“Why there’s Irishmen inside,” observed the sailor.
“Frenchmen rather, I should imagine,” replied our hero, as he entered and discovered seven or eight of the unfortunate survivors of the French line-of-battle ship, who had crawled there, bruised, cut, and apparently in the last state of exhaustion.
“Bonjour, camarade,” said one of them, with difficulty raising himself on his elbow—“As-tu d’eau-de-vie?”
“I am afraid not,” replied Seymour, looking with compassion on the group, all of which had their eyes directed towards him, although, from their wounds and bruises, they were not able to turn their bodies. “We are shipwrecked as well as you.”
“What! did you belong to that cursed frigate?”
“We did,” replied Seymour, “and there are but few of us alive to tell the tale.”
“Vive la France!” cried the Frenchman; “puisqu’elle n’a pas échappée—je n’ai plus des regrets.”
“Viva, viva!” repeated the rest of the French party, in faint accents.
“Et moi, je meurs content!” murmured one, who, in a few seconds afterwards expired.
“Are you the only survivors?” demanded Seymour.