There was no answer. Nothing could be heard but the moaning of the surf down on the beach.
"A Spaniard! by heavens, a Spaniard! I'll shoot him—I'll shoot him through the head!"
"Don't fire, Brigham," said I, for I wanted a chance to fasten on with the harpoon; "wait till he comes up, and ask him what he wants."
"Ahoy there! What do you want? Answer quick, or I'll shoot you! Speak, or you're a dead man!"
All hands were now in commotion. We rushed to the mouth of the cave in a body, determined to defend ourselves to the last extremity.
"Gentlemen," cried Brigham, a little confused, "it's a goat! I see him now, in the rays of the moon; a live goat, coming down the cliff. Shall I kill him for breakfast?"
"Wait," said I, "till he comes a little closer; I'll bend on to him with the harpoon."
"You'd better let him alone," said the Doubter, in a sepulchral voice. "Likely as not it's a tame goat or a chicken belonging to the American down there."
"A tame devil, sir! How do you suppose they could keep tame goats in such a place as this. Your remark concerning the chicken is beneath contempt!"
"Well, I don't know why. Tain't my nature to take an entire goat without proof. I thought it might be a chicken."