s, over
which he placed two officers, St. Cler and La Vigne, gave them lanterns
to go the rounds, and an hour-glass to set the time; while he himself,
giddy with weakness and fever, was every night at the guard-room.

It was the night of the nineteenth of September; floods of rain
bedrenched the sentries on the rampart, and as day dawned on the
dripping barracks and deluged parade, the storm increased in violence.
What enemy could have ventured forth on such a night? La Vigne, who had
the watch, took pity on the sentries and on himself, dismissed them, and
went to his quarters. He little knew what mortal energies, urged by
ambition, avarice, bigotry, desperation, will dare and do.

To return to the Spaniards at St. Augustine. On the morning of the
eleventh, the crew of one of their smaller vessels, lying outside the
bar, saw through the twilight of early dawn two of Ribaut's ships close
upon them. Not a breath of air was stirring. There was no escape, and
the Spaniards fell on their knees in supplication to Our Lady of Utrera,
explaining to her that the heretics were upon them, and begging her to
send them a little wind. "Forthwith," says Mendoza, "one would have said
that Our Lady herself came down upon the vessel." A wind sprang up, and
the Spaniards found refuge behind the bar. The returning day showed to
their astonished eyes all the ships of Ribaut, their decks black with
men, hovering off the entrance of the port; but Heaven had them in its
charge, and again they experienced its protecting care. The breeze sent
by Our Lady of Utrera rose to a gale, then to a furious tempest; and the
grateful Adelantado saw through rack and mist the ships of his enemy
tossed wildly among the raging waters as they struggled to gain an
offing. With exultation at his heart the skilful seaman read their
danger, and saw them in his mind's eye dashed to utter wreck among the
sand-bars and breakers of the lee-shore.

A bold thought seized him. He would march overland with five hundred men
and attack Fort Caroline while its defenders were absent. First he
ordered a mass; then he called a council. Doubtless, it was in that
great Indian lodge of Seloy, where he had made his head-quarters; and
here, in this dim and smoky concave, nobles, officers, priests, gathered
at his summons. There were fears and doubts and murmurings, but Menendez
was desperate. Not the mad desperation that strikes wildly and at
random, but the still red heat that mel