Our hero, who was the only officer who had been saved, with the exception of the boatswain, had taken upon himself the command, and occupied himself with the arrangements necessary for the shelter and sustenance of his men. A range of barren hills, abruptly rising from the iron-bound coast, covered with large fragments and detached pieces of rock, without any symptom of cultivation, or any domesticated animal in sight which might imply that human aid was not far distant, met the eye of Seymour, as he directed it to every point, in hopes of succour for his wounded and exhausted companions. One of the men, whom he had sent to reconnoitre, returned in a few minutes, stating, that behind a jutting rock, which he pointed to with his finger, not two hundred yards distant, he had discovered a hut, or what in Ireland is termed a shealing, and that there appeared to be a bridle road from it leading over the mountain. To this shelter our hero determined to remove his disabled men, and in company with the boatswain and the man who had returned with the intelligence, set off to examine the spot. Passing the rock, he perceived that the hut, which bore every sign, from its smokeless chimney and air of negligence and decay, to have been some time deserted, stood upon a piece of ground, about an acre in extent, which had once been cultivated, but was now luxuriant with a spontaneous crop of weeds and thistles. He approached the entrance, and as the rude door creaked upon its hinges when he threw it open, was saluted by a faint voice, which cried, "_Qui va la_?" "Why there's Irishmen inside," observed the sailor. "Frenchmen rather, I should imagine," replied our hero, as he entered and discovered seven or eight of the unfortunate survivors of the French line-of-battle ship, who had crawled there, bruised, cut, and apparently in the last state of exhaustion. "_Bonjour, camarade_," said one of them, with difficulty raising himself on his elbow--"_As-tu d'eau-de-vie_?" "I am afraid not," replied Seymour, looking with compassion on the group, all of which had their eyes directed towards him, although, from their wounds and bruises, they were not able to turn their bodies. "We are shipwrecked as well as you." "What! did you belong to that cursed frigate?" "We did," replied Seymour, "and there are but few of us alive to tell the tale." "_Vive la France_!" cried the Frenchman; "_puisqu'elle n'a pas echappee--je n'ai plus des regrets_." "_Viva, viva_!" repeated the rest of the French party, in faint accents. "_Et moi, je meurs content_!" murmured one, who, in a few seconds afterwards expired. "Are you the only survivors?" demanded Seymour. "All that are left," replied the spokesman of the party, "out of eight hundred and fifty men. _Sacristie--as-tu d'eau-de-vie_?"