The bowman held the boat's-head to the shore by the hook, which he grasped with his left hand, while stretching out his right to me. 'Twas old Tom Lambourne; there was no mistaking that quaint and tattooed visage of his!
"Hilloah, Master Rodney, here we are again, come back for you, after all;" he exclaimed, joyfully.
"Tom, Tom!" I gasped, while seizing his hard brown hand, and leaping without invitation, into the boat, where my hands were immediately grasped by Hislop, who had been steering. "Oh, Hislop, Marc Hislop!" I added, in a breathless voice, and nearly sank down overcome by emotion.
"You didn't think I would leave you there, my boy, if I could help it?" said he. "Thank heaven, we have come in time. I have counted every day, every hour, aye, every moment, and have scarcely ever slept for thinking of you, and the wretched condition in which you were left."
I could not reply, but, completely overcome by the revulsion of feeling, seated myself in the stern-sheets, and wept.
"What is this in your hand?" said Hislop, with astonishment; "a sword, and blood on it too! Where did it,—where did this come from?"
"Antonio,"—I began.
"The villanous Cubano?"
"Yes," my voice sank into a whisper, I was so weak.
"What of him?—where is he?"