"Give me that glass, Mr. Jones," she said with dignity. "I will find the citadel if it is there."
"It is there, upon my soul!" said I. I saw that she was angry. "There! Don't you see that big pile of stone?"
"Where?"
"There! Just there!"
"Is—that—Christophe's castle? What—a—big—thing—it—is! Why—Mr.—Jones—you—never—told—me—half! How—I—should—like—to—go—there!"
"God forbid!" said I, and I shuddered.
"Hand me that glass!" said the Skipper, who had tumbled up from below. He laid a heavy hand upon the spyglass and took it without ceremony. He could. He was her Uncle. He could call her Cynthia, too. I could only think it. The Skipper wheeled about and looked out to sea.
"Here, you, Mr. Jones!" said the Skipper, his gaze fixed on the stranger, "what did you do with that Cook?"
"The Cook?" said I inquiringly.
The Skipper removed the glass from his eyes.