The Spaniards landed food for them at intervals, which was eaten raw.

“It is never enough, monsieur,” explained the Frenchman—Hornblower was acquainted with Spanish methods, and could understand—“and sometimes it does not come at all. Because of the wind, monsieur. When the wind is in the east, monsieur, we starve.”

Bush was looking at the chart and the sailing directions for the Western Mediterranean.

“That’s right, sir,” he announced. “There’s only one landing beach, and that’s on the east. It’s impracticable to land in easterly winds. It mentions the two wells and says there’s no wood.”

“They are supposed to bring food twice a week, monsieur,” said the Frenchman. “But sometimes it has been three weeks before they have been able to put it ashore.”

“Three weeks!”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“But—but—”

“Those of us who are wise have little stores hidden away in the rocks for those times, monsieur. We have to defend them, of course. And as for the others—There is usually plenty of one kind of food for them to eat, monsieur. There are not twentythousand of us by now.”

Hornblower looked out through the cabin window at the dull smudge on the horizon where, in this enlightened nineteenth century, actual cannibalism was still taking place.

“God bless us all!” said Bush, solemnly.

“There had been no food for a week when we escaped yesterday, monsieur. But easterly winds always bring driftwood, as well as famine. We found two treetrunks, Marcel and I. There were many who wanted to take the chance, monsieur. But we are strong, stronger than most on the island.”

The Frenchman looked almost with complacency down at his skinny arms.

“Yes indeed we are,” said Marcel. “Even if your ship had not seen us, we might have reached Spain alive. I suppose our Emperor has now conquered all the mainland?”