He cried back that he understood a little English.
“Are there others, besides yourselves, on this island?”
He answered “No.”
“What are you doing here?”
“We are shipwrecked,” he answered, but in an accent I cannot imitate; the spelling would be meaningless to eye and brain.
“How long have you been here?”
He held up his right hand, the thumb pressed into the palm, that his four fingers might answer my question.
Here the woman exclaimed in Spanish. Her voice was clear, sweet, and rich. It came to the ear like music from the beach. There seemed no harshness of shipwreck, no weakness of privation or despair in it. She spoke with her face directed to the boat, but I could not understand one word she uttered.
“Do you wish to be taken off this island?” I cried.
“Yes, señor, yes,” shouted the man who had answered throughout. “We starve here—we die here if you do not take us off.”