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madly against the folding meshes of his dream and argued with the voice.

“May God damn La Santa Roja for sowing the world with an insanity. She has made cut-throats bay the moon like lovesick dogs. She is making me crazy with this vain desire. I must do something—anything—to lay the insistent haunting of this woman I have never seen. I must destroy the ghost. Ah, it is a foolish thing to dream of capturing the Cup of Gold. It would seem that my desire is death.”

And he remembered the hunger which had drawn him from Cambria, for it was duplicated and strengthened now. His thoughts were driving sleep away. When drowsiness crept in on the heels of exhaustion, La Santa Roja came in, too.

“I will take Maracaibo,” he cried in desperation. “I will drown this lusting in a bowl of horror. I will pillage Maracaibo, tear it to pieces, and leave it bleeding in the sand.”

(There is a woman in the Cup of Gold, and they worship her for unnamable beauties.)

“Make the gathering at the Isle de la Vaca! Call in true hearts from the corners of the sea! We go to riches!”

His ships flew out to the bay of Maracaibo and the town was frantic in defense.

“Run into this bottle harbor! Yes, under the guns!”

Cannon balls cried through the air and struck up clouds of dirt from the walls, but the defense held ground.