"_Mon Dieu! we're on an island_!"
When the forest is on fire, or the savannah swept by flood, and their
wild denizens flee to a spot uninvaded, the timid deer is safe beside
the fierce wolf or treacherous cougar. In face of the common danger
they will stand trembling together--the beasts of prey for the time
gentle as their victims.
So with human kind; a case parallel, and in point, furnished by the crew
of the _Condor_ with their captives.
The pirates, on hearing the cry of La Crosse, are at first only
startled. But soon their surprise becomes apprehension; keen enough to
stay the threatening fight, and indefinitely postpone it. For at the
words "We're on an island!" they are impressed with an instinctive sense
of danger; and all, intending combatants as spectators, rush up the
ravine, to the summit of the cliff, where La Crosse is still standing.
Arrived there, and casting their eyes inland, they have evidence of the
truth of his statement. A strait, leagues in width, separates them from
the mainland. Far too wide to be crossed by the strongest swimmer
amongst them--too wide for them to be descried from the opposite side,
even through a telescope! And the inland is a mere strip of sea-washed
rock, running parallel to the coast, cliff-bound, table-topped, sterile,
treeless--and, to all appearance, waterless!
As this last thought comes uppermost--along with the recollection that
their boat is gone--what was at first only a flurry of excited
apprehension, becomes a fixed fear.
Still further intensified, when after scattering over the islet, and
exploring it from end to end, they again come together, and each party
delivers its report. No wood save some stunted bushes; no water--
stream, pond, or spring; only that of the salt sea rippling around; no
sign of animal life, except snakes, scorpions, and lizards, with the
birds flying above--screaming as if in triumph at the intruders upon
their domain being thus entrapped!
For they are so, and clearly comprehend it. Most of them are men who
have professionally followed the sea, and understand what it is to be
"castaways." Some have had actual experience of it, and need no
reminding of its dangers. To a man, they feel their safety as much
compromised, as if the spot of earth under their feet, instead of being
but three leagues from land--were three thousand--for that matter in the
middle of the Pacific.
What would they not now give to be again on board the barque sent
sailing thither to miserably perish? Ah! their cruelty has come back
upon them like a curse.
The interrupted duel--what of it? Nothing. It is not likely ever to be
fought. Between the _ci-devant_ combatants, mad anger and jealous
rivalry may still remain. But neither shows it now; both subdued, in
contemplation of the common peril.
Blew, to all appearance, is less affected than his antagonist; but all
are cowed--awed by a combination of occurrences, that look as though an
avenging angel had been sent to punish them.
From that moment Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez will be safe in their
midst, as if promenading the streets of Cadiz, or flirting their fans at
a _funcion de toros_.
Safe, as far as being molested by the ruffians around them. Yet, alas!
exposed to the danger overhanging all--death from starvation.
A fearful fate threatens the late crew of the Chilian barque, in horror
equalling that to which those left aboard of her have been consigned.
Well may they deem it a retribution--that God's hand is upon them,
meting out a punishment apportioned to their crime!
But surely He will not permit the innocent to suffer with the guilty?
Let us hope--pray, He will not.