ans, embarked, descended the river,
and put to sea. A fair wind filled their patchwork sails and bore them
from the hated coast. Day after day they held their course, till at length
the favoring breeze died away and a breathless calm fell on the face of
the waters. Florida was far behind; France farther yet before. Floating
idly on the glassy waste, the craft lay motionless. Their supplies gave
out. Twelve kernels of maize a day were each man's portion; then the maize
failed, and they ate their shoes and leather jerkins. The water-barrels
were drained, and they tried to slake their thirst with brine. Several
died, and the rest, giddy with exhaustion and crazed with thirst, were
forced to ceaseless labor, baling out the water that gushed through every
seam. Head-winds set in, increasing to a gale, and the wretched
brigantine, her sails close-reefed, tossed among the savage billows at the
mercy of the storm. A heavy sea rolled down upon her, and threw her on her
side. The surges broke over her, and, clinging with desperate gripe to
spars and cordage, the drenched voyagers gave up all for lost. At length
she righted. The gale subsided, the wind changed, and the crazy,
water-logged vessel again bore slowly towards France.

Gnawed with deadly famine, they counted the leagues of barren ocean that
still stretched before. With haggard, wolfish eyes they gazed on each
other, till a whisper passed from man to man, that one, by his death,
might ransom all the rest. The choice was made. It fell on La Chere, the
same wretched man whom Albert had doomed to starvation on a lonely island,
and whose mind was burdened with the fresh memories of his anguish and
despair. They killed him, and with ravenous avidity portioned out his
flesh. The hideous repast sustained them till the French coast rose in
sight, when, it is said, in a delirium of insane joy, they could no longer
steer their vessel, but let her drift at the will of the tide. A small
English bark bore down upon them, took them all on board, and, after
landing the feeblest, carried the rest prisoners to Queen Elizabeth.

Thus closed another of those scenes of woe whose lurid clouds were thickly
piled around the stormy dawn of American history.

It was but the opening act of a wild and tragic drama. A tempest of
miseries awaited those who essayed to plant the banners of France and of
Calvin in the Southern forests; and the bloody scenes of the religious war
were acted in epitome o