"Well," resumed Noah Gawthrop, hissing a kind of sigh through his clenched teeth; "it is a darned hard thing for a poor old fellow like this to slip his cable without knowing what port he may have to steer for." "He'll be brought up in heaven with a round turn, old boy; at least, I hope so," said Bartelot, as he knelt down and applied to the sufferer's lips a little water from a gourd or calabash that lay near. Another vessel of the same primitive kind contained some _yerba_, leaves of an evergreen common in Paraguay, and in the isles of the south, which, when diluted with water, yields a species of tea. A smaller calabash contained some goat's milk; such were the equipage and last repast of this poor old recluse. "See, Captain Bartelot, here is summut wrote on this bit o' plank," said Noah; "it's in some forren lingo, as I takes it." On the board which formed the head of the truckle-bed, whereon the hermit lay, appeared a cross, carved as if with a knife, and the following inscription or request: "Hermano[*] Pedro Zuares Miguel de Barradas, "1863. "Rueguen a Dios por el." [*] Brother. About five minutes after they entered, a heavy sigh, with a gurgling sound, escaped the hermit, his head turned over a little on one side, the lower jaw fell, quivered, became still, and all was over, and the three strangers remained mute, hat in hand, and gazing with emotions of solemnity and awe on this piteous spectacle. What was his story? What were the crimes he had committed, the wrongs he had endured at the hands of man, of woman, of the world, that he had been driven to seek a life of such wild and savage seclusion? Was it the result of eccentric choice, or an inevitable necessity? Who was he, and whence came he? How long had his dreary lot been cast in that voiceless and solitary isle. Had he been the last, or sole survivor, of some ill-fated crew, whose ship had never been heard of since she left her port in old Spain, to be cast away amid the lonely waters of the southern sea? All these questions must remain unanswered now, and be committed to oblivion with him in his solitary island grave. That he was a Spaniard was evident from the name, if, as they had no reason to doubt, that name was his which was carved upon the plank that formed a portion of his humble couch, and also from the language of the request, "Pray to God for him," which was written underneath. Deeply impressed by what they had witnessed, Morley Ashton, Tom Bartelot, and Noah quitted the hut, and under the bright sunshine stepped towards the little garden, where the few herbs the hermit's hand would never cull were ripening in the warm glow. After a pause, Bartelot said: "We must give the old man a Christian burial, for we can't shove off to the ship, and leave him lying there like a dead gull." He looked at his watch, and then at the sun, and added: