Lantejas still remained unconscious; and, when at last he came to his senses, he found himself on land, the branches of tall trees extending over him, through which the wind was whistling with all the fury of a tempest. The rustling of the leaves was the sweetest melody he had ever heard: since it told him he was once more on terra firma—though at the same time the thunder rolling around appeared to shake the foundations of the isle.
On awakening to consciousness, he looked around him. He saw men reclining, or sitting in groups—most of them with arms in their hands. He recognised them as the people of the expedition.
Costal, asleep, was lying upon the ground close at hand.
“Where are we, Costal?” inquired Lantejas, after rousing the Indian from his slumber.
“Where? Por Dios! where should we be, but on the isle of Roqueta?”
“But how did we get ashore?”
“Easily enough, Señor Capitan. We had no opposition to contend against. Not one of the Spanish garrison suspects our presence here; for who would think of sixty men venturing to sea on such a night as this? We shall take the enemy completely by surprise.”
“And what hinders the Marshal from attacking them now?”
“We have not yet found them. We neither know where the fort is, nor where we are ourselves. Don’t you see that the night is as dark as the inside of a cannon, and one can’t make out his finger before him? They’re safe enough while this storm lasts; and, by good luck, so are we.”
It was in truth to the storm that the Mexicans owed their present security. Few in numbers, and ignorant of the locality in which they had landed, an attack by the troops of the garrison might have proved fatal to them. Thanks to the tempestuous character of the night, they had not only found an opportunity of debarking on the isle, but time to mature their plans for assaulting the fort.