No: it could not be that. There was not one of them such a nautical ignoramus as to believe himself within sigh of land.
“A sail?—a ship?”
That was more likely: though, at the first glance, neither tail nor ship appeared upon the horizon, “What is it?” was the interrogatory reiterated by a dozen voices.
“A light! Don’t you see it?” asked the lynx-eyed individual, whose interference in the combat had caused this sudden departure from the programme. “Look!” he continued; “just where the sun’s gone down yonder. It’s only a speck; but I can see it plain enough. It must be the light from a ship’s binnacle!”
“Carrajo!” exclaimed a Spaniard; “it’s only a spark the sun’s left behind him. It’s the ignis fatuus you’ve seen, amigo!”
“Bah!” added another; “supposing it is a binnacle-lamp, as you say, what would be the use, except to tantalise us. If it be in the binnacle, in course the ship as carries it must be stern towards us. What chance would there be of our overhaulin’ her?”
“Par Dieu! there be von light!” cried a sharp-eyed little Frenchman. “Pe Gar! I him see. Ver true, vraiment! An—pe dam!—zat same est no lamp in ze binnacle!”
“I see it too!” cried another.
“And I!” added a third.
“Io tambien!” (I also) echoed a fourth, whose tongue proclaimed him of Spanish nativity.