This time the signal was replied to. The steamer stopped ship, and in a few minutes a boat was seen rapidly approaching the Zingara.
The officer who held the ribbons was a jolly-looking old man, with cheeks like a full moon orient, and the snowiest of snow-white hair.
“What can I do for you?” was his first kindly query, as he shook Antonio’s hand.
“So sorry,” began Antonio, “to take up your time——”
“Man! don’t mention it,” cried the seafarer. “My time is my own. And what is more, the ship yonder—the Loch Katrine—is my own, for I’m skipper and owner. I’m sailing from Glasgow to Rio, and farther down.
“I say, though, you’ve been in awful grief,” he added, looking around him. “Jury main and jury mizen, and evidently the work of amateurs. And aren’t you undermanned?”
“We have no crew at all save one sailor, that black man, and our good and brave steward Pandoo. All are dead.”
“All dead?”
“Yes, sir; we have been imprisoned for two long years in the Sea of Sargasso.”
“Bless my soul and body!” cried Captain M’Lean, “and you live to tell me so!”