The crew of the mistico immediately set to work to try and find their way to the summit of the cliff; and it was while they were so doing that Vlacco showed himself. He went to the lowest part of the cliff, and beckoned to them to come under it, and then driving two of the spars into the ground, he made a rope fast to them, and lowered it over the cliff. It was immediately seized by the boy, who, with the agility of a monkey, commenced hauling himself up by it, towards the summit. It was nervous work to see him now swinging in the air, now placing his feet on the narrow ledges of the rock, and thus making play for a few yards to rest his arms. At last, he stood safely at the top, and taking off his cap, cheered to his companions to follow his example.
“Many thanks, signor,” he said, addressing Vlacco in a language which sounded something like Maltese, to which nation he apparently belonged, by his dress and the excessively dark hue of his skin.
One after the other followed, till the whole crew were safely landed.
They were all dressed as Maltese; but one of them addressed Vlacco in Romaic, and said—
“He and his shipmates had to thank him for the assistance he had afforded them. If our master was here, he would thank you, too; but, poor fellow, he and the mate were washed overboard, and we now know not where we have got to, or where to go. We must get you and your friends on shore here to aid us in getting our vessel afloat, and we must then try to find our way back to Malta.”
“You’ll not find that so easy,” muttered the old pirate. “But how came you to hit the bay in the clever way you did? No one could have done it better who knows the island well.”
“Our good luck served us, and our prayers to the saints wore efficacious,” returned the Maltese. “We did not expect to succeed so well, I can assure you.”
“Some people are not born to be drowned,” muttered, in a gruff voice, the old pirate, who, since he had given up robbing on his own account, had no further fears on the score of the alternative generally mentioned. “You’re in luck, I say; and since you happen not to be food for fishes, as I expected you would be by this time, I must tell you, that I have orders to bring you into the presence of the chief lady of this island, by whose directions I came all this way to try and save your lives, for I should not have taken so much trouble of my own accord, I can tell you.”
“The chief lady of the island,” repeated the Maltese, who saw that it would be folly to take notice of the rude tone a the old man’s observations. “Who is she, friend?”
“Who is she? Why, the wife, or mistress, or lady love, or whatever you like to call her, of our chief, Zappa,” answered Vlacco.