its kings the rattlesnake
and viper. Nor naked Indian nor mailed white man might traverse that
thicket, where wall on wall was met a spiked and iron growth. One
opening there was, through which ran the road to the town, but a battery
deemed impregnable commanded this approach, forming an effectual clasp
for that strong cestus which the fecund, supple, and heated land made
possible to all Spanish fortifications. Beyond the tunal the naked
hillside fell steeply to a narrow plain, all patched with golden
flowers, and from this yellow carpet writhed tall cacti, fantastic as
trees seen in a dream. Upon the plain, pearl pink in the sunset light,
huddled the town. Palm-trees and tamarinds overhung it; palm-trees,
mimosas, and mangroves marked the course of a limpid river. Above the
battery at the river's mouth drooped a red cross in a white field.
Caravels there were none in the road, but riding there, close inshore,
the four ships that had sunk the caravels and silenced the battery.

High in the air of evening, blown from the town, a trumpet sounded. De
Guardiola ground his teeth, for that jubilant silver calling was not for
San Jago, but St. George. The notes gathered every memory of the past
few days and pressed them upon him in one cup of chagrin. The caravels
were gone, the battery at the Bocca gone, the town surrendered to these
English dogs who now daily bared their teeth to the fortress itself. De
Guardiola admitted the menace, knew from experience in the Low
Countries that this breed of the North sprang strongly, held firmly.
"Hounds of hell!" he muttered. "Where is the fleet from Cartagena?"

The tropic ocean answered not, and the words of the wind were
unintelligible. The sun dropped lower; the plain appeared to move, to
roll and welter in the heated air and yellow light. Tall starvelings,
the cacti spread their arms; from a mimosa wood arose a cloud of
vultures; it was the hour of the Angelus, but no bells rang in the
churches of the town. The town sat in fear, shrinking into corners from
its cup of trembling. "Ransom!" cried the English from their ships and
from their quarters in the square. "Pay us ransom, or we burn and
destroy!" "Mother of God!" wailed Nueva Cordoba. "Why ask but fifty
thousand ducats? As easy to give you the revenue of all the Indies!
Moreover, every peso is housed in the fortress. Day before yesterday we
carried there--oh, senors, not our wealth, but our poverty!" Quoth the
English: "What ha