“She was a schooner of about one hundred and fifty tons,” answered Wyzinski; “and that is all I can tell you about the matter, which is a very melancholy one for me, as I lost a dear friend.”
“Killed by the natives, I suppose? Ay, ay, they are a bad lot; but I have a couple of guns on board, and I don’t fear them. If the harbour is what you represent it, we should lie there on an even keel, and in forty-eight hours I could rig out a jury fore-topmast.”
The captain rose, and turned to Isabel before he placed on his head the heavy sou’-wester. “We will have you in smooth water before this time to-morrow, my little lady,” he said, as he turned.
Isabel smiled, and looked to the missionary for an explanation.
Drawing a stool to the side of the sofa, for standing was no easy matter, so violently did the brig pitch, he explained to her exactly what had passed.
“Oh dear, how glad I shall be!” she answered. “The noise and confusion wear one out. I have often wished to witness a severe storm at sea, but I shall never wish it again.”
“I have been in many, but only one when the wind was more violent than this. Fourteen vessels, large and small, were sunk in Table Bay on that occasion.”
“Did I understand you rightly that you have landed on the Madagascar coast?”
“Yes,” replied Wyzinski; “but it is a sad tale of cruelty and death.”
“Would it pain you to tell it me?” asked Isabel, in her low sweet tones, turning her dark eyes on the missionary’s face, and laying her hand on his arm.