A canary suddenly sang loudly in a cage under the clock; in every plank was the pulse of the engines, like a tingling of blood in veins; from over the side came a note of stealthy hissing, subtly threading the noises of the deck like someone in a theatre low hissing through the voices of the actors.
In about twenty minutes the captain arrived with Mr. Hoskins. He brought the old gentleman in and hooked the door ajar.
Mr. Hoskins was a fresh-coloured old man, white bearded, with intensely black eye brows curling like moustaches over his glittering black eyes; he was dressed in black. I had observed in him a patient way of looking, of speaking; his voice was a little tremulous with time—he was probably sixty-five years of age.
He held a large envelope which, on entering, he put down on top of his hat, and making me a bow slowly, he exclaimed, in the broken tones of his years:
'It is truly extraordinary, sir, that you and I should be going to the Cape on the same errand, in the same ship.'
'Truly indeed,' I answered. 'The captain has told you my story?' and here I looked at Captain Strutt, who answered 'Yes. Those are the portraits,' and he pointed to the envelope.
I glanced at the package as at a sheet or veil which conceals a face you love which your heart shrinks from beholding in death.
'She's not your young lady, sir,' said Mr. Hoskins, slowly extending his arm to take up the envelope. 'She is my daughter. My niece instantly recognised the likeness.'
He sighed heavily, seating himself with a slow movement, whilst he put the envelope upon his knee to draw a spectacle case from his pocket. Meanwhile he spoke:
'She was twenty-four years of age and had been married three years. Her husband took her to Santiago and left her there with her sister. She was to have joined him at Monte Video—but you have heard, sir, you have heard?'