ranean dungeons of the Morro
Castle; not the Havana Morro, but the fortress at Santiago de Cuba,
alluded to by Tom Cringle.

Why are we here?

What were we doing yesterday afternoon?

Well; we were taking a seven miles walk to the Morro Castle, the
picturesque neighbourhood of which we had not yet visited, and as the
grounds attached to the fortress are always open to the public, we
proposed a quiet evening saunter over them.

We had a negro with us, an old and faithful vassal, who at the present
moment is enjoying solitary confinement in another part of the fortress.
We reached the castle grounds, where a group of Spanish 'militares' were
seated. We gave them the 'Buenas tardes:' they returned our salute, and
their chief, who was no less a personage than the commandant of the
Morro, offered us refreshment, and permitted us to wander about the
grounds. In our ramble we paused here and there to admire the
picturesque 'bits' of scenery which, at every turn of a winding road,
broke upon our view. By a narrow path cut in the grey rock we descended
to the sea-shore, and stood before the entrance of the Cuban harbour. We
watched the French packet as she steamed into port on her way to the
town, and saw the gun fired which announced her arrival. The steamer was
so near, that we could scan the faces of everybody on board, and hear
enthusiastic congratulations on their safe arrival after their tedious
voyage. The skipper conferred with the Morro guard. What was the ship's
name? Where did she hail from? Who was her captain? Where was she bound
for? A needless demand, I thought, seeing that there is no water
navigable beyond the town; but it was in strict conformity with Spanish
regulations.

As evening advanced, we prepared to return to our temporary home, where
a good dinner doubtless awaited us, with a cup of cafe noir to follow,
and correspondence--ah! my friends never missed a mail--to open and to
devour.

'Alto alla!' The ominous command to halt where we stood, still rings in
my ear. A party of soldiers, with pointed muskets and fixed bayonets,
ran with all speed in our direction.

'Car-amba!' Were we the object of their precipitation? We were!

They conducted us to an eminence, where stood a podgy, high-shouldered,
short-necked man with a squeaky interrogative voice and gold spectacles.
This was the commandant. Without explanation, that officer, in brief
words, ordered us to be arrested.

The soldiers obeyed. Th