While the men were hauling the boat up on the beach, so as to place it beyond the influence of the waves, Hildebrand sought, by chafing his cold temples, to revive Don Rafaele. Whether from this cause, or because he had been insensible for some time, and the paroxysm was exhausted, Don Rafaele recovered almost directly, and, with a low, deep sigh, opened his eyes.
“Where are we?” he cried: “_still?_ not whirling round? Oh! my heart will burst!”
“We are safe now, my fair Rafaele,” answered Hildebrand. “Here”--he added, drawing from under his cloak a small flask, and holding it to his lips,--“take thee a taste of this.”
Don Rafaele tasted of the contents of the flask; but the spirit, in its raw state, was too powerful for him, and he could not take above a mouthful. Even that, however, had a reviving effect upon him, and, as he withdrew his lips from the flask, he smiled, and looked quite composed again.
Hildebrand took a good draught from the flask. By the time that he had thus refreshed himself, the two seamen, having secured the boat, came up with him.
“My lads,” said Hildebrand, handing them the flask, “here is that will keep this pelting rain out of your jackets. Now, hold ye a good watch on the boat! Pray God the wind lull, or we shall never find the ship!”
“We shall never find the ship to-night, your honour,” said one of the sailors, hitching up his trousers.
“How know’st that, Ben Hatchway?” demanded the other sailor, who had just taken a good pull from the brandy-flask, and now thought that he could find any object. “His honour knows what we can do better than an old log-boat like thee, I should ween.”
“For the matter o’ that,” remarked Ben.--But here he paused, and, previous to explaining further, took a deep draught from the flask, which his comrade had just handed to him. Having thus recruited himself, he resumed:--“For the matter o’ that, Will Bowsprit, here’s his honour to the fore, and, as I was a-saying--beshrew my topsail!--I’ve been in the Portingales afore to-day; and, sink me! as I was a-say”--
“Why, look-ye!” interrupted Will Bowsprit; “an’ I leaves my old hull in that there Portugee fish-pond, look-ye! blow me to shivers, that’s all! Here’s your honour’s health! I’ll drink to young Master Don’s anon.”