Five of us were in the village, seven at La Navidad.

The five were there for melons and fruit and cassava and tobacco which we bought with beads and fishhooks and bits of bright cloth.

Three of the seven at La Navidad were out of gate, down at the river, washing their clothes.

Diego Minas, the archer, on top of wall, watched the forest.

Walking below, Beltran the cook was singing in his big voice a Moorish song that they made much of year before last in Seville.