“Ay,” responded the captain.
The officer with his knife severed the laniard of sennit and made to lift the lid of the box. But this proved a long job, inexpressibly vexatious to the thirsty expectations of the onlookers owing to the lid fitting so tightly as to resist, as though soldered, the blade of the knife. When opened at last, there was disclosed, sure enough, inside, a piece of paper folded, apparently a leaf from a logbook.
“Bring a lantern, some one,” roared the mate.
Some one held a light close to the officer, who exclaimed, after opening the sheet and gazing at it a little, “Any lady or gentleman here understand Spanish?”
“I do,” exclaimed the handsome young “griffin” who had sat next to the colonel’s lady at table.
“Will you kindly translate this then?” said the mate, handing him the letter.
“It’s French,” said the young fellow; “no matter; I can read French.”
He ran his eye over the page, coughed, and read aloud as follows:—
“La Mulette, June 12th, 18—. This brig was dismasted in a hurricane ten days since. Three of us survive. At the time of our destruction our latitude was 8° south, and longitude 81° 10’ east. Should this missive fall into the hands of any master or mate of a ship he is implored in the name of God and of the Holy Virgin to search for and to succour us. He will be richly——”
“Last words illegible,” said the young fellow, holding the paper close to his nose.