The labour of construction is said to have been wholly performed by negro slaves and prisoners of war. The moat is now dried up and overgrown with grass and rank weeds, but there are the drawbridges, the massive arched entrance, the barbican, the dark passages, frowning bastions, and mysterious dungeons. A whiskered sergeant--a remnant of military glory--has charge of the fort, and lives in a pretty, rose-covered cottage outside. In company with several other tourists we explored the curiosities of the old fort. One large dingy stone chamber, with vaulted roof and damp floor, like a gigantic cellar, was occupied by the townspeople, who came flocking to the fort for shelter some few years ago when the place was threatened by an irregular army of piratical marauders; the ashen embers where they baked their last loaf of bread still lie upon the iron plate, and the empty oven yawns hungrily open. This apartment, itself but dimly lightly, leads into a huge, dark dungeon, black as Erebus; but _the_ “dark dungeon” _par excellence_ lies beyond, and to this treat-in-store we proceed. Chill, black, and dismal as the grave, is this partly-underground dungeon, where in 1835 two skeletons were found chained to the wall--victims, no doubt, to some cruel Spanish inquisition. We stand shivering in its chilly blackness while our guide gives us fragmentary sketches of the history of the fort. The last prisoners confined here were a number of refractory Indians, stirrers-up of trouble, horse-thieves, and general marauders, who were sent thither by the order of United States Government in 1874, but were released in 1878. In no cruel dungeon like this “dark cell,” however, were these “braves” confined. A large, casemented chamber was prepared for their reception, they were taken out in squads for exercise, and under proper surveillance were even allowed to bathe. They have left their sign-manual upon the walls--specimens of Indian art in the shape of sundry sprawly sketches of man and beast. For, as it is well known, the Indians are fond of drawing, and will draw on anything and with any kind of material that will make a mark. They will even exchange a surplus squaw for a few pencils or paint brushes. Crude and out of all proportions as their productions are, they illustrate the minds and peculiar proclivities of the people. An Indian never represents himself as standing, dancing, or walking; he is always on horseback, and always fighting against fabulous numbers, and always a conqueror, riding victorious over a score of prostrate foes. We pass through an antique chapel, whence the worshippers have fled “into the silent land” and left it deserted except for the ghostly echo which rises up and follows us as we pass through. We peep through dusky passages, ramble up and down crumbling stone stairs, cross the barbican, pass many worm-eaten oaken doors which, we are told, “lead nowhere in particular,” and presently emerge upon the grassy, battlemented slopes