ABSTRACT
The old women about the huts who had done me much injury, beating me and threatening to eat me, now called me Scheraeire, which signifies: “Son, do not let me die,” saying that when they ill-treated me they thought I was one of the Portuguese whom they hated. Further that they had eaten many Portuguese whose God had never been as angry as mine, and that it was clear that I was not a Portuguese at all.
