"'Tis the French lingo," says he, foolish-like, "and if it's not that, 'tis the German--leastwise no Christian man that I know of could distinguish between 'em." "Peter," says I, "that's what you learn in the asylum. 'Tis no more the French lingo than your own. Why, hearken to it." Well, he listened, and soon we heard a pretty echo from the valley, for they'd gone down towards the gardens now; and one word repeated often had as nice a touch of music as I remember hearing. It was just this: "Rosamunda--munda--munda," and you can't think how fresh the young voice sounded in that lonely place, or what a chill it gave a man when he remembered the devils over at the reef and what they'd done to the crew of the Santa Cruz. I do believe to this day that our fellows imagined they'd seen nothing more nor less than an apparition out of the black rocks above them; and it wasn't until I'd spoken to them in good honest English that I got them to go on again. "Flesh or spirit, that's not a lot to whiten a man's gills," cried I; "why, thunder, Peter Bligh, you're big enough to put 'em all in your pocket, and soft enough they'd lie when they got there. Do you mean to tell me," I asked him, "that four hale and strong men are to be frightened out of their wits by three pretty girls?--and you a religious man, too, Peter! Why, I'm ashamed of you, that I am, lads, right down ashamed of you!" They plucked up at this, and Peter he made haste to excuse himself. "If they was Christian men with knives in their hands," says he, "I'd put up a bit of a prayer, and trust to the Lord to shoot 'em; but them three's agen all reason, at this time of night in such a lone place." "Go on with you, Peter," chimes in Dolly Venn; "three ripping little girls, and don't I wish they'd ask me in to tea! Why, look, they're down by the house now, and somebody with them, though whether it's a man or a woman I really don't pretend to say." "I'm derned if I don't think it's a lion," says Seth Barker, asking my pardon for the liberty.