Some time ago, when Cuba was not quite subdued, it happened that a vessel, bound from the island of St. Domingo to the Luccas, during a heavy storm, was wrecked off the coast. This took place near the river and harbour of Matanza; there were thirty Spaniards and two Spanish ladies on board. In order to convey them across the river, numbers of Indians had collected together from the Havannah and other districts. They appeared most friendly inclined, and offered to carry the shipwrecked across in their canoes and take them to their habitations, where they would give them to eat. The Spaniards accepted this offer; when the Indians, however, had arrived in the midst of the stream, they upset their canoes and drowned them all, save three of the men and one of the females. The men were allotted to the other Indians, but the female, a very beautiful woman, was given to the most powerful of the caziques, the person who had concocted this piece of treachery. From this circumstance it was that the harbour got the name of Matanza. I was personally acquainted with the female whose misfortune I have just related. After the total conquest of Cuba, she left the cazique in whose power she then was, and married a citizen of Trinidad, by name Pedro Sanchez Farsan. I was also acquainted with the three Spaniards whose lives had been spared. One was Gonzalo Mexia, an old man, and native of Xeres; the other, Juan de Santiste-ban, from Madrigal; and the third was Cascorro, a sailor and fisherman, of Huelva. The cazique in whose power he was, had given him his daughter in marriage, and bored holes through his ears and nose, after the Indian fashion. Having thus detained the reader for a while with these old stories, it is time I return to the thread of my narrative.