Altogether, what with the increasing darkness and the hissing squall, and the night-voyage before them, and the fires of Krakatoa which were now clearly visible on the horizon, Nigel Roy felt a more eerie sensation in his breast than he ever remembered to have experienced in all his previous life, but he scorned to admit the fact—even to himself, and said, mentally, that it was rather romantic than otherwise!
Just then there burst upon their ears the yell of a steam-whistle, and a few moments later a steamer bore straight down on them, astern.
“Steamer ahoy!” shouted Van der Kemp. “Will ye throw us a rope?”
“Ay! ay!—ease ’er!—stop ’er! where are ’ee bound for?” demanded an unmistakably English voice.
“Krakatoa!” replied the hermit. “Where are you?”
“Anjer, on the Java coast. Do ’ee want to be smothered, roasted, and blown up?” asked the captain, looking down on the canoe as it ranged alongside the dark hull.
“No, we want to get home.”
“Home! Well, you’re queer fellows in a queer eggshell for such waters. Every man to his taste. Look out for the rope!”
“All right, cappen,” cried Moses as he caught the coil.
Next moment the steamer went ahead, and the canoe ploughed over the Sunda Straits at the rate of thirteen miles an hour, with her sharp prow high out of the water, and the stern correspondingly low. The voyage, which would have otherwise cost our three travellers a long laborious night and part of next day, was by this means so greatly shortened that when daybreak arrived they were not more than thirteen miles to the east of Krakatoa. Nearer than this the steamboat could not take them without going out of her course, but as Van der Kemp and Nigel gratefully acknowledged, it was quite near enough.