“Ay, my lass,” he replied, more gravely. “An hundred and seventy souls—there were, last night, Clare.”
“And what?”—Clare’s face finished the question.
“There be nine come ashore,” he added in the same tone.
“And the rest, Father?” asked Clare piteously.
“Drowned, my lass, every soul, in last night’s storm.”
“O Father, Father!” cried Clare’s tender heart.
“Good lack!” said Blanche. “Is she English, Father?”
“The Dolorida, of Cales, (Cadiz) my maid.”
“Spanish!” exclaimed Blanche, her excitement returning. “And what be these nine men, Father?”
“There be two of them poor galley-slaves; two sailors; and four soldiers, of the common sort. No officers; but one young gentleman, of a good house in Spain, that was come abroad for his diversion, and to see the sight.”