“Hail the masthead, Bol,” cried I, “and ascertain if all is clear round the horizon.” The answer fell from the lofty height in thin syllables--there was nothing in sight. I beckoned to the lad Jimmy, who was standing by the caboose, and bade him furnish the cabin table with the best meal he could put upon it and to look alive. I then turned to the lady, and, with my hat in my hand, exclaimed: “Will you let me take you below?” She viewed me anxiously. Her fine eyes made a passion of even a trifling emotion in her. She did not understand, and so I had to fall to Robinson Crusoe’s old trick of gesticulating. Heavens, how doth ignorance of another’s tongue seal the lips! You are as one who walks dumb through many lands. Had this poor lady had power of speech in English, or could I have understood her Spanish, how would she have given vent to her full breast? I could see in her lips, in her eyes, in the movement of her features, how grievously was her heart in labor. Yes; in her face worked the anguish of enforced silence. I pointed to the cabin, made signs of eating, extended my hand to take hers, on which she rose, gave me a low bow, put her hand in mine, and I led her through the companion way. Jimmy had not yet arrived with the meal. Still holding her hand, to deliver myself from the absurdity of gesticulating, I conducted her to a berth on the starboard side in the fore-part of the living room, opened the door, and sought, with a flourish of my fist, to make her understand that it was at her disposal. “_Yrá ó harâ muy bien_”--It will do very well--said she. I afterward understood this to be her remark; _then_ it was darker than Hebrew. In fact, I thought she referred to the emptiness of the berth. The bunk was without bedding; and that bare bunk and a little naked, unequipped semicircle of wooden washstand, screwed into the bulkhead, formed all the visible furniture of the interior. I knew a few words in French, and tried her with a “_Parlez-vous Français_, señorita?” “_Nó, caballero_,” she answered.