One morning, as the crew of the ship were occupied, some in caulking and tarring it, others in gathering edible plants on the island, a cannon-shot resounded along the waves.  The caulkers climbed up the rigging, the provision-hunters ran to the shore, the officers seized their spy-glasses, and all together quickly uttered a huzza!  The vessel which had sailed in company with that of Captain Rogers, the Duchess, of Bristol, had arrived.  This vessel, commanded by William Cook, had, for a master-pilot, a man more celebrated in maritime annals than the commanders of the expedition themselves;—­this was Dampier, the indefatigable William Dampier, who, a short time since a millionaire, now completely ruined in consequence of foolish speculations and prodigalities, had just undertaken a third voyage around the world.

Scarcely had he disembarked, when he heard of the great event of the day—­of the wild man.  His name was mentioned, he remembered having known an Alexander Selkirk at St. Andrew, at the inn of the Royal Salmon.  He went to him, interrogated him, recognized him, and, without loss of time, after having had his hair and beard cut, and procured suitable clothing for him, presented him to Capt.  Rogers; he introduced him as one of his old comrades, formerly an intrepid and distinguished officer in the navy, one of the conquerors of Vigo, who had been induced by himself to embark in the Swordfish, partly at his expense.

Restored to liberty, supported, revived, by the kind cares of Dampier, his old hero, Selkirk felt rejuvenated.  His first thought then is for that other unfortunate man, still an exile perhaps in his desert island.  After having informed the old sailor that he had found a little bottle, containing a written parchment, he said:  ’Dear Captain, it would be a meritorious act, and one worthy of you, to co-operate in the deliverance of this unhappy man.  A boat will suffice for the voyage, since the Island of San Ambrosio is so near this.  Oh! how joyfully would I accompany you in this excursion!’

‘My brave hermit,’ replied Dampier, shaking his head, ’the neighboring island of which you speak is no other than the second in this group, named Mas a Fuera.  As for the other, that San Ambrosio which you think so near, if it has not become a floating island since my last voyage, if it is still where I left it, under the Tropic of Capricorn, to reach it will not be so trifling a matter; besides, your little bottle must be a bottle of ink.  There is here confusion of place and confusion of time; not only is Mas a Fuera not San Ambrosio but this latter island, far from being a desert, as your correspondent has said, has been inhabited more than twenty years by a multitude of madmen, fishermen and pirates, potato-eaters and old sailors, who, when I visited them, in 1702, politely received me with gun-shots, and whose politeness I returned with cannon-shots.  Therefore, my boy, he who wrote to you must have been dead when you received his letter.  What date did it bear?’