Now the bonfire was burning bravely, and Gaspard, attacking the bay cedars with his knife, cast younger wood upon the flames; it damped them down, but it gave smoke, blankets and spirals of blue-grey smoke, thickening, deepening, and at last rising in a steady column. He ran to the fallen palm trees and hacked away their fronds, half dried and half withered by the sea; they increased the flame and more green brushwood increased the smoke.
It was now magnificent, a pillar of darkness rising in the air, bending to the wind and breaking into fronds of smoke.
He left it, and shading his eyes stared out across the sea. The vessel was almost abreast of the island, about three miles away to northward, scarcely two miles to westward; she was a small vessel, ship rigged; that is to say, with square sails on all her three masts; she would not be more than two hundred and fifty or three hundred tons.
The wind had veered almost into the east, so she had it on her beam.
She seemed indifferent to all things and as divorced from reality as a painted ship in some brilliant picture of the sea. Never did it seem possible that she would respond to call or signal.
She was abreast of the island now—and now—Gaspard could scarcely believe his eyes—she was altering her course; the wind was spilling from her sails—she was heaving to.
He saw a boat detach itself from her, a tiny speck at first, now larger, now plainly visible; it was making, not for the western side, but for the southern beach, where the landing was good. Evidently the vessel knew the island and had landed a boat here before.