As Walter waded out of the water he heard several pickets shouting to each other in Spanish. Without waiting for them to come nearer, he dove out of sight in some bushes back of the beach, and then started to walk to a woods still further inland.
So far, the intense excitement had kept him up, but now came the reaction, and he felt as sick as he had while on the Brooklyn. His head began to spin and strange lights flashed before his eyes, while chills crept up and down his backbone. "I reckon I'm in for a spell of sickness, whether I escape or not," he groaned, and reaching the woods, threw himself down under a mahogany tree to rest.
Walter thought he could not sleep, but presently the pain became less and he sank into a troubled slumber. He roused up to find a tall, fine-looking negro shaking him. As soon as he opened his eyes, the negro began to question him in Spanish.
"I can't understand you," said the youth, and shook his head.
"Americano, mistair?" questioned the negro, and Walter nodded. "You come from big fight, maybe?" he went on, brokenly.
"What fight do you mean?"
"Fight down by Morro last night. Spanish sink your ship, maybe, not so?" And the negro laughed.
"Our men did the sinking. But who are you? a Spaniard?"
"No, me Cuban, Carlos Dunetta."
"My name is Walter Russell, but I suppose it might be Smith for all the difference it makes to you," replied Walter, moodily. "What do you intend to do? turn me over to the Spanish authorities?"