Someone had stripped the life-preserver from the castaway’s body, and as he lay sprawled upon the ground Colton noted the breadth and depth of the chest, remarkable in so small a man. He was swart, so swart as obviously to be of Southern European extraction. In spite of the sea’s terrific battering, he apparently had escaped any serious injury, and already had regained consciousness; but, to Colton’s surprise, kept his head buried in his arms. From time to time a convulsive shudder ran through him.
“Seems to be kind of crazy-like,” volunteered old Johnston, who stood beside him. “Begged me, with his hands clasped, to help him out of the light of the fire, first thing.”
“How do you feel, my friend?” asked the young doctor, bending over the survivor.
The man lifted a dark and haggard face. “To a house! Take me to a house! I weesh to go inside!” His voice was a mere wheeze of terror.
“We’ll get you to a house presently,” Colton assured him, presenting the brandy flask to his lips, “Can you make out to climb that cliff?”
“Up there? So plain to be see? No, no!” cried the man vehemently, roving the dark heavens with his eyes.
Colton looked at him in perplexity. The man got painfully to his feet, and cupped a hand to his windward ear.
“I t’ink I hear eet again,” he whispered, and shook like a rag in the wind.
“What are you talking about?” asked Colton.
“Somesing up zere,” said the stranger, thrusting both hands in an uncouth and fearful gesture upward and outward.