But this was not all. Whoso will pry, must needs light upon matters for suspicion. Glancing over the side, in the wake of every scupper- hole, we beheld a faded, crimson stain, which Jarl averred to be blood. Though now he betrayed not the slightest trepidation; for what he saw pertained not to ghosts; and all his fears hitherto had been of the super-natural. Indeed, plucking up a heart, with the dawn of the day my Viking looked bold as a lion; and soon, with the instinct of an old seaman cast his eyes up aloft. Directly, he touched my arm,—“Look: what stirs in the main-top?” Sure enough, something alive was there. Fingering our arms, we watched it; till as the day came on, a crouching stranger was beheld. Presenting my piece, I hailed him to descend or be shot. There was silence for a space, when the black barrel of a musket was thrust forth, leveled at my head. Instantly, Jarl’s harpoon was presented at a dart;—two to one;—and my hail was repeated. But no reply. “Who are you?” “Samoa,” at length said a clear, firm voice. “Come down from the rigging. We are friends.” Another pause; when, rising to his feet, the stranger slowly descended, holding on by one hand to the rigging, for but one did he have; his musket partly slung from his back, and partly griped under the stump of his mutilated arm. He alighted about six paces from where we stood; and balancing his weapon, eyed us bravely as the Cid. He was a tall, dark Islander, a very devil to behold, theatrically arrayed in kilt and turban; the kilt of a gay calico print, the turban of a red China silk. His neck was jingling with strings of beads. “Who else is on board?” I asked; while Jarl, thus far covering the stranger with his weapon, now dropped it to the deck. “Look there:—Annatoo!” was his reply in broken English, pointing aloft to the fore-top. And lo! a woman, also an Islander; and barring her skirts, dressed very much like Samoa, was beheld descending. “Any more?” “No more.” “Who are _you_ then; and what craft is this?” “Ah, ah—you are no ghost;—but are you my friend?” he cried, advancing nearer as he spoke; while the woman having gained the deck, also approached, eagerly glancing. We said we were friends; that we meant no harm; but desired to know what craft this was; and what disaster had befallen her; for that something untoward had occurred, we were certain. Whereto, Samoa made answer, that it was true that something dreadful had happened; and that he would gladly tell us all, and tell us the truth. And about it he went. Now, this story of his was related in the mixed phraseology of a Polynesian sailor. With a few random reflections, in substance, it will be found in the six following chapters. CHAPTER XXII. What Befel The Brigantine At The Pearl Shell Islands