This cheered me considerably, and did somewhat return my faith in Don Sanchez, who certainly was the most extraordinary gentlemanly rascal that ever lived.

Day after day Dawson and I went down to the sea, and on the fifth day of our watching (after many false hopes and disappointments) we spied a ship, which we knew to be of the Algerine sort by the cross-set of its lateen sails,—­making it to look like some great bird with spread wings on the water,—­bearing down upon the shore.

We watched the approach of this ship in a fever of joy and expectation, for though we dared not breathe our hopes one to another, we both thought that maybe Moll was there.  And this was not impossible.  For, supposing Judith was married happily, she would refuse to leave her husband, and her mother, having lived so long in that country, might not care to leave it now and quit her daughter; so might they refuse their ransom and Moll be sent back to us.  And, besides this reasoning, we had that clinging belief of the unfortunate that some unforeseen accident might turn to our advantage and overthrow our fears.

The Algerine came nearer and nearer, until at length we could make out certain figures moving upon the deck; then Dawson, laying a trembling hand on my sleeve, asked if I did not think ’twas a woman standing in the fore part; but I couldn’t truly answer yes, which vexed him.

But, indeed, when the galley was close enough to drop anchor, being at some distance from the shore because of the shoals, I could not distinguish any women, and my heart sank, for I knew well that if Moll were there, she, seeing us, would have given us some signal of waving a handkerchief or the like.  As soon as the anchor was cast, a boat was lowered, and being manned, drew in towards us; then, truly, we perceived a bent figure sitting idle in the stern, but even Dawson dared not venture to think it might be Moll.

The boat running on a shallow, a couple of Moors stepped into the water, and lifting the figure in their arms carried it ashore to where we stood.  And now we perceived ’twas a woman muffled up in the Moorish fashion, a little, wizen old creature, who, casting back her head clothes, showed us a wrinkled face, very pale and worn with care and age.  Regarding us, she says in plain English: 

“You are my countrymen.  Is one of you named Dawson?”

“My name is Dawson,” says Jack.

She takes his hand in hers, and holding it in hers looks in his face with great pity, and then at last, as if loath to tell the news she sees he fears to hear, she says: 

“I am Elizabeth Godwin.”

What need of more to let us know that Moll had paid her ransom?

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Don Sanchez again proves himself the most mannerly rascal in the world.

In silence we led Mrs. Godwin to the seat we had occupied, and seating ourselves we said not a word for some time.  For my own part, the realisation of our loss threw my spirits into a strange apathy; ’twas as if some actual blow had stunned my senses.  Yet I remember observing the Moors about their business,—­despatching one to Elche for a train of mules, charging a second boat with merchandise while the first returned, etc.