I spied the Spaniard leaning over the bows looking toward the island. He had gone away in the boat on the first journey to show the men where the water was. On her return with her freight of fresh water, he had crept over the side and sneaked forward to loaf and lounge and smoke in Jack Spaniard fashion. How did I know this? Because I knew that Antonio had been sent in the boat to point out the spring, and his lounging in the bows with a pipe betwixt his lips _now_, while the boat was ashore and the men busy, told me the little yarn of loafing from start to finish. I called, and he put his pipe in his pocket and came aft. “Interpret what this lady says,” exclaimed Greaves. She poured forth some sentences of Spanish. I could trace no fatigue, no reactionary debility, such as might attend the strain and passion of deliverance from peril tremendous above all words to her as a woman. “The señorita,” translated Antonio in effect--but, as I have before said, I will not attempt a written description of his articulation or phrases; I write that he may be intelligible--“wishes to know how long you intend to remain in this situation, and to what part of the world you are proceeding when you sail?” “To England!” cried the lady, when Antonio had made answer out of the mouth of Greaves. “_Santa Maria purissima!_ How shall I find my mother? If she has been rescued she will have been conveyed to some port on the South American coast, whence she will return to Acapulco, and there await news of me. To England! _Ave Maria!_ The world will then divide me from my mother. Blessed Virgin! I did think this ship was proceeding to a South American port. To England! I shall never see my mother again.” She exclaimed awhile in this sort of language, but untheatrically. Nay, there was a dignity in her astonishment and concern; very little tossing of hands and uprolling of eyes. The main article in the outward expression of her grief and alarm lay in the piteous look she fastened on me, as though she would rather appeal to me than to the captain; as though, indeed, she considered that since I was the first to take her by the hand on the island, and to bring her off from a situation of horror, she was entitled to look to me for all further kindnesses. “The señorita’s mother,” said Greaves, “was, of course, rescued, and is, no doubt, safe and well?” Antonio turned his back upon the lady that she might not see him squint, and he shrugged his shoulders. “But we have no right to suppose,” continued Greaves, looking sternly at the Spaniard, “that the ship which rescued the señora conveyed her to a port whence she could easily reach Acapulco. On the contrary, in all probability the ship was bound round the Horn, in which case the lady may be now on her way to Europe.”