“What—” he began.
“I found you yesterday, señor, far out to sea, riding on a piece of wreckage,” the native said. “You had lost your wits. You fought me when I tried to take you into my boat, and tried to draw blade against me. Then you went unconscious, and I had my way with you.”
“And—and then?” Señor Zorro gasped.
“Why, señor, I fetched you here!” the native explained. “And throughout the night you raved, and so far to-day. The sun has but two more hours to live.”
“More water!” Zorro commanded.
The native gave it him. He drank deeply, stood up, walked to the door and looked out. There was no other habitation as far as he could see.
“Where is this?” Zorro asked.
“On the coast, señor, far to the south of Reina de Los Angeles. I am but a poor neophyte who eats what fish he can catch. Once I worked on a hacienda, señor, but the governor took all for taxes.”
“I know,” Señor Zorro told him.