The three sailors stood at the table gazing at me, and their rough weather-darkened faces were full of sympathy and wonder. There was nothing to surprise me in their astonishment. My right brow and the upper part of my nose were still wrapped up with sticking plaister. Over my head was drawn the hood of mate Hénin’s cloak, and the skirts of this ample garment enveloped me. My snow-white hair was disordered, and tresses of it fell past my ears on to my shoulders. And then I might also suppose that the agony of the night had wrought in my countenance and made of my face even a stranger mask than that which had looked out upon me from the handglass which the young Frenchman had held before it.
‘Can you tell me,’ asked the young officer, ‘how many people were in this brig last night?’
I reflected and gave him the number.
‘There is no doubt,’ said he, earnestly looking about him and making a step to peer into the berth which had been occupied by Alphonse, and which one of the sailors had already examined, ‘that all hands of the men took the boat and made off after the collision, leaving you, the only woman aboard, to sink or swim.’
‘One of the Frenchmen tried to save me,’ I answered; ‘he had a good heart and would not have abandoned me, but he could not remove the cask, and his uncle, the captain, called to him to make haste and come on deck or they would leave him behind.’
‘There are some berths yonder, aren’t there?’ said he, pointing to the forward wall where the sliding door with the ring was.
A seaman took the ring and slided the door open, and the three sailors passed through.
‘Pray,’ said the young officer, examining me with curiosity, ‘might you have been the captain’s wife?’
‘No.’
He looked at my left hand. ‘It was not to be expected,’ he continued. ‘I don’t love the French, but I believe they don’t make bad husbands. Were you a passenger in this vessel?’