Many modern authors, of eminent ability, have employed their time and talents in writing tales of the vast deep; and of those "who go down to the great sea in ships;" but they nearly always take for the hero of their story some horrible and bloody pirate, or daring and desperate smuggler, of the sixteenth or seventeenth century; characters that the increased number, strength and vigilance of armed cruisers, and the energy of the excise officers, have long since driven from the face of the ocean, in these capacities: and who now can only be found in that lawless traffic, the Slave Trade.Yet that in itself comprises all the wickedness and blood-thirstiness of the pirate; the recklessness and determination of the smuggler; with the coolness, skill, and knowledge of the merchant captain.It is true, that by taking a distant era for the date of their themes, they have a more widely extended field for the play of their imaginations, and are less liable to severe criticisms on the score of consistency; but, at the same time, they lose that hold on the feelings of their readers, that a tale of the present will ever possess; for instead of thinking of the characters, the incidents, and the scenes, as things that were, or might have been, a century ago, our imaginations are vividly impressed with the fact that they even now exist. And whilst we are quietly perusing some thrilling tale, events equally startling, deeds as dark and desperate, scenes as horrible, may be transpiring at that instant, on the bosom, or the borders, of the same ocean, that leaves with its salt waters the shores of our own happy land.But the present will be too far in the past, if we lengthen our introduction: so even let us to our story.It was a moonlight night, early in the year 1835, when two young girls were reclining on a lounge, in the piazza of a beautiful and luxurious-looking house, situated near the margin of one of the most magnificent bays that indent the eastern extremity of the Island of Cuba.The prospect was enchanting; such a one as can only be found within the tropics; the limpid waters of the bay, extending for fifteen miles, appeared in the soft and mellow radiance of the full moon a field of crisped silver; and the lovely islands with which it was dotted looked like emeralds upon its bosom; the range of hills, blue in the distance, charmingly relieved the brightness of the water, and the tall cocoa-nut trees, with their bare trunks and single tuft of leaves at top, reminded us of the genii of the night, overlooking these fair domains: a cool and gentle breeze from the ocean made music as it murmured through the foliage, and gathering sweet perfume from the flowers it kissed in its passage, reinvigorated, as it fanned, the languid frames of those overcome by the intense heat of the just spent day.And in perfect accordance with the softness, the mildness, and the beauty of the scene, were the two lovely beings on the piazza. In the cold climate of the north, they would have been but children, so few summers had they seen; but under the influence of their own burning sun, they were just expanding into early, but most delicious womanhood.La Señorita Clara, the eldest, had entered her sixteenth year; her sister, La Señorita Francisca, was one year younger.They were the only children of Don Manuel Velasquez, a Spaniard of immense wealth, and of noble family, who in his youth had been sent from Spain, in a government capacity of some importance, to Cuba. He became deeply attached to, and married a beautiful Creole girl, and settled upon the island, after the expiration of his official engagement, rather than remove his loved Cubanean bride from the scenes of her childhood.