168 WILD SPOKTS IN THE SOUTH. 



coming morn. The young moon had set, and millions of 

 frogs and peepers in the marsli filled the air with their 

 shrill calls, and forewarned the rain that was coming up 

 with the easterly wind. Heavy masses of damp fog 

 rolled in from the sea, and left the palisades of the fort, 

 and the zizanea grass that grew from the water at its side, 

 wet with their soggy breath. It was drawing toward 

 morning. 



" Within the adobe cell of the fort, the condemned 

 man sat on the ground; and if a man's mind is ever 

 occupied with his coming destiny, his must have pictured 

 the approaching execution, of which he was to be the vic- 

 tmi. The stake and the fagot, the red-hot brand, the 

 pricking reed, the scalping-knife, the gauntlet, the jeer 

 and the death-song, had all been familiar to him in his 

 short episode of Indian life. If the southern savage was 

 of gentler mien and comelier appearance ; if his women 

 were fairer in face, and more lustrous in eye, than their 

 more northern tribes, they were in no wise mferior in 

 their ferocity of punishment to their prisoners. Even 

 the Spanish inquisition was not more refined in cruelty. 

 Well might Ortez ponder his death, and mumble long- 

 forgotten fragments of Latin prayers. 



" There was another in the Indian to^s^Ti, who kept 

 vigil that night. 



" Yahchilane, the young, the beautiful daughter of the 

 cacique, who had been loved by many in her tribe before 

 the hated name of Spain was heard — she who had saved 

 the prisoner's life — who had taken him from death to be 



