“Well,” said Pencroft, “suppose this vessel comes and anchors there a few cables-lengths from our island, what shall we do?”

This sudden question remained at first without any reply.  But Cyrus Harding, after some moments’ thought, replied in the calm tone which was usual to him,—­

“What we shall do, my friends?  What we ought to do is this:—­we will communicate with the ship, we will take our passage on board her, and we will leave our island, after having taken possession of it in the name of the United States.  Then we will return with any who may wish to follow us to colonize it definitely, and endow the American Republic with a useful station in this part of the Pacific Ocean!”

“Hurrah!” exclaimed Pencroft, “and that will be no small present which we shall make to our country!  The colonization is already almost finished; names are given to every part of the island; there is a natural port, fresh water, roads, a telegraph, a dockyard, and manufactories; and there will be nothing to be done but to inscribe Lincoln Island on the maps!”

“But if anyone seizes it in our absence?” observed Gideon Spilett.

“Hang it!” cried the sailor.  “I would rather remain all alone to guard it:  and trust to Pencroft, they shouldn’t steal it from him, like a watch from the pocket of a swell!”

For an hour it was impossible to say with any certainty whether the vessel was or was not standing towards Lincoln Island.  She was nearer, but in what direction was she sailing?  This Pencroft could not determine.  However, as the wind was blowing from the northeast, in all probability the vessel was sailing on the starboard tack.  Besides, the wind was favorable for bringing her towards the island, and, the sea being calm, she would not be afraid to approach although the shallows were not marked on the chart.

Towards four o’clock—­an hour after he had been sent for—­Ayrton arrived at Granite House.  He entered the dining-room saying,—­

“At your service, gentlemen.”

Cyrus Harding gave him his hand, as was his custom to do, and, leading him to the window,—­

“Ayrton,” said he, “we have begged you to come here for an important reason.  A ship is in sight of the island.”

Ayrton at first paled slightly, and for a moment his eyes became dim; then, leaning out the window, he surveyed the horizon, but could see nothing.

“Take this telescope,” said Spilett, “and look carefully, Ayrton, for it is possible that this ship may be the ‘Duncan’ come to these seas for the purpose of taking you home again.”

“The ‘Duncan!’” murmured Ayrton.  “Already?” This last word escaped Ayrton’s lips as if involuntarily, and his head drooped upon his hands.

Did not twelve years’ solitude on a desert island appear to him a sufficient expiation?  Did not the penitent yet feel himself pardoned, either in his own eyes or in the eyes of others?