We pulled into the middle of the harbor, halted afresh, and now we had a good view of the three people, who, throughout this time of our tardy approach, continued to flourish to us, but without calling. The two men were apparently forecastle hands--foreigners. They wore grass hats, wide-brimmed, sombrero fashion; their clothes were loose blue shirts or blouses and blue trousers; they were barefooted; they were both of them hairy and dark, one of them of the color of coffee. Their hair lay upon their backs in a snaky shower, and I caught a glance of earrings as they moved their heads. The woman I could not very clearly make out. Her gown was of some pearl-colored stuff--it had a look of shot silk, but I dare not attempt any descriptions in this way. She wore a large white hat with a white veil coiled round the crown of it, ready for dropping over the face. Some sort of mantilla she had on. She was a tall and graceful figure of a woman, and, as she stood a little apart from the men I observed the grace of a dancer in her attitudes of entreaty, in her gesticulations to us to approach. We pulled closer in to the beach upon which those three were standing. One of the men cried out to us, the other clasped his hands, and the woman stood motionlessly, gazing. “What language is that?” said I. None of my men could tell me. The man continued to exclaim, gesticulating very eagerly and wildly. I listened, and thought he spoke in French. “Are you French?” I sung out. “Spaniards, señor, Spaniards,” he answered, in Spanish. “Do you speak English?” He cried back that he understood a little English. “Are there others, besides yourselves, on this island?” He answered “No.” “What are you doing here?” “We are shipwrecked,” he answered, but in an accent I cannot imitate; the spelling would be meaningless to eye and brain. “How long have you been here?” He held up his right hand, the thumb pressed into the palm, that his four fingers might answer my question. Here the woman exclaimed in Spanish. Her voice was clear, sweet, and rich. It came to the ear like music from the beach. There seemed no harshness of shipwreck, no weakness of privation or despair in it. She spoke with her face directed to the boat, but I could not understand one word she uttered. “Do you wish to be taken off this island?” I cried. “Yes, señor, yes,” shouted the man who had answered throughout. “We starve here--we die here if you do not take us off.” I again looked very carefully about, fearful still lest some deadly trick was intended, but could see no sign of anything elsewhere on the island living or stirring. All was motionless; nothing came along with the wind but the sound of the creaming of waters, the throb and hum of surf at a distance. “Back in, men,” said I. We got the boat stern-on to the beach. It was like a lake for the quiet lipping of the water there. The men held their places on the thwarts, ready at the instant of a cry to give way.