Some one of the party trod on a stick, that broke with a loud
snap-almost like a rifle shot in that stillness. The lone sailor
looked up, startled, as a dog might, when disturbed at gnawing a
bone. Then he remained as still and quiet as some stone.
"That's him," said the negro sailor, and though he meant to speak
softly, his voice seemed fairly to boom out. At the sound of it, the
hermit was galvanized into life. He dropped what he had been eating,
and slowly rose from his crouching attitude. Then he turned slowly,
so as to face the group of intruders on his island fastness. He
seemed to fear they would vanish, if he moved too suddenly--vanish as
the figment of some dream.
"Poor fellow," murmured Cora. "Speak to him, Jack. Say something."
"I'm afraid of' frightening him more. Wait until he wakes up a bit."
"He does act like some one just disturbed from a sleep," spoke
Walter. "Maybe you girls--"
"Oh, we're not afraid," put in Bess, quickly.
Not with all this protection, and she looked from the boys to the two
sturdy men.
Now the lonely sailor was moving more quickly. He straightened up,
more like the likeness and image of man as he was created, and took a
step forward. Finding, evidently, that this did not dissipate the
images, he passed his hand in front of his face, as though brushing
away unseen cobwebs. Then he fairly ran toward the group.
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