“What, sir,” he cried, “has a man-of-war touched at this island?”

Dickory could not help smiling, for the man’s countenance told him how he had been utterly astounded, and even stupefied, by the sight of a gentleman in naval uniform in the interior of that island, an almost desert region.

“No man-of-war has touched here,” said Dickory, “and I don’t belong to one.  I wear these clothes because I am compelled to do so, having no others.  Yesterday afternoon I escaped from some pirates who stopped for water, and since leaving them I have made my way to this spot.”

The man stepped forth quickly and stretched out his hand.

“Bless you!  Bless you!” he cried.  “You are the first human being, other than my family, that I have seen for two years.”

A little girl now came from behind the house, and when her eyes fell upon Dickory and his cocked hat she screamed with terror and ran indoors.  A woman appeared at the door, evidently the man’s wife.  She had a pleasant face, but her clothes riveted Dickory’s attention.  It would be impossible to describe them even if one were gazing upon them.  It will be enough to say that they covered her.  Her amazement more than equalled that of her husband; she stood and stared, but could not speak.

“From the spring at the end of the island,” cried the man, “to this house since yesterday afternoon!  I have always supposed that no one could get here from the spring by land.  I call that way impassable.  You are safe here, sir, I am sure.  Pirates would not follow very far through those forests and morasses; they would be afraid they would never get back to their ship.  But I will find out for certain if you have reason, sir, to fear pursuit by boat or otherwise.”

And then, stepping around to the other end of the house, he called, “Lucilla!”

“You are hungry, sir,” said the woman; “presently you shall share our meal, which is almost cooked.”

Now the man returned.

“This is not a time for questions, sir,” he said, “either from you or from us.  You must eat and you must rest, then we can talk.  We shall not any of us apologize for our appearance, and you will not expect it when you have heard our story.  But I can assure you, sir, that we do not look nearly so strange to you as you appear to us.  Never before, sir, did I see in this climate, and on shore, a man attired in such fashion.”

Dickory smiled.  “I will tell you the tale of it,” he said, “when we have eaten; I admit that I am famished.”

The man was now called away, and when he returned he said to Dickory:  “Fear nothing, sir; your ship is no longer at the anchorage by the spring.  She has sailed away, wisely concluding, I suppose, that pursuit of you would be folly, and even madness.”

The dinner was an exceedingly plain one, spread upon a rude table under a tree.  The little girl, who had overcome her fear of “the soldier” as she considered him, made one of the party.