by no
means an ordinary boy; was quick to conceive, and to apprehend;
and when he replied, did so shrewishly, and with an intelligence
and thought as much beyond his apparent age, as beyond
his situation and race. But, it was in the delicate sensibilities of
Juan, that the knight took most interest. Now, these sensibilities
of youth do not declare themselves usually in words, or in
ordinary fashion. Where the heart feels quickly, and the emotions
wait ever in readiness for the summons, words are not
always present to serve the wants or wishes of the superior endowment.
This must show itself to the eye and mind of him
who would understand and love it; and it requires, accordingly,

mind and eye, capable of reading a very subtle, profound and mysterious
language. Now the secret of this capacity is to be found
only in very active susceptibilities, on the part of him who reads.
His open sensibilities must be keen and watchful; he must
possess a gentle spirit at the core: he must have loved and
suffered; must still love and suffer; must be full of pity and
sorrow, though he speaks little and doth not complain; and
there must be a rare delicacy of sentiment in his soul, so that
there shall be no change in the aspect of the other whom he seeks
or esteems, however slight, that he shall not see, and comprehend
at a single glance. Nor wants he to see, except to be solicitous;
nor comprehend that he may slight. It is enough, here to say,
that these conditions, by which kindred spirits seek, meet, and
link themselves with one another, were all found in the respect
of Don Philip and the boy Juan; so that a look, a tone, a gesture,
of one or the other, did not fail to make itself fully understood
by both, and to command at the same time the most
genial sympathy. And it shall be no long time, after such is
found to be the case between two such parties, when it will be
impossible to maintain cold barriers of society, keeping them
separate; when the two hearts shall so yearn for the close communion,
that the mind shall forget all the distinctions of men
on land, and there shall be a gentle law controlling both, which
shall do away utterly with all common usages of constraint,
substituting others of a finer fabric, more subtle, apparent, and
not less strong; which shall grow out of veneration and sympathy.
Thus it was that Philip de Vasconselos soon learned—
even in that short voyage—to love the boy, Juan, as a boy of
truly loyal and devout soul; as of tender and sweet sympathies;
and of tastes so delicate, as equally to confound the knight at
their possession by one of his sex and race. The boy, on the
other hand, might be supposed to love the knight because of his
justice, his noble purpose and princely thoughts; his great courage
and skill in arms; his graceful carriage; and for all that was
manly and great in his character. It might be that, had Philip
been of the other sex, these traits would have proved less imposing
in the estimation of the page! But it matters little as to
what were the causes, respectively working, by which the two
gradually grew to be so well attached to each other. Enough,
that such is the fact, and that they held frequent communion.
With whom else should Philip commune? Never was noble
knight more desolate of soul, and lone of place, than he. Often
did the eyes of Philip rest searchingly upon the bronze features
of the boy, with a curious and tender interest. It seemed to
him that the features which he perused, were such as had been
known to him before; that they were, in some sort, precious to
his memory, as they were grateful to his sight. At such moments,
the eyes of the page would be cast down, and the
knight fancied that there was an expression of emotion, in his
countenance, amounting to compassion, when he was conscious
of this silent study. But Philip spoke nothing of the thoughts
which this conduct occasioned: yet he did not the less continue
to examine the features of the youth; and he found a strange secret
pleasure in this study. Nor did he, because of the study,
continue the less to teach, and to commune with the young
mind which he was pleased to instruct. And thus it happened
that the two scarcely sought, or found, much communion with
any others of the ship. The boy knew none, of all in the army,
but Philip, and he, with few friends in the expedition, had, as it
happened, none of them in the same vessel with himself. Nuno
de Tobar, his only close associate in Cuba, and his own brother
Andres, had both been taken on board the same barque which
bore the Adelantado and Don Balthazar de Alvaro.

The expedition, according to one of the accounts, had set sail
from Havana on the 12th of May, 1539; other authorities say
the 18th of the same month. In all probability the latter was
the true date. The fleet, in safety, reached the coast of Florida
on the 25th, being seven days at sea. But whether it sailed on
the 12th or 18th, in either case, the voyage had not been a long
one, for that period, in those capricious seas,—and in that season
of the year. The fleet entered the Bay of Tampa, to which
De Soto gave the name of Espiritu Santo. The soul of the
Adelantado was greatly lifted at the success of the voyage,—
all his ships arriving in good order, and at the same time;—and
at the noble display of his armament on the shores of the Apalachian.
Never before had so splendid an army been sent from
the old world to the new. It consisted of no less than a thousand
men, of whom three hundred and fifty were cavaliers on horseback.
These were, many of them, of the noblest families of Castile.
The knights were provided with helmets, and cuirasses, and
shields, and steel armor; armed with swords of the best temper,
and with well-tried lances of Biscay; a complete and admirable
equipment. The great body of the troops wore coats of escaupil,
a sort of thick buff coats, wadded with cotton, the better to resist
the fearful arrows of the red men. They were armed with arquebus
or crossbow, and carried with them a single piece of artillery.
Fleet greyhounds were provided to run down the fugitives,
and well-trained bloodhounds were held in leash, to do

good duty in the thickest of the fight,—to rend or devour the
naked savages, upon whom they had been taught to feed. The
chivalry of that day found nothing inhuman in the use of such an
agency in war. But, as mere conquest were nothing without
taking heed to its acquisitions, workmen, and the necessary apparatus,
were carried, for the purpose of smelting and refining the
precious metals which they confidently expected to find. Nor
were the chains, handcuffs, and collars of iron, forgotten, by which
their captives were to be secured, in order to be shipped safely
to the plantations of the Cuban. Droves of cattle, mules, and
hogs, constituted a more benevolent provision, made for the wants
of the expedition, when it should reach the country, where the
hogs and cattle were to be let go free.

Accustomed to the easy conquest of such feeble tribes as the
Peruvian, De Soto felt that such an armament, so far surpassing
those of Cortez and Pizarro, was quite equal to the conquest over
the whole country of the Apalachian. Never a doubt of this
result crossed the mind of the haughty Adelantado, and he made
instant preparations for throwing a body of troops on shore, and
taking possession of the territory in the name of his monarch,
the Emperor, Charles the Fifth. The wealthy knight, Vasco
Porcallos, claimed the high honor of leading this party, and performing
this act of sovereignty; and the privilege was conceded
him. He was to have the command of a force of three thousand
men, being, in fact, all those who could be prepared for disembarkation
during that day. The shipping, meanwhile, were gradually
warping in shore, a performance not so easy on account of
the rapid shoaling of the water, and for which they had to depend
upon the tides. Meanwhile, more for the purposes of solemnity
and state, than because he felt the need to be taught anything, the
Adelantado called a council of his chief officers. Philip de Vasconselos
was invited to this conference. He, by the way, had been
one of those designated to land with Vasco Porcallos, the better
that he might act as interpreter, should there be any meeting with
the red men. With regard to this sort of service, De Soto now
more than ever felt the importance of having one with him who
not only had some knowledge of the country, but who could thus
become a medium of communication with its people. Though
still a little too lofty and reserved towards our knight of Portugal,
he yet descended somewhat from his pride of place in order
to solicit him. He had already distinguished him by the request,
that he would serve about his person as one of his Lieutenants,—
a request which the other had no motive to refuse; and he cheerfully
consented to disembark among the first with Vasco Porcallos.

His first counsel to the Adelantado, and the other chiefs,
was that every step should be taken with great circumspection;
that there should be horse patrols on every side; that the most
unrelaxing watchfulness should be required of every sentinel;
that the troops should sleep in their armor, and have their weapons
constantly at hand.

“These Apalachians, Señores,” said he, “are a fierce and fearless
race; they are no such feeble and timid people, as those of
Cuba and Peru. They love the fight with a passion which prefers
it as their best delight. They ask no mercy, and they accord
none. It will need all our valor and prudence, and we shall triumph
rather less through our valor, than our modes of delivering
battle,—the peculiarity of our weapons,—the terrors inspired
by our arquebuses,—which shall seem to the savages no
less than thunder and swords of the subtle lightning; and the
awe with which they shall behold our horses; to them so many
unknown and devouring monsters; which they shall endeavor to
escape in vain, and whose speed shall mock their own fleetness
of foot; which, compared with that of other men, is truly marvellous!”

The Adelantado smiled rather contemptuously at this counsel,
having, as he thought, sufficient experience himself, in warfare
with the red men, to know what precautions to take, and how to
manage the encounter with the enemy.

“Truly, we are thankful for your zeal and wisdom, Don Philip,
though with some experience of our own, in the warfare with the
heathen, and some small reputation gained in other wars, it might
be held reasonable to suppose that I should omit none of the
precautions which are needful to the safety of my followers when
embarking on the shores of the Floridian.”

There was no pique in the tone or manner of our knight of
Portugal, as he replied calmly:

“Your Excellency says rightly, and I were greatly deserving
of rebuke, had I designed to cast a doubt upon your perfect sufficiency
for the toils of war in any land: but I meant nothing more
than a general warning that the circumspection which would suffice
against an ordinary race, will hardly be adequate for security
against this of the Apalachian, whose subtleties far exceed
those of all other races of red men, and who are as valiant in
perilling their persons as they are ingenious in their warlike devices.”

With this apologetic speech, he paused, seeing that he spoke to
an unwilling auditory. The Adelantado addressed his council
without giving the slightest heed to what had been urged by the

knight of Portugal; and the latter, shrugging his shoulders, consoled
himself with the reflection, that the lesson which he strove
in vain to enforce, would probably be taught, though at a greater
cost to his hearers, by the Apalachian himself.

“The experience which tutors pride to a just humility,” he
mused within himself, “is perhaps, the best sort of lessoning;
and he who would succeed, when the warfare is somewhat with
his own vanity, cannot be saved from the punishment which follows
close upon its indulgence. It is well, perhaps, that he will
not hear, since it is only right that he should be made to feel;
and our safety and success, perhaps, must equally depend upon
our being made to feel, at the beginning of the adventure, rather
than at a later time, when we are too deeply engaged in it. But,
so sure as there are Fates, Hernando de Soto will be certain
to receive his lesson before he hath gone very deeply into his
books.”

The conference,—such as it was—where there could be no
dissent and no deliberation,—was soon at an end. De Soto
simply detailed his plans at length, and gave his order for the
disembarkation, the conduct of which was entrusted to the
wealthy Don Vasco Porcallos; and never was ambitious mortal
more eager than he to set forth on his adventures. His appetites
for gold and captives had been growing with every league
of progress which he had made on the watery waste, and still
less than the Adelantado was he prepared to apprehend the possibility
of failure or reverse of any sort in his present frame of
mind. He dreamed only of riding down myriads of naked and
panic-stricken savages, selecting the most vigorous captives and
spearing the rest. But Vasconselos better knew the danger, and
hence the duty. He knew they were not to triumph without
hard fighting, great firmness, and constant caution.

Scarcely had the vessels appeared in sight of the coasts, than
the balefires smoked on all the heights and tumuli that lined the
shore, attesting the watch and vigilance of the Floridians. These
were signals of danger, and announced to the warriors in the interior
to gather from all quarters. Philip pointed out these signals
to the page. “See you, Juan,” said he,—“already the red
men have taken alarm. Those smokes that rise every where in
sight, will kindle other smokes, which shall give warning to all
the separate tribes. They will fire piles throughout the mighty
forests, until the answering smokes shall ascend from the great
mountains of the Apalachian. Where a people are thus vigilant
to note and prepare for the first dangers of invasion, they are
warlike; they will fight famously; they will give us work to

do, and task equally our skill and valor. So, be you watchful
always, my boy, that you be not at any time surprised. In a
counry of deep forests, and great swarded meadows, such as we
shall here encounter, filled with races of fearless hunters, there is
no moment secure from danger; there is scarcely a position safe
against surprise. One lies down never at night, without the apprehension
that he shall suddenly be summoned by the deathly
whoops of the savage, to face the danger in the dark. It needs to
sleep always, lance or sword in hand, and with one eye and one
ear ever open to sights and sounds of most terrible import. Be
watchful, as you shall behold me ever; and be sure that you
cling closely to my footsteps, when the work of death begins.”

Could the good knight, at this moment, have felt the quick,
deep beatings of the boy's heart; could he have seen the tremulous
quiver of his lips; could he have conjectured what emotions,
strange and oppressive, all crowded for utterance in that young
bosom;—all, however, kept down by a will that was perfectly
wonderful, in so young a frame! But the eyes of Philip were
scarcely set upon the boy as he addressed him. He spoke while
they were both busy, preparing their equipments, and getting in
readiness to obey the command to disembark. It was with prodigious
effort that the boy controlled his emotions sufficiently to
speak.

“And are we, even now, to land upon the shores of the Apalachian,
Señor?”

“Within the hour, Juan, a party of three hundred men, commanded
by Don Vasco Porcallos, will take possession of the
country in the name of the Emperor, and I am to accompany
him, as interpreter of the speech of the red man, should we
happen to meet with any of his race. But he will be more apt
to speak through his darts and arrows, than with civil tongue;
and now I think of it, Juan, it is perhaps needless that you
should go with me on shore, until the whole command shall disembark.
You are yet quite young, and had better gather glimpses
of the strife from a distance at first, than be a sharer in one
of which thou hast no experience. Keep thine ears open, and
after midnight thou shalt hear the hellish clamors of the savage
as they howl and rage around our camp. I shall not need thee
in this adventure, for which thou art yet scarcely well fitted.”

The boy's lip quivered, but his words were firmly delivered.

“Señor, when shall I be fitted, if I never begin? Some time
I must begin, and the longer the day is put off, the slower will be
my teaching. I do not fear. I shall be with you, Señor; if you
please, I will go on shore with you to-night.”

“In God's name, boy, have your wish. You say rightly.
There must be a time, when this lesson must be taught, and
learned, and the sooner, as you say, the better. Get on your
escaupil, and see that your weapons are such as will serve to
risk a life upon. Bring them hither, that I may see.”

We must not linger on these details. Suffice it that all parties
were soon prepared for the landing. It was on the last day of
the month of May, soft, serene and sweet, that the gallant Hidalgo,
Don Vasco Porcallos, led the way for his detachment of
three hundred, and took final possession of the soil of the Floridians
in the name of Spain. The solemnity was a very stately
one, but needs not that we describe it. The banner of Castile
was unrolled and elevated in the free air of the Apalachians, and
was planted upon one of the elevations nearest to the shore.
The region was thickly wooded, the forests were all clad in the
freshest verdure of the opening summer; the breeze was charged
with odors from worlds of flowers, the choicest natives of the
country; and a natural delight filled every bosom, and exhilarated
the spirits of the soldiery with an enthusiasm that seemed
already in possession of the fullest successes. In pitching their
camp, Philip de Vasconselos again ventured to give such hints
to Don Vasco, as became his experience and caution. But the
latter was even more sanguine than De Soto, and less heedful;
and the manner in which he received these counsels of the knight
of Portugal, seemed to have been borrowed from that of the
Adelantado on the occasion already shown. He was civilly
scornful, and Vasconselos saw, with chagrin and apprehension,
that the ground chosen for the night was such as would rather
invite and facilitate than discourage from attack. But he could do
no more. He had only to submit, and hope against his fears,
and provide as well as he might, against the emergency that he
anticipated. But lacking all command, with but the single follower,
he a child, inexperienced and evidently tired, what could
be done?

“Come,” said he cheerfully to Juan, “come, my boy, and let
us seek out our quarters. We are limited to a certain precinct,
but this affords choice of sleeping-place, and upon this choice
may rest chance of safety.”

The boy followed in silence. The knight rambled over the
ground assigned for the encampment, and chose a little clump of
wood, which afforded sufficient cover for a small group, yet stood
apart, as it were, from the rest of the forest: affording an interval,
over which the eye could range with tolerable freedom for
some space, and thus note any hostile approaches. To find this particular

spot, Vasconselos made his way to the very verge of the
encampment, but not much farther from the shore than any of
the rest of the detachment. Here he hung his buckler upon a
bough, while, in the rear of the thicket, he secured his steed.
He was one of the few, but seven in number, who had succeeded
in bringing their horses ashore that evening. “The good
knight must love his good steed, and care for him, Juan, as he
values his own life. Help me now to rub him down. Bring
me some of those dried grasses, my boy. His legs are stiffened
by his narrow lodgings, and ship-board, and lack of exercise.
The rope? Hast thou brought it?”

“It is here, Señor.”

“Ah! now this will give him range to feed, yet keep him fast;
but an armful of these young reeds, with their fresh leaves upon
them, will help his appetite. Let us cut them, boy.”

The grass was quickly cut with their machetes, with one of
which each was properly provided, and the soft green cane-tops
were spread before the haltered animal, who fed with eagerness.

“It rejoices the knight's heart to see his charger feed with appetite.
The grateful beast knows what we do for him. He will
be content through the night. Thine own shall be brought ashore
to-morrow, and then, if thou hast never practised these little
toils, thou shalt learn from me. But evermore be careful of thy
steed. In a strange wild country like this, of the Apalachian, if
he fail thee, thou art lost. Never feel thyself at ease until thou
seest him eat and drink with a will; and it were well always to
give him chance to wallow in the sands. A little toil, nightly
taken, ere thou sleep'st thyself, and thy steed sleeps well also;
and thy own conscience is at peace in thy bosom, and thy safety
is so far secure. But remember thy beast, always, if thou
wouldst sleep with a good conscience.”

And thus, as they cared for the wants and comforts of the gallant
destrier, did Vasconselos speak to his page; and the latter
occasionally murmured a sentence in reply or inquiry; but it
was a delightful thing to see how, first, they cared for the animal,
before seeing how they themselves had wants. Juan found a
strange satisfaction, thus employed, the more perhaps, because he
toiled for such a master; and as he passed the rough, dry grasses
of the forest over the animal's sides and thighs, his arms sometimes
crossing with those of the good knight, and their eyes meeting,
and the gentle words of the latter melting into his ears, the
heart of the boy beat with emotions of a singular pleasure, such
as he had seldom felt before. The horse stripped and chafed, and
his furniture hidden away in the thicket at hand, but always convenient,

they selected their own place of repose. The dried
leaves of the forest furnished a sufficient couch; the forest pines
and other trees yielded a goodly shelter. The evening was calm
and grateful. The warm serenity of the season required no
closer lodgings. The most perfect repose prevailed throughout
the forest, and save the clamor made by the troops, not a sound
was to be heard, whether on land or sea. The soldiers dispersed
themselves about the woods, chose their places of repose
as Vasconselos had done, but without any regard to his precautions.
They saw no danger, and apprehended none, as they beheld
no foe, and all was confidence, and all was excitement.

“Surely, Señor,” said Juan, “these quiet woods harbor no
enemies.”

“It is in the quiet seas, Juan, that the shark prevails. In the
tempest he retires to his ocean caverns. The wolf prowls in the
stillness of the night. The adder is a great traveller in the dark
hours. It is because these forests are so quiet now, that I feel
there are enemies at hand. But let us sup ere we speak of them,
lest we forfeit something of appetite. Where is thy wallet?”

It was produced. The page displayed its contents, and stood
in waiting.

“Sit, boy, and eat with me. Thou art my companion, child,
not slave. Sit!”

With a strange tremor in his limbs, and vacant look which
did not escape the eye of Philip, the boy took his seat before
him, but scarcely nigh. This emotion the knight ascribed to
the humility of the page. He strove to soothe this by condescension,
by the utmost gentleness of manner and fondness of
discourse; but the effect was not such as he expected—not just
then, at least.

“Time will wear off these fears,” said the knight to himself, as
he broke the bread and passed it to the boy.

“Eat, Juan! Thou wilt need to learn how to eat and sleep at
all seasons; if thou wouldst become a soldier. We shall have
to wake and fight, when it shall not please us, the summons; and
shall not be summoned to our food always, or our sleep, when
most the appetite shall call for both.”

When they had supped, Philip said—

“Now, Juan, thou wilt watch while I sleep. I will take advantage
of the early hours of the night, when the red man seldom
prowls or strikes, and in the middle of it, I will wake, or thou
shalt waken me, that I may take thy place as watcher for the rest
of the night. See, from this place, where we both lie concealed,
you are enabled to note all that happens around you for some

distance. You will observe who approaches; note all things that
seem unwonted; and arouse me instantly. Do not trust to your
own courage, or weapon, wholly, if it need that any thing be
done! See, on every side but one, lies the encampment. On
the left, the interval is open which separates us from the denser
forest. From that quarter the danger may arise. Watch that
well! Behind us, at a little distance, is the sea; in which, with
a few fleet bounds, we may bury our forms from an enemy, and
be within speech and succor from the ships. Thou canst watch
for three goodly hours, without feeling the heavy weight of sleep
upon thee. That time over, I shall surely rise to relieve thee,
and should I not, do thou then awaken me.”

Without further speech, Philip de Vasconselos, in his armor,
as he stood, threw himself at length at the foot of the great tree.
His hand grasped his sword, which he had unstrapped from his
shoulders. It was not long before he slept; for he was one of
those to whom the experience of such a life had taught the wisdom
of securing and encouraging the blessings of sleep whenever
he could, knowing, as he had said to Juan, that the summons
to arouse for battle might come at any moment in a savage
country, and might not always please the sleeper; and he possessed
the faculty of commanding sleep at almost any moment.

He slept; and gradually the boy drew nearer, crawling softly,
to the head of the knight, whose face was turned upon the side
opposite. But with this scarcely audible movement, Philip
showed himself restless. The boy receded, and gathering up his
cross-bow, raised it to the level of the eye, and ranged it from
side to side, upon the open spaces between the trees in front.
The stars shone very brightly, and in that region served to reveal
objects of small size at considerable distance. Juan meditated
within himself very seriously the question:

“What if some red warrior should suddenly appear?”

His heart beat with quickened pulses, as he asked the question.

“Should I have the strength, the courage, the confidence to
shoot?—But he bade me not! I was to awaken him. I was to
watch only, and report the danger.”

He laid the bow aside, and once more crept closely to the
sleeping cavalier. The face of Philip was still averted. But
the boy did not seem anxious to gaze upon it. His object appeared
to be attained when he was beside him. There he sate,
quietly, his eyes looking out with sufficient watchfulness, intent
enough, but with a sense wandering in quite other fields of survey.
With hands clasped upon his lap, he yielded himself up to

fancies, dreaming and delicious, yet so touched with a peculiar
sadness, that the bitter predominated over the sweet, and the big
tears might be seen, moulding themselves into melancholy jewels
in the starlight, rounding themselves gradually upon his cheek,
and dropping one by one, as they grew to brilliants. The hours
swam along with the stars, and the stars waned in their silent
progress for the blessing of other eyes, and the eyes of Juan
drooped at last with the heaviness upon them. He strove to
shake off the drowsiness which he felt; but there was something
in that foreign atmosphere which could not be withstood, and
while he strove to range along the barrel of the cross-bow,
(which he had taken up with some vague notion that it would
keep him wakeful,) over the intervals which spread between him
and the gloomy shadows of the wood which he had been especially
enjoined to watch;—it seemed to him as if the wood itself
were swimming, like waves of the sea, and as if the stars
descended to the plain, only to ascend once more; to and fro;
upward and downward and onward, till all things appeared to
mix and mingle in his sight. Then suddenly, he started, with a
strange confusion, as he fancied he heard the voice of Don Philip.
This, for a moment, aroused him; but looking down, he saw
Don Philip still sleeping; and, satisfied to see thus, he was conscious
of little more after this for some time, though he might
have been just as watchful as before. But very soon after this,
Don Philip really awakened. He found the boy fast asleep, with
his arm thrown over his neck. He gently unloosed it, and rose.

“Poor boy!” said the knight—“Thou hast taken on thee a
perilous labor, which thy slight figure will scarce endure. But
sleep, and I will watch thee. I could wish thee stronger, for my
sake, no less than thine; for verily, of all this host, I have now
none but thee!” After a pause—“And there is that about the
child which binds me to him; which makes me love him almost!
Wherefore? It is because I am alone! It is because the nature
of the strong man requires a charge, a trust, a burden, so that
his strength shall be healthfully at exercise; so that his muscles
shall not shrink, lacking due employment! Well! I will protect
and help him so long as I can help any thing, and then—but
why look into the vast vacancy of that dark realm of the future,
in which no flower shall ever grow for me?”

He rose suddenly, as if startled; seized his sword, buckled it
to his side, and caught up the cross-bow of the page. He stole
forward a few paces, and seemed to listen; then returned to his
place, and laid the bow again by the side of the sleeping Juan.
His next attentions were bestowed upon his steed. The beast

had eaten plentifully, and now slept; but raised his head, and
seemed to recognize his master as he drew nigh. Philip patted
his neck affectionately, then bade him rise, and proceeded with
the utmost care and silence to put on his war harness, his saddle
and bridle, and have him in readiness for instant use. But he
did not loose the animal; simply shortened his halter that he
might not again lie down. Meanwhile, every thing was still as
death in the encampment. Philip saw no sentinels; heard no
guards relieved; knew nothing of the cautionary steps which
Don Vasco Porcallos might be supposed to have taken. The
night was lapsing towards the dawn. This he felt in the coolness
of the atmosphere. He stole cautiously out to the edge of the
wood in his quarter of the camp, and looked to the black range
of the forest beyond. Nothing was stirring, not a leaf seemed
to be disturbed, in the cold thin air of the morning.

“Well,” said he, as he returned to where he left the boy
sleeping, “it may be that we shall escape to-night. The savages,
perhaps, have not yet had time for a gathering of their warriors.
They would otherwise have never suffered the night to pass,
without giving us a taste of battle. I know them of old; fierce,
restless, impatient, fearless: cunning as valiant; and never relenting
in their purposes. We shall enough of them yet, though we
escape them now.”

He returned to his late resting-place. Juan was still bound
fast in the embrace of sleep. He threw himself beside the boy,
and in the imperfect light of the stars, which looked down
through the openings of the trees, he steadily perused his features.
In this examination the interest of the knight appeared to
be very great, and the study seemed to sadden him. But the
bronze features, in the imperfect starlight, revealed nothing. The
face was sweet and girlish, and the face, if fair, might be counted
beautiful. So the musing knight thought, during the long
watch of hours which he maintained beside the unconscious boy.
But he was not suffered to continue the unembarrassed study, until
the better light of the morning should enable him to persue
the intelligible features. He fancied that he heard unwonted
sounds; a stick was broken in the woods. His steed whinnied.
There was an interruption of the silence which he could not define,
and seizing his sword, he rose to his feet, and quietly stole
away to where his steed was fastened.

Meanwhile, Juan slept on, never once conjecturing aught of
the sad and silent watch which the good knight had kept above
him. But he was awakened rudely from his dream. At that
moment, Vasconselos heard a cry, that sounded in his ears like

the voice of a woman. It appeared also to proceed from the spot
where Juan had been left sleeping. He, by this time, had ventured
out again to the edge of the wood, and was looking over
the intervening space towards the dark forests lying beyond.
The cry alarmed him; though it bore no resemblance to the
usual whoop of Indian battle. It might be that some wild
beast had found his way to where the boy slept—the panther's cry
is like that of a child or girl,—and, with excited pulses, and
the blood rapidly coursing through his veins, Philip darted back
to the place where the boy was left. He reached the spot just
in time to discover two dark forms,—clearly men,—who were
drawing Juan away to the thickets. He readily divined the
purpose in the action. Again a shriek: and this time he knew
it for the boy's; but so full of a feminine terror, that his heart
sickened as he thought of the strange simplicity and ignorance
which had prompted one so feeble to venture upon an enterprise
so perilous. He thought and felt thus, even in that moment of
alarm. He saw that the boy struggled, and he further saw that
the dusky forms, by whom he had been seized, were brandishing,
each, a heavy mace above his head. There was no time for
further thought, or for hesitation. To dart forward, and with a
single stroke of his keen sword, to smite down one of the assailants;
to grasp the other by the throat and tear him from the
boy, then, as he staggered back, to run him through the body,
—was the work of a few moments. The two savages lay at his
feet in the agonies of death. The boy staggered, gasping, towards
him, an hysterical sob only breaking from his lips. With a stern
voice, the knight said:—

“Seize thy cross-bow, Juan, and collect thyself. This is no
time for fears. The Apalachian is on us.”

To confirm his words, at that very instant, the wild yells of
the savages rose up in all quarters of the encampment. The
Spaniards struggled out of sleep only to encounter their enemies.
The sentinels had slept. Few were awake. The surprise was
complete.

“Follow me,” cried Philip to the boy, and his stern accents,
by enforcing obedience, in some degree disarmed Juan of his
terrors; at all events, he obeyed. He followed by instinct, cross-bow
in hand, and was at the side of the knight as the latter
leaped upon his steed.

“Up with thee, behind me, boy—we have not a moment.”

And the light form, assisted by the powerful arm of Philip,
sprang at once upon the steed. The spur was instantly driven
into the beast's sides, and he was made to go! The wild rush,

the monstrous form, the gigantic bulk, of the animal, made its
impression. A hundred naked savages darted out of the wood
through which he went, and fled before his path. The knight
shouted aloud, in the language of Castile; then blew a wild flourish
upon his bugle, and joyed to hear the answers of the Spaniards
from sundry quarters. Vasco Porcallos was soon on horseback,
for though vain as a peacock, and pursy as an alderman,
he had the blood and energy of a true cavalier. The other five
troopers were soon in saddle, and, charging among the red men,
now yelling and darting amidst the forests, in the doubtful light
of morning, they soon changed the character of the event. But,
until this demonstration of the knights on horseback, the affair
was seriously against the whites. The Spaniards had been
not only surprised, but fairly routed. Started out of their profoundest
sleep, they had made but little opposition to the savages.
They fled in tumultuous confusion to the sea-side, clamoring for
succor to the ships. Many of these were wounded; all would
have perished, but for the spirited charge of the knights on
horseback, and the strange terrors occasioned by the horses,
animals whom the red men had never seen before. The savages
disappeared in the forests, as soon as they found themselves
seriously resisted, almost as swiftly and suddenly as they had
appeared. Vasco Porcallos was greatly delighted with this, his first
essay in arms against the Floridian. But, even while he boasted
of his prowess, his noble steed fell suddenly dead beneath him,
slain by an arrow which had buried itself out of sight in his
body. When they reached the shore, the red men all dispersed,
and the troops issuing in boats with drum and trumpet from the
shipping, Juan slipped, from behind Philip de Vasconselos, upon
the ground.

“Art thou hurt, boy?” demanded the knight.

“No, Señor, thanks to your care, I have no hurt.”

“But thou tremblest still, Juan.”

“Yes, Señor, but it is not now with fear. I think I shall never
be afraid again.”

“Ay, boy, thou hast tasted of the strife. Many a warrior who
grew famous afterwards, has felt the terrors of thy heart, Juan.
But I had never forgiven myself hadst thou been slain. I
but left thee for a moment, and thou seest how these cunning
savages came upon thee. I had watched thee for two goodly
hours as thou slept'st, and fancied we should hear nothing of
them.”

“Alas! Señor, thou left'st me to watch, and I slept. I knew

not that I slept. I knew not when mine eyes closed, and I knew
not of thy awakening.”

“I had too much tasked thee, Juan,” answered the knight gently.
“Thou slept'st ere I awakened. It was thy arm falling over my
neck that awakened me.”

“My arm over thy neck, Señor! Oh! what have I done?”
and the boy hung his head.

“Foolish boy, and where is thy offence in this?”

But the boy turned away without speaking, and little did Philip
fancy how wildly the tides were rising and falling in his bosom.