The chief informed Sir Sidney that the pursuit of the guerillas had not been unavailing, for they had followed the delinquent (who proved to be a French soldier under pledge to destroy Frere du Diable) down to the very outpost of the enemy’s camp, where, after a slight skirmish, he was captured and brought back to the strong-hold of the band. “And see!” said the chief, opening the blazing pile with his sword, and showing the mutilated remains of a human body consuming in the flames, “thus perish all our enemies!” “Ay, perish, perish for ever!” responded Camilla. “This is he,” continued the chief, “who fired the shot this morning. He confessed that it was designed for me, but thus--thus am I avenged!” The miserable victim had been burnt alive! THE FISHERMAN’S FAMILY. “As he spoke, A sea burst o’er them, and their cables broke! Then, like a lion bounding from the toil, The ship shot through the billows’ black recoil, Urged by the howling blast--all guidance gone-- They shuddering felt her reeling, rushing on-- Nor dared to question where; nor dared to cast One asking look,--for that might be their last.” “Come aft here, my lads, and haul down another reef in the mainsail!” exclaimed a hoary veteran, who stood at the helm of a fishing smack which was buffeting the waves at the entrance to the British Channel one October evening, when the lowering of the clouds and the freshening of the breeze gave strong indications of a southwesterly gale. The order was promptly obeyed; and the snug little craft again breasted the lofty surge, like a bird upon the wing, skimming the foaming tops of the billows. “We shall have a rough night, father,” said a middle aged man, whose hardy countenance had borne the washing of many a salt sea spray; “the sun is setting in yon bank, and tinges the ocean with his reddening hue. The summits of the Scilly Isles appear like dying watch-fires through the haze; and these, you know, are sure prognostics of a rising gale.” “Then let it come,” replied the veteran. “He whom the winds and the seas obey, can, when it pleaseth him, allay their fury and command them ‘Peace, be still!’ But go, Richard, have the trysail ready and get the storm-jib up; for by the long swell from the westward, I am of opinion there has been bad weather to windward, which will be down upon us before long; so let us have all low and snug before dark, my lad. And, James,” continued he to a noble-looking, fair-haired lad; “James, set St. Agnes’ lighthouse by the compass, for the fog will thicken presently; and yon Seven Stones[3]--worse than the plagues of Egypt to a sailor--look far from tempting, crested as they are with feathery foam.”