lling such, and has seen Indians christened too in the Cathedral
Church at Quito, the inside whereof I know well enough, and too well,
for I sat there three mortal hours in a San Benito, to hear a friar
preach his false doctrines, not knowing whether I was to be burnt or not
next day."

So Ayacanora went home to Burrough, and Raleigh the Indian to
Sir Richard's house. The entry of his baptism still stands,
crooked-lettered, in the old parchment register of the Bideford baptisms
for 1587-3:

"Raleigh, a Winganditoian: March 26."

His name occurs once more, a year and a month after:

"Rawly, a Winganditoian, April 1589."

But it is not this time among the baptisms. The free forest wanderer has
pined in vain for his old deer-hunts amid the fragrant cedar woods,
and lazy paddlings through the still lagoons, where water-lilies sleep
beneath the shade of great magnolias, wreathed with clustered vines; and
now he is away to "happier hunting-grounds," and all that is left of
him below sleeps in the narrow town churchyard, blocked in with dingy
houses, whose tenants will never waste a sigh upon the Indian's grave.
There the two entries stand, unto this day; and most pathetic they have
seemed to me; a sort of emblem and first-fruits of the sad fate of that
worn-out Red race, to whom civilization came too late to save, but not
too late to hasten their decay.

But though Amyas lay idle, England did not. That spring saw another and
a larger colony sent out by Raleigh to Virginia, under the charge of one
John White. Raleigh had written more than once, entreating Amyas to take
the command, which if he had done, perhaps the United States had begun
to exist twenty years sooner than they actually did. But his mother had
bound him by a solemn promise (and who can wonder at her for asking, or
at him for giving it?) to wait at home with her twelve months at least.
So, instead of himself, he sent five hundred pounds, which I suppose
are in Virginia (virtually at least) until this day; for they never came
back again to him.

But soon came a sharper trial of Amyas's promise to his mother; and
one which made him, for the first time in his life, moody, peevish, and
restless, at the thought that others were fighting Spaniards, while
he was sitting idle at home. For his whole soul was filling fast with
sullen malice against Don Guzman. He was losing the "single eye," and
his whole body was no longer full of light. He had entered