“Thirsty, poor devil,” said Bush; a gesture from Hornblower had already sent one of the hands running for water.

The castaways drank eagerly, and to Hornblower and Bush it was as if a miracle were being performed before their eyes, almost like the raising of the dead, to see the astonishing effect of the water upon them. They revived magically; the one who had lain upon the deck, and whose head had had to be supported to allow him to drink, sat up. A death’s head smile split his lean face.

“I expect they’re hungry as well,” said Bush. “They look as if they might be.”

It only called for a nod from Hornblower for somebody to go and seek for food for them.

“Who are you?” asked Hornblower.

“François,” said the stronger one. He had blue eyes which looked oddly out of place in his brown face.

“Frenchies, by God!” said Bush.

“Where do you come from?” asked Hornblower, repeating himself in limping French when he saw he was not understood.

The blueeyed one extended an arm like a stick towards the Balearics to windward.

“Cabrera,” he said. “We were prisoners.”

Hornblower and Bush exchanged glances and Bush whistled—Bush could at least understand the gesture and the first word of the reply. Cabrera was a previously uninhabited islet which the Spaniards were using as a camp for their French prisoners of war.

The darkeyed castaway was speaking rapidly in a hoarse voice.

“You won’t send us back there, monsieur?” he said. “Make us your prisoners instead. We cannot—”

He became unintelligible with weakness and excitement. Bush, observant as usual, was yet puzzled by what he could see.