The waters of the Caribbean Sea, subject to some
of the wildest vicissitudes that ever sweep the billows
of the western hemisphere, were never more placid
and lovely to the eye than on the morning of the
26th of August, in the year of grace one thousand
five hundred and thirty-two. The exquisite calm of
heaven—that delicious serenity and repose of atmosphere
which seem never so lovely or so perfect as in
those latitudes where the capricious winds may, at any
moment, lash themselves and the ocean into immitigable
fury, and where nothing is long secure against
their violence—appeared to rest, with the bosom of
the halcyon, upon the mighty deeps of sea. The sky
was without a cloud—the breeze, soft and spicy as if
borne fresh, on the very instant, from the aromatic
islands of the east, was gentle without languor, and
just sufficed to waft along, under easy sail, the high-pooped
Spanish bark that might be seen to form, as
it were a natural and becoming portion of the vast

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and beguiling picture. She alone stood up, careering
over the watery waste, relieving its monotonous revels,
and looming out, beyond her natural size, in comparison
with the uniform smoothness of the waters. A
swift and well-built vessel of the time, was the Diana
de Burgos, named after a favorite beauty of old
Spain. She had taxed all the genius of the architect
of that day in her modelling, to do honor to her name-sake.
And he had succeeded—so perfectly succeeded,
that the emulous little bark had already acquired a
peculiar reputation, such as that enjoyed by the Baltimore
clipper of modern periods, for exquisite grace of
air, and unparalleled fleetness of foot. She was the
pride of the waters, and cleft them, or passed over
them, as if endued with all the consciousness of the
young and haughty beauty whose name had not been
taken by her in vain. Of her deeds, of her peculiar
employment, in the western hemisphere, we shall say
nothing. At that wild period, we know very well
what was the usual history in the New World, as well
upon the ocean as the land. “No peace beyond the
line,” was the common proverb of license among the
rovers of all the European nations; and our Diana
de Burgos carried within her graceful girdle all the
requisite resources for deeds of strength and violence.
Her loveliness of model did not conflict with her capacity
for fight; and a single glance upon the swarthy
groups that covered her deck, would satisfy any skeptic,
without farther search, that she had already enjoyed
no inconsiderable experience in the trade of
war. Could her polished decks have spoken out,

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what revelations of blood and terror might they not
have made! But her past history is nothing to us.
It is enough that she still possesses sufficient materials
of interest for a startling and a touching narrative.
At the moment when we ascend her sides—in that
calm and lovely day—in that serene and delicious
atmosphere—with that broad deep ocean, as smooth
as it could well appear, to comport with the necessary
degree of animation which, to form a picture, such a
prospect seems to require, and, at the same time to
disarm every sense of danger in the bosom of the
most apprehensive—we shall find that no such calm
and serenity prevail among her inmates. We discover
them grouped about in small parties along her
deck, here leaning against her masts, there crouched
among bulk and cordage—variously placed in different
attitudes—a hundred sturdy seamen and soldiers,
speaking little—an occasional word or sentence only—
but all looking as if thoroughly informed and anxious
in relation to some matter of evidently increasing interest.
The broken sentences to which we listen—
the half-uttered inquiry, the faltering suggestion have
no meaning for our ears, though clearly of ready comprehension
by all around. Happily, a stir takes
place among them; they rise to their feet—the group
separate; there is a sudden show of restraint, as from
the approach of authority. A word has gone forth
which leads to expectation, and the eagerness, but
partially suppressed, which now, in every visage, follows
prompt upon its former simple look of doubt and
anxiety, may well encourage us to hope for the

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gratification of our own curiosity. Patience, the door of
the cabin is thrown open!

The group which appears within is one to add somewhat
to the interest of expectation. In the foreground
appears a person seated in a chair, one of those
ancient high-backed fabrics used, about that period,
in all European countries which had reached any degree
of civilization. This person is a man of countenance
more striking than impressive. He is, we may
be permitted to say at once, the captain of the Diana—
Don Velasquez de Tornel—a personage, short and
corpulent, with great hands and limbs, a neck thick
and short like that of a bull, and of a face plethoric
and fiery red. His features are dark and fierce, and
marked by the signs of an angry passion, the appearance
of which he seems laboring to suppress. His
eyes are small, intense, and catlike of expression,
keen, vigilant, and cunning. His nose is short and
sharp, his lips thick, and marked, at moments, by a
slight quiver, which betrays the secret emotion. A
thin, but grizzly beard overspreads his chin and cheeks.
He would seem to be a person about fifty years of age—
a man of strifes and violence, of quick and irritable
temper, and of restless, unforgiving moods. His feet
are wrapped in bandages of flannel, and suggest the
true reason why he remains seated at a time when his
thoughts and passions would seem disposed to goad
him into the most eager exercise. Thus seated, he is
wheeled out upon the deck by his attendants; while,
slowly following him, appears a female, whose highly
expressive features and wildly peculiar beauty, make

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her less an object of interest than study. Her person
is small, but highly formed; commanding, from
its ease of carriage, its erectness, the bold defiance in
her eye, and the imperious curling of her lip. The
style of her beauty is not of the noblest order. It
possesses but little of the spiritual, but is of a kind
more likely to secure admiration during an age, and
in a region, where the passions learn to triumph and
command in the absence of the sentiments. She
takes her place at a little distance in front of the spot
occupied by Velasquez. Her arms folded across her
breast, she preserves an erect posture, while her eyes,
neither gazing upon, nor averted from him, seem to
be filled with a twofold expression of wounded pride
and lurking anxiety. His glance surveys her keenly
and unreservedly. There is a mixture of tenderness
and suspicion in his gaze, while the sinister smile
which now curls his lips, gives to his whole countenance
the air of a brooding and sleepless malignity.
This silent watch is so prolonged as to be painful;
but her features never swerve; nor does her expression
alter. She looks as she did when she took her
first position. There is evidently a motive for this
inflexibility, which she maintains without faltering, so
long as his eye is upon her. But when he turns
away and summons the pilot to his side, then it is
seen that her breast heaves as if to throw off the oppressive
burden of self-constraint—then it is that her
cheek pales and lip quivers, and all her countenance
betrays a fear which it has hitherto been its business
to suppress.

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But a few words are spoken by the captain to his
pilot; a question is asked—a command is given; and
while the latter is retiring, he is reminded—to “see
that all things are in readiness, and to keep a bright
look-out.” The pilot withdrawn, the eyes of Velasquez
once more, but slowly, address themselves to the
lady. But she has recovered from the momentary
emotion which oppressed her. Her features are once
more inflexible; her look is steady; she has nerved
herself to a resolute endurance of his gaze; and the
muscles of her face, like the strings of her soul, are
rendered tenacious by a will which his would vainly
endeavor to overcome. Failing in this sort of examination,
he addressed her—seemingly resuming a dialogue
which the previous scene had interrupted.

“You have answered clearly, Maria! It is well
for us both that you did so. It would have been a
grief to me that I should visit your head with my
wrath, even though it should be shown—Madre de
Dios!—that you had merited it by such a crime as
this. For, did I not pluck you from the accursed
gypsy—have I not made you a lady, and bestowed
my love upon you? It were a crime against God, if
you had been false to me!”

“I have answered you, Don Velasquez!”

“So you have, my beauty—so you have! But it
is not enough to answer. Must one look angry because
one is virtuous—eh?”

“But to be wrongfully accused—to be wrongfully
threatened!—”

“Oh! oh! one gets used to such things, if all

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other things go right. Of course, I know that you
are innocent. But how did I know it then? For
you will admit, my life, that the affair looked very
suspicious. There was I, groaning in my agony with
this accursed pain, and where were you? Ah! well!
you were not with this whelp of a musician? You
did not sit looking up into his face, while he was
stretching his throat against the wind, and singing
nonsense to his silly guitar? You did not prefer listening
to him to tending on me, and, of course, Juan
must have been mistaken in supposing that you suffered
him—that you were willing that he should—ah!
never mind! It is not easy to speak of such things
without choking—but when this whelp of a musician
did put his arms about you, it was only his impertinence,
and you properly repulsed him—”

“Has not Antonio already assured you of this?”
demanded the lady, coldly.

“True—true!—”

“And Perez?”

“Very true—and Juan, I say, must have been mistaken.”

“He is a wretch!—”

“Nay, nay, do not abuse the child—my own sister's
child—has good eyes, too; but, nevertheless, did not
see—was mistaken—saw this Lopez presume—this
guitar-player—but did not see, as Antonio and Perez
did, that you resented this presumption—that you
frowned and threatened! But what an atrocious impertinence,
that such a poor, puny, beardless beast of
a boy should thus behave himself. Is it not

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monstrous? But he shall sweat for it! should he not?
Can such an outrage be excused? What think you,
my life—should not this wretch of a musician suffer?—
Say? answer me!”

The lady replied by a vacant stare.

“Ah! I see! You feel the enormity of his offence.
You have not words sufficient to declare it. Well!
you will be better able to acknowledge the propriety
of the punishment I will inflict upon him.”

These words were accompanied by a hideous grin.
The tyrant readily conceived all the torture which he
inflicted. He watched eagerly the features of the
person he addressed, anxious to extort from them
some acknowledgment of the heart's inward suffering;
and seemed chagrined to perceive the steadiness
of aspect with which the woman bore his scrutiny.

“Truly, my life,” he continued, with less than
usual of that catlike play of feature which declared
his peculiar malice, “truly, my life, it pleases me to
perceive that you have no sympathies for this monster
of a musician. I did fear, I confess, I did fear—
that, though you might not have erred with him,
you might have been foolish enough, through some
misplaced sentiment of feminine tenderness, to have
interposed and pleaded against his punishment. That
would have been a weakness, my beautiful Gitano.
We must punish such enormous guilt. We must punish
it as it deserves! We must so punish such an
offender as that he shall never so offend again!”

He paused—and gazed steadily upon the woman!
But she too well knew the cool malignity of the tyrant

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—his peculiar and unrelenting nature—to suffer herself
to be deceived by the obvious lure which he threw
out that she should implore mercy for the criminal
of whom he spoke. She also felt the importance of
maintaining the same settled indifference and coldness
of aspect as before. He allowed some lengthened
moments to intervene, and resumed, but with evident
disappointment—

“And you have nothing to say, my life?”

“Nothing!”

“Madre de Dios? But it is so precious to me,
that you so thoroughly acknowledge my justice. Ho!
there—Juan!—bring forth this vile singer, this wretch
of a guitar-player—this audacious musician! He
shall vex no longer with his midnight strummings, the
sweet quiet of our lady of Burgos—our chaste Diana—
whom he makes unhappy by his presumption. See
to it Juan! bring him forth quickly!”