“Many persons have found the same difficulty; indeed, visit after visit has been necessary to decide the question, and even then it has been left unsettled,” said John, gravely. Following Aunt Diana, we all went into a vaulted chamber lighted by a small high-up window, or rather embrasure, in the heavy stone wall. “Through that window the distinguished Seminole chieftain Coa-coo-chee, that is for to say, the Wild-cat, made his celebrated escape by starving himself to an atomy, squirming up, and squeezing through,” announced the sergeant, who stood in front as torch-bearer. “Then it wasn’t a cat, after all,” said Iris. “Only in a Pickwickian sense,” said John. “Now _I_ thought all the while it was Osceola,” said Sara, wearily. “The Seminole war--” began the Professor. “Captain, I am sure you know all about these things,” said Iris; “pray tell me who was this Caloochy.” “Well,” said Antinous, hesitating, “I believe he was the son of--son of King Philip, and he had something to do with the Dade massacre.” “King Philip? Oh yes, now I know,” said Iris. “Chapter twenty-seven, verse five: ‘Philip, while hiding at Mount Hope, was heard to exclaim, Alas, I am the last of the Wampanoags! Now indeed am I ready to die.’” “Oh no, Iris dear,” said Miss Sharp, hastily correcting; “that was the New England chieftain. This Philip was a Seminole--Philip of the Withlacoochee.” [Illustration: CONFEDERATE MONUMENT.] “Osceola is in it somewhere, I feel convinced,” persisted Sara; “he is always turning up when least expected, like the immortal Pontiac of the West. There is something about the Caloosahatchee too.” “Are you not thinking of the distinguished chieftains Holatoochee and Taholoochee, and the river Chattahoochee?” suggested John. “For my part, I can’t think of any thing but the chorus of that classical song, _The Ham-fat Man_, ‘with a hoochee-koochee-koochee,’ you know,” whispered the Captain to Iris. “Don’t I!” she answered. “I have a small brother who adores that melody, and plays it continually on his banjo.” The next thing, of course, was the secret dungeon, and we crossed the court-yard, where the broad stone way led up to the ramparts, occupied during the late war by the tents of the United States soldiers, who preferred these breezy quarters to the dark chambers below. We passed the old chapel with its portico, inner altar, and niches for holy-water; the hall of justice. The furnace for heating shot was outside, and the southeast turret still held the frame-work for the bell which once rang out the hours over the water. Standing in the gloomy subterranean dungeon, we listened to the old sergeant’s story--the fissure, the discovery of the walled-up entrance, the iron cage, and the human bones. “Oh, do come out,” I said. “Your picturesque Spaniards, Sara, are too much for me.” “But who were the bones, I wonder?” mused Iris. “Yes,” said Aunt Diana, “who were they? Mr. Mokes, what do _you_ think?”