In one a light was still gleaming through the canvas, where, perchance, some soldier sat up, wearily wiping his gun, or burnishing the brasses upon his belts.
Now and then dark forms--human and uniformed--passed to and fro from tent to tent, each returning from a visit to some regimental comrade.
At equal distances round the camp others stood upright and motionless, the gleam of the musket showing the sentry on his silent post.
The plunge of an oar, as some boat was rowed out among the anchored ships--the ripple of the light breaker--at intervals the hail of a sentinel, "Who goes there ?"--the low parley that followed--the chirp of the cicada in the dark jungle--or the scream of the sea-bird, scared by some submarine enemy from its watery rest--were the only sounds that disturbed the deep stillness of the night.
I continued my walk along the beach until I had reached that point of the island directly opposite to the mainland of Mexico.

Here the chaparral grew thick and tangled, running down to the water's edge, where it ended in a clump of mangroves.

As no troops were encamped here, the islet had not been cleared at this point, and the jungle was dark and solitary.
The moon was now going down, and straggling shadows began to fall upon the water.
Certainly some one skulked into the bushes!--a rustling in the leaves-- yes! some fellow who has strayed beyond the line of sentries and is afraid to return to camp.

Ha! a boat! a skiff it is--a net and buoys! As I live, 'tis a Mexican craft!--who can have brought it here?
Some fisherman from the coast of Tuspan.

No, he would not venture; it must be-- A strange suspicion flashed across my mind, and I rushed through the mangrove thicket, where I had observed the object a moment before.