At last the weary days of sickness and anxiety succeeded to days of terror. On the 1st of February a strange report comes by an Indian. An inland savage has brought confused and contradictory news down the river that San Thomé is sacked, the governor and two Spanish captains slain (names given) and two English captains, nameless. After this entry follow a few confused ones, set down as happening in January, concerning attempts to extract the truth from the Indians, and the negligence of the mariners, who are diligent in nothing but pillaging and stealing. And so ends abruptly this sad document. The truth comes at last—but when, does not appear—in a letter from Keymis, dated January 8. San Thomé has been stormed, sacked, and burnt. Four refiners’ houses were found in it; the best in the town; so that the Spaniards have been mining there; but no coin or bullion except a little plate. One English captain is killed, and that captain is Walter Raleigh, his firstborn. He died leading them on, when some, ‘more careful of valour and safety, began to recoil shamefully.’ His last words were, ‘Lord have mercy upon me and prosper our enterprise.’ A Spanish captain, Erinetta, struck him down with the butt of a musket after he had received a bullet. John Plessington, his sergeant, avenged him by running Erinetta through with his halbert. Keymis has not yet been to the mine; he could not, ‘by reason of the murmurings, discords, and vexations’; but he will go at once, make trial of the mine, and come down to Trinidad by the Macareo mouth. He sends a parcel of scattered papers, a roll of tobacco, a tortoise, some oranges and lemons. ‘Praying God to give you health and strength of body, and a mind armed against all extremities, I rest ever to be commanded, your lordship’s, Keymish.’ ‘Oh Absalom, my son, my son, would God I had died for thee!’ But weeping is in vain. The noble lad sleeps there under the palm-trees, beside the mighty tropic stream, while the fair Basset, ‘his bride in the sight of God,’ recks not of him as she wanders in the woods of Umberleigh, wife to the son of Raleigh’s deadliest foe. Raleigh, Raleigh, surely God’s blessing is not on this voyage of thine. Surely He hath set thy misdeeds before Him, and thy secret sins in the light of His countenance. Another blank of misery: but his honour is still safe. Keymis will return with that gold ore, that pledge of his good faith for which he has ventured all. Surely God will let that come after all, now that he has paid as its price his first-born’s blood? At last Keymis returns with thinned numbers. All are weary, spirit-broken, discontented, mutinous. Where is the gold ore? There is none. Keymis has never been to the mine after all. His companions curse him as a traitor who has helped Raleigh to deceive them into ruin; the mine is imaginary—a lie. The crews are ready to break into open mutiny; after a while they will do so.