ressed,
he said sternly to the officer, "We are in your power, and you may
murder us if you will; but _that_ was my captain four days ago, and you
see at least _he_ was a British officer--satisfy yourself."

The person he addressed, a handsome young Spaniard, shuddered at the
horrible spectacle.

When he saw the crown and anchor, and his Majesty's cipher on the
appointments of the dead officer, he became convinced of our quality,
and changed his tone.

"'Tis true, he is an Englishman. But, gentlemen, were there not three
persons in the hut?"

There were, indeed, and the Indian perished in the flames, making no
attempt to escape.

The officer, who belonged to the army investing Carthagena, now treated
us with great civility; he heard our story, and desired his men to
assist us in burying the remains of our late commander.

We stayed that night with the captain of the outpost, who received us
very civilly at a temporary guard-house, and apologised for the
discomfort under which we must pass the night. He gave us the best he
had, and that was bad enough, both of food and wine, before showing us
into the hut, where we found a rough deal coffin, lying on the very
bench that was to be our bed. This he ordered away with all the coolness
in the world, saying, "It was only one of his people who had died that
morning of yellow fever."

"Comfortable country this," quoth Splinter, "and a pleasant morning we
have had of it, Tom!"

_III.--The Piccaroon_

From the Spanish headquarters at Torrecilla we were allowed to go to the
village of Turbaco, a few miles distant from the city for change of air.

"Why, Peter," said Mr. Splinter, addressing a negro who sat mending his
jacket in one of the enclosures near the water gate of the arsenal,
"don't you know me?"

"Cannot say dat I do," rejoined the negro, very gravely. "Have not de
honour of your acquaintance, sir."

"Confound you, sir! But I know you well enough, my man; and you can
scarcely have forgotten Lieutenant Splinter of the Torch, one would
think?"

The name so startled the poor fellow, that in his hurry to unlace his
legs, as he sat tailor-fashion, he fairly capsized and toppled down on
his nose.

"Eh!--no--yes, him sure enough! And who is de piccaniny hofficer? Oh! I
see, Massa Tom Cringle! Where have you dropped from, gentlemen? Where is
de old Torch? Many a time hab I, Peter Mangrove, pilot to him Britannic
Majesty's squadron, taken de old brig in and