"Why, sir," said I, "my story is summed up in what I have already told you." But that he might not be at a loss--for to be sure he had only very newly collected his intellects--I related my adventures at large. He drew nearer to the furnace whilst I talked, bringing his covering of clothes along with him, and held out his great hands to toast at the fire, all the time observing me with scarce a wink of the eye. Arrived at the end of my tale, I told him how only last night I had dragged his companion on deck, and how he was to have followed but for his posture. "Ha!" cried he, "you might have caused my flesh to mortify by laying me close to the fire. It would have been better to rub me with snow." He poked up one foot after the other to count his toes, fearing some had come away with his stockings, and then said, "Well, and how long should I have slept had you not come? Another week! By St. Paul, I might have died. Have you my stockings, sir?" I gave them to him, and he pulled them over his legs and then drew on his boots and stood up, the coats and wraps tumbling off him as he rose. "I can stand," says he. "That is good." But in attempting to take a step he reeled and would have fallen had I not grasped his arm. "Patience, my friend, patience!" he muttered as if to himself. "I must lie a little longer," and with that he kneeled and then lay along the mattress. He breathed heavily and pointed to the pannikin. I asked him whether he would have wine or brandy; he answered, "Wine," so I melted a draught, which dose, I thought, on top of what he had already taken, would send him to sleep; but instead it quickened his spirits, and with no lack of life in his voice he said, "What is the condition of the vessel?" I told him that she was still high and dry, adding that during the night some sort of change had happened which I should presently go on deck to remark. "Think you," says he, "that there is any chance of her ever being liberated?" I answered, "Yes, but not yet; that is, if the ice in breaking doesn't destroy her. The summer season has yet to come, and we are progressing north; but now that you are with me it will be a question for us to settle, whether we are to wait for the ice to release the schooner or endeavour to effect our escape by other means." A curious gleam of cunning satisfaction shone in his eyes as he looked at me; he then kept silence for some moments, lost in thought. "Pray," said I, breaking in upon him, "what ship is this?" He started, deliberated an instant, and answered, "The _Boca del Dragon_."[2] [Footnote 2: So in Mr. Rodney's MS.] "A Spaniard?" He nodded. "She was a pirate?" said I. "How do you know that?" he cried with a sudden fierceness. "Sir," said I, "I am a British sailor who has used the sea for some years, and know the difference between a handspike and a poop-lanthorn. But what matters? She is a pirate no longer."