But Striker does not wait to hear what Hernandez may have to say. Dropping the tarpauling, he strides up to him, and, sans cérémonie, jerks the instrument out of his fingers. Then bringing it to his eye, sights for himself.
Less than twenty seconds suffice for him to determine the character of the vessel. Within that time, his glance taking in her hull, traversing along the line of her bulwarks, and then ascending to the tops of her tall smooth masts, he recognises all, as things with which he is well acquainted.
He, too, almost lets drop the telescope, as, turning to the others, he says in a scared, but confident voice:
“By God, its the Condor!”
Chapter Seventy Six.
A Very Nemesis.
Striker’s announcement, profanely as emphatically made, thrills the hearts of those hearing it with fear. Not fear of the common kind, but a weird undefinable apprehension.
“Caspitta!” exclaims Padilla. “The Condor! that cannot be. How could it?”