“In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay,
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;
But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o’er his mind.”

“And how the sprites of injured men
Shriek upward from the sod;
Ay! how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts
Are seen in dreams from God!”

In a great square room, standing, as usual, on cocoa-nut stilts, which had once been used for a billiard-room, were half a dozen iron-framed cots, ranged along the walls, in which some of the Escondido’s guests were to bivouac. Every thing, however, was tidy and comfortable; snow-white bedclothes and gauze musquito nets, lots of napkins and ewers, and things for bathing behind a screen of dimity curtains; and not forgetting a large table––vice the billiard-table––in the centre, on which stood plenty of sugar and limes, cinnamon and nutmeg, bottles and flasks, red and white, and––very little water, in jugs.

The occupants of this bivouac had turned in, and the lights had been doused. Conversation, however, was kept up, especially by the thin little voice of Mr. Mouse, who, having enjoyed a nap in the early evening, and having been danced and tumbled about on the trip to the lodge by Harry Darcantel, who was in tiptop condition, the reefer was as wide awake as a blackfish. Don Stingo chanted a few convivial airs and snored; so did Jacob Blunt, with a spluttering groan intermixed; and Paddy Burns fell off into a doze, saying blasphemous words addressed to the world at large, with a mutter against the military, hoping he might look at a Bolivian patriot edgewise with a friend and companion of his, Mr. Joe Manton, at his side; he would put an end to any more lies about charges of cavalry, and cutting out frigates in Callao Bay. That Paddy Burns would, though he didn’t wear a wig and a large sapphire on the only finger he had left on his left hand, and with a diamond snuff-box, too! Presented to you by a connection of your family, was it? Take a pinch out of 248 it? D–– him, no! Begorra, the snuff is not Lundy Foot’s, and the box is brass, sir, brass!

“I say, Mouse, keep quiet, will you, and let me go to sleep!” Harry Darcantel did not think of going to sleep; that was a fib he told the reefer; he wanted merely to shut his eyes and dream of––you know who––a tall, graceful girl with blue eyes and light hair, who looked at him once or twice such looks that there was no sleep for him for ever so long. What did she say? Why, she never opened her pouting lips to show those even pearly teeth. She only looked out of those soft blue eyes. That was all!

“Mr. Darcantel, I think of getting married.”

“The d–– you do! And who to, pray?”

“Why,” said Mr. Mouse, as he rolled over and kicked the sheet off his slate-pencil built legs, “I haven’t made up my mind; but do you know that that pretty girl up there at the big house has taken quite a fancy to me, and when you were presented to her mother she gave me such a squeeze of the hand! Oh my!”

Here Mr. Mouse’s narrative was cut short by a pillow hitting him plump on the mouth, clean through his musquito net.

“Very charming young lady, Mr. Mouse,” said a quiet voice, in a cool tone, on the other side of him; “she did seem to take a violent fancy to you.”

Mr. Mouse rolled over, and then, sitting up in his cot, replied, “Yes, sir! and that was her mother sitting by you when the big nigger in white capsized the wine over your sleeve, and nearly pulled your a––hair off.”