Once more, therefore, we were in the saddle and proceeded through forests and among mountains and by plantations, guided by the light of the moon, till, very sore and very tired, we arrived, past midnight, at a place which our guard informed us was Ou Trou. We said that we wished to lodge at the best inn, on which he chuckled audibly, and told us that we had better take up our abode for the night in a shed hard by among some piles of Indian-corn straw. We agreed that we had often been compelled to sleep on far more uncomfortable couches, and that the next morning we would set out to explore the town and choose lodgings. With this comfortable reflection, after our guard had disappeared into a neighbouring shed with our weary beasts, we, not less weary, I suspect, fell asleep. We were awakened at an early hour the next morning by the sound of English voices, and, getting up from our straw couches, we found several of the officers lately belonging to the Minerva, who also had been sent to this place, and, hearing of our arrival, had come to look for us. They gave us an account of the way in which their ship had been taken. We were not aware that they had been captured, and together we bemoaned our hard fate in thus being made prisoners at the commencement of a war which probably would be a long one. Having stretched ourselves, we looked out at the door of our shed. The prospect was very rural and very tropical, but, as just then we wanted some of the civilised comforts of life, a few substantial houses would have been more gratifying to our sight. However, at that moment a voice was heard indulging in a half-French, half-negro song, and a jolly fat blackamoor appeared, with a white apron on, a bowl under one arm and a towel over the other. "Ah, there comes our perruquier. He's a capital fellow. You'll want his aid, some of you. Venez ici, Antoine!" sang out one of our friends.