Directly, he touched my arm,—“Look: what stirs in the main-top?”
Sure enough, something alive was there.
Fingering our arms, we watched it; till as the day came on, a crouching stranger was beheld.
Presenting my piece, I hailed him to descend or be shot. There was silence for a space, when the black barrel of a musket was thrust forth, leveled at my head. Instantly, Jarl’s harpoon was presented at a dart;—two to one;—and my hail was repeated. But no reply.
“Who are you?”
“Samoa,” at length said a clear, firm voice.
“Come down from the rigging. We are friends.”
Another pause; when, rising to his feet, the stranger slowly descended, holding on by one hand to the rigging, for but one did he have; his musket partly slung from his back, and partly griped under the stump of his mutilated arm.
He alighted about six paces from where we stood; and balancing his weapon, eyed us bravely as the Cid.
He was a tall, dark Islander, a very devil to behold, theatrically arrayed in kilt and turban; the kilt of a gay calico print, the turban of a red China silk. His neck was jingling with strings of beads.