“Aloof! and aloof! and steady I steer, ’Tis a boat to our wish, And she slides like a fish, When cheerily stemm’d and when you row clear! She now has her trim, Away let her swim. Mackerels are swift i’ the shine of the moon! And herrings in gales when they wind us, But timing our oars, so smoothly we run, That we leave them in shoals behind us— Then cry one and all! Amain! for Whitehall! The Diegos we’ll board to rummage their hold, And drawing our steel, they must draw out their gold.” The first verse of this song, called ‘Sir Francis Drake’s Triumph,’ I got through. In the first line of the second my voice choked as though there were churchyard dust in my throat. I got up and walked to and fro in the cell. Through the window I could see the little square patch of blue sky, dotted as full of stars as the door behind me was full of nail-heads. Through the opening there floated the rich smell of flowers and herbs wetted with the cooling dews of the night. There was a garden, belonging, probably, to the alcaide, or governor, behind my prison. I tried, why, I know not, perhaps my nervous restlessness impelled me, to clamber up and look out, but my fettered hands forbade. So, at length, thinking it wisest to attempt to compose myself to sleep, I flung me down on the bench, and though the chill of my wet clothes sent shudderings through me, I at length fell off into a disturbed doze, dreaming confused and frightful visions, which every now and then woke me up with a great start.