THE PATRIOT CACIQUE HATUEY.
The march back to the Cuban seat of government was made more rapidly than the march out had been. Then, all had been gaiety and brightness. A band of picked men under a favourite and joyous-natured leader, peace and good-will for their motto, and friendly natives hovering ever around them as they journeyed, to turn each day into one of pleasant feastings.
Now the leader had but stern, grief-stricken eyes to turn upon those under his command, and the men walked on bowed with a sense of well-merited disgrace. Few and far between were the offerings made to them now, and those were bestowed with trembling hands, and countenances marked by abject terror. None of the circumstances of the homeward way tempted the explorers to linger.
But full as was the generous-hearted Montoro's cup of sorrow, it was not yet so full but that it was to be called upon to hold more, even to overflowing.
The shadows of the marching men were beginning to lengthen as they moved along, as though the shades had learnt the art of deception with each hour of the growing day, and wished to startle the whole race of earth's crawlers, beetles, snakes, worms, and their fellows, with the semblance of an oncoming race of giants. The air was full of humming insects, quivering heat, and the rich scent of leaves and flowers.
The Spaniards stepped onwards slowly. They were near the end of their journey now, and their eyes were tired with gazing at that
"Landscape winking through the heat."
A hot shimmer over all things, such as Tennyson had never seen when he wrote a line which almost makes one feel warm even on a cold winter's day.
Montoro was feeling depressed and weary, and sentiments of gladness and regret were pretty equally mingled in his breast as he saw the various roofs close before him of the newly-founded town of St. Jago. But personal sorrow cannot be indulged by leaders.
"Put your best feet forward, my friends," cried Bartholomew Las Casas at this moment. However bitterly he might grieve over recent occurrences, there was still sufficient of the spirit of the commander in him to rebel against the notion of reappearing before Velasquez, Cortes, and the rest of their fellow-adventurers, like a company of whipped dogs; but he need not have troubled himself, for an event was taking place at that hour in St. Jago that absorbed all interests.