mature the little dramatic exhibition by which I hoped to satisfy my

doubts. Accordingly, pausing on a rock, I proceeded to imitate before

the negro the action of the man whom I had seen the day before taking

bearings with the compass at Sandag. He understood me at once, and,

taking the imitation out of my hands, showed me where the boat was,

pointed out seaward as if to indicate the position of the schooner, and

then down along the edge of the rock with the words 'Espirito Santo,'

strangely pronounced, but clear enough for recognition. I had thus been

right in my conjecture; the pretended historical inquiry had been but a

cloak for treasure-hunting; the man who had played on Dr. Robertson was

the same as the foreigner who visited Grisapol in spring, and now, with

many others, lay dead under the Roost of Aros: there had their greed

brought them, there should their bones be tossed for evermore. In the

meantime the black continued his imitation of the scene, now looking up

skyward as though watching the approach of the storm now, in the

character of a seaman, waving the rest to come aboard; now as an officer,

running along the rock and entering the boat; and anon bending over

imaginary oars with the air of a hurried boatman; but all with the same

solemnity of manner, so that I was never even moved to smile. Lastly, he

indicated to me, by a pantomime not to be described in words, how he

himself had gone up to examine the stranded wreck, and, to his grief and

indignation, had been deserted by his comrades; and thereupon folded his

arms once more, and stooped his head, like one accepting fate.

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