“M. Rodin!” exclaimed the missionary, falling back in surprise.
“M. Rodin,” cried the other shipwrecked person; and from that moment, he kept his eye fixed on the correspondent of M. Van Dael.
“You here, sir?” said Gabriel, approaching Rodin with an air of deference, not unmixed with fear.
“What did that man say to you?” repeated Rodin, in an excited tone. “Did he not utter the name of Prince Djalma?”
“Yes, sir; Prince Djalma was one of the passengers on board the English ship, which came from Alexandria, and in which we have just been wrecked. This vessel touched at the Azores, where I then was; the ship that brought me from Charlestown having been obliged to put in there, and being likely to remain for some time, on account of serious damage, I embarked on board the ‘Black Eagle,’ where I met Prince Djalma. We were bound to Portsmouth, and from thence my intention was to proceed to France.”
Rodin did not care to interrupt Gabriel. This new shock had completely paralyzed his thoughts. At length, like a man who catches at a last hope, which he knows beforehand to be vain, he said to Gabriel: “Can you tell me who this Prince Djalma is?”
“A young man as good as brave—the son of an East Indian king, dispossessed of his territory by the English.”
Then, turning towards the other shipwrecked man, the missionary said to him with anxious interest: “How is the Prince? are his wounds dangerous?”
“They are serious contusions, but they will not be mortal,” answered the other.
“Heaven be praised!” said the missionary, addressing Rodin; “here, you see, is another saved.”